Yes, it’s dark and late at night on this side of the world, and I’m guessing where you are, it’s probably winter, the sun’s disappeared, the day is freezing cold, and you’re having a hard time keeping warm.
Here, in the so-called land down under, which surprisingly a lot of people from the other side of the world do not know about, it is wet and cool, where it should be sunny and hot as well as humid.
Now, hang on, that can’t be true; others don’t know about us, because we all know the world is round and there has to be something or somewhere opposite. I know that north we have China, and Europe, and further away, the United States.
Been to China, Europe and the United States, so I know you’re all there, somewhere.
And, as you can see, the rain and the cold have amped up the boredom factor and pushed me to do anything other than writing. I have three jobs I’m supposed to be doing,
Editing the second Walthenson PI, a Private Detective novel
Writing two episodes of a serial story about surveillance going wrong, and
Finishing off some new travel blog posts
None of them is appealing to me at the moment.
Instead, I find myself looking at what is shown on Winter TV in the US, one of which is reruns of Snowpiercer and is suitably cold. It’s also complicated, and sometimes a little hard to follow, which means it takes two viewings to understand what’s going on. It will be interesting to see where series three leads us … and I’m hoping Melanie will be back
Fascinating.
Then there are several of my favourites, FBI, The Rookie, a show called The Equaliser, a new version of an old TV show I used to watch many years ago. Another will be the next series of Bridgerton, which was odd but interesting since we like those Jane Austen-like programs. Now, hopefully, there will be another series of Miss Scarlett and the Duke, set in Victorian England.
And as for the blacklist, since Liz left, it had gone downhill … let’s hope they find something to lift it, like Liz’s evil twin sister! Perhaps wisely, they wrapped it up, and it’s over.
Beyond the Blank Page: The Soul-Stirring Ecstasy of Words
There are some truths that reside so deeply within us, they become the very architecture of our being. For me, one such truth burns with an undeniable intensity: Writing is my passion. It’s not just a hobby, a job, or even a skill; it is an intrinsic part of who I am, a fundamental impulse as vital as breathing.
From the quiet hum of an idea taking root to the frantic dance of fingers across a keyboard, the act of shaping thoughts into tangible form is where I find my truest self. It’s the thrill of discovery, the meticulous craft, the joyous agony of chasing the perfect phrase. Each sentence is a step, each paragraph a journey, and the finished piece, a new world brought into existence. This isn’t merely an urge; it’s a calling, a constant whisper from the muse that demands to be heard and translated.
But it’s more than just the act of writing; it’s what words themselves represent. For me, words are the way to know ecstasy. They are not just symbols on a page; they are vessels of emotion, architects of understanding, and bridges between disparate souls. There’s an almost alchemical magic in finding the exact verb that electrifies a scene, the precise adjective that paints a vivid image, or the perfectly structured sentence that unlocks a complex idea.
That moment when the right words click into place, when a jumbled thought suddenly unfurls into crystalline clarity, is nothing short of pure bliss. It’s a connection to something larger than myself – a universal language of human experience, memory, and imagination. Through words, we can travel across centuries, inhabit different lives, understand profound sorrow and boundless joy. They are the keys to unlocking empathy, the tools for building dreams, and the threads that weave the rich tapestry of human history and culture. The sheer power and beauty contained within a carefully chosen lexicon can make my spirit soar.
Conversely, the thought of a life without words, a world where expression is stifled, where stories are unwritten, and ideas remain trapped and untranslated, fills me with a profound sense of despair. Without them, life is barren. Imagine a landscape devoid of colour, a symphony without sound, a conversation without meaning. That, to me, is a life without the richness that words provide.
It would be a silent, desolate existence, stripped bare of the nuances that define our humanity. How would we learn? How would we connect? How would we express love, grief, or triumph? Our history would be lost, our future unimaginable. The very essence of what makes us sentient, feeling beings would be muted, leaving behind only the hollow echo of what could have been.
