Category: #amwriting

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 50

Day 50 – Bad poetry

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When “Feeling” Becomes a Pitfall: Unpacking the Paradox of Bad Poetry

“All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling – to be natural is obvious, to be obvious is inartistic.”

It’s a line that sounds like a warning scrawled on the back of a notebook in a cramped dorm room, yet it manages to capture a timeless tension every poet — amateur or seasoned — wrestles with. How can something as sincere as genuine feeling produce poetry that feels flat, trite, or outright “bad”? Why does the very act of being “natural” sometimes devolve into being “obvious,” and why does that matter?

In this post, we’ll:

  1. Parse the quote – what does it really say?
  2. Explore why raw feeling can become a liability.
  3. Distinguish “natural” from “obvious.”
  4. Look at real‑world examples of both the curse and the cure.
  5. Offer practical steps for turning heartfelt material into artful poetry.

Grab a cup of tea, settle in, and let’s unpack the paradox that haunts any writer who’s ever tried to put a beating heart on a page.

1. The Quote in Plain English

All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling – to be natural is obvious, to be obvious is inartistic.

Break it down:

PhraseWhat it means (in everyday terms)
All bad poetry springs from genuine feelingMany poems that feel “bad” begin with a sincere emotional impulse. The poet isn’t faking; they truly care.
To be natural is obviousWhen a poet writes “naturally,” the language often lands exactly where you’d expect it—no surprise, no tension.
To be obvious is inartisticPoetry that states the obvious, that tells you exactly what you think you already know, fails to engage the reader’s imagination.

At its core, the statement warns against confusing emotional honesty with artistic success. A poem can be heartfelt and terrible if it leans on the feeling alone and never transforms it.

2. Why “Genuine Feeling” Can Produce Bad Poetry

a. Emotion is a Raw Material, Not a Finished Product

Feelings are like unrefined ore: rich, but still needing smelting. When a poet simply pours the ore onto the page, the result is heavy, unshaped, and often unpalatable.

Example: “I’m sad because my dog died. I miss him so much. I cry every night.”
That’s a statement of feeling, not a poem about feeling.

b. The Comfort Zone of the “I-Statement”

Writing “I feel ___” is a reflex. It’s comfortable because it bypasses the challenge of showing rather than telling. The poet leans on the reader’s empathy, assuming the raw confession will do the heavy lifting. Often, it doesn’t.

c. Cliché is the Natural Offspring of Unexamined Feeling

When we rely on our first, most immediate emotional response, we tend to reach for the language we already hear in the world around us. “Heartbreak” becomes “a broken heart,” “sadness” becomes “tears,” “love” becomes “a fire.” The result: a poem that sounds like the collective chorus of every greeting‑card writer that came before.

3. Natural vs. Obvious – How the Two Diverge

NaturalObvious
Feels inevitable – the word choice fits the image like a glove.Feels predictable – the reader sees the punchline before the line lands.
Leaves room for inference – the poem hints, implies, and trusts the reader to fill gaps.Leaves no gaps – the poem tells you everything, removing the reader’s agency.
Often uses fresh metaphor or unexpected syntax to convey a familiar feeling.Relies on familiar metaphor (e.g., “heart is a rose”) and straightforward diction.
Creates tension – the reader must stay awake to parse what the poem doesn’t say.Creates ease – the reader can skim without thinking.

In short: naturalness is the feeling of inevitability; obviousness is the feeling of inevitability without any surprise. Good poetry walks the line between the two, making the inevitable feel new.

4. Case Studies: When Feeling Wins, When It Loses

4.1 The “Bad” Example: A Straight‑forward Lament

My mother’s hand was warm,
Now she’s gone, my world is cold.
I miss her like the desert misses rain.

What went wrong?

  • Genuine feeling: The poet truly misses their mother.
  • Obvious language: “Warm,” “cold,” “desert misses rain” are all textbook opposites.
  • No transformation: The poem says, “I miss my mother,” without inventing a new way to show that loss.

4.2 The “Good” Example: Transformative Imagery

She left a kitchen with an empty kettle,
steam still curling in the hallway’s sigh—
a ghost of mornings that never boiled.

What works?

  • Genuine feeling: The poet feels the absence.
  • Natural but non‑obvious: The kettle, steam, and hallway become a metaphor for lingering presence.
  • Transformation: The everyday object becomes a vessel for grief, inviting the reader to taste the silence.

