Category: Author

Writing a book in 365 days – 326/327

Days 326 and 327

Writing exercise – Take a minor character and give them a backstory, and something that couldEight out of eight passengers and crew never thought they’d find themselves in what was, literally, a life and death situation.

…

The air hung heavy with cigarette smoke, for nearly all smoked (and some for the first time).  Tension thickened the atmosphere to a point where it could almost be cut with a knife.

In the deathly quiet, all had time to reflect on the fate that had befallen them, and the resume of events read like the script of the archetypal disaster movie.

The first hint of trouble came when they’d lost one engine.  The pilot had been quite nonchalant about it because, he said, they had three others.  Only Harry thought he could detect a note of apprehension in his tone.

Then, after a short time, they lost another engine.

An hour later, they crashed.

Of the eight, during those precious seconds before impact, none believed they would survive, but only the pilot and co-pilot perished.  All admitted it had been a spectacular piece of flying on the pilot’s part, all, that is, except Rawlings.

“A fine mess this blasted pilot has got us into,” Rawlings said for the umpteenth time.  No one had taken much notice before, and it was debatable whether anyone was taking notice now, for Rawlings had hardly endeared himself to the other passengers.

As the only person travelling first class he made sure he received the best service (and the only one to receive any service for that matter) from the moment he came on board.  The fact that the airline had allocated only one stewardess for the flight was the airline’s (and his fellow passengers’) problem, not his.

“After telling us how clever you are, Rawlings, why don’t you do something about it?”  An indistinguishable voice came from the rear of the plane.  It was an indication of the undercurrent of hate simmering beneath the icy calm.

Rawlings, still in the forward section of the plane, glared at the group, trying to put a face to the voice.  “To whom am I speaking?”

No one replied.

“No matter.”  He shrugged it off.  “Had the pilot managed to get the plane down in one piece, I could.  Since he didn’t, you can be assured I’ll think of something, which is more than I can say for some.”  It was, to him, a simple statement based on his assessment of the situation, but it served only to further alienate him from the others.

…

Harry had known better days, and, not for the first time, he wished this were one of them.  He’d had a premonition the previous night when he’d woken, bathed in sweat, an unconscious warning of an impending disaster.

Not that the threat of death was significant to him, for he knew it would come eventually, despite the doctor’s optimism, but not yet, not here, in the middle of nowhere, atop a mountain range in the freezing cold.

He glanced at his fellow passengers, a curious mixture of travellers he’d ever met.

Rawlings was the egotistical, bombastic, thorough son-of-a-bitch.  He had gone out of his way to make the trip as miserable as possible for the others.  Status, to him, was all-important, even after the crash.

Harkness, Rawlings’ assistant (and relegated to Economy class because he was a servant), was the sort who said little and suffered a lot.  His defence of the pilot had caused Rawlings to ‘vent his spleen’ on him, after which, to Harkness, the silence must have been golden.

Daphne and her mother, Mrs Gaunt, two of the three women on board, were congenial, cheerful people who bore up well considering they were terrified out of their wits.  Daphne, in fact, had taken over stewardess duties for the Economy passengers, a job much appreciated by them.

The remaining two passengers, geologists, were odd sorts who arrived late and drunk.  After take off, they’d fallen asleep and, in fact, had slept through the crash.  They were, Harry thought, in for one hell of a shock when they finally woke.

Above all, however, the stewardess had fared the worst, after the pilots, having, after the discovery of the death of the pilots, become hysterical.  It was an interesting development because she had kept a tight, calm grip on the situation all through the calamity.

Harry huddled closer under his blanket, only to remember his sore arm.  He didn’t think it was broken, but it certainly felt like it.  And the hell of it was, he couldn’t remember how it happened.  He shuddered as a gust of icy wind came through the rent in the fuselage near his seat.  But it was not only the cold which left him with almost uncontrollable shakes – it was also the onset of shock. 

In the back of his mind, he relived those cataclysmic minutes after successive engines failed.  It was then he wished he hadn’t been so insistent on having a window seat.

As the plane lurched sickeningly, the pilot calmly said they’d have to land immediately.  Of course, he added equally as calm, it would be difficult in mountainous country.  However, they were fortunate it had been snowing recently.  All except Rawlings took the news with equanimity.  It was odd, someone said later, that with all his knowledge and self-praise, Rawlings didn’t take over the plane and fly them to safety.