So, yes, writing is my passion. But it’s because words are so much more than tools; they are the very lifeblood of meaning, connection, and transcendence. They are my anchors and my wings, the echoes of my soul, and the path to ecstasy. And for that, I am eternally grateful for every letter, every sentence, every story waiting to be told.
What about you? What are your words? What do they mean to you?
Making the leap beyond the second novel is one of the most perilous tightrope walks in a writer’s career.
Publishing a debut is a milestone. Writing the second book proves you aren’t a one-hit wonder (though dealing with the dreaded “Sophomore Slump” is very real). But Book Three and beyond is where the real career begins. This is where you transition from writing isolated stories to building a sustainable literary business and a sprawling narrative universe.
Here is a breakdown of the challenges, the pitfalls, and the roadmap for successfully writing a long-running series.
PART 1: The Challenges
1. The Lore Mountain (Continuity)
In Book 1, you can keep track of eye colours, magic systems, and timelines in your head or on a few sticky notes. By Book 4, your internal hard drive will crash.
The Challenge: Readers have encyclopedic memories. If a character’s dead uncle is suddenly mentioned as being alive, or the geography of a fictional city shifts to suit a new plot point, your fans will notice and call you out in reviews.
2. The Middle-Book Sag
Books 1 and 2 usually have high energy: you are introducing the world, setting up the core conflict, and resolving the initial arc. Books 3 through $N$ often suffer from “bridge-building syndrome”—where the book exists merely to move pieces around the board for the finale.
The Challenge: Keeping every individual book structurally satisfying while it simultaneously serves a massive, overarching plot.
3. Character Stagnation vs. Distortion
How many times can your detective solve a murder, or your wizard save the world, without fundamentally changing?
The Challenge: If your characters don’t grow, they become boring. But if they change too much, they become unrecognisable from the person readers fell in love with in Book 1.
4. Creative Fatigue
Falling out of love with your own creation is a terrifying experience. When you’ve lived with the same fictional people, locations, and magic systems for half a decade, the urge to burn the world down and write something completely different becomes overwhelming.
PART 2: The Pitfalls
1. The “Reset Button” (Stasis)
The Pitfall: At the end of Book 3, your protagonist learns a massive lesson, heals their trauma, or finds peace. But you have a contract for Book 4, so you instantly undo their growth, break up their relationship, or create a brand-new trauma so they can start the book back at square one.
Why it fails: Readers feel cheated. Growth must be permanent, meaning the challenges must continually escalate.
2. Scope Creep (The “Marvel-ization” Trap)
The Pitfall: Starting with a grounded, intimate story (e.g., a local murder mystery) and slowly inflating the stakes until Book 5 involves stopping an intergalactic deity from destroying the multiverse.
Why it fails: Readers often care more about small, grounded stakes and character relationships than exploding planets. When everything is apocalyptic, nothing matters.
3. Info-Dumping to Catch Up New Readers
The Pitfall: Spending the first three chapters of Book 3 re-explaining the lore from Books 1 and 2 so that a stray new reader isn’t confused.
Why it fails: It bores your loyal existing fans to tears. You must trust your audience to either read the previous books or piece things together through context clues.
PART 3: Is It Possible to Write a Long Series?
Yes, absolutely. In fact, from a business and marketing perspective, series are the holy grail of modern publishing (especially in genres like Fantasy, Sci-Fi, Romance, and Thrillers).
Algorithms love series because they generate “read-through”—when a reader finishes Book 1 and immediately buys Books 2, 3, and 4.
However, writing a successful long series requires a shift in methodology:
How to Actually Pull It Off:
Build a “Bible”: Start treating your series like a franchise. Maintain a master document (or use software like Scrivener, Notion, or campfire.otg) tracking character bios, timelines, geography, magic/technology rules, and loose plot threads.
Design the Architecture Early: Know your ending—or at least the broad strokes of it. George R.R. Martin and Patrick Rothfuss are currently trapped by their own sprawling gardens because they didn’t map out the end before writing the middle. You don’t need every detail, but you must know the destination.
