I turned slowly, wondering just what the hell her game was, when I realised it was not her, but another man holding a shotgun and looking very aggravated.
“What do you think you’re doing?” At least that’s what I translated his Italian version into.
And I put my hands out where he could see them, noting at the same time that not only was Juliet missing, so was my gun.
“No Italian, I’m sorry. Should you be brandishing that gun?”
As I turned, he moved back. He correctly interpreted that I was going to disarm him, if /I could distract him with my not understanding Italian. He was smarter than that.
“Move.”
He had a word of English. The motioning of the gun in the direction of the back door was all he needed. It was not the first time he’d approached an intruder.
I moved slowly towards the door, opened it, and went in.
The grisly scene of the woman on the floor with blood everywhere was confronting. The man with the gun swore.
“What the hell have you done?” Not an exact translation but near enough. He was shocked.
And distracted.
But I think there was no threat from either of them. Dicostini was almost in shock, kneeling beside the woman, trying to shake her awake.
The other man put down the gun and went over to check for any sign of life. First a finger at her neck, then her writ, then hear if she was still breathing.
The gunman looked at Dicostini, “How did this happen?”
Dicostini shrugged.
“He hit her,” I said. “I saw it happen through the window. They were arguing.”
That’s when Dicostini saw me. “Who are you?”
“A private investigator hired to find the real countess. The thing is, I’m not overly worried about her, it’s the woman you took with her that’s your biggest problem?”
“What woman?”
“The countess’s sister. You snatched the two of them if you didn’t, the clowns you employed to do the job did. Her sister is the wife of the Chief of British Intelligence, and he’s about to unleash the wrath of the Gods on you. I came here to do you a favour. Tell me where they are, and I’ll walk away. No questions asked, no interest in what happened here. This is a one-time offer, and it’s about to expire.”
“What are you talking about? This is the countess’s sister.”
It was certainly not Mrs Robdy, but now in the pale light shining on that lifeless face, I could see the resemblance to the countess. It was definitely the woman I’d gone to the opera with, and later taken back to the hotel.
I could see how easily it would be to mistake the fake for the real countess … they must be twins. The thing was, no one had picked up on it, and I thought our researchers were supposed to be the best.
“How is that possible?” I had to ask.
“They were twins, separated at birth, and the mother was never told. Angelina was sent north to stay with a distant aunt who treated her as her own child, and she was never told of her true mother. I would not have known either unless my own mother told me of the deception on her deathbed.”
“So, what was this charade supposed to prove?”
“That she gets some recognition, and some of the Von Burkehardt spoils. That cow that is the countess, she has no interest in anyone but herself. Not for the traditions of this country, the people, the area, the vineyards, the wine, anything.”
“Where is she?”
“Dead, I hope. I told them I didn’t want to see her again. They did not tell me they had taken anyone else with her. It is done, over. I have no idea where they were being held. Now go. I have enough to deal with.”
I had to agree with him. How was he going to explain any of this?
I waited until I was some distance from the house, then pulled out my phone and dialled Anthony’s number.
He answered after the seventh ring. I was worried he might not.
“Two urgent matters. Tell Rodby to take the woman who’s with him into custody. Don’t ask why, just do it, now. Second, how quickly can you flood the Italian media with a missing person poster?”
“Quickly. Why?”
“Get a wanted poster together with Mrs Rodby’s face on it and a finder’s fee of a million Euros, more if you like. And put my phone number on it. Mrs Rody still carries Rodby’s VC in her handbag for good luck still?”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m good at my job. Do both those requests, then call me back in an hour or so. It’s imperative you get the missing persons poster out as soon as possible but only to two people. The lawyer fellow in Rome, I’ll send you his details if you don’t already have them, and to the Burkehardt’. All of them.”
“Only those people?”
“Yes. If I’m wrong, you’re going to find me a hiding spot somewhere in the middle of the north pole, preferably a mile or more under the ice.”
It’s like working in two offices, one uptown, and one downtown.