The plane was barely in the air when the order came to brace themselves, and all were prepared when the plane hit the ground moments later.

The plane came to rest abruptly in a snow-covered valley; the silence, after the cacophony of tearing metal and involuntary screams, was almost maddening.  The first realisation each had was that they were still alive – the second, the icy wind coming in through the large cracks in the fuselage.

Harry was the first to move himself into action and to make an appraisal of the situation.  The other passengers were more or less unharmed, except for the stewardess, who was slightly dazed.  Then, Harkness joining him, he went forward to the flight deck.  When they managed to wrench the door open they were greeted by a scene of total destruction.  Both pilots were dead, unrecognisable in the mass of twisted wreckage.  Harry quickly reclosed the door before he was physically ill.

At least it explained why the plane had stopped so abruptly:  they’d crashed into a rock in the last stages of the slide.  It was miraculous that the plane hadn’t caught fire.

Harry had no intention of taking charge; it just happened.  He told the others what the situation was briefly and down to earth, and then suggested they search for food and other items such as blankets.  Everyone noted Rawlings’ lack of enthusiasm to help, and if it had not been for Daphne, he would not have received blankets or food.  Most ignored him, wondering at the fact that he could still be so aloof in such tragic circumstances.

Because of the cold, they quickly organised themselves so they could wait for their rescue.  It wouldn’t, they reasoned, relatively cheerfully, be long.

…

Whilst the others may have considered Rawlings little more than a pain in the neck, it would have surprised them to learn that he despaired for them.  He couldn’t understand their attitude towards him, for all he wanted to do was make them feel better, and, if he could, help.

But there was little chance of that occurring, and, in fact, as much chance as him receiving the treatment he considered he deserved.  It was clear in his own mind that there were two types of people in the world: the leaders and the led.  By virtue of his station in life, he was one of the leaders.  Why, he asked himself rhetorically, didn’t they realise that?  He glared at them, all studiously ignoring his presence.  There was, he thought bitterly, little prospect of getting any assistance from those people.

Conditions were unbearable during the first night.  Darkness had fallen quickly, and with no hot food to ward off even a fraction of the coldness that had settled on them, their relatively good spirits quickly dissipated. 

To Harry (and the others) the night seemed interminable, and he found it impossible to sleep for any length of time.  He was shaking uncontrollably, despite the warm clothing and number of blankets, and, as dawn broke, he wasted no time getting up and about to get his circulation going again, urging the others to do likewise.  It was something he remembered having seen in a film once: if the cold was allowed to take over, a person quickly succumbed and died.

His first venture outside was something of an experience.  In the first instance, it was colder outside than in, if that was possible, and in the second, the landscape was as bleak, in his opinion, as their prospects of rescue.

After trekking some distance through the rather solid snow and up a rise, he found he had a good view of the plane, and the fact that there were, strangely, no trees from one end of the valley to the other.  The same could not be said for the surrounding country.  It seemed an impossibility that the pilot had been able to find such a place, and, desperately unlucky, he should hit the only rock Harry could see in the line of the plane’s path.

The plane was half covered in snow.  It was apparent it had been snowing during the night, and by the look of the sky, more was on the way.  Low clouds continually swept through the valley, obscuring everything from view, and that, he considered, would make discovery from the air nigh on impossible.

What it really meant was that they would have to come up with their own plan of action rather than wait for hypothermia to take its toll.  It was something he had been thinking about most of the night, but he had been unable to progress to any sort of workable alternatives.

During a clear period, Harry saw Harkness coming towards him slowly.  He was rapidly gaining respect for Harkness, as he was not only surprisingly cheerful (despite being blunted by the more dominant Rawlings) he was resourceful.

…

By the time he reached Harry, he was out of breath and needed a few minutes to recover.  Harry noted he looked a good deal older than he had first estimated.

“What a hike, but it sure beats the hell out of waiting down there,” Harkness said when he’d recovered sufficiently, nodding towards the wreckage.  “And, God knows how, I feel warm.”

“So do I.  It was one of the reasons I came here.”

“Those two geologists, or whatever they are, are finally awake.  Boy, you should have seen their faces.  One swore he’d give up drink forever.”