Mix Macro and Micro Arcs:
The Micro Arc (The Book): Has its own beginning, middle, end, and emotional takeaway.
The Macro Arc (The Series): A massive puzzle piece that advances slightly with every single book.
Give Secondary Characters Room to Breathe: If you get tired of your main protagonist, let a secondary or tertiary character take the spotlight for a chapter, a subplot, or even a spin-off novella. This breathes fresh air into the universe without derailing the main plot.
Accept That Your Audience Will Shrink (and That’s Okay): Series attrition is real. Book 2 will always sell fewer copies than Book 1, and Book 5 fewer than Book 2. Write for the die-hards who make the journey all the way to the end, rather than trying to optimise for casual readers who dropped off years ago.
The Bottom Line
Moving beyond the second novel is the moment you graduate from “aspiring novelist” to “professional storyteller.” It requires discipline over inspiration, organisation over intuition, and a willingness to respect the world you’ve built enough not to break it just to squeeze out one more sequel.
Beyond the Old Town: 5 Road-Less-Travelled Things to Do in Tallinn
When most travellers think of Tallinn, the image that springs to mind is of cobbled streets, medieval towers, and the fairytale charm of its UNESCO-listed Old Town. It’s no wonder—Tallinn’s historic heart is enchanting, and rightly so. But venture just beyond the postcard-perfect walls, and you’ll discover a quieter, more authentic side of Estonia’s capital—one brimming with creativity, nature, and local spirit.
If you’ve already admired the view from Toompea Hill and sipped craft beer in Town Hall Square, it’s time to stray from the beaten path. Here are five unique and lesser-known experiences that reveal the soul of Tallinn beyond the tourist trail.
1. Explore the Abandoned Military Bunkers of Nahkakivi Nature Park
Tucked away in a pine forest just 30 minutes east of the city lies Nahkakivi Nature Park, a serene yet haunting reminder of Estonia’s Soviet past. Scattered throughout the woods are dozens of abandoned military bunkers—concrete relics hidden beneath moss and ferns, remnants of Cold War paranoia.
Hiking through this tranquil forest, you’ll stumble upon camouflaged tunnels, rusting artillery platforms, and watchtowers half-swallowed by nature. It’s an eerie, atmospheric exploration that doubles as a thought-provoking history lesson. Locals come here for peace, photography, and even forest yoga—making it a perfect escape for introspective travellers.
Pro Tip: Visit in autumn when golden leaves contrast with grey concrete, or summer for lush greenery. Bring a flashlight and a sense of adventure.
2. Sip Local Brews at a Pirate-Themed Microbrewery in Kopli
Tucked into Tallinn’s industrial Kopli district—once home to a bustling shipyard—Piraat Brewery offers a quirky, offbeat experience. More than just a pub, Piraat is a cultural institution with a pirate crew (yes, they dress the part), live folk music, and beers brewed using ancient Estonian recipes.
You won’t find many tourists here—just locals laughing over tankards of smoky koduõlu (home-brew) and hearty black bread soup. The taproom feels like stepping into a cozy nautical legend, complete with anchors, maps, and a fireplace surrounded by wooden barrels.
Try This: The flagship “Piraat” ale, dark and malty, or their seasonal herbal brews infused with juniper and wild berries.
3. Wander Through the Hidden Courtyards of Kalamaja
While most visitors flock to the pastel houses of Kalamaja for photos, few venture into its network of hidden courtyards. These intimate inner spaces, tucked behind unassuming doors, are pockets of bohemian soul—filled with street art, cat cafes, independent galleries, and tiny designer boutiques.
Kalamaja, a former working-class district, has transformed into a creative enclave. Spend an hour wandering alleys like Lühike jalg and Kopli, where vintage stores, ceramic workshops, and open studios reveal the city’s artistic pulse. Don’t miss the “Suur Rämba” house—a colourful, graffiti-covered community art project.
Local Insight: Time your visit with the Kalamaja Days festival (June) when courtyards fling open their doors for guided tours and live music.
