John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
5 Proven Ways to Give Your Writing Confidence a Real Boost
Whether you’re polishing a novel manuscript, drafting a blog post, or scribbling down a quick journal entry, every writer hits the “I‑don’t‑know‑if‑this‑is‑good enough” wall at some point. The good news? Confidence isn’t a mystical talent you’re either born with or not—it’s a skill you can train, just like plotting, character arcs, or SEO research. Below are five concrete strategies (backed by research and real‑world experience) that will help you shake off self‑doubt, step into your writer’s voice, and keep the words flowing.
1. Celebrate Small Wins – Turn “Done” Into “Done‑and‑Delicious”
Why it works: Psychologist Dr. Barbara Fredrickson’s Broaden‑and‑Build theory tells us that positive emotions expand our mental toolkit, making us more creative and resilient. Acknowledging tiny achievements creates that positive feedback loop.
How to apply it:
Small Milestone
Celebration Idea
Finishing a paragraph
Add a sticky note to your monitor that says “Paragraph conquered!”
Hitting a word‑count target (e.g., 500 words)
Treat yourself to a 5‑minute playlist of your favorite songs
Finding the perfect metaphor
Write it on a slip of paper and tape it on your wall as a visual trophy
Receiving a kind comment on a draft
Save the comment in a “Confidence Folder” (digital or physical) for low‑energy days
Make it a habit: At the end of each writing session, jot down one thing you did well. Over weeks, you’ll have a personal “confidence bank” to draw from when you feel stuck.
2. Adopt a “Draft‑First, Edit‑Later” Mindset
Why it works: Research from the University of Cambridge shows that separating the creative (draft) and analytical (edit) phases lowers perfectionism and increases output quality. When you stop judging while you write, the flow state—that sweet spot where the words seem to write themselves—is easier to achieve.
Practical steps:
Set a timer for a “pure draft” sprint (e.g., 20 minutes). During this window, no back‑spacing, no grammar checks, no Googling synonyms. Just write.
Label the document “RAW” so you consciously know you’ll revisit it later.
Switch gears after the sprint: take a short walk, stretch, then open the file in “Edit” mode. You’ll be surprised at how many “aha!” moments appear when you return with fresh eyes.
Result: The draft becomes a safe space for experimentation, and the later edit feels like polishing a gem rather than fixing a broken vase.
3. Build a “Writer’s Support Squad”
Why it works: Social support is a massive confidence driver. According to a 2022 study in Writing Research Quarterly, writers who regularly share work with peers report 31% higher self‑efficacy (belief in their ability to succeed) than solitary writers.
Ways to create your squad:
Join a local or virtual writing group. Platforms like Meetup, Discord, or even Facebook have genre‑specific circles.
Find a “beta‑reader buddy.” Swap drafts with someone you trust; give each other a single, focused piece of feedback (e.g., “Did the protagonist’s motivation feel clear?”).
Hire a professional editor for a “confidence edit.” Even a brief 30‑minute session can validate that you’re on the right track.
Use accountability apps. Tools like Habitica or Beeminder let you set writing goals and get nudges (or gentle shame‑reminders) from friends.
Tip: Keep the feedback loop specific and positive. A phrase like “I loved how you showed the conflict through dialogue” feels far more empowering than a vague “It’s good.”
4. Leverage the Power of “Impostor‑Syndrome Journaling”
Why it works: Impostor syndrome—feeling like a fraud despite evidence of competence—is rampant among writers. A 2020 meta‑analysis in Psychology of Aesthetics, Creativity, and the Arts found that journaling about these thoughts reduces their intensity by 40%.
How to journal effectively:
Name the feeling. Write, “I’m feeling like an impostor because…”
Collect evidence. List concrete achievements (publications, positive comments, word‑count milestones).
Reframe. Turn “I’m not good enough” into “I’m still learning, and that’s okay.”
Set a “next‑step” goal. E.g., “Read one article on pacing this week.”
Do this once a week, preferably after a writing session. Over time, the journal becomes a personal truth‑checker that reminds you of your progress whenever doubt creeps in.
5. Practice “Micro‑Storytelling” to Warm Up Your Voice
Why it works: Micro‑storytelling (flash fiction ≤ 300 words, Instagram captions, or even 6‑sentence anecdotes) forces you to distill ideas quickly, sharpening your narrative instincts and giving you immediate, tangible proof of skill.
