Writing a book in 365 days – 353

Day 353

Introduction: Why Your Choice of Software Matters

Writing isn’t just about putting words on a page; it’s a craft that demands focus, organisation, and the right set of tools to bring ideas to life. The software you choose can:

  • Boost productivity – by cutting down on manual formatting and navigation.
  • Protect your creative flow – by offering distraction‑free modes and version control.
  • Scale with your project – from a single‑page article to a 500‑page novel or a multi‑chapter research thesis.

With a flood of options on the market, two camps dominate the conversation:

  1. Dedicated writing software (think Scrivener, Ulysses, yWriter).
  2. Run‑of‑the‑mill word processors (Microsoft Word, Google Docs, Apple Pages).

Let’s dive deep into the strengths, weaknesses, and ideal use‑cases for each, so you can make an informed decision that aligns with your workflow.


1. Dedicated Writing Software – The Specialist’s Toolkit

1.1 What Makes a “Dedicated” App Different?

Dedicated writing apps are built from the ground up for long‑form, project‑based writing. They go beyond the classic “type‑and‑print” paradigm and provide:

FeatureWhy It Matters
Project‑level organization (folders, corkboards, outline view)Keeps chapters, scenes, research, and notes in one place without endless scrolling.
Distraction‑free modesFull‑screen or “typewriter” view clears the screen of UI clutter, helping you stay in the zone.
Version control & snapshotsCapture a “snapshot” of a chapter at any point and revert without losing later edits.
Export versatilityExport to ePub, Kindle, PDF, Word, plain text, and even manuscript‑ready formats with a single click.
Metadata & taggingAttach custom fields (e.g., POV, status, word count) for advanced sorting and filtering.

1.2 Scrivener – The Industry Standard

“If you write a novel, a screenplay, or a dissertation, Scrivener is the Swiss Army knife you never knew you needed.” — John H., bestselling author

Pros

✔️Scrivener Highlights
Robust BinderDrag‑and‑drop chapters, scenes, and research PDFs into a hierarchical tree.
Corkboard & OutlinerVisualize story arcs with index cards; rearrange with a mouse swipe.
Split‑Screen EditingView two documents side‑by‑side (e.g., manuscript + notes).
Built‑in TemplatesPre‑made templates for novels, scripts, non‑fiction, and academic papers.
Cross‑PlatformmacOS, Windows, iOS (sync via Dropbox).

Cons

❌Potential Drawbacks
Learning CurveThe sheer number of features can overwhelm newcomers.
Price$49 (Mac/Windows) + $29 (iOS) – a one‑time purchase, but higher than a free Google account.
CollaborationNot designed for real‑time co‑authoring (though you can share exported files).

1.3 Other Notable Dedicated Apps

AppIdeal ForStandout Feature
Ulysses (macOS/iOS)Bloggers, journalists, Apple‑centric writersSeamless iCloud sync + Markdown simplicity
yWriter (Windows)Screenwriters & novelists on a budgetFree, robust scene‑based organization
Storyist (macOS/iOS)Fiction & script writersIntegrated storyboard & script formatting

2. Run‑of‑the‑Mill Word Processors – The Everyday Workhorse

2.1 Microsoft Word – The Classic Giant

Word has been the default for decades, and its capabilities have expanded far beyond a simple text editor.

Pros

✔️Word Strengths
Universal CompatibilityAlmost every publisher, editor, and academic institution expects a .docx file.
Advanced FormattingStyles, footnotes, cross‑references, tables of contents – all built‑in.
Track Changes & CommentsIdeal for collaborative editing with editors or co‑authors.
Add‑ins & MacrosCustomize with VBA scripts for repetitive tasks.
Desktop & Online VersionsUse the full‑featured desktop app or the cloud‑based Word Online.

Cons

❌Word Weaknesses
Project Management LacksNo native folder‑like binder; you’ll need to open multiple files or use a master document (which can be unstable).
Distraction‑Heavy UIRibbon, sidebars, and toolbars can pull focus away from writing.
Limited Export OptionsNot as straightforward to output to ePub or Kindle format without third‑party plugins.

2.2 Google Docs – The Cloud‑Centric Contender

Google Docs is the go‑to for real‑time collaboration, especially in remote teams or classrooms.

Pros

✔️Google Docs Benefits
Real‑Time CollaborationMultiple users can edit simultaneously with live cursors.
Automatic Cloud SavesNo risk of losing work due to hardware failure.
Add‑Ons MarketplaceExtend functionality (e.g., citation managers, grammar checkers).
Access AnywhereBrowser‑based; works on any OS with internet.
Free TierGenerous storage via Google Drive.