“He may get his wish sooner than he thinks.”

“You don’t rate our chances of discovery high, eh?”

“Take a look.”  Harry beckoned to the mist, which was swirling through the valley, obliterating everything in their view.  Harry, in fact, could hardly see Harkness.

“Yes.  I see what you mean.  What do you think we should do?”

“God knows.  But one thing is for sure, I don’t think we can afford to sit and wait for someone to come and find us.  Not under the current circumstances, with more snow imminent.   It’ll take only another fall to completely hide us from any viewpoint.”

Harkness looked at the sky, then at the surroundings, and nodded in agreement, adding, after a minute, “It seems odd this is the only part of the country that’s clear of trees.  Do you think there’s any significance in that?”

“Exactly, would you believe, what I was thinking?”

“Do you think we might be near help?”

“Who knows.  But, because of the urgency of the situation, I think we should find out.  The question is, who is the ideal person is  There was, however, no doubt in his mind.

…

“You’re mad, stark, staring mad,” Rawlings said when Harry told the others of the plan he and Harkness had formulated on their way back to the plane.

“I agree there is an element of risk….”

“Risk?” Rawlings exploded.  “Risk?  It’s bloody suicide.  In my opinion, we should sit tight.  We have enough to eat, and we’re relatively warm.  It won’t be long before the search parties are out now we are overdue.”

“You haven’t been outside.  Circumstances dictate that we must seek help.  It’s been explained in detail.  If you cannot understand the situation, then don’t interfere.”  Harkness glared at his old chief, for the first time feeling more than a match for him.  Rawlings would never again dominate him.

“Then you’re fools, as are all the rest of you if you condone this idiocy.  I wash my hands of it.”  And he ignored them, going back to his book.  If that Davidson character wanted to kill himself, that was his business.

There were no other objections.  The others understood the realities of the situation, both Harkness and Harry had explained at length.  Harry would seek assistance.  Harkness would do his best to keep the others alive.

Then, after a good meal (in the circumstances) and taking enough food for two days, Harry left.  At the top of the rise, he stopped, briefly, looking at the scene.  It was, he thought, exactly as it had been in the dream.

…

For two days, it had snowed continuously.  The sub-zero temperatures had virtually sapped them all of whatever energy they had left, and, on the morning of the third day, they were all barely alive

At the end of the second day, Harkness had requested everybody to huddle together, including the standoffish Rawlings, who finally agreed, despite inner misgivings.  It was probably this single action that saved them.

Harkness, though he said nothing, had given up hope that Harry would still be alive.  No one could have survived the intensity of the blizzard.

Harkness had woken to inky darkness and a death-like silence, the storm having abated.  His first thought was that he had died, but that passed as the cold slowly made itself felt.  Soon after, finding his torch still worked, he roused everyone and cajoled or browbeat them into doing their exercises to ward off frostbite.

It was then that they heard the strange throbbing sound, and Harkness instinctively went outside and found they’d been snowed in.  As the throbbing sound passed over them again, Harkness didn’t need to ask for assistance to make an opening in the snow.  They frantically dug their way through; luckily, the snow wall was only of powder-like consistency.  Hot long after daylight showed through, and then Harkness was out.  But the plane, or what he assumed to be a plane, had gone.

Instead, he was alone, by the snow mountain that covered the plane, greeted by a perfectly blue sky and the sun’s rays.  It was, he thought wryly, perfect skiing weather but awfully lonely if no one could see where you were.

In a minute, he was joined by Daphne, and the disappointment was written on her face.  They waited, wordless, by the plane for an hour, glad to be out of the confined space of the fuselage, and were, at various times, joined by the others, escaping what Mrs Gaunt had said (now, after the rescue plane had gone) would probably be their grave.  The disbelief and joy of having survived the crash had now worn off, and Harkness knew that if they had to try to survive another night, some might not make it.

He was alone, striking out for the rise when the throbbing sound returned, coming from behind him.  And judging by the sound, it could not be a plane.  It was too low and too slow.  Thus, he was not surprised when a helicopter hovered over the rise and slowed as the occupants sighted him waving frantically, and yelling, quickly being joined by the others.

