In just about every book about how to be a good writer, there seems to be a pile of problems that at some time in a writer’s life will need to be overcome.
Writer’s block
Don’t have it. The ideas pour out of my head like water over a waterfall
Don’t use abstract descriptions in your writing
Damn, I do that all the time
But, back to writer’s block, is that where you write 37 chapters and there the story stops?
Oops.
Plan your book and have an outline so you can write it from start to finish
Plan? What Plan?
That only happens when I’ve written the book and prior to the first edit, I make a precise of each chapter to make sure of continuity.
Plan your characters and give them a timeline
Oh God is that why characters’ names are often changing as the story progresses.
Believe it or not, I’m working on this issue.
Manage your time.
Still can’t get it right.
Write at least a thousand words a day, no matter if it’s rubbish or not.
Does that include writing for social media?
Apparently not.
At least this is one of the requirements I follow religiously. Sometimes it’s a lot more words but a least some writing finished up either on paper in on the word processor.
Now it’s time to write those thousand words.
Look, there, I’ve at least got one part of time management under control.
The End… Or Just the Beginning? Why “The End” of Your Novel Is Never Truly the End
You’ve done it. Stared down the endless white expanse of the page, wrestled with characters who refused to cooperate, and battled plot holes that threatened to swallow your narrative whole. After months, maybe even years, of dedication, you finally type those two glorious words: “The End.”
For a fleeting moment, there’s a sense of triumphant finality. The story is complete. The world you’ve meticulously crafted is now bound between covers, waiting to be discovered. You might even allow yourself a daydream or two – the bestseller lists, the glowing reviews, the Hollywood deal for that blockbuster movie you’ve always envisioned.
But if you’re an author, you know deep down that “The End”… is never quite the end, is it?
This isn’t about the gruelling process of revisions, the agonising search for an agent, or the nail-biting wait for a publisher’s acceptance. Those are the necessary hurdles after you’ve reached that initial conclusion. This is about something more profound, a shift in perspective that redefines what “finished” truly means.
“The End” is a Birth Certificate, Not a Tombstone.
When you type those final words, you’re not burying your story. You’re giving it life. You’ve breathed it into existence, and now it has the potential to live, to breathe, to impact lives beyond your own.
Think about it:
The Reader’s Journey Begins: Your “End” is the starting point for countless readers. They will embark on their own journey through your words, interpreting your characters, feeling your emotions, and drawing their own conclusions. The story truly comes alive in their minds, a unique experience for each individual.
The Sequel Whispers: Even if you had no intention of writing a sequel, the characters you’ve created, the world you’ve built, can linger. They might start whispering ideas for new adventures, new conflicts, new possibilities. The “End” of one chapter often feels like the fertile ground for another.
The Adaptations Unfold: As you so accurately predicted, that blockbuster movie deal might be on the horizon. This new phase of your story, translated into a visual medium, brings a whole new set of challenges and triumphs. The characters you envisioned will be embodied, your dialogue spoken aloud, your settings brought to life on screen. It’s the same story, yet utterly new.
The Author’s Evolution: “The End” also marks a significant point in your own evolution as a writer. You’ve learned, you’ve grown, you’ve conquered. The skills honed during this project will inevitably inform your next. The very act of finishing has changed you, making you a more capable storyteller.
The Legacy Takes Root: A completed novel, especially one with potential, becomes a part of a larger legacy. It can spark conversations, influence other artists, become a touchstone for readers. That “End” begins a quiet, yet powerful, ripple effect in the world.
So, the next time you type “The End,” take a moment. Bask in the satisfaction, yes. Dream of those bestseller lists and movie deals. But also understand that you haven’t closed a door; you’ve opened a universe. Your novel’s journey is just beginning, and the true “end” is a concept that perhaps, as storytellers, we’ll never truly reach.
What does “The End” mean to you as a writer? Share your thoughts in the comments below!
Writing a compelling book or television series requires a complex infrastructure to keep audiences engaged over multiple installments. Beyond generational lineages, world-building locations, historical integration, and timelines, several critical structural elements are essential for crafting a successful series:
1. The Overarching Narrative Arc (The Macro-Plot)
While individual books or episodes have their own self-contained conflicts, a series requires a macro-plot that spans the entire run.
The “Uber-Conflict”: This is the ultimate threat, mystery, or goal that won’t be resolved until the final installment (e.g., defeating a Dark Lord, solving a multi-year conspiracy, or reaching a distant destination).