4.3 Why the Difference Matters

The good poem doesn’t tell you directly “I miss her.” It shows—through a half‑filled kettle and lingering steam—that the house (and the poet) is waiting for a ritual that will never happen again. The reader must assemble the emotional puzzle, which creates a deeper, more resonant experience.

5. Turning Genuine Feeling into Artful Poetry

If you’ve ever stared at a notebook full of raw emotions and wondered, “How do I make this poetry?” here are concrete strategies to move from feeling → natural → obvious into feeling → crafted → surprising.

1️⃣ Start with the Emotion, Then Step Back

  1. Write a journal entry (no rhyme, no meter, just the raw feeling).
  2. Read it aloud. Highlight any words or phrases that feel over‑used or too literal.
  3. Identify the core image: What concrete thing does this feeling actually look like, smell like, sound like?

2️⃣ Find a “Metaphorical Lens”

Instead of describing the feeling directly, ask:

  • What object carries a similar weight?
  • Which environment mirrors the internal climate?
  • What action could stand in for the emotional state?

Example: “Grief” becomes “a tide that refuses to recede.”

3️⃣ Play with Form to Force Freshness

  • Enjambment can keep the reader guessing.
  • Unexpected line breaks can shift emphasis.
  • A formal constraint (sonnet, villanelle, ghazal) demands you find fresh ways to fulfil a given structure, preventing the temptation to fall back on clichés.

4️⃣ Use “Defamiliarisation”

Coined by Russian formalist Viktor Shklovsky: make the familiar strange.
Instead of “cold night,” try “the sky’s iron‑clad sigh.”

This technique pushes the poem away from obviousness and back toward natural intrigue.

5️⃣ Invite the Reader to Participate

Leave a gap in the narrative. End a stanza on a half‑finished image, or pose a subtle question. The reader’s mind will work to fill that space, turning raw feeling into a collaborative experience.

6️⃣ Edit Ruthlessly for the “Obvious”

During revision, ask:

  • “Is this line the only way to express this idea?”
  • “What cliché does this echo? Can I replace it with a specific detail?”
  • “Does this line show the feeling, or just tell it?”

If the answer leans toward “tell,” rewrite.

6. The Bigger Picture: Art, Authenticity, and Audience

The quote we started with hints at a deeper philosophical conundrum: If poetry is meant to be an artistic rendering of truth, why does authenticity sometimes feel like a handicap?

  • The audience’s role – Readers come to poetry seeking not just to be understood but to be re‑imagined. A poem that merely mirrors their own feeling offers no new perspective.
  • The artist’s responsibility – The poet must translate—not transcribe—emotion. Translation entails choice, compression, and often, paradox.
  • Historical precedent – Think of Walt Whitman’s “I celebrate myself…” He starts with a personal confession, but he immediately expands that self into a universal, almost mythic, voice. The feeling is genuine, but it becomes a vehicle for something larger.

When poets manage this alchemy, the result is not only beautiful; it is transformative.

7. Quick Takeaways (For the Busy Writer)

ProblemWhy it HappensFix
“I’m sad, so I write sad words.”Overreliance on literal feeling.Find a concrete image that acts as a stand‑in for sadness.
“Everything feels obvious.”Using familiar metaphors without thinking.List clichés, then replace each with a specific, surprising detail.
“My poem feels flat.”Too much telling, not enough showing.Rewrite every line as a scene rather than a statement.
“I can’t get past the first draft.”Fear that editing will kill the feeling.Separate the process: first, pour out the feeling; second, sculpt it.

8. Final Thought: The Art of “In‑Between”

Good poetry lives in the in‑between: between heart and head, feeling and craft, naturalness and surprise. Genuine feeling is the spark; technique, metaphor, and form are the fuel that keep the fire from sputtering out in a puff of obviousness.

So the next time you sit down to write, remember:

Feel first. Then, step away. Then, rebuild.

Let your emotions guide you, but give them a new shape before they become “obviously” bad. In doing so, you honour both the authenticity of your voice and the artistry that makes poetry timeless.

Your turn: Grab a piece of genuine feeling you’ve been holding onto—maybe a recent disappointment, a quiet joy, a stubborn love. Write a short stanza that shows that feeling through an unexpected image. Share it in the comments; let’s see how many of us can turn raw feeling into something delightfully natural—but never obvious.

Happy writing! 🌿✍️

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

In a word: Straight

Yes, that man is straight as an arrow.

Well, in my experience based on the fact many years ago I used to play Cowboys and Indians, and I was always an Indian, I used to make a bow, and arrows, from the limbs of a tree in our back yard, those arrows were never straight.