I have two blogs, this one, and another which is purely for writing, and generally, a lot of starts and not a lot of finishes. I get ideas, and it’s a place to store them, and give a few people some amusement at my, sometimes, improbable situations and far-fetched stories.
Here I try to be more serious.
I have the ceiling, the cinema of my dreams. Here anything is possible, like jumping from a helicopter about to explode, and survive, and get out of a sinking ship, like Houdini. Of course, there is always one time when it doesn’t work, and Houdini knows that all too well.
Over there, I have a series which I started here, long ago, where I take a photograph and write a story inspired by it. The interesting thing about that is I could probably use the same photograph over and over, and it would inspire a different tale.
I know, if I was running a writing class, everyone would see that photograph differently.
But what amazes me sometimes is the fact the story is not directly related to the theme. It got me thinking about how we view our experiences, and what triggers memories. I’ve discovered that it doesn’t necessarily happen by correlation, say, for instance, a memory of being in New York might be triggered by a visit to a cafe in Cloncurry.
I try to do one of these every day, but sometimes it’s hard work. Writing itself can be some days, particularly when the words are lurking there, behind that invisible, impenetrable, rock wall.
OK, so I’m stuck in the middle of writing a piece over there, and I’ve come over here to whinge.
But, enough. I’ll let you know what the cinema of my dreams is showing, later.
The Echo Chamber vs. The Trailblazer: Finding Your Authorial Voice
The blank page stares back, a vast expanse of possibility. As writers, we stand at a familiar crossroads, a debate as old as storytelling itself: should we meticulously study and emulate the voices of those who have come before us, or forge a path entirely our own? Should we lean into the comfortable and the familiar, or strive to create a new artistic vogue?
This isn’t just an abstract literary question; it’s a fundamental one that shapes our creative journey and ultimately, the impact of our words.
The Allure of the Echo: Why Copying Feels Right (Sometimes)
Let’s be honest, there’s a powerful temptation to mimic. When we encounter an author whose prose sings, whose characters leap off the page, or whose plot twists leave us breathless, it’s natural to want to bottle that magic.
Learning the Craft: Studying established authors is an invaluable apprenticeship. By dissecting their sentence structures, their pacing, and their use of metaphor, we learn the mechanics of compelling storytelling. It’s like a musician learning scales before composing symphonies.
Finding Your Feet: Especially when starting out, adopting a style that resonates can provide a scaffolding. It offers a sense of direction and a model to follow, reducing the paralysing fear of the unknown.
Connecting with an Audience: Sometimes, a familiar style taps into a pre-existing reader base. If you write in a genre with established conventions, a comfortable and predictable style can be a draw for those seeking that specific experience.
However, a life spent solely in the echo chamber risks becoming a pale imitation. The danger lies in mistaking appreciation for appropriation, and in becoming so enamoured with another’s voice that we silence our own.
The Audacity of the Original: Charting Your Own Course
Conversely, the call to create something new, to be the trailblazer, is equally potent. It’s the spirit of innovation, of pushing boundaries, of leaving an indelible mark that is uniquely yours.
Authenticity and Connection: A truly original voice resonates deeply because it’s born from genuine experience, observation, and perspective. Readers connect with authenticity; they feel a genuine spark when they encounter something that feels fresh and true to the author.
Innovation and Evolution: Literature, like any art form, needs to evolve. New voices bring new ideas, new ways of seeing the world, and new techniques that can invigorate the literary landscape. Think of the authors who fundamentally changed how we tell stories – they weren’t afraid to deviate from the norm.
Finding Your Unique Power: Your life experiences, your quirks, your individual way of processing the world – these are the raw materials of your unique voice. To suppress them in favour of someone else’s is to dim your own light.
The Sweet Spot: Where Familiarity Meets the New
So, where does this leave us? Is it an either/or proposition? Not necessarily. The most compelling authors often strike a delicate balance.
Influence, Not Imitation: We are all influenced by what we read. The key is to absorb those influences, to understand why they work, and then to filter them through your own unique lens. Your voice is not built in a vacuum; it’s a tapestry woven with the threads of your experiences and the inspiration you’ve drawn from others.