The Breadcrumb Trail: Each installment must advance this macro-plot slightly, offering clues, minor victories, or shifts in power so the audience feels a continuous sense of momentum.
2. Series-Length Character Arcs
Characters in a standalone story change over 300 pages; characters in a series must evolve sustainably over thousands of pages.
Slower Burn Development: Flaws, trauma, and growth must be rationed. A character shouldn’t overcome their core emotional wound in book one, or they will have nowhere to go in book two.
The Cost of Consistency: Writers must balance keeping characters recognizable (their core traits, humor, or skills) with allowing them to be permanently altered by the events of each previous installment.
3. Structural Formula & Narrative Pacing
A series needs a reliable structural blueprint so the audience knows what kind of experience to expect.
Procedural vs. Serialised: You must decide if your series is episodic (a “monster-of-the-week” or “case-of-the-book” format where status quo is largely maintained) or serialised (one continuous, unfolding story where you cannot skip an instalment).
The 70/30 Rule: A common pacing strategy where roughly 70% of an individual book focuses on resolving the immediate, self-contained plot, while 30% dedicatedly services the ongoing series-wide arcs and subplots.
4. The Integration of Subplots (A-Plot, B-Plot, C-Plot)
To keep a long-form story from feeling stagnant, a series relies heavily on a rotating matrix of subplots.
The A-Plot: The immediate conflict of the current book (e.g., catching this killer).
The B-Plot: Ongoing character relationships, personal dramas, or professional rivalries that evolve slowly across multiple books.
The C-Plot: Subtle seeds planted for future books—an unexplained magical anomaly, a background political shift, or a minor character who will become the main antagonist three books later.
5. Managing Information Architecture
In a series, how you ration and recall information is just as important as the plot itself.
The Exposition Balance: Every subsequent installment must gracefully remind returning readers of past events without alienating or boring them, while simultaneously catching up new readers.
Payoff Trajectory: You must master the art of the setup and payoff across vast distances. A passing comment in book one might be the twist ending of book four.
6. Theme and Motifs
A series is often unified by a central thematic question that is explored from multiple angles through different characters and situations across the installments.
Thematic Evolution: If book one explores the corrupting nature of absolute power, book two might explore the burden of rebuilding after power falls, and book three might look at the compromises required to maintain peace. The setting and characters stay the same, but the thematic lens shifts.
One‑Day Stopover in Oslo? Make It Unforgettable With a Visit to the Oslo Opera House
If you’ve only got 24 hours in Norway’s capital, there’s one spot that captures the city’s spirit, history, and modern vibe in a single, unforgettable experience – the Oslo Opera House.
Why the Opera House Is the Perfect One‑Stop Choice
What you’ll love
How it ties into Oslo’s identity
Iconic Architecture – A marble‑white “iceberg” rising from the fjord, designed by Snøhetta.
It’s a bold statement of Norway’s design excellence and its close relationship with the sea.
Free Roof Walk – Climb to the roof for panoramic views of the fjord and city skyline.
Offers a bird’s‑eye glimpse of Oslo’s blend of urban life and natural beauty.
Cultural Hub – Home to opera, ballet, concerts, and cutting‑edge performances.
Shows Oslo’s vibrant arts scene, from classic works to avant‑garde Norwegian productions.
Central Location – Just a 10‑minute walk from the bustling waterfront Aker Brygge and the historic Gamla Oslo.
Lets you easily combine the visit with a quick bite, a coffee, or a stroll through the old town.
In short, the Oslo Opera House packs art, architecture, history, and stunning scenery into a compact, easily reachable venue—exactly what a one‑day traveller needs.
How to Make the Most of Your Visit (Even If You’re On a Tight Schedule)
1. Get There in 5 Minutes
From Oslo Central Station (Oslo S): Hop on the Tram 12 (direction Kongens gate). It drops you off right at the Opera House after a single stop—about 3 minutes.
From the Airport (Gardermoen): The Flytoget high‑speed train to Oslo S, then the same tram. Total travel ≈ 25 minutes.
2. Time‑Smart Itinerary (≈ 4 Hours)
Time
Activity
0:00 – 0:20
Enter & Explore the Lobby – Admire the sweeping marble staircases and the giant “Seahorse” sculpture. Grab a quick coffee at the on‑site café (the “Operabutikken” serves great espresso).