They all couldn’t believe they’d been rescued, all, that is, except Rawlings.  In every instance, Rawlings had the exception, and it was not to his credit.  He was the only one who had suffered severely from frostbite.  He was, however, the one to say, when they finally reached what he called civilisation, that he’d been right:  that all they had to do was sit tight and wait.  They’d be rescued sooner or later.

That was when the leader of the rescue operation shattered his illusion – and shocked everyone else.  “That’s not necessarily so Mr Rawlings.  You would have been discovered, but late in spring, after the thaw.  The plane was terribly off course, and, to be honest, after the second day, we’d given up any real hope of finding you.  The surrounding countryside is very rugged.  No, you owe a great deal to a fellow called Davidson.”

“Davidson, you say?” Harkness muttered.  “He’s alive?”

“Unfortunately, no.  He died soon after he told us about the plane and where it had crashed.  If he hadn’t, you’d still be there.”

“My God.”  Harkness slumped into a chair, only barely able to hear Rawlings say, quietly, “I told him it was suicide, but no one listened to me.  Suicide, I said.  And, as for that damn pilot…..” elevate them to becoming a major character

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

“What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.

Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.

They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?

When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.

When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.

Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.

Find the kindle version on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

In a word: Keep

Yes, this is an easy one.

I want to keep the car.  Especially if it’s a Lamborghini and it didn’t cost $500,000.

This form of the word simply means to hang on to something, or up the proper definition, to have or retain possession of

Paring it with other words is where it gets complicated.

For instance,

Keepings off, make sure that the ball doesn’t get into someone else’s possession.

Keep it to yourself, yes, here’s your chance to become the harbinger of secrets and not tell anyone else.  Not unless a lot of money is involved, or a Lamborghini.

You guessed it, the car is the running joke on this post.

How about, keep a low profile, been there tried that, it’s a lot harder than you think.

What about keeping your cards close to your chest, yes, this had both a literal and figurative meaning which makes it sort of unique.

That might follow the second definition, to continue, or cause to continue a particular state.

Another way of using keep is by delaying or stopping someone from doing something or getting somewhere; ie, I was kept waiting at the doctor’s surgery because he was late.

There are any number of examples of using the word keep in tandem with other words

One that specifically doesn’t relate to all the former examples, is simply the word keep.

What is it?

Usually the strongest part of the castle, and the last to fall in an attack.

At least, that was the theory.

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

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 continue 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 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 mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, 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 Brother’s 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 went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.

I have high hopes of publishing it in early 2021.  It even has a cover.

PIWalthJones1

“Do you believe in g..g..ghosts…?”, a short story

Inside the old building, it was very quiet and almost cold.

Strange, perhaps, because outside the temperature was bordering on the record hottest day ever, nearly 45 degrees centigrade.

The people who’d built this building nearly a hundred years before must have known how to keep that heat at bay, using sandstone.

Back then, the sandstone would have looked very impressive, but now after many years of being closed off and left abandoned, the outside was stained by modern-day pollutants giving it a black streaky look, and inside layers of dust, easily stirred up as we walked slowly into the main foyer.

It was huge, the roof, ornate, with four huge chandelier lights hanging down, and wood paneling, giving way to a long counter with brass serving cages highlighting its former use; a bank.

In its day it would have conveyed the power and wealth so that its customers could trust the money to. Of course, that was before the global economy, online banking, and a raft of the new and different institutions all vying for that same money.

Then it was a simple choice of a few, now it was a few thousand.

“How many years had this been closed up?” I asked.

“Close to twenty, maybe twenty-five. It was supposed to be pulled down, but someone got it on the heritage list, and that put an end to it. “

Phil was the history nut. He’s spent a month looking into the building, finding construction plans, and correspondence dating back to before and during the construction.

Building methods, he said, that didn’t exist today and were far in advance of anything of its type for the period. It was the reason we were standing in the foyer now.

We were budding civil engineers, and the university had managed to organize a visit, at our own risk. The owner of the building had made sure we’d signed a health and safety waiver before granting access.

And the caretaker only took us as far as the front door. He gave us his cell number to call when we were finished. When we asked him why he didn’t want to come in with us, he didn’t say but it was clear to me he was afraid of something.

But neither of us believed in ghosts.

“You can see aspects of cathedrals in the design,” Phil said. ” You could quite easily turn this space into a church.”