Mastering the Familiar to Subvert It: Sometimes, the most groundbreaking work arises from a deep understanding of existing conventions. By mastering the familiar, you gain the power to play with it, to bend it, and ultimately, to subvert it in exciting and unexpected ways.
Seeking Your “Why”: Before you choose your path, ask yourself: Why am I writing this? What is the core message or feeling I want to convey? Your “why” will often guide you towards the most authentic and impactful voice, whether it’s a whisper of the familiar or a roar of the new.
The Verdict: Cultivate Your Own Garden
Ultimately, the pursuit of a unique authorial voice is not about rejecting all external influence. It’s about engaging with those influences critically, learning from them, and then, crucially, integrating them into your own distinct expression.
Don’t be afraid to experiment. Don’t be afraid to stumble. Don’t be afraid to sound a little like yourself, even if that self is still under construction. The world of literature is rich because of its diversity. It needs your echoes, yes, but more importantly, it thirsts for your original song. So, embrace the challenge, cultivate your own garden of words, and let your unique voice bloom.
The Myth of the Blank Page: Why “Writer’s Block” Is More Than Just a Stuck Pen
Every writer knows the sensation: you stare at the cursor, blinking rhythmically against a stark white screen, and your brain feels like a locked door. You can’t find the key. You call it “writer’s block.” You blame it on the caffeine crash, the deadline pressure, or a lack of inspiration.
But have you ever stopped to wonder if the term itself is actually to blame?
If you trace the history of those two words back to their source, you’ll find that “writer’s block” isn’t a medical condition or an inevitable creative cycle. It’s a diagnosis—and one that carries a heavy, somewhat dark, psychological weight.
The Invention of a Diagnosis
For most of literary history, writers simply struggled. They had “dry spells,” they “hit a wall,” or they were “out of ideas.” Then, in 1947, a psychoanalyst named Edmund Bergler coined the term “writer’s block.”
To understand Bergler, you have to understand the era. He was working in the shadow of Sigmund Freud, and he viewed the creative process through a very specific, psychoanalytic lens. Bergler didn’t think you were stuck because you were tired or uninspired. He believed that the “block” was actually an unconscious act of self-sabotage.
According to Bergler, writers were suffering from a deep-seated, masochistic drive. He argued that the writer unconsciously sabotaged their own work to enjoy the “self-constructed defeat” of failing to write. In his view, the agony of not being able to finish a manuscript wasn’t a struggle against a narrative problem; it was a psychological compulsion to suffer.
Is This Really About Word Counts?
If we accept Bergler’s definition, then “writer’s block” stops being a productivity issue and starts being an internal conflict.
This is where things get interesting. If you’re struggling to reach your daily word count, you usually look for practical solutions: try the Pomodoro technique, change your environment, or outline your chapters more clearly. But if the problem is actually a subconscious desire to sabotage yourself, those practical fixes will never work.
By framing our struggles as “writer’s block,” we’ve inherited a diagnosis that suggests the problem lies deep within our psyche, rather than on the page. It turns a professional hurdle into a personal failing.
Moving Beyond the “Block”
Maybe it’s time we retire the phrasing. When we tell ourselves we have “writer’s block,” we are giving ourselves permission to stop. We are turning a temporary lapse in flow into an identity—a “blocked” writer.
Perhaps the next time you feel stuck, you shouldn’t ask, “Why am I sabotaging myself?” or “How do I overcome this block?” Instead, try asking:
Is this section actually necessary for the story? (Maybe you’re stuck because the narrative is heading in the wrong direction.)
Am I exhausted or burnt out? (Sometimes, the tank is just empty.)
Is my goal too big? (Breaking a chapter into 100-word segments is far less daunting than “finishing the book.”)
Writer’s block might be a useful shorthand for the frustration of the craft, but it’s worth remembering that it was invented by a man who looked for internal demons behind every closed door. You don’t have to be a masochist to struggle with a sentence. Sometimes, a hard day of writing is just a hard day of writing—no analysis required.