0:20 – 1:30
Roof Walk – Follow the sloping ramps to the top. Walk the entire 500‑meter “runway” for three distinct viewpoints: the Oslofjord, the city’s rooftops, and the surrounding islands. Snap photos at sunrise or golden hour for epic lighting.
1:30 – 2:00
Quick Cultural Bite – Pop into the Kunstner restaurant on the ground floor for a light Norwegian snack (smoked salmon on rye, or a mini “lefse”).
2:00 – 3:30
Mini‑Performance or Guided Tour – Check the day‑of schedule; many days feature a free lunchtime concert in the main hall. If you prefer a deeper dive, book a 30‑minute backstage tour (available on the official website).
3:30 – 4:00
Souvenir Stop – The Opera House gift shop offers beautifully designed Norwegian design items—think wool scarves, minimalist jewelry, and limited‑edition prints of the building’s blueprint.
Pro tip: If you’re traveling with kids, the roof walk is a “playground” in disguise—no tickets, no lines, just endless imagination.
3. Practical Details at a Glance
Item
Details
Opening Hours
Public areas (roof, lobby) open 7 am – 11 pm daily. Performances and tours follow separate schedules; check operaen.no.
Admission
Free for roof access and lobby. Concerts, operas, and tours have ticket fees (often discounted for students and seniors).
Accessibility
Wheelchair‑friendly ramps all the way to the roof; elevators inside the building.
Nearby Food
Aker Brygge (15‑minute walk) offers a vibrant waterfront dining scene—think fresh seafood, craft beer, and Nordic pastries.
What to Wear
Comfortable shoes for the roof walk; a light windbreaker (the fjord can be breezy).
The “Secret Sauce” – Making It Memorable
Capture the Moment – The roof’s glass‑backed edges reflect the sky, turning every photo into a living postcard. Use the golden hour (just after sunrise or before sunset) for the most dramatic contrast.
Listen to the Fjord – While perched on the roof, close your eyes and listen to the gentle lapping of the Oslofjord against the pier below. It’s a surprisingly meditative pause amid a busy travel schedule.
Blend Past & Future – Inside, the modern interiors sit beside a historic marble staircase that once served as a gathering place for Oslo’s elite. Feel the continuum of Norwegian culture in one space.
Bonus: If You Still Have an Hour to Spare…
A short 15‑minute stroll northwards brings you to Karl Johans gate, Oslo’s main boulevard. Pop into a bakery for a kanelsnurr (cinnamon roll) and watch locals hustle between the Parliament and the royal palace. It’s the perfect “after‑opera” slice of everyday Oslo life.
Wrap‑Up: One Day, One Icon, Endless Memories
A stopover in Oslo can feel fleeting, but the Opera House transforms those 24 hours into a vivid, multi‑sensory story—architecture that you can walk on, sea views that you can breathe in, and cultural moments you can hear.
Next time your itinerary says “just a layover,” make it a standing‑ovation layover at the Oslo Opera House.
Ready to book your runway walk? Check the official schedule, grab a last‑minute ticket for a lunchtime concert, and let Oslo’s “iceberg” welcome you home—if only for a day.
Feel free to share your Oslo Opera House experience in the comments! Happy travels.
Is it possible to mix the two up? I don’t think so.
Great usually means: everything is great, or good, or excellent, whatever degree of goodness you want to put to it.
It could also mean something else, like: Well, you were a great help! when in fact you want to say how useless they were.
Large or little.
Like all creatures great and small, Why not say big or small. Big doesn’t quite have the same effect.
Of course, you could be a great person, well, what I really mean is distinguished. Besides, great could mean way above average, too. Or grand, or impressive, the list goes on.
And haven’t we all, at some time had a great-aunt. No not the good one, the ‘great’ one, denoting her seniority, not necessarily how nice she is.
As for the other grate, we can build a fire in it.
Or add an ‘un’ in front and ‘ful’ at the end, to denote what parents sometimes think of their children
Or get a block of cheese and ‘grate’ it into small shreds.
Or speak in a voice that grates on your nerves, possibly by that great-aunt.
It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door, so I could see to unlock it.
I looked up and saw that the globe was broken.
Instant alert.
I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup, and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.
Who?
There were four hiding spots, and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.
I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.
But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbour and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.
Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.
There were three entrances to the villa: the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room, which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.
It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were in the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.
The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa, behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I moved aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.
I closed the door after me and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage, which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.
I stepped into the darkness and closed the door.
I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.
Silence, an eerie silence.