Kick‑start ideas:
Prompt
Word Limit
Goal
“The last word you ever typed”
150
Capture tension in a single scene
“A coffee shop conversation that changes everything”
200
Practice dialogue
“A piece of advice you’d give to your younger self”
250
Tap into voice & authenticity
“Rewrite a classic fairy tale in 3 sentences”
100
Hone brevity & wit
Routine: Spend the first 10 minutes of every writing day on a micro‑story. When you finish, you have a finished piece to share, post, or shelve—instant confidence.
Putting It All Together: A 7‑Day Confidence Sprint
Day
Focus
Action
1
Celebrate Wins
Write 3 bullet‑point win notes after your session.
2
Draft‑First
20‑minute sprint + “RAW” label.
3
Squad Up
Post a snippet in your writing group, ask for one specific comment.
4
Impostor Journal
Follow the 4‑step journaling template.
5
Micro‑Story
Complete a flash‑fiction piece (≤200 words).
6
Edit Session
Revisit Day 2’s draft with fresh eyes.
7
Review & Reward
Compile all win notes, journal entries, and micro‑stories. Celebrate with a treat or a leisure activity.
At the end of the week, you’ll have a portfolio of proof—a tangible collection that demonstrates progress, skill, and resilience. And more importantly, you’ll have rewired your brain to associate writing with positive outcomes rather than fear.
Final Thought: Confidence Is a Muscle, Not a Magic Spell
Every writer—whether a debut novelist, a seasoned journalist, or a hobbyist blogger—needs a reliable toolbox for moments of doubt. The strategies above are evidence‑based, low‑cost, and adaptable to any schedule or genre. Try one or mix several, track what resonates, and watch your inner critic shrink while your creative voice grows louder.
Ready to boost your confidence? Grab a notebook, pick the first tip, and start today. Your future self (and your readers) will thank you.
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
You know how it goes, somebody breaks into your house and they steal the family jewels, which means, they’ve taken something that’s not theirs.
Baseballers will be well familiar with the term steal a base because that sneaky second base runner is trying to get to third, before the pitcher fires in a curveball.
But then there’s that same thief trying to rob you is stealing his way downstairs.
You come across a bargain, that is the seller doesn’t quite know what they’ve got and assumed it’s junk, that’s a steal.
On stage, one actor can steal the limelight from another. if a film, an actor with a lesser part, can, if their good enough, steal the scene.
And if you’re lucky enough, you might steal a kiss, or just get slapped.
Then there’s the government, using a certain event to change the laws, and it might just steal your liberty.
This is not to be confused with the word steel, which means something else entirely, like a very malleable metal that’s low in carbon.
Or like most of our heroes, they have nerves of steel, or if they are like us, they need to steel themselves with a suitable fortification, rum is my choice.
But for me, I like the phrase, he had a steely look on his face and it was hard to tell if that was good or bad.
Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination in what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
The message I sent to Forster, in London, was short and to the point,
‘Castle in hands of Germans led by Thompson, others, and a further 12 soldiers parachuted in. Defectors, our original soldiers? and villagers held captive in dungeons. Resistance is limited to five plus self. Available resources cannot retake the castle and will have difficulty in intercepting incoming package. Suggestions?’
Marina read it and added her name before it was sent. Now, all we could do was wait for a reply, though I was not sure what Forster would make of my request for suggestions. I was supposed to make decisions in the field, but that was when we had a full complement of resistance fighters. What I’d discovered was the worst-case scenario, and everyone in London was hoping that would not be the case.
I wondered what happened to the two men who had been following me, hoping I would lead them to what were now the remaining resistance members.
“Did you see the two men from the castle that had been following me? I told the two who had captured me, a man and a woman, though the man emphatically denied he worked for the resistance, about them before the woman shot me with a tranquillizer gun.”
Martina looked puzzled. It was obvious the two hadn’t mentioned anything about my situation to her.
“That did not come up in the debriefing. The man is, in fact, a farmer, Leonardo, who doesn’t advertise his involvement, and only works with us if we need him. Chiara tends to shoot first and ask questions later. You were lucky her gun wasn’t loaded with bullets. What is this story of yours, then?”
“One of the guards released me from my cell, and then set me free with the intention of following, not too close, to see if I led them to you. I was hiding from them when they passed by, shortly before you people turned up. They would have had to see them if they came from the village.”