4. Take a Ferry to Aegna Island for a Wild Nature Escape
Just an hour by public ferry from the city centre lies Aegna Island—a wild, forested escape with no cars, no hotels, and no crowds. Once a Soviet military zone, Aegna is now a protected nature reserve with hiking trails winding through pine forests, WWII ruins, and overgrown observation towers.
Birdwatchers, hikers, and solitude seekers flock here for the silence and the surreal feeling of undiscovered wilderness minutes from the capital. Bring a picnic, spot deer or rare woodpeckers, and climb the island’s highest point for panoramic views of the Gulf of Finland.
How to Go: Catch the seasonal ferry from Sitsi Harbour (spring to autumn), or rent a kayak from the mainland.
5. Uncover Street Art & Urban Gentrification in Balti Jaam Market District
Forget sterile shopping malls—Tallinn’s most vibrant shopping and dining scene unfolds at Balti Jaam Market. Located in a converted 19th-century train warehouse near the city’s central train station, this former grey-market hub has blossomed into a hipster haven.
Inside, you’ll find vintage clothing stalls, farm-to-table food trucks, local design pop-ups, and cozy cafés serving Baltic rye sourdough and third-wave coffee. Graffiti covers the outer walls, and the atmosphere hums with youthful energy.
But the real secret? The surrounding streets—Lühike, Väike, and Soo—are lined with street art murals, tucked-away galleries, and micro-theatres. It’s a neighbourhood reborn, where grassroots creativity thrives just beyond the tourist radar.
Must-Do: Grab a kohuke (Estonian curd snack) from a vendor and explore the back alleys—every corner holds a surprise.
Final Thoughts: Rediscover Tallinn Off the Map
Tallinn’s charm isn’t confined to its medieval ramparts. By stepping into forgotten forests, abandoned fortresses, and neighbourhood courtyards, you experience the city as locals do—dynamic, layered, and quietly poetic.
So next time you’re wandering the Old Town, remember: adventure waits just around the corner. Whether you’re chasing Soviet ghosts in the woods or sipping pirate ale under candlelight, the road less travelled in Tallinn always leads somewhere unforgettable.
Pack your curiosity—and maybe a flashlight. The real Tallinn is waiting.
When you first think of this word, it is with a slippery slope in mind.
I’ve been on a few of those in my time.
And while we’re on the subject, those inclines measured in degrees are very important if you want a train to get up and down the side of a mountain.
For the train, that’s an incline plane, the point where traction alone won’t get the iron horse up the hill.
Did I say ‘Iron Horse’? Sorry, regressed there, back to the mid-1800s in the American West for a moment.
It’s not that important when it comes to trucks and cars, and less so if you like four-wheel driving; getting up near vertical mountainsides often present a welcome challenge to the true enthusiast
But for the rest of us, not so much if you find yourself sliding in reverse uncontrollably into the bay. I’m sure it’s happened more than once.
Then…
Are you inclined to go?
A very different sort of incline, ie to be disposed towards an attitude or desire.
An inclination, maybe, not to go four wheel driving?
There is another, probably more obscure use of the word incline, and that relates to an elevated geological formation. Not the sort of reference that crops up in everyday conversation at the coffee shop.
But, you never know. Try it next time you have coffee and see what happens.
I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense. Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.
I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.
It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.
The boy was Alan. He was about six or seven. The girl was Louise, and she was five years old. She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.
I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.
We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds. I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.
We were so happy then.
Before the tragedy.
When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell. Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.
It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children. They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.
Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.
Until one day she couldn’t.
Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand. She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it. The damage done to her was too severe.
The doctors were wrong.
She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants. It was enough to have them arrested. It was not enough to have them convicted.
Justice would have to be served by other means.
I was outside the Bannister’s home.
I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die. It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing. I had murder in mind. It was why I was holding an iron bar.
Skulking in the shadows. It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.
I waited till Archie came out. I knew he eventually would. The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go. I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.
I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.
“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me. He knew what it was, and what it was for.