How they got them so back in the middle ages without a lathe is anybody’s guess.

We all know what straight means, level, even, true, not deviating.  It could be a board, a road, the edge of a piece of paper.

But, of course, there are other meanings like,

He was straight, meaning heterosexual, a question not 50 odd years ago anyone would ask you, and 100 years ago, you wouldn’t dare admit anything but.

In poker, a card game, it is a sequence of five cards, and the sort of straight I’d like to get is ace high.  Chances of that happening, zero per cent.

It can mean being honest, that is, you should be straight with her, though I’m not sure telling your wide you’re having an affair would be conducive to continuing good health.

It could mean immediately, as in, I’ve got a headache and going straight to bed, probably after hearing news of that affair that was best left unspoken.

Perhaps that would be the time to have a whiskey straight, that is without mixers or ice.  I’ve tried, but still, at the very least I need ice.

This is not to be confused with the word strait, which is a narrow waterway between to areas of land.

But, here’s where it gets murky because a company can be in dire straits after being in desperate straits, and a person can be strait-laced, and just to be certain, most lunatics finish up in a straitjacket.

 

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself.  Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived.  He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines.  She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied.  Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity.  And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain.  Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.  She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one.  Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner.  Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  He purposely didn’t look back.  In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six.  Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….”  She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so.  Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.”  Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over.  Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you.  You are most kind.”  The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.”  It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be.  There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying.  There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No.  That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?”  Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal.  All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up.  “Rest.  And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note.  No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel.  Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown.  And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame.  They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed.  In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up.  “Henshaw is too formal.  Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere.  It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself.  Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle.  “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought.  He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone.  Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses.  After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation.  “How did you arrive?  I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident.  I ran up the back of another car.  Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.”  His attempt at humour failed.  “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came.  Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling.  She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser.  I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well.  Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work.  I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you.  I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

lovecoverfinal1

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 17

In the old days it would be ‘Houston, we have a problem’

…

I thought about staying in the day room, not hiding, but on the pretext of getting that report ready for the Admiral, but it was only a fleeting thought.

I had been the captain of a cargo vessel, how much hard could this be?

I stepped onto the bridge, and it all felt different.

The second officer had been waiting by the door, and said, ‘We’ve picked up several alien vessels on the long range scanner, like nothing we’ve seen before.”

“Not like the vessel that you just saw? It can’t be our lucky day to find two new species within hours of each other, though I guess it’s not impossible.”

And considering we humans had been in space, and nearly to the edge of our galaxy for nearly ten years, why wait until now to make themselves known?

We arrived at the navigators console and he had the alien vessels displayed.

On screen, they were quite small, and trying to increase magnification turned them into blurs. I hadn’t seen the other ship. “Tell me we have a photograph of the alien vessel.”

“We have.”

The navigator displayed the alien vessel beside the two new ships, and at first glance they didn’t appear to be similar. We’d have to wait until we were closer.

And see if they were hostile, or not.

“How soon before we make contact?” I asked the navigator.

“About seven hours, sir.”

“Good. Keep on the trail of that vessel. Our orders are to retrieve the captain and Myers. Oh, and you’ve been promoted to Acting Number One,” I said quietly to the second officer.

“They’re not sending a replacement?” Clearly he wasn’t expecting it, and judging by his expression, not exactly happy about it.

“That is still to be decided. You have the bridge. I’ll be down in Engineering if you need me.”

Another trip in a suspect elevator that had a few creaks and groans before it delivered me safely to the engine room.

It was more a large open space that was very quiet, with banks of consoles and people in specially coloured uniforms to designate their department. Bridge crew were designated dark Green, Engineering navy blue.

I knew others were not exactly enamoured with their uniforms, but someone, or some group, had put a lot of thought into them. As for the design, well, that was a hot topic at any time among the crew.

The chief engineer, Scottish of course, had an office to himself, and had the accoutrements of his achievements scattered about, along with more interesting photographs of himself with many of the more famous people back on earth.

I had no such keepsakes.

He saw me coming and stood as I entered the office. It took a few seconds for it to register that it was a mark of respect to the captain, even though he was older, wiser, and far more experienced.

“Congratulations.”

He held out his hand and I shook it.

“I wish it was in better circumstances.”

“What exactly happened?”

“We were boarded. How they knew the captain was in his day room is anyone’s guess, but the alien beamed aboard, like we transport supplies.”