“Or a very large wine cellar.” I brought a thermometer with me, and inside where we were standing it was the ideal temperature to store wine.

Behind the teller cages were four large iron doors to the vaults. They were huge, and once contained a large amount of cash, gold, and whatever else was deemed valuable.

They were all empty now, the shelves and floor had scattered pieces of bank stationery, and in a corner, several cardboard boxes, covered in even more dust.

Behind the vaults were offices, half-height with glass dividers, the desks and chairs still in place, and some with wooden filing cabinets drawers half-open.

Others had benches, and one, set in the corner, very large, and looked like the manager’s office. Unlike the other office which had linoleum tiles, this one had carpet. In a corner was a large mirror backed cabinet, with several half-empty bottles on it.

“Adds a whole new meaning to aged whiskey, don’t you think.” Phil looked at it but didn’t pick it up.

“I wonder why they left it,” I muttered. The place had the feel of having been left in a hurry, not taking everything with them.

I shivered, but it was not from the cold.

We went back to the foyer and the elevator lobby. They were fine examples of the sort of caged elevators that belonged in that time, and which there were very few working examples these days.

The elevators would have a driver, he would pull back an inner and outer door when the car arrived on a floor, and close both again when everyone was aboard.

Both cars were on the ground floor, with the shutter doors closed, and when I tried to open one, I found it had been welded shut. The other car was not sitting level with the floor and the reason for that, the cable that raised and lowered it was broken.

Restoring them would be a huge job and would not be in their original condition due to occupational health and safety issues.

The staircase wound around the elevator cage, going up to the mezzanine floor or down to the basement.

“Up or down?” He asked.

“Where do you want to go first?”

“Down. There’s supposed to be a large vault, probably where the safety deposit boxes are.”

And the restrooms I thought. Not that I was thinking of going.

As we descended the stairs it was like going down into a mine shaft, getting darker, and the rising odor of damp, and mustiness. I suspect it would have been the same back when it was first built being so close to the shoreline of the bay, not more than half a mile away.

The land this building and a number of others in a similar style, was built on was originally a swamp, and it was thought that the seawater still found its way this far inshore. But the foundations were incredibly strong and extensive which was why there’d been no shifting or cracking anywhere in the ten-story structure.

At the bottom, there was a huge arch, with built-in brass caging with two huge gates, both open. It was like the entrance to a mythical Aladdin’s cave.

There was also an indefinable aura coming from the depths of that room. That, and a movement of cold air. Curiously, the air down there was not musty but had a tinge of saltiness to it.

Was there a natural air freshener effect coming from somewhere within that vault.

“Are we going in?”

I checked my torch beam, still very bright. I pointed it into the blackness and after a minute checking, I said, “We’re here, so why not.”

We had to walk down a dozen steps then pass under through the open gates into the room. There was a second set of gates, the same as the first, about thirty feet from the first, and, in between, a number of cubicles where customers collected their boxes.

Beyond the second set of gates was a large circular reinforced safe door high enough for us to walk through.

This cavernous space stretched back quite a distance, and along the walls, rows, and rows of safety deposit boxes, some half hanging out of their housing, and a lot more stacked haphazardly on the floor.

I checked a few but they were all empty.

I shivered again. It felt like there was a presence in the room. I turned to ask Phil, but he wasn’t there. I hadn’t heard him walk away, and there were only two sets of footprints on the floor, his and mine, and both ended where I was standing.

It was as if he had disappeared into thin air.

I called out his name, and it echoed off the walls in the confined space. No answer from him.

I went further into the room, thinking he might have ventured towards the end while my back was turned, but he hadn’t. Nor had he left because there were only footprints coming in, not going out.

I turned to retrace my steps and stopped suddenly. An old man, in clothes that didn’t belong to this era, was standing where Phil had last been.

He was looking at me, but not inclined to talk.

“Hello. I didn’t see you come down.”

Seconds later the figure dissolved in front of me and there was no one but me standing in the room.

“Joe.”

Phil, from behind me. I turned and there he was large as life.

“Where were you?”

“I’ve been here all the time. Who were you just talking to?”

“There was an old man, standing just over there,” I said pointing to somewhere between Phil and the entrance.

“I didn’t see anyone. Are you sure you’re not having me on?”