Next time the words won’t come, don’t blame your subconscious. Just close the laptop, take a walk, and remember: you aren’t “blocked.” You’re just in the middle of the work.
This was one of the more interesting experiences for the grandchildren as they were, as all young girls are, interested in ballet.
We thoroughly enjoyed our visit which included some time watching ballet practice.
I could not convince anyone to take the elevator back down to the ground floor as it was suspected we might be ‘attacked’ by the ‘phantom’. Certainly, the elevator was very old and I think at the time it was being repaired.
Part of the Grand Staircase in Palais Garnier Opera de Paris
The ceiling above the main staircase. The ceiling above the staircase was painted by Isidore Pils to depict The Triumph of Apollo, The Enchantment of Music Deploying its Charms, Minerva Fighting Brutality Watched by the Gods of Olympus, and The City of Paris Receiving the Plan of the New Opéra.
The ceiling of Chagall at the Palais Garnier
On 23 September 1964, the new ceiling of the Opéra Garnier was inaugurated with great pomp. It was painted by Marc Chagall at the request of André Malraux
Amphitheatre and Orchestra Pit entrance
Interior, and doorways to boxes
Box seats in the auditorium
Ornate ceilings and columns
Seating inside the auditorium
The day we were leaving Paris, was the first night of the Bolshoi Ballet. My two granddaughters were greatly disappointed at missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime, to see the Bolshoi Ballet at the Paris Opera House.
I gave the order to my assistant to order the supplies we needed in order to maintain stock levels.
Oh, yes, the word order is one of my favourites, because it can confuse the hell out of many people in its simplicity and yet complexity.
I gave the order, it’s what happens in the armed forces, and a lot of other places, but mostly we would associate it with organisations that have hierarchical authority.
The military, for one, cut orders, the means of sending one of its minions to another place, or to do a specific job.
Order supplies, well, just about anyone can order something from somewhere, usually on the internet, and sometimes require or are given an order number so it can be tracked.
In order to maintain, in order to get what I want, in order to get elected, this is just another way of using the word, with the aim of achieving something, though I’m sure there’s probably a better way of expressing these sentiments.
Law and order, well, doesn’t everyone want this, and doesn’t it always turn up in an election campaign, and seems to be the first thing sacrificed after the election. The thing is, no one can guarantee law and order.
There is the law and there is administering it. There is no order that comes with it, we just hope that order is maintained, and deplore the situation when it isn’t.
Perhaps in order to maintain law and order, we might need more police.
Then, of course, there is alphabetical order, and numerical order, where things can be designated from A to Z, like this challenge, or from 1 to 10, or more. We can sort words alphabetically, numbers numerically and data items by keys or an index.
This is naturally called a sort order.
Then there is my car, or bike, or washing machine, or mixmaster. They are currently in good working order, though that might not last.
And lastly, in deference to all those out there who are thinking of becoming dictators, it’s always possible, one day, there will be a new world order. They might actually be in their own particular order, whose intellect might be (?) of the highest order.
To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.
But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.
I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026. It even has a cover.
Whilst I found this tree house to be interesting, it seems to be far from practical because there was little to keep the wind and rain out, though I suppose, in the book, that might not be such a problem.
Be that as it may, and if it was relatively waterproof, then the furnishings would probably survive, and one had to also assume that much of the furnishings, such as the writing desk below, would have washed up as debris from the shipwreck.
The stove and oven would have to be built by hand, and it is ‘remarkable’ such well-fitting stones were available. It doesn’t look like it’s been used for a while judging by the amount of gree on it. Perhaps it is not in a waterproof area.
The dining table and the shelf in the background have that rough-hewn look about them
A bit of man-made equipment here for drawing water from the stream
And though not made in the era of electricity, there is an opportunity to use the water wheel to do more than it appears to be doing
And tucked away in a corner the all-important study where one can read, or play a little music on the organ. One could say, for the period, one had all the comforts of home.
By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.
The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.
I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.
I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.
From what I could see, there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.
She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.
Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.
She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.
I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.
Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.