Cons

❌Google Docs Limitations
Limited Formatting & StylesComplex manuscript formatting (e.g., long TOCs) can be clunky.
No Built‑In Project ViewYou’ll need to manage individual files manually in Drive.
Offline ModeWorks, but requires setup; performance can be slower offline.
Export FormatsPrimarily PDF, Word, plain text; no native ePub/KDP export.

2.3 When Word Processors Shine

ScenarioRecommended Tool
Academic Papers (APA/MLA/Chicago)Word (styles, citations, footnotes)
Team Reports or Shared DocsGoogle Docs (real‑time editing)
Short‑Form Content (blog posts, newsletters)Either – choose based on collaboration needs
Final Manuscript Formatting for PublishersWord (industry standard)

3. Decision Matrix – Matching Tool to Writer Type

Writer ProfilePrimary NeedsBest Fit
Novelist (300‑500+ pages, heavy outlining)Project organization, scene tracking, flexible exportScrivener (or Ulysses for Mac/iOS)
ScreenwriterScript formatting, beat boards, quick revisionsFinal Draft (industry) or Scrivener (script template)
Academic ResearcherCitation management, footnotes, large reference libraryWord (with EndNote/Zotero) or Google Docs + add‑on
Freelance BloggerFast drafting, SEO collaboration, easy publishingGoogle Docs (collab) or Word (if you prefer offline)
Non‑fiction Author (multiple chapters, interviews, PDFs)Mixed media integration, flexible export, version snapshotsScrivener
Team of EditorsReal‑time comments, change tracking, simultaneous editingGoogle Docs (or Word Online)

4. Practical Tips to Get the Most Out of Your Chosen Software

  1. Start with a Template – Most dedicated apps ship with ready‑made templates that handle margins, headers, and chapter styles. Save time by customising once and reusing.
  2. Leverage Cloud Sync – Even if you love Scrivener, store your project folder in Dropbox or OneDrive to protect against hardware loss.
  3. Combine Tools – Write first drafts in a distraction‑free environment (Scrivener, Ulysses, or even a plain‑text editor), then import into Word for final formatting and submission.
  4. Use Keyboard Shortcuts – Learn the top 10 shortcuts for your platform; they shave seconds off every page.
  5. Backup Regularly – Set up an automatic backup schedule (e.g., weekly zip of your project folder) regardless of cloud storage.

5. Bottom Line: There Is No One‑Size‑Fits‑All Answer

  • If your writing is project‑heavy, non‑linear, and you need robust organisation, dedicated software like Scrivener (or its Mac‑centric cousins) is the clear winner.
  • If you work primarily in teams, need instant collaboration, or are delivering polished documents to publishers or academia, Microsoft Word or Google Docs will serve you better.

My personal recommendation? Use a hybrid workflow: draft and outline in Scrivener for its unrivalled project management, then export your manuscript to Word for final polishing, formatting, and sharing. For collaborative pieces, switch to Google Docs during the editing phase, then bring the clean version back into Word.


Bonus: Quick Comparison Chart

FeatureScrivenerUlyssesMicrosoft WordGoogle Docs
Project Binder✅✅❌❌
Distraction‑Free Mode✅✅❌❌
Real‑Time Collaboration❌❌✅ (online)✅
Advanced Export (ePub, Kindle)✅✅❌ (needs add‑on)❌
Citation ManagementLimitedLimited✅ (via add‑ins)✅ (via add‑ons)
Price (as of 2026)$49 (one‑time)$49.99/yr$149.99 (Microsoft 365)Free (Google Workspace)
Learning CurveModerateLowLowLow

Take Action Today

  1. Identify your primary writing goal (novel, article, thesis, team report).
  2. Match the goal to the software using the matrix above.
  3. Download a free trial (Scrivener offers a 30‑day trial; Word has a 60‑day Microsoft 365 trial).
  4. Test a small project—write a single chapter or a 1,000‑word article. Observe how the tool fits your workflow.
  5. Commit to the software that feels like an extension of your creative mind, not a barrier.

Happy writing! 🚀

“The Things we do for Love”, the story behind the story

This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.

Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.

Why, you might ask.

Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne

At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.

I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.

Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them

Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.

I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.

Damn!

So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years

I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.

It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey.  Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.

Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.

So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.

Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.

It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there.  She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.

And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions.  Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.

Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.

But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.

As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life

If only I’d come from such a background!

And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.

I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.

One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.

Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.

It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife.  Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.

lovecoverfinal1

In a word: Cell

For those who break the law, they will be very familiar with the meaning of the word cell.  It’s a room a jail, not very big, with an uncomfortable bed, and no sharp edges.

And I’m sure the prisoners are not supplied with knives so they can dig through the mortar and remove bricks on their way to the great escape.  That, I’m sure only happens at the movies.