The implications of what I just said only dawned on me after I said it.
“That might mean…” I said.
She put her hand up, not wanting me to continue.
“It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but I will have to talk to them. If anything, they would have avoided them or ignored them. We don’t use that track from the village to the castle for the simple reason we might run into any of them. Whether they were originally our allies, or not, we never trusted them.”
“Did they bring me here?”
“No. We have a separate meeting point for intercepts like yourself and the defectors. Then, if we think it’s safe to do so, we bring them here. Only three of us know about this place, and two of us are here now.”
“The third?”
“You’ll meet him later when he brings some food and wine. His name is Carlo. He used to be a gardener at the castle, and his mother was the cook. The Germans killed her the first time they were here, and now he hates Germans.”
Good for us, very bad for anyone at the castle, particularly if they are German.
“Pity we didn’t know about that earlier so we could organise a trap for them We could do with two fewer adversaries, and quite possibly we might get some information out of them. They might be still in the village.”
She stood, put on her coat, and put a gun in the coat pocket where she could easily reach it. “I’m going to have a word with Chiara, and warn Carlo that you’re here. He’s a little trigger happy too. Nothing much is going to happen until we hear back from the Colonel. I suggest you get some rest, we have a few long days ahead.”
Carlo was a surprise. Six foot ten, over 250 pounds, and carrying a sten gun over his shoulder, not a man to become an enemy of. He came into the room without warning, and it was clear he was expecting to see me, and equally that I might be the enemy.
It was clear that he knew how to use the weapon, and had it ready in case he had to use it.
“You this Anderson character?”
He was more English than Italian, but could certainly pass for an Italian.
“I am.”
“From up yon castle?”
“Escaped?”
“How?”
“The lower level, where there are a few storerooms turned into cells. The passage ran alongside the outer wall to a room that had a door to the outside. Not one you’d easily pick.”
“Neat the communications room?”
“Probably above there.”
“You know the castle?”
“A little. I used to be an archaeologist before this war came along, and had been to the castle before the war. I’m familiar with the above-ground parts, but not so much below. You were, I was told, a gardener?”
“Once.”
“Then you’d know your way around?”
“Possibly. Why?”
“Because at some point we’re going to have to retake the place, and it would be good to have someone who knows their way around. At least, better than I do.”
“Taking prisoners?”
“No. We will be assuming anyone there who’s not a prisoner is hostile.”
“Good. Count me in.”
He dropped a basket he’d brought with him on the table in the corner. “Dinner.” Marina will be back shortly.
“You’re not staying?”
“Guard duty. So you can eat in peace.”
With that, he was gone. A large man, but a very quiet one. I didn’t hear him arrive, and it was very nearly the same when he left. A useful man in a fight indeed.
Two other characters will be used in this rewrite; the second is an addition to give the main character a means of letting the reader get to know a bit about him.
His name is Milt, an African American who’s always been on the fringe. Another is a victim of his circumstances, but not letting it get the better of him, the sort of man who makes the best of a bad situation.
He’s seen active service in the army, honourably discharged, but still affected, though not as bad as some of those he served with. He is, in fact, the ideal man for the job, with combat experience, so he’s not likely to get flustered in a shit storm.
And probably not the man you want on this site. Being in desperate circumstances doesn’t mean you do desperate things.
He is one of a team of four, and our main character drew the straw to partner with him. There are two others, based on the other side of the park, neither of whom is trustworthy: Smithy, the overall leader, to whom they all report at shift start and end, and Carruthers, an Englishman reputed to be ex-SAS, but no one is inclined to believe him.
The scars on his neck tell a story, but it was left to the other’s imagination, as he doesn’t talk about it. Milt believed he was captured in Afghanistan and tortured, but that could just be canteen scuttlebutt.
Whatever the circumstances, Graham kept away from him as much as possible and was glad when he didn’t have to partner with him for the shift.
The other character, Penelope, is featured in the earlier versions of the story. Over the changes, her background has changed, but I’ve settled on a medical surgeon career, renowned for doing tricky procedures with a high success rate, and in doing so, gained a reputation, some not always good.
Wealth and ego don’t always make a good pair, and marrying wealth brings its own rewards and pitfalls, particularly when you discover the man you married isn’t exactly who you thought he was.