“No. He’s right behind you.” The old man had reappeared.

Phil shook his head, believing I was trying to fool him.

That changed when the man touched his shoulder, and Phil shrieked.

And almost ran out of the room. It took a few minutes for him to catch his breath and steady the palpitating heart.

“Are you real?” I asked, not quite sure what to say.

“To me, I am. To anyone else, let’s just say you are the first not got faint, or run away.”

“Are you a ghost?” Phil wasn’t exactly sure what he was saying.

“Apparently I am and will be until you find out who killed me “

Ok, so what was it called, stuck in the afterlife or limbo until closure?

“When?”

“25 years ago, just before the bank closed. It’s the reason why it’s empty now.”

“And you’re saying we find the killer and you get to leave?”

“Exactly. Now shoo. Go and find him.”

We looked at each other in surprise, or more like shock, then back to the man. Only he was no longer there.

“What the…” Phil sail. “It’s time to go.”

“What about the man and finding his killer?”

“What man? We saw nothing. We’re done here.”

I shrugged. Phil turned to leave, but only managed to take three steps before the gates at the entrance closed with a loud clang.

When he crossed the room to stand in front, he tried pulling them open.

“Locked,” he said. Flat, and without panic, he added, “I guess it looks like we have a murder to solve.”

© Charles Heath 2019-202

The 2am Rant: All I wanted was a cup of coffee

How can something so simple become so complicated and complex?

In New York, it seemed impossible to get exactly what you would like.  The coffee there is driven by what the machine interprets you want, aside from the language constraints due to the fact that English (or American) comes in a zillion different flavours.

So, what do I like (you notice I don’t say ‘want’)

A double shot Latte with two sugars and half a shot of vanilla.  That’s in a large cup.

As we all know coffee can come in a regular, large, or extra-large cup, but, hang on, these cup sizes sometimes have names, and you need to know what these names are.

My efforts of pointing to the cup size in New York often had horrendous consequences, when the cup piles were close together.  Sometimes it was a double shot in a regular, and a single shot in an extra-large cup.

One even had the name benti, or bento, or something like that.

Being old and decrepit, my memory for cup sizes isn’t all that great, so using a name in one shop that doesn’t have that size, well, you get it.

It seems not only coffee makers in New York have a problem producing consistent coffee.

Perhaps, then that’s half the charm of drinking it, the fact that no cup is ever the same.

And, when an outlet gets it right, finally, they go and change the coffee bean supplier, and all of a sudden, it’s bitter, or it’s lighter, as coffee shops try to reduce their costs and maximise profits.

Six dollars is a lot of money for a cup of coffee unless of course, you have to feed that addiction in which case, you’ll have a cup at whatever the cost.

I need coffee right now, so its off te the cupboard to see what’s available.

Maccona instant, which is not bad

A Nespresso long black – ok, don’t get me started with Nespresso because they have numbers from 1 to 12, possibly more, recognising strengths, and I usually have a double shot using a 10 and a 12.

And, yes, they fool around with the type of beans they use because there seem to be inconsistencies in potency from time to time.

Then there’s coffee bags, much the same as tea bags, which produces and interestingly flavoured brew which I’m still trying to figure out.  It tastes like coffee, but there’s something else there, like … paper?

I opt for an instant.

Yes, I needed a coffee after writing this.

Writing a book in 365 days – 325

Day 325

The Zero Draft – that old devil in the ointment, Writer’s block

…

The Tricksy Zero Draft: Taming the Beast of Writer’s Block

Writer’s block – that mythical monster that lurks in the deepest recesses of our minds, waiting to pounce and paralyse our creative output. Many a writer has fallen prey to its insidious grasp, staring blankly at a blinking cursor or a stack of pristine paper, unable to conjure even a single inspired sentence.

Among the most formidable foes in this battle is the Zero Draft. This elusive entity is the antithesis of progress, a paltry, unformed mass that masquerades as a first draft. It’s the when-in-Rome, throw-every-idea-against-the-wall, see-what-sticks approach that can leave even the most seasoned writers floundering in a sea of confusion and self-doubt.