I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.
I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.
That raised the question of who told them where I was.
If I were the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.
Or was I?
I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.
Still nothing.
I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked, and where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I were not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk in. One shot would be all that was required.
Contract complete.
I sidled quietly up the passage, staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.
Crunch.
I stepped on some nutshells.
Not my nutshells.
I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.
And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.
I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me, and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.
Two assassins.
I’d not expected that.
The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.
I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!
I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.
I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.
“Who employed you?”
He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today, my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed, and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”
Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.
I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.
Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect the dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.
A half-hour passed, and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.
Until I heard a knock on my front door.
Two thoughts: it was either the police, alerted by the neighbours, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?
I stood and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.
If it were the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.
No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.
“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.
When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”
I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”
I looked at my arm and realised it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.
“You need to go away now.”
Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she were any sort of law-abiding citizen, she would go straight to the police.
She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”
I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”
“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”
“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”
The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.
I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.
I expected her to scream. She didn’t.
She gave me a good, hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.
“What happened here?”
“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”
“Not so much, looking at your arm.”
She came closer and inspected it.
“Sit down.”
She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.
“Do you have medical supplies?”
I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.
She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed, though I was not sure why it might interest her.
She helped me remove my shirt and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.
When she’d finished, she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”
No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.
“Alisha?”
“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”
“That was wrong of her to do that.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”
“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”
One Day in Dublin? There’s Only One Place to Start.
You have a single day. A fleeting stopover in a city with a thousand stories. You want it to be memorable, not a whirlwind of checklist tourism. You want to feel Dublin, not just see it.
Forget the rush. Forget trying to cram in ten sights. There is one anchor point that will give you the essence of the city—its history, its soul, its stunning beauty—and set the perfect tone for everything else you might discover.
That place is Trinity College Dublin. And more specifically, the Old Library and the Book of Kells.
Why This? It’s Not Just a Library.
Standing in the heart of the 16th-century college, you’re stepping into the very womb of Dublin’s intellectual and cultural identity. This is where Jonathan Swift, Oscar Wilde, and Samuel Beckett walked. But the true magic is the Long Room.
You walk through a hushed, majestic corridor. Two levels of dark oak bookshelves stretch 65 meters before you, holding over 200,000 of the library’s oldest volumes. The vaulted ceiling, the marble busts of philosophers, the scent of aged paper—it’s a scene of profound, cinematic beauty that feels both ancient and alive. It’s one of the most breathtaking rooms in the world, and it’s right here in the middle of a bustling city.
And at the very heart of it, the centrepiece: the Book of Kells. This isn’t just an old book. It’s a 9th-century masterpiece of insular art, a luminous gospel where every page is an explosion of intricate symbols, mythic beasts, and dazzling swirls of colour. Seeing it in person—the sheer artistry and devotion it represents—connects you to an Ireland of monks and scholars, a profound creative spirit that has endured through centuries.
How to Make That Day Unforgettable:
Go First Thing (Book Online!): Get your timed ticket for the Book of Kells exhibition and the Old Library for as soon as it opens (usually 9:30/10 AM). This is non-negotiable for a one-day visit. Do not wait in line. Book in advance on the Trinity College website.
Take Your Time (90 Minutes): Don’t rush. Read the panels explaining the Book of Kells’ history. Stand in the middle of the Long Room and just breathe. Find the oldest book in Ireland (the Book of Durrow). Let the awe sink in.
Wander the Grounds: After your library visit, stroll through the beautiful, tranquil Trinity College grounds. See the beautiful Campanile bell tower, the quieter Parliament Square, and the serene Fellows’ Square. It’s a peaceful, green oasis that feels worlds away from the city outside.
Let It Anchor Your Day: From here, you are perfectly positioned. The college borders Grafton Street (for shopping and buskers) and the Temple Bar area (for cobblestones, galleries, and a true taste of the city’s vibrant energy). Have your classic Irish coffee or a pint in a pub nearby, but you’ll do it with the weight and wonder of Irish history fresh in your mind.
The Real Secret:
This experience gives you context. Yes, you’ll see the Guinness Storehouse or the Guinness Storehouse, but you’ll understand the why. Dublin’s famously literary pub culture, its love of debate and storytelling, its resilience—it all grows from roots like those found in the Old Library. You’ll step out onto the street not just having seen a famous attraction, but having connected with the founding story of the city itself.