It didn’t work.
I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?
I usually blamed it on my upbringing.
I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.
Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind. If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.
I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.
Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.
About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.
Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.
Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was. In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.
And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.
It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.
I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.
Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.
Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.
Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.
I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.
I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.
I had to wrench my attention away from her.
A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.
I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerising. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.
Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”
I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.
“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”
Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.
Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.
Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.
“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.
The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”
It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.
“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.
I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”
“Zoe.”
“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”
She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”
“I might throw myself overboard?”
“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”
Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”
I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.
“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.
She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”
Of course. She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.
“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.
“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”
The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.
“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”
She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.
“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.
But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.
She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”
A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”
I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused. “Do I look like one?”
I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”
I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead, she astonished me.
“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”
I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.
“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”
“She’s not here?”
“No.”
“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.
“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”
OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.
She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.
I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.
She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”
“I saw it coming.”
“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”
OK, that was unexpected.
When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”
She stood and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?
I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.
The Myth of the Blank Page: Why “Writer’s Block” Is More Than Just a Stuck Pen
Every writer knows the sensation: you stare at the cursor, blinking rhythmically against a stark white screen, and your brain feels like a locked door. You can’t find the key. You call it “writer’s block.” You blame it on the caffeine crash, the deadline pressure, or a lack of inspiration.
But have you ever stopped to wonder if the term itself is actually to blame?
If you trace the history of those two words back to their source, you’ll find that “writer’s block” isn’t a medical condition or an inevitable creative cycle. It’s a diagnosis—and one that carries a heavy, somewhat dark, psychological weight.
The Invention of a Diagnosis
For most of literary history, writers simply struggled. They had “dry spells,” they “hit a wall,” or they were “out of ideas.” Then, in 1947, a psychoanalyst named Edmund Bergler coined the term “writer’s block.”
To understand Bergler, you have to understand the era. He was working in the shadow of Sigmund Freud, and he viewed the creative process through a very specific, psychoanalytic lens. Bergler didn’t think you were stuck because you were tired or uninspired. He believed that the “block” was actually an unconscious act of self-sabotage.
According to Bergler, writers were suffering from a deep-seated, masochistic drive. He argued that the writer unconsciously sabotaged their own work to enjoy the “self-constructed defeat” of failing to write. In his view, the agony of not being able to finish a manuscript wasn’t a struggle against a narrative problem; it was a psychological compulsion to suffer.
Is This Really About Word Counts?
If we accept Bergler’s definition, then “writer’s block” stops being a productivity issue and starts being an internal conflict.
This is where things get interesting. If you’re struggling to reach your daily word count, you usually look for practical solutions: try the Pomodoro technique, change your environment, or outline your chapters more clearly. But if the problem is actually a subconscious desire to sabotage yourself, those practical fixes will never work.
By framing our struggles as “writer’s block,” we’ve inherited a diagnosis that suggests the problem lies deep within our psyche, rather than on the page. It turns a professional hurdle into a personal failing.
Moving Beyond the “Block”
Maybe it’s time we retire the phrasing. When we tell ourselves we have “writer’s block,” we are giving ourselves permission to stop. We are turning a temporary lapse in flow into an identity—a “blocked” writer.
Perhaps the next time you feel stuck, you shouldn’t ask, “Why am I sabotaging myself?” or “How do I overcome this block?” Instead, try asking:
Is this section actually necessary for the story? (Maybe you’re stuck because the narrative is heading in the wrong direction.)
Am I exhausted or burnt out? (Sometimes, the tank is just empty.)
Is my goal too big? (Breaking a chapter into 100-word segments is far less daunting than “finishing the book.”)
Writer’s block might be a useful shorthand for the frustration of the craft, but it’s worth remembering that it was invented by a man who looked for internal demons behind every closed door. You don’t have to be a masochist to struggle with a sentence. Sometimes, a hard day of writing is just a hard day of writing—no analysis required.
Next time the words won’t come, don’t blame your subconscious. Just close the laptop, take a walk, and remember: you aren’t “blocked.” You’re just in the middle of the work.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 