It is, of course, a typical scenario, but I’m going to try and weave it differently. There will be no more teasers until the story starts.
But she will be introduced earlier than in the previous iterations because she needs some backstory, too; otherwise, just arriving at Graham’s work and getting shot, while provoking a volatile situation that drags the reader in and out of left field, is not exactly the best start.
These donuts are whole with jam injected into them and are delicious. You cannot stop at one, which is why you get five.
There are like the donuts I used to get from the Dandenong market when I was a child. Back then, nearly 60 years ago, I used to go every Tuesday to get fruit and vegetables, and sometimes clothes, because there were other stalls selling useful household items.
Back then we used to get donuts, and for a long time, I had never managed to get back when the market was open to relive those childhood memories.
This trip we do.
The Dandenong Market had changed considerably since the last time I remember it. The building where my eldest son used to play basketball has been turned over to meat, fish, and food stalls.
It has spread to be about ten times the size it used to be, making it seem like a difficult task to find the donut van, but we entered by the right entrance and there it was.
And the donuts?
They were exactly as I remembered.
While we’re in the area we also make a trip to the Springvale market. When I lived in Victoria there was no such market, this had only been around since the immigrant Vietnamese have made their home in Springvale, and in places, it reminds you of similar markets in Singapore, Hong Kong, or China.
It was a fascinating half-hour of wandering around almost feeling like you are somewhere in South East Asia.
With markets like these who would really need a supermarket? And a bonus? The street food.
The Unwritten Prologue: How Natural-Born Writers Knew Their Story Begun
Every great writer’s journey has a beginning, often buried in the imagination long before they held a pencil. These are the natural-born writers—those who were storytellers at their core before they could write a single word. They didn’t wait for spelling lessons or grammar rules; their stories flowed in the language of play, whispers of narrative, and the cadence of their own dreams. How did they know, and how did they craft their art without ink or paper? Let’s explore the enchanted first chapters of these visionary creators.
The Pre-Writing Stage: Stories Before Writing
Long before literacy, natural writers are oral storytellers. They might have been the child inventing tales for stuffed animals, reenacting myths with wooden swords, or narrating their day to an invisible audience. Their imagination is a stage, and the world their audience. Even without words, they convey emotion through sound, gesture, and rhythm. Think of a toddler saying, “She took the cookie and ran like a princess” to a doll. That’s not just play—it’s storytelling in its rawest form.
Similarly, a love for language often emerges early. These writers-in-the-making are the ones “reading” picture books repeatedly, experimenting with invented words, or collecting poetry in their minds. They’re attuned to the music of language, humming stories to themselves before they can write them.
Signs of a Natural-Born Writer
Compulsive Storytelling: They create worlds in play, crafting elaborate scenarios with toys or friends.
Early Fascination with Letters and Sounds: They recognize letters before starting school, perhaps scribbling “I don’t know what this letter is, but it’s magic!”
Imaginative Interpretations of Reality: They reimagine everyday events as adventures, turning a walk to the park into a quest.
Emotional Resonance with Stories: They weep for characters in bedtime tales, proving they deeply connect with narrative.
From Oral to Written: How They Paved the Way
Natural-born writers often transition from oral to written storytelling with relentless curiosity. J.K. Rowling, for instance, has spoken about inventing stories as a child to amuse herself and her brother. Dr. Seuss’s rhymes as a child (and his iconic use of sound) hint at a writer born not just to write, but to make language sing.
Before formal training, these writers might:
Tell stories to family, refining their tales through feedback.
Use drawings or symbols, creating “books” with pictures and cryptic text.
Mime scenes, acting out dialogue as their own script.
Memorize and adapt fables, internalizing the structure of storytelling.
Even without words, they’re practicing the essence of writing: character, conflict, and craft. As Maya Angelou once said, “The writer’s biggest problem is always, to say something; to say it fresh; to say it in a way that it’s never been said before.” Natural writers are solving this puzzle long before they put pen to paper.
Case Study: Tolkien and the Power of Myth
J.R.R. Tolkien’s passion for languages and mythology began in childhood. Before he wrote The Hobbit, he crafted his own languages and sagas, scribbling in notebooks with imagined alphabets. His parents called him “a reader and a teller of tales from a very early age.” Without the ability to write fully, he likely told stories orally, nurturing the mythologies that later defined modern fantasy.