“We have yet to prove its not harmful, so these aliens must be different.”

“Except they take the same form, and speak our language.”

“No doubt using a translator. And if they can do that, then this is not the first time they have seen us.”

“But it’s the first time we’ve seen them?”

“Well, that’s a little more tricky because I think we have encountered them before. Your Admiral just uploaded a few files, and it seems we have encountered them before, though not quite so up close and personal.”

I didn’t like the way he referred to the Admiral as my Admiral, or perhaps I was not across his vernacular.

“He omitted to tell me that when I spoke to him.”

“It was in the middle of the night, and we were to get a briefing once we reached the edge of our galaxy. Van was across it, and was going to tell the crew in a few days, but this Venus thing popped up.

You know how it is, never a dull day in space.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021

A photograph from the Inspirational bin – 36

This is an inlet near Port Macquarie in northern New South Wales. It is adjacent to a caravan and camping park, close to the ocean and parklands.

But, for our purposes, this scene is going to have a few more interesting connotations than just a few campers going for a jog along the beach, fishing in the estuary, or further out to sea on the other side of the wall in the background.

Firstly, to my favorite kind of story, a spy story…

It’s basically the evil billionaire’s backyard to his island hideaway, and our hero intends to come ashore at night and do battle with the guards, break into the underground holding cells and save the girl.

As always, saving the world comes second!

Or, it’s a place like Fantasy Island, without the landing strip on the beach, where people come to have their fantasies fulfilled. OK, to start there are no robots that are going to go berserk, that’s so ten years ago.

And, no, the hosts won’t be dressed in white safari suits. They went out in the 70s.

Then, I suppose, a story that I like, about people who have secrets, people who are broken, people who just want to get away from everyone else, come to this island where they can live in anonymity, without having to interact with anyone unless they want to.

Two such people accidentally meet.

What happens after that, that’s up to them!

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 55

This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Things are about to get complicated…

We took the underground to Lancaster Gate and parted company before crossing the road and going into Hyde Park.  Severin had designated the meeting place as the rotunda, as he called it, in the Italian Gardens.

It was dark, although there was adequate lighting, which made it a good cover for anyone else skulking nearby.  And making it easier for Jennifer, who sensibly dressed in black, to scout.

It took my time heading slowly towards the stone building.  I was deliberately early so he might not be there yet.  In the intervening time I could hear the odd comment from Jennifer, as she looked over the various suspects who were also taking in the aesthetic beauty of the gardens, which would look so much better in daylight.

Oddly enough in all the times I’d been to Hyde Park, these gardens had never been a point of visiting, such was the allure of the pedal boats on the Serpentine.

I did a slow circuit of the building and saw three people seated inside.  Two women, together, and a man on one side.  It could be him.

“I think he’s already here, just going to check.”

“Nothing stirring out here, so far.”

“Keep alert.”

It was odd hearing a voice almost in my head as if she was next to me.

I came up to the seat in full view of the person sitting on one end of the bench, so as not to alarm them.  I could feel their eyes on me as I sat down.  If it was him, he would talk to me.  I was not going to talk to him.

Something else I noted, there was no direct line of fire from anywhere hidden, so if there was an assassin out there, he would have to do it in the open.  Severin had scouted the place earlier.

“You alone?”  The man spoke after about three, or four minutes.  I’d seen him look around, checking for himself I was not followed.

“As far as I’m aware.”

I moved a little closer.  He was talking very softly.

“What happened to Maury?”

“Tortured and murdered by Dobbin I believe.  If he knew where the device was, he didn’t give up its location.”

“He wouldn’t.   Dobbin you say?”

“As far as I can tell.  He was running O’Connell, but you knew that already.”  To save time dancing around the truth, and lessen the time being a target I added, “Everyone believes O’Connell is still alive.  He didn’t have the device when I searched him.  Who shot him?”

“Not us.  If he is alive Dobbin must have usurped our cleaners, and spirited him away, which means it’s likely Dobbin has the device.”

“He doesn’t.  He co-opted me into his section.  O’Connell appears to have done a runner from him too.  Did you know O’Connell was on mission to pick up the device from an intermediary?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that Anna Jacovich was there too?”

“Then you know what’s on the device?”

“I wish I didn’t.  Or that you two were security guards at the Laboratory where Erich stole the data.  What took so long for him to decide to sell it?

“When he was fired by the company after they lost the military contract.   He had no intention of selling it, just getting it into the hands of the public so they would be forced to stop.”

“Except he was killed, and Anna decided she needed an escape plan.”