It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes. He was alone.
“Justice.”
“For that slut of a sister of yours. I had nuffing to do with it.”
“She said otherwise, Archie.”
“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.” An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.
I held up the pipe. It had blood on it. Willy’s blood. “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up. He sang like a bird. That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”
“He dunnit, not me. Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.” Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.
“No, Archie. He didn’t. I’m coming for you. All of you Bannisters. And everyone who touched my sister.”
It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.
I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries. Those were the very worst few hours of my life.
She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late. If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.
If only I’d not been late…
When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood. The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.
At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told. He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.
I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy. There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.
He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone. It was a half mile walk, through a park. The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness. He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.
He didn’t.
It took an hour and a half to get the names. At first, when he saw me, he laughed. He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.
When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list. I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.
When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi. The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me. I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.
At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality. The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.
Archie could help but rub it in my face. He was invincible.
Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out. He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged. I didn’t care.
Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me. I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.
I revisited Willy in the hospital. He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come. Suffocation was too good for him.
David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters. His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful. Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered. A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.
He and I met in the pub. We got along like old friends. He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges. We shook hands and parted as friends.
Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared. I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me. He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.
When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes. I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it. He told me he was just a spectator.
I’d read the coroner’s report. They all had a turn. He was a liar.
He took nineteen bullets to die.
Then came Archie.
The same factory only this time there were four seats. Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities. She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.
Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.
A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.
Archie’s mother cursed me. I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.
Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily. The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family. I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.
He was a little more worried about his sister.
I told him it was confession time.
He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.
I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony. I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes. This time he did, it all poured out of him.
I went over to Emily. He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm. Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.
“Louise was my friend, Archie. My friend.”
Then she shot him. Six times.
To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this. May God have mercy on your soul.”
Now I was in jail. I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession. Without my sister, my life was nothing. I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.
They were not allowed to.
For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors. I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.
Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.
Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”
When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone. They ignored me. I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.
I was beginning to think I was going mad.
I ignored him.
“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that. You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”
Death sounded good. I told him to go away.
He didn’t. Persistent bugger.
I was handcuffed to the table. The prison officers thought I was dangerous. Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that. McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.
“Why’d you do it?”
“You know why.” Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.
“Your sister. By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”
“It was murder just the same. No difference between scum and proper people.”
“You like killing?”
“No-one does.”
“No, I dare say you’re right. But you’re different, Alan. As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen. We can use a man like you.”
“We?”
“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”
I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him. It looked like I didn’t have a choice.
Trained, cleared, and ready to go.
I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible. People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.
People like me.
In a mall, I became a shopper.
In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.
On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.
At the airport, I became a pilot. I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.
I had a passkey.
I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.
That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life. Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.
Two pilots and a steward. A team. On the plane early before the rest of the crew. A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.
Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.
Me.
Quick, clean, merciless. Done.
I was now an operational field agent.
I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides. It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.
I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.
It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.
Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.
Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.
I was Barry Gamble.
I was Lenny Buckman.
I was Jimmy Hosen.
I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.
That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision. If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.
Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.
God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness. Not that day. Not any day.
New York, New Years Eve.
I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag. They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.
This time I failed.
A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…
Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her. It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.
I was done.
I’d had enough.
I gave her the gun.
I begged her to kill me.
She didn’t.
Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.
How could she? No one could know what I’d been through.
I remembered her name after she had gone.
Amanda.
I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.
Someone else had the same imperfection.
I couldn’t remember who that was.
Not then.
I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it. After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.
The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.
It was late.
People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks. Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.
A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.
He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”
Two of his friends dragged him away. He shrugged them off, squared up.
I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground. I looked at his two friends. “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”
They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk. She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.
I looked around to see where her friends were. The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.
She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.
I sat beside her. “Where are your friends?”
“Dunno.”
“You need help?”
She looked up, and sideways at me. She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state. Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Nobody.” I was exactly how I felt.
“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care. Just leave me here to rot.”
She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.
Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.