The Legacy of the Unwritten
Natural-born writers learn that storytelling is a muscle—grow it before you can spell narrative. Their journey teaches us that being a writer isn’t about talent alone, but about telling the story that only you can tell, regardless of tools. A child speaking to a toy, a teen journaling in code, or an adult crafting tales in their head—these are all valid forms of the writer’s craft.
To the Young (and Young at Heart) Writers
If you’ve ever built a castle in the clouds or whispered secrets to your teddy bear, embrace it. You are already a writer. Your letters may not be formed, your grammar unlearned, but your voice is real. As you grow, let those early stories guide you. The greats started with nothing more than a dream and a desire to share it.
So, tell your tale. Even if it’s just to the moon. Even if it’s all in your head. You’re already writing.
What story do you carry in your heart before it’s written down? Let it out. The world needs to hear it.
Bogotá, Colombia’s vibrant capital, is often synonymous with iconic landmarks like Plaza de Bolívar or the towering Monserrate. But beyond the well-trodden tourist trails lies a city rich with untold stories, cultural treasures, and serene escapes that reveal a more authentic side of Colombia. If you’re ready to venture beyond the usual sights, here are five unique experiences that will deepen your connection to Bogotá and its soul.
1. Museo del Chocio: A Private Museum with Heart
Tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, the Museo del Chocio (also known as the Soul of a Curious Mind) is a one-of-a-kind hidden gem. Founded by Arturo Chocio, a Colombian engineer turned obsessive collector, this intimate museum houses over 70,000 items spanning 11,000 years of human history—pottery, tools, art, and even Egyptian sarcophagi. It’s a labyrinth of wonder for history buffs and collectors’ curious minds, with personal artifacts displayed in a former house. Entry is donation-based, and the museum’s quirky charm offers a rare, personal journey through global cultures. Tip: Visit on a weekday to enjoy the exhibits in peaceful seclusion.
2. Parque Tunal: A Green Oasis with Literary Roots
While many flock to the bustling Parque 93, Parque Tunal is a lesser-known sanctuary where locals unwind. This sprawling park, home to pre-Columbian sculptures and a hidden library, is the perfect spot for a leisurely afternoon. The lush gardens and shaded benches invite reflection, while the Biblioteca Virgilio Bernal—a modern library offering books and events—adds a cultural twist. Tip: Don’t miss the park’s Mirador del Tunal, a hilltop viewpoint offering panoramic city views, especially magical at sunset.
3. Quinta de Bolívar: Step into History at Simón Bolívar’s Home
For a deeper dive into Colombia’s independence story, visit Quinta de Bolívar, the historic home of Simón Bolívar. This preserved country house in San Antonio offers a glimpse into the life of the “Libertador,” with original furniture, mementos, and a beautiful garden. The museum’s child-friendly exhibits and workshops make it ideal for families, while the serene setting is perfect for a picnic. Tip: Combine your visit with a stop at Cafetería La Quinta, a cozy café serving traditional Colombian pastries.
4. La Nuestra de la Asunción: A Cultural Hub in Transition
Once a colonial convent, La Nuestra de la Asunción has evolved into a vibrant arts and community center. Housed in a restored 19th-century convent, this space hosts rotating art exhibitions, theater performances, and culinary workshops that celebrate local traditions. The fusion of history and modern creativity here is inspiring, and the nearby Galería del Barco adds a contemporary art flair. Tip: Check the venue’s calendar for weekend workshops—try your hand at making arepas or Colombian coffee.
5. San Agustín Street Art Trail: A Kaleidoscope of Colour
While La Candelaria is famous for its colonial architecture, the San Agustín neighborhood is a canvas for Bogotá’s vibrant street art scene. Wander through alleys adorned with murals by local and international artists, often infused with social and political commentary. The community’s blend of art, hip cafés, and eclectic shops gives it a bohemian vibe. Tip: Grab a coffee at La Casita del Tio, a beloved spot in the area, and let the murals guide your stroll.
Conclusion: Embrace Bogotá’s Layers
Bogotá is a city of contrasts—where history, nature, and modern creativity collide. By exploring these lesser-known treasures, you’ll uncover a side of the city that locals cherish, one that speaks to resilience, passion, and community. So, trade the crowded queues for quiet pathways, and let Bogotá surprise you with its hidden magic. After all, the best travel stories are born from the detours we take.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 