“Which O’Connell provided by wire transfer.  The money’s gone, and the data didn’t arrive.  It’s still out there.”

“Who was you boss in all this?  Monica?”

“Who.  No.  It’s….”

I heard the phutt sound of a bullet passing through a silencer, and just caught the edge of the barrel retracting from behind one of the pillars.  No need to check him, he was dead, still sitting upright as if nothing had happened.

I got out of the seat and moved towards where the gun had been, trying not to alert the other two sitting on the other side, facing the other way, fortunately.

When I reached the outside, there was no one.  A quick scan in the darkness, my eyesight hampered by going from light to dark making images blurry at best.

Then I heard a thunk, and a triumphant “Gotcha.”

I hoped that was Jennifer with the shooter.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2023

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 49

Day 49 – Writing in unlikely places

…

Does Where You Are Determine What and How Much You Write?

Introduction: The Unseen Hand of Place

You sit down at your desk, coffee steaming, notebook open, and… nothing happens. The cursor blinks like a taunting lighthouse. You hear the house settle, the dishwasher start, a notification ping from a social‑media app you don’t need to check. The very space you’ve cultivated for creativity feels more like a trap than a sanctuary.

Flip the scene. You’re on a cramped airport bench, a train rattles past, or you’re lying on an exam table, waiting for the surgeon’s lights to turn on. The world around you is noisy, uncomfortable, and utterly unpredictable—yet suddenly the words flow.

Is it the environment that makes us write—or the lack of it?

In this post, I’ll explore how location shapes both what we write and how much we manage to produce, why the “bad” places often become the most fertile, and what practical tricks you can use to turn any setting—home, office, or waiting room—into a writing ally.

1. The Myth of the “Ideal” Writing Space

1.1 The Comfort‑Trap

When we think of the “perfect” writing nook, we picture a quiet corner, a comfy chair, ambient lighting, maybe a plant or two. The problem? Comfort breeds complacency.

  • Distractions multiply – The very things you set up to keep you cozy—TV, music playlists, the fridge within arm’s reach—are also the easiest pathways to procrastination.
  • Decision fatigue – Choosing the right pen, the perfect mug, the exact temperature of the room consumes cognitive bandwidth that could otherwise go toward drafting sentences.

1.2 The “Creative Crisis” of Home

Home is a paradox. It’s where you choose to be, yet it’s also where the countless responsibilities, family members, and chores compete for your attention. Even with a meticulously organised desk, the mental clutter of “Did I leave the stove on?” or “I need to reply to that email” can block the flow of ideas.

Research note: A 2019 study published in Psychology of Aesthetics, Creativity, and the Arts found that participants reported higher creative output in “moderately distracting” environments (e.g., a coffee shop) compared to completely quiet or extremely noisy settings. A touch of ambient stimulus appears to “prime” the brain for associative thinking.

2. The Unexpected Power of “Bad” Places

2.1 Waiting as a Creative Engine

I first noticed the phenomenon while waiting for a 2‑hour pre‑surgery appointment. The fluorescent lights hummed, the nurse called my name in a monotone, and the sterile smell hung heavy. Instead of scrolling through my phone, I pulled out a notebook and let the anxiety of the impending operation funnel into a short story about a surgeon who could hear the thoughts of his patients.

Why did it work?

  • Time becomes owned – In a waiting room you have no real agenda; the minutes are yours by default. The brain, desperate to escape monotony, seeks a task.
  • Heightened emotional state – Stress, anticipation, or even boredom raise cortisol levels, which can sharpen focus temporarily—much like the “fight or flight” effect that hones attention on a single objective.
  • Physical constraints force mental clarity – Limited space, fixed seating, and the inability to move freely eliminate the temptation to “just get up and do something else.”

2.2 Other “Uncomfortable” Hotspots

LocationWhat Usually Pops UpWhy It Helps
Public transport (bus/train)Observational snippets, dialogue, micro‑fictionConstant flow of strangers gives instant character material.
Coffee shop (moderate buzz)Blog outlines, brainstorming listsAmbient chatter creates a low‑level “white noise” that blocks internal monologue distractions.
Gym locker room (post‑workout)Reflective essays, personal narrativesEndorphin surge + sweat = mental clarity + emotional honesty.
Long line at the DMVPoetry, haikus, rapid‑fire ideasLimited time forces concise thinking; the line’s rhythm can act like a metronome.