“Where are your friends?” I asked again.
“Got none.”
“Perhaps I should take you home.”
“I have no home.”
“You don’t look like a homeless person. If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.” I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.
She lifted her head and looked at me again. “You a smart fucking arse are you?”
“I have my moments.”
“Have them somewhere else.”
She rested her head against my shoulder. We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.
“Take me home,” she said suddenly.
“Where is your place?”
“Don’t have one. Take me to your place.”
“You won’t like it.”
“I’m drunk. What’s not to like until tomorrow.”
I helped her to her feet. “You have a name?”
“Charlotte.”
The wedding was in a small church. We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot. Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.
On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.
I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.
Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.
And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age. She arrived late and left early.
Aunt Agatha.
She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look. “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.
“Likewise I’m sure,” I said. It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte. It was clear she feared this woman.
“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.
“You know why.”
Agatha looked at me. “I like you. Take care of my granddaughter. You do not want me for an enemy.”
OK, now she officially scared me.
She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.
“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.
“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”
Charlotte never mentioned her again.
Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.
Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us. Her husband was not with her this time.
Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother. She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.
We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends. For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.
I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother. It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.
Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.
Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close. I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness. We were never close.
But…
This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head. It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.
And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction. “You seem distracted,” she said.
“I was just remembering my mother. Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”
“Why now?” I think she had a look of concern on her face.
“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.
Another look and I was wrong. She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.
I was crying, tears streaming down my face.
I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.
It was like coming up for air.
It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life. I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.
And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”
I could not speak, but I think I smiled. It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye. Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.
Beyond the Beaten Path: 5 Hidden Gems to Discover in Stockholm
Stockholm is a city that effortlessly blends old-world charm with modern innovation. While most visitors flock to iconic landmarks like the Royal Palace, Gamla Stan, and the Vasa Museum, there’s an entirely different side of the city waiting to be explored — one that reveals intimate neighbourhoods, local rituals, and quiet corners tucked away from the tourist trail.
If you’ve already climbed the usual sightseeing checklist — or if you simply prefer a more authentic, off-the-beaten-path adventure — here are five lesser-known experiences that offer a fresh perspective on Sweden’s capital.
1. Wander the Abandoned Beauty of Fårö Island (Just Beyond the City)
While technically not in Stockholm, Fårö — a quiet island in the Baltic Sea just a short ferry ride from the mainland — feels like stepping into a Nordic fairytale. Made famous by filmmaker Ingmar Bergman, who lived and worked here, Fårö is a tranquil mosaic of windswept beaches, ancient stone forts, and dramatic limestone caves.
Most travellers focus on Gotland’s main island, Visby, but Fårö remains relatively untouched. Rent a bicycle and explore the Fogelhushamnen nature reserve, where jagged alvar plains meet the sea. Have lunch at Högklint, a café with panoramic ocean views, and time your visit with the spring lambing season to see the island come alive. It’s a poetic detour that feels worlds away from urban life, yet is easily reachable via a day trip.
Pro tip: Combine with a stop in Ljugarn, a charming fishing village on Gotland’s northeastern coast.
2. Get Lost in the Graffiti Labyrinths of Tantolunden Tunnel
Tucked beneath a busy overpass in Södermalm lies one of Stockholm’s best-kept secrets — the Tantolunden graffiti tunnel. Unlike the curated street art of other cities, this underground corridor is a constantly evolving canvas of colour, emotion, and political commentary.
Spray-painted by local artists and rebellious youth, the tunnel pulses with raw creativity. It’s especially stunning during winter when the soft glow of streetlights reflects off icy walls, illuminating vibrant murals of wolves, goddesses, and dystopian visions.
Take the tunnel as a starting point and continue your urban exploration into nearby Hornsgatan, lined with independent boutiques, vinyl shops, and hidden cafés like Kafé Döbling, where locals sip fika in cozy nooks.