So, for your one precious day: Do not miss the Old Library. See the Book of Kells. Stand in the Long Room.
It’s the one place that turns a stopover into a story you’ll carry home. It’s the key that unlocks the rest of your day, and the real meaning of Dublin.
P.S. – Afterward, find a traditional pub with a roaring fire (like The Palace Bar on Fleet Street, a Trinity favourite). Order a simple half-pint of Guinness, sit quietly, and listen to the murmur of conversation. You’ll hear echoes of every writer, scholar, and ordinary Dubliner who ever walked out of those library doors. That’s your memorable day, complete.
My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.
I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.
Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.
Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility that the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.
The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.
I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.
The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the clientele the hotel attracted.
I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’, but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.
Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?
Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.
There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.
The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.
As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.
There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.
With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.
A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him he was not the concierge, and instead he brushed past me like I wasn’t there.
He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.
Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.
I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position, then clunked when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the lift lobby, only what was in the direction of the car entrance.
The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.
“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”
Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”
“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”
He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.
Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.
“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”
“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”
“Good. Let’s go over to the desk and see what we can do for you.”
I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.
“Name of guest, sir?”
“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.
She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”
Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”
Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”
An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.
“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”
Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”
Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”
I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.
“No.”
“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”
She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”
“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.
“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”
I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”
She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.
The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”
“No. You have more than you can know.”
“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”
“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”
Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.
I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.
Writing a compelling book or television series requires a complex infrastructure to keep audiences engaged over multiple installments. Beyond generational lineages, world-building locations, historical integration, and timelines, several critical structural elements are essential for crafting a successful series:
1. The Overarching Narrative Arc (The Macro-Plot)
While individual books or episodes have their own self-contained conflicts, a series requires a macro-plot that spans the entire run.
The “Uber-Conflict”: This is the ultimate threat, mystery, or goal that won’t be resolved until the final installment (e.g., defeating a Dark Lord, solving a multi-year conspiracy, or reaching a distant destination).
The Breadcrumb Trail: Each installment must advance this macro-plot slightly, offering clues, minor victories, or shifts in power so the audience feels a continuous sense of momentum.
2. Series-Length Character Arcs
Characters in a standalone story change over 300 pages; characters in a series must evolve sustainably over thousands of pages.
Slower Burn Development: Flaws, trauma, and growth must be rationed. A character shouldn’t overcome their core emotional wound in book one, or they will have nowhere to go in book two.
The Cost of Consistency: Writers must balance keeping characters recognizable (their core traits, humor, or skills) with allowing them to be permanently altered by the events of each previous installment.
3. Structural Formula & Narrative Pacing
A series needs a reliable structural blueprint so the audience knows what kind of experience to expect.
Procedural vs. Serialised: You must decide if your series is episodic (a “monster-of-the-week” or “case-of-the-book” format where status quo is largely maintained) or serialised (one continuous, unfolding story where you cannot skip an instalment).
The 70/30 Rule: A common pacing strategy where roughly 70% of an individual book focuses on resolving the immediate, self-contained plot, while 30% dedicatedly services the ongoing series-wide arcs and subplots.
4. The Integration of Subplots (A-Plot, B-Plot, C-Plot)
To keep a long-form story from feeling stagnant, a series relies heavily on a rotating matrix of subplots.
The A-Plot: The immediate conflict of the current book (e.g., catching this killer).
The B-Plot: Ongoing character relationships, personal dramas, or professional rivalries that evolve slowly across multiple books.
The C-Plot: Subtle seeds planted for future books—an unexplained magical anomaly, a background political shift, or a minor character who will become the main antagonist three books later.
5. Managing Information Architecture
In a series, how you ration and recall information is just as important as the plot itself.
The Exposition Balance: Every subsequent installment must gracefully remind returning readers of past events without alienating or boring them, while simultaneously catching up new readers.
Payoff Trajectory: You must master the art of the setup and payoff across vast distances. A passing comment in book one might be the twist ending of book four.
6. Theme and Motifs
A series is often unified by a central thematic question that is explored from multiple angles through different characters and situations across the installments.
Thematic Evolution: If book one explores the corrupting nature of absolute power, book two might explore the burden of rebuilding after power falls, and book three might look at the compromises required to maintain peace. The setting and characters stay the same, but the thematic lens shifts.
“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.
When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact that his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.
From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.
There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just several small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, point to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.
Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints at impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovers piece by piece, damning evidence that she is about to leave him for another man.
Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?
Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?
Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence are about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?