3. How Place Influences What You Write

  1. Sensory Input → Subject Matter
    • Smell of rain → Nostalgic memories, melancholic tone.
    • Industrial clang → Gritty, fast‑paced action scenes.
  2. Emotional Atmosphere → Tone
    • Calm home → Analytical essays, research‑heavy pieces.
    • High‑stress environment → Raw, confessional voice.
  3. Physical Constraints → Form
    • Tight space → Short forms (poems, flash fiction).
    • Ample time (e.g., a weekend retreat) → Long‑form novels or deep‑dive investigative pieces.

Understanding this relationship allows you to leverage a location rather than fight it. If you know you’ll be in a noisy airport, plan to write a list of story beats rather than a full draft. If you’re in a quiet home office, schedule deep‑work sessions for complex research.

4. Strategies to Turn Any Environment Into a Writing Ally

4.1 The “Mini‑Commitment” Method

  • What it is: Instead of promising yourself an hour of writing, commit to five focused minutes.
  • Why it works: Short bursts reduce the psychological barrier and are easier to fit into any setting—whether you’re on a train or standing in line.

Implementation tip: Keep a small notebook or a note‑taking app on your phone. When you spot a waiting period, open it and set a timer for 5 minutes. Write whatever comes to mind—no editing, just capture.

4.2 “Portable Writing Kit”

ItemReason
Moleskine or pocket notebookNo batteries, instant start.
Pen with comfortable gripReduces friction, encourages flow.
Noise‑cancelling earbuds or a “focus playlist”Helps mute external chatter without isolating you completely.
Offline writing app (e.g., iA Writer, Ulysses)No internet needed, lightning‑fast launch.
A small “prompt card”Pre‑written prompts or story seeds you can pull out on the spot.

Having these items in your bag means you can start right away when the perfect (or imperfect) moment appears.

4.3 “Environmental Anchors”

Assign a type of writing to a specific place.

  • Coffee shop → Brainstorming & outlining
  • Bedroom → Personal journaling
  • Commute (standing) → Sentence‑level micro‑writing

When you walk into that space, your brain already knows the mode you’ll adopt, reducing decision fatigue.

4.4 “Time‑Boxed Distraction Buffer”

If you’re at home and the distractions are relentless, schedule a distraction buffer: a 10‑minute period where you intentionally check emails, make a snack, or scroll social media before you sit down to write. Once the buffer ends, you’ve already satisfied the urge to wander, making it easier to stay focused on the task.

4.5 “The ‘Waiting‑Room Narrative’ Exercise”

  1. Observe: Look around—people, sounds, smells. Jot down three concrete details.
  2. Imagine: Assign each detail a character, a conflict, or a memory.
  3. Write: In 10 minutes, craft a short scene that weaves those three elements together.

This exercise turns idle observation into a storytelling engine and can be repeated wherever you wait.

5. Real‑World Example: From Surgery Waiting Room to Published Short Story

Two hours before my knee‑replacement surgery, I was hunched on a plastic chair, the fluorescent lights buzzing above. My mind raced with “what‑ifs,” and the sterile scent of antiseptic filled the air.

I pulled out an empty notebook and wrote:

“The surgeon walked in, a quiet man with hands that trembled like the leaves outside the window…”

That snippet grew into a 2,500‑word short story titled “The Quiet Hands”, which later won a local flash‑fiction contest. The waiting room’s pressure gave the narrative urgency; the physical constraints forced me into concise, vivid prose; the ambient sounds became the rhythm of my sentences.

Takeaway: You don’t need a quiet home office to create award‑winning work—you just need to recognize the creative potential of every circumstance.

6. Final Thoughts: Embrace the Unpredictable

The answer to the headline question isn’t a simple “yes” or “no.” The place you’re in does influence what you write and how much you produce, but not in a deterministic way. It acts as a catalyst, a set of constraints, and a source of sensory fuel.

  • If you love the quiet of home, schedule deep‑work blocks and protect them fiercely.
  • If you thrive on the hustle of public spaces, use them for brainstorming, outlines, or short‑form writing.
  • If you’re stuck in a waiting room, treat that time as a gift—a forced pause that can sharpen focus and spark authenticity.

The ultimate skill isn’t to “find the perfect spot,” but to adapt—to read the environment, to decide what kind of writing it invites, and to have a toolbox ready for any scenario. When you can turn a sterile surgery waiting room into a launchpad for your best story, you’ve mastered that art.