3. Soak in the Silence at Djurgårdsbrunn Canal
Forget the crowds lining the shores of Nybroviken — for a truly peaceful moment on the water, head to Djurgårdsbrunn Canal. Nestled within the expansive Djurgården island, this 18th-century waterway was once used to supply fresh water to the Royal Palace.
Today, it’s a serene escape, perfect for a morning walk or a quiet picnic. The canal is flanked by lush greenery, wooden bridges, and historic pump houses, with the occasional swan gliding past. Come summer, locals bring out folding chairs and books, unwinding in near-silence.
Pack a Scandinavian-style picnic — think crispbread, pickled herring, and lingonberry juice — and enjoy a moment of mångata, the Swedish concept of the shimmering reflection of moonlight on water. You’ll likely have the entire area to yourself.
4. Explore the Secret Soviet-Era Bunker at Lovön
Did you know Stockholm has a Cold War bunker hidden beneath an unassuming forest? Located on the island of Lovön — part of the city’s national urban park — the Klara Shelter is just one of many underground military installations built during the mid-20th century to protect government officials in case of nuclear attack.
While the original bunker in central Stockholm is occasionally open for tours, the more accessible and atmospheric option is the P1 bunker at Lovön. Officially declassified and occasionally open for public visits or special exhibitions, this labyrinthine complex could house thousands and function independently for weeks.
Even if it’s closed, the surrounding area is worth visiting — pine forests, rocky shores, and the nearby Drottningholm Palace Water Theatre, a UNESCO-listed outdoor stage dating back to the 1700s that still hosts baroque operas.
Keep an eye on events by the Stockholm City Museum — they often organise rare guided bunker tours.
5. Sip Coffee in a Converted Church: Kaffistiet @ Katarina Kyrka
In the heart of Södermalm lies Katarina Church, a stark 18th-century building with panoramic views of the city. But the real treasure is downstairs, in the crypt-turned-café known as Kaffistiet.
This intimate coffeehouse, run by Katarina Parish, feels like drinking espresso in a sacred cave. Exposed stone walls, soft candlelight, and the faint scent of incense create a meditative atmosphere. They serve single-origin beans roasted in Stockholm and homemade pastries baked daily.
Sit by a small window overlooking the graveyard and listen to soft choral music drifting from above. It’s a place where spirituality and secular calm coexist — and where you can enjoy one of the city’s best cappuccinos with a side of introspection.
Bonus: Sundays often feature live acoustic music or poetry readings — check their Facebook page for schedules.
Final Thoughts: Embrace the Quiet Side of Stockholm
Stockholm’s charm doesn’t lie solely in its famous sights — it lives in the hushed echoes of ancient tunnels, the spontaneous art on forgotten walls, and the quiet rituals of daily life that unfold beyond guidebooks.
The city rewards the curious traveller. So next time you’re in Sweden’s capital, leave the map behind. Venture into the misty islands, dive into underground art, and find peace in places where history and silence speak louder than words.
Because in Stockholm, the road less travelled doesn’t just lead to discovery — it leads to soul.
Have you found your own hidden gem in Stockholm? Share your secret spots in the comments below!
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.
Making the leap beyond the second novel is one of the most perilous tightrope walks in a writer’s career.
Publishing a debut is a milestone. Writing the second book proves you aren’t a one-hit wonder (though dealing with the dreaded “Sophomore Slump” is very real). But Book Three and beyond is where the real career begins. This is where you transition from writing isolated stories to building a sustainable literary business and a sprawling narrative universe.
Here is a breakdown of the challenges, the pitfalls, and the roadmap for successfully writing a long-running series.
PART 1: The Challenges
1. The Lore Mountain (Continuity)
In Book 1, you can keep track of eye colours, magic systems, and timelines in your head or on a few sticky notes. By Book 4, your internal hard drive will crash.
The Challenge: Readers have encyclopedic memories. If a character’s dead uncle is suddenly mentioned as being alive, or the geography of a fictional city shifts to suit a new plot point, your fans will notice and call you out in reviews.