So, how do you vanquish this devious demon and finally break free from its stranglehold on your writing muse? Here are a few battle-tested strategies to help you rise triumphant over the Zero Draft:

  1. Lower Your Expectations: Recognise that your first pass at a piece of writing will rarely, if ever, be perfect. It’s the rough blueprint, the scaffolding upon which you’ll build something more substantial later on. Don’t expect to craft a masterpiece in a single, inspired burst; instead, focus on getting words on the page, no matter how messy or imperfect they may be.
  2. Set a Timer and Write Drunk: Inspired by the famous Ernest Hemingway anecdote, this technique involves setting a timer for a fixed interval (20-30 minutes works well) and writing as freely and uninhibitedly as possible during that time. The resulting output may be chaotic, but it’s often a rich source of raw material to mine for later polishing and refinement.
  3. Change Your Environment: Sometimes, a change of scenery can work wonders for sparking creativity and banishing the Zero Draft. Try writing in a different location, or at a different time of day. Even a simple rearrangement of your usual writing space can help jumpstart your imagination.
  4. Collaborate with a Writing Buddy: The old adage “misery loves company” holds true when it comes to writer’s block. Having a fellow writer to share the struggle with can provide a much-needed motivational boost. Set a regular writing schedule with your partner and hold each other accountable for making progress, no matter how small.
  5. Reward Progress, Not Perfection: Give yourself small rewards for reaching certain milestones, even if your writing is still far from polished. This could be something as simple as a favourite meal, a walk in the park, or an extra hour of reading time. By focusing on the journey rather than the destination, you can maintain a sense of momentum and purpose even when the words aren’t flowing as freely as you’d like.

In the end, the Zero Draft is merely a challenge to be overcome, a hurdle on the path to crafting something truly remarkable. By adopting these strategies and maintaining a stubborn commitment to the writing process, even the most intractable blocks can be breached, and the creative floodgates can finally be unleashed. So steel yourself, grab your pen (or keyboard), and march forth into the fray – your inner author is waiting to emerge, Zero Draft be damned.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Seoul

Beyond the Palaces: 5 Unexpected Seoul Delights Off the Beaten Path

Seoul. The name itself conjures images of shimmering skyscrapers, ancient palaces, and the pulsating energy of K-Pop. And while those iconic sights are undeniably breathtaking, what if you’re looking for something a little… different? What if you’ve already ticked off Gyeongbokgung and conquered the Namsan Tower, and your wanderlust craves a Seoul that whispers secrets rather than shouts them?

Fear not, intrepid traveller! Seoul’s magic extends far beyond the well-trodden tourist trails. If you’re ready to immerse yourself in the city’s multifaceted soul, here are five alternative experiences that will leave you with unique memories and a deeper appreciation for this dynamic metropolis.

1. Get Lost (and Found) in a Local Market’s Labyrinth

While Namdaemun and Gwangjang are famous for good reason, venture into one of Seoul’s lesser-known Dongdaemun (east gate) markets for a truly authentic adventure. Think Migun-dong Electronics Market or the sprawling Tongin Market (though it’s gaining popularity, it still offers a more intimate feel than its mega-market counterparts).

Here, you won’t just find souvenirs. You’ll witness the daily rhythm of Seoul locals. Wander through aisles overflowing with everything from vintage cameras and artisanal crafts to the freshest produce and sizzling street food. Engage with vendors, practice your basic Korean greetings, and savor the thrill of discovering treasures you never knew you needed. The vibrant chaos, the cacophony of sounds, and the intoxicating aromas are an experience in themselves.

2. Step Back in Time at a Traditional Tea House in Seongbuk-dong

While Insadong offers a taste of traditional Korea, the charming Seongbuk-dong neighbourhood offers a more serene and authentic tea house experience. Tucked away in its hilly streets are hidden gems like Moonbird Porcelain or O’Sulloc Tea House (Seongbuk Branch).

Imagine this: stepping out of the bustling city into a tranquil haven adorned with traditional Korean architecture. You’ll be presented with delicate porcelain cups, fragrant teas like omija (five-flavour berry) or barley tea, and perhaps a plate of traditional Korean sweets (hangwa). It’s an opportunity to slow down, disconnect, and engage in a centuries-old ritual of mindfulness and conversation. The quiet elegance of these spaces is a welcome antidote to the urban rush.