Action Checklist

  • ☐ Pack a portable writing kit (notebook, pen, earbuds).
  • ☐ Create environment anchors (e.g., coffee shop = outline).
  • ☐ Set a daily mini‑commitment timer (5‑minute bursts).
  • ☐ Practice the Waiting‑Room Narrative exercise once this week.
  • ☐ Schedule a distraction buffer before your next home‑writing session.

Give yourself permission to write wherever you are. You may be surprised at the quality and quantity that emerges when you stop hunting for the “perfect” space and start harvesting the creativity that’s already hiding in the moments you thought were just downtime. Happy writing!

If I only had one day to stop over in – Boston – what would I do?

One‑Day Stopover in Boston? Make It Unforgettable With a Walk the Freedom Trail

You’ve just landed in Boston, and the clock is already ticking. Maybe you’re on a lay‑over between two major cities, or perhaps your itinerary squeezes a quick “Boston bite” into a longer East‑Coast tour. With only 24 hours (or less) on the clock, the challenge is simple: what’s the one place that will give you a genuine taste of Boston’s soul without feeling rushed?

The answer is the Freedom Trail—a 2.5‑mile (4 km) red‑brick pathway that stitches together the city’s most iconic historic sites, stunning architecture, and vibrant neighbourhoods. In a single, leisurely stroll you’ll travel from the Boston Common to the waterfront, passing 16 landmarks that tell the story of America’s birth.

Below is a compact, insider‑level guide to turning a brief stopover into a memorable, “I‑was‑there‑and‑I‑loved‑it” experience.

Why the Freedom Trail Beats All Other Single‑Spot Options

FactorFreedom TrailOther Popular Picks (e.g., Fenway, Museum of Fine Arts, Harvard)
Historical depthCovers the entire Revolutionary narrative, from the 1630s Puritan settlement to the 19th‑century abolitionist movement.Usually focus on a single era or theme.
Geographic efficiencyStarts at the oldest public park (Boston Common) and ends at the bustling Harbor, all within walking distance.Many attractions require separate transit legs.
Free & flexibleNo ticket required; you control the pace. Guided tours are optional and inexpensive.Museums and stadiums often have admission fees and timed‑entry constraints.
Photo‑ops galoreIconic backdrops: Granary Burying Ground, Paul Revere’s House, Old State House, USS Constitution.Good spots but fewer in a single walk.
Local vibePasses bustling neighborhoods (Beacon Hill, North End) where you can grab a quick bite of authentic clam chowder or cannoli.Usually isolated to a single district.

In short, the Freedom Trail is a micro‑tour of Boston—the perfect “one‑place” answer for a short stopover.

The Perfect One‑Day Itinerary: Freedom Trail Edition

TimeActivityPractical Tips
08:30 – ArrivalDrop off luggage at a Luggage Storage service near South Station or the Back Bay (many hotels offer it free for guests).Use the Boston’s “Stow It” app to find nearby lockers.
09:00 – Boston CommonStart at the Boston Common—America’s oldest public park. Grab a coffee from a vendor on the Park Plaza side and soak in the early‑morning calm.Look for the “Start of the Freedom Trail” brass plaque near the Park Street Station entrance.
09:30 – Massachusetts State HouseA quick detour to admire the gold‑dome (photo ops on the lawn).Free exterior view; interior tours run hourly but need a reservation.
10:00 – Granary Burying GroundWalk past the graves of Paul Revere, Samuel Adams, and John Hancock.Listen to a short audio guide via the “Freedom Trail Walk” app (free).
10:30 – Old South Meeting HouseThe rally point for the Boston Tea Party.Quick 5‑minute interior peek; guided tours are 15 min, usually starting on the hour.
11:00 – Old State House & Boston Massacre SiteWitness the birthplace of the first American public school and the infamous 1770 incident.Check for a “Free History Talk” at the State House—often given at 11 am.
11:30 – Faneuil Hall MarketplaceGrab a quick lunch: lobster roll at Boston Chowda Co., or a classic New England clam chowder from Union Oyster House (America’s oldest continuously operating restaurant).Keep your ticket stub from the “Freedom Trail” map—there’s a small discount at some stalls.
12:30 – Paul Revere House (North End)Walk the cobblestone streets of the historic North End. Peek into the modest home of the midnight rider.If you’re craving sweets, pop into Mike’s Pastry for the famous cannoli (a perfect post‑tour treat).
13:30 – Old North ChurchThe “One if by land, two if by sea” lantern‑signal site.A brief 10‑minute interior visit; the bell tower is open for a small fee (great panoramic view of the harbor).
14:30 – USS Constitution (“Old Ironsides”)Head down to the Charlestown Navy Yard (short subway ride: Orange Line → Community College → walk). Marvel at the oldest commissioned warship afloat.Free entry; the Constitution Museum is optional but worth a quick glance.
15:30 – Bunker Hill MonumentClimb the 294 steps for sweeping views of Boston’s skyline and the harbor.Take a 10‑minute break at the Bunker Hill Monument Museum café—brew a fresh cup and soak the panorama.
16:30 – Return to South StationHop on the Silver Line back to the airport or your next destination. If time allows, stroll through the nearby Harborwalk for a final seaside breeze.Use the MBTA “CharlieCard” or the “mTicket” app for easy fare payment.
17:30 – DepartureYou’ve just turned a one‑day lay‑over into a living history lesson!Keep your Freedom Trail map as a souvenir—or snap that final photo at the Boston Skyline from the waterfront.