2. The Middle-Book Sag
Books 1 and 2 usually have high energy: you are introducing the world, setting up the core conflict, and resolving the initial arc. Books 3 through $N$ often suffer from “bridge-building syndrome”—where the book exists merely to move pieces around the board for the finale.
The Challenge: Keeping every individual book structurally satisfying while it simultaneously serves a massive, overarching plot.
3. Character Stagnation vs. Distortion
How many times can your detective solve a murder, or your wizard save the world, without fundamentally changing?
The Challenge: If your characters don’t grow, they become boring. But if they change too much, they become unrecognisable from the person readers fell in love with in Book 1.
4. Creative Fatigue
Falling out of love with your own creation is a terrifying experience. When you’ve lived with the same fictional people, locations, and magic systems for half a decade, the urge to burn the world down and write something completely different becomes overwhelming.
PART 2: The Pitfalls
1. The “Reset Button” (Stasis)
The Pitfall: At the end of Book 3, your protagonist learns a massive lesson, heals their trauma, or finds peace. But you have a contract for Book 4, so you instantly undo their growth, break up their relationship, or create a brand-new trauma so they can start the book back at square one.
Why it fails: Readers feel cheated. Growth must be permanent, meaning the challenges must continually escalate.
2. Scope Creep (The “Marvel-ization” Trap)
The Pitfall: Starting with a grounded, intimate story (e.g., a local murder mystery) and slowly inflating the stakes until Book 5 involves stopping an intergalactic deity from destroying the multiverse.
Why it fails: Readers often care more about small, grounded stakes and character relationships than exploding planets. When everything is apocalyptic, nothing matters.
3. Info-Dumping to Catch Up New Readers
The Pitfall: Spending the first three chapters of Book 3 re-explaining the lore from Books 1 and 2 so that a stray new reader isn’t confused.
Why it fails: It bores your loyal existing fans to tears. You must trust your audience to either read the previous books or piece things together through context clues.
PART 3: Is It Possible to Write a Long Series?
Yes, absolutely. In fact, from a business and marketing perspective, series are the holy grail of modern publishing (especially in genres like Fantasy, Sci-Fi, Romance, and Thrillers).
Algorithms love series because they generate “read-through”—when a reader finishes Book 1 and immediately buys Books 2, 3, and 4.
However, writing a successful long series requires a shift in methodology:
How to Actually Pull It Off:
Build a “Bible”: Start treating your series like a franchise. Maintain a master document (or use software like Scrivener, Notion, or campfire.otg) tracking character bios, timelines, geography, magic/technology rules, and loose plot threads.
Design the Architecture Early: Know your ending—or at least the broad strokes of it. George R.R. Martin and Patrick Rothfuss are currently trapped by their own sprawling gardens because they didn’t map out the end before writing the middle. You don’t need every detail, but you must know the destination.
Mix Macro and Micro Arcs:
The Micro Arc (The Book): Has its own beginning, middle, end, and emotional takeaway.
The Macro Arc (The Series): A massive puzzle piece that advances slightly with every single book.
Give Secondary Characters Room to Breathe: If you get tired of your main protagonist, let a secondary or tertiary character take the spotlight for a chapter, a subplot, or even a spin-off novella. This breathes fresh air into the universe without derailing the main plot.
Accept That Your Audience Will Shrink (and That’s Okay): Series attrition is real. Book 2 will always sell fewer copies than Book 1, and Book 5 fewer than Book 2. Write for the die-hards who make the journey all the way to the end, rather than trying to optimise for casual readers who dropped off years ago.
The Bottom Line
Moving beyond the second novel is the moment you graduate from “aspiring novelist” to “professional storyteller.” It requires discipline over inspiration, organisation over intuition, and a willingness to respect the world you’ve built enough not to break it just to squeeze out one more sequel.
To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.
But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.
I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026. It even has a cover.
Pro Tip: Visit in autumn when golden leaves contrast with grey concrete, or summer for lush greenery. Bring a flashlight and a sense of adventure.
Pack your curiosity—and maybe a flashlight. The real Tallinn is waiting.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 