3. Ascend the Less-Climbed Peaks for Panoramic Views

When most people think of Seoul views, Namsan Tower comes to mind. But for a more rewarding and less crowded panoramic experience, consider hiking some of Seoul’s other magnificent peaks. Bukhansan National Park is a hiker’s paradise, but for a slightly more accessible yet equally stunning vista, try Achasan Mountain.

The trail to Achasan is relatively moderate, and the reward at the summit is immense. You’ll be greeted with breathtaking views of the Han River snaking through the city, with the iconic buildings of Gangnam and Lotte World Tower in the distance. It’s a fantastic spot for sunrise or sunset, offering a different perspective of Seoul’s sprawling beauty. Bonus points if you pack a simple picnic to enjoy amidst nature.

4. Delve into Subculture at a Themed Cafe or an Independent Bookstore

Seoul’s cafe culture is legendary, but move beyond the mainstream and discover its quirky corners. Explore the Hongdae area (beyond the main shopping street) for its abundance of independent bookstores and uniquely themed cafes. Think cat cafes, sheep cafes, board game cafes, or even cafes dedicated to specific K-Pop groups.

For book lovers, Chronicler B’s or Village offer curated selections of art, design, and independent publications, often with cozy reading nooks. These spaces are not just for sipping coffee; they are vibrant hubs of creativity and community, offering a glimpse into Seoul’s subcultures and passions.

5. Discover the Art of Hanji at a Traditional Paper Workshop

Hanji, traditional Korean paper, is renowned for its durability and beauty. While you can admire Hanji crafts in museums, why not try your hand at creating something yourself? Seek out a Hanji workshop in areas like Bukchon Hanok Village or inquire at cultural centres.

These workshops offer a hands-on experience where you can learn about the intricate process of making Hanji, from the Mulberry bark to the final paper. You might even get to create your own small piece of art, try your hand at calligraphy on Hanji, or craft a beautiful lantern. It’s a deeply satisfying way to connect with a traditional Korean craft and take home a truly unique, handmade souvenir.

So, the next time you find yourself in Seoul, dare to stray from the well-worn paths. Embrace the spirit of exploration, and you’ll discover a city that’s not just grand and modern, but also intimate, quirky, and brimming with hidden wonders waiting to be unearthed. Happy adventuring!

What I learned about writing – Author interviews can ask difficult questions

As accomplished as we can be at putting words on paper, what is it that makes it so difficult to sit in a chair with a camera on you, and saying words rather than writing them?

Er and um seem to crop up a lot in verbal speech.

OK, it was a simple question; “What motivates you to write?”

Damn.

My brain just turned to mush, and the words come out sounding like a drunken sailor after a night out on the town.

The written answer to the question is simple; “The idea that someone will read what I have written, and quite possibly enjoy it; that is motivation enough.”

It highlights the difficulties of the novice author.

Not only are there the constant demands of creating a ‘brand’ and building a ‘following’, there is also the need to market oneself, and the interview is one of the more effective ways of doing this.

If only I can settle the nerves.

I mean, really, it is only my granddaughter who is conducting the interview, and the questions are relatively simple.

The trouble is, I’ve never had to do it before, well, perhaps in an interview for a job, but that is less daunting.  That usually sticks to a predefined format.

Here the narrative can go in any direction.  There are set questions, but the interviewer, in her inimitable manner, can sometimes slide a question in out of left field.

For instance, “Your character Zoe the assassin, is she based on someone you know, or an amalgam of other characters you’ve read about or seen in movies?”

That was an interesting question, and one that has several answers, but the one most relevant was; “It was the secret alter ego of one of the women I used to work with.  I asked her one day if she wasn’t doing what she was, what she would like to do.  It fascinated me that other people had a desire to be something more exotic in an alter ego.”

Of course, the next question was about what I wanted to be in an alter ego.

Maybe I’ll tell you next time.

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

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 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 passenger’s 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 let 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 need 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 the qualifications I had, and the rest, I think I intimidated the interviewer 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 fulfill, 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 one other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact 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 mesmerizing.  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 me without my realizing 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 subtle, 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 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 demeanor 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 realized 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 was, 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 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 realized 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 recognized me from that cover.  It had raised my profile considerably, but not the 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 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 ignoring 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 traveling 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 traveling 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 realizing 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.

It just started to rain.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2023

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