Total walking distance: ~2.5 miles (plus short subway hops).
Time required: ~8 hours (including meals and brief rests).

Pro Tips for Making the Most of Your Freedom Trail Stopover

  1. Download a Free Audio Guide
    • The official “Freedom Trail Walk” app (iOS/Android) offers narrated stories for each landmark—perfect for pacing yourself without a guide.
  2. Wear Comfortable Shoes
    • Boston’s streets are a mix of brick, cobblestone, and modern pavement. A pair of well‑broken‑in sneakers will keep you moving.
  3. Layer Up
    • Early spring and fall mornings can be chilly, while midday sunshine can turn the harbour area warm. A light, packable jacket solves both.
  4. Time Your Lunch
    • Faneuil Hall gets crowded around noon. Arriving at 11:30 am gives you a short window to “beat the rush” and still enjoy the bustling market vibe.
  5. Skip the Wait at Old North Church
    • The church opens at 9 am but the interior tour starts on the hour. Arriving 15 minutes early saves you from queuing behind school groups.
  6. Use the “One‑Stop” Luggage Storage
    • Carrying a suitcase will slow you down. Boston’s “LuggageHero” partners with local shops for secure short‑term storage at under $6 per day.
  7. Map Your Route Ahead of Time
    • The Freedom Trail is marked by a continuous red‑brick line. If you’re prone to “tourist drift,” print a simple map (available at the Boston Common visitor centre).
  8. Consider a Guided Mini‑Tour
    • If you love storytelling, a 10‑minute “Revolutionary Minute” at the Old State House (often free) adds depth without eating up time.

The Takeaway: One Spot, Endless Stories

When you have only a day in Boston, the Freedom Trail turns a tight schedule into a living museum. It packs the essence of the city—colonial roots, revolutionary fervour, maritime heritage, and today’s vibrant culinary scene—into a walk that’s as manageable as it is unforgettable.

Whether you’re a history buff, a casual traveller, or someone who just wants a “real Boston” Instagram story, the Freedom Trail offers:

  • A narrative arc from the city’s birth to its modern port.
  • Photo‑worthy landmarks every few minutes.
  • Sampling opportunities for Boston’s famed food (clam chowder, lobster roll, cannoli).
  • Flexibility—you can speed up, linger, or detour into nearby neighbourhoods without missing the core experience.

So the next time your flight itinerary gifts you a lay‑over in Massachusetts, skip the theme park and head straight to the red bricks. One day, one trail, a lifetime of memories.

Ready to Walk the Trail?

  • Download the “Freedom Trail Walk” app now.
  • Grab a quick coffee at a South Station café and head to Boston Common.
  • Let the red bricks lead the way—Boston’s story is waiting for you.

Safe travels, and enjoy the ride through America’s first capital!

What I learned about writing – The story is never about you

Well, sometimes it is.

Why?

In the beginning, we tend to write ourselves into the stories we write, and also, the various other characters are a collection of traits of people we have known in the past and present.

The trick is with those other people not to make them too much like their real-life counterparts, or you may spend the rest of your life in litigation.

I know there are parts of me in my characters because people I know who have read my stories tell me how much they are like me. The problem with that is I didn’t realise I was doing it.

But, to emphasise, the story is not about you.

Unless it is an autobiography.

I have thought about writing the story of my life, but it’s so boring; the best use of my book would be to read it just before going to bed.

What is probably more interesting would be the story of my family, traced back to the mid-1700s, and they are a very interesting bunch. To me, it seems that people who lived a hundred years ago had far more interesting lives than we do these days.