A cell can also be a building block in the creation of humans, animals, fish, and plants.  No doubt there are a million other things that require cells.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of this cellular activity is whether or not there is life, and therefore cells, on Mars.  I’m guessing we’ll have to wait a little longer to find out.

We can have a cell phone, which in some parts of the world is also the name of a mobile phone.

Don’t get me started on what I think of cell phones, or how intrusive they are on our everyday lives, the number of people who seem to be continually glued to the screen, or how many near misses there are in the street and crossing the road.

On the other hand cell phones in the hands of a writer are very useful because when we get flashes of story or plotlines in one of those once awkward moments, we can now jot it down on a cell phone scribbling pad.

A cell can also be used to describe a smaller unit within a larger organisation, or, if you are a thriller writer who dabbles in espionage, you will be very familiar with the concept of a sleeper cell.

Who knows, in reality, there might be some living next door to us and we would never know.  Oops, been watching too much television again.

Digging deeper into the more obscure definitions of the word cell, we come up with a single transparent sheet that has a single drawing on it, one of many that make up an animated film, or film.  If a film runs at 32 frames per second, that means there are 32 cells.

There are fuel cells

There are dry cell batteries

And as a general warning, don’t go too near cell towers or you will be a victim of radiation that might be extremely harmful to your health.

An excerpt from “Sunday in New York”

Now available on Amazon at:  https://amzn.to/2H7ALs8

Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.

We met the Blaine’s at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaine’s frequently visited, and had recommended.

Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’.  It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.

It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over.  It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.

Aside from the half frown half-smile, Alison was looking stunning.  It was months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th anniversary that cost a month’s salary.  On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to.  She had adored it, and me, for a week or so after.

For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.

She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars got on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds silence, and many more gasps.

Even I had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room.  Once more I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me.  Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others ‘out there’ who were more appealing.

Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight.  She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.

More than once I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”

Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together.  It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement.  Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.

The battle lines were drawn.

Jimmy was looking fashionable, with the permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it.  Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.

The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out she had straightened it.  And took the moment to look deeply into my soul.  It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.

Then it was gone.

I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me.  A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.

When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.”  It was not a question, but a statement.

I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’ but I accepted it with good grace.  Sometimes Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand.  I guessed she was talking about the new job.  “It was supposed to be a secret.”

She smiled widely.  “There are no secrets between Al and I, are there Al?”

I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.

I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al.  I tried it once and was admonished.  But it was interesting her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not.  It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.

Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil.  As I understood it, the Blaine’s were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in.  I didn’t ask if the Blaine’s thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.

And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realized I was looking at both of them.  I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand.  And yet, apparently, Alison did.  I must have missed the memo.

“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”

No secrets.  Her look conveyed something else entirely.

The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us.  It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me.  We were going to need it.

Then, a toast.

To a new job and a new life.

“When did you decide?”  Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.

Alison had a strange expression on her face.  It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind.  Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.

Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realized it would be churlish, even silly if I made a scene.  I knew what I wanted to say.  I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine, or upsetting Alison.  This was not the time or the place.  Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.

Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing.  If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decide there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control.  “It’s the little things.  They all add up until one day …”  I shrugged.  “I guess that one day was today.”

I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real?  Or; I told you he’d come around.

I had no idea the two were so close.

“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me.  I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points.  It was all I could come up with at short notice.

“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted.  “Alison was off to get some study in with one of her friends.”

“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up, and immediately got the ‘shut up you fool’ look, that cut that line of conversation dead.  Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.

It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose.  Care to join me, Al?”

A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend.  “Yes.”

I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation.  I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.

I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.

There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show.  I was quite literally gob-smacked.

I drained my champagne glass gathering some courage and turned to him.  “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up.  You know Alison is doing her law degree.”

He looked startled when he realized I had spoken.  He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed.  Or perhaps it was deliberate.  She’d definitely had some enhancements done.

He dragged his eyes back to me.  “Yes.  Elaine said something or other about it.  But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week.  Perhaps I got it wrong.  I usually do.”

“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.”  I shrugged, as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again.  “This week or next, what does it matter?”

Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart.  It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; it was possible she was now telling me lies.  If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?

We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”

“Trouble, I suspect.  Definitely more money, but less time at home.”

“Oh,” raised eyebrows.  Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details.  “You sure you want to do that?”

At last the voice of reason.  “Me?  No.”

“Yet you accepted the job.”

I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him.  Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him.  “Jimmy, between you and me I haven’t as yet decided one way or another.  To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”

“Barclay?”

“My boss.”

“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay that recently moved in the tower a block down from us.  I thought I recognized the name.”

“How did Elaine get the job?”

“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”

“When?”

“A couple of months ago.  Why?”

I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker.  I felt sick, faint, and wanting to die all at the same moment.  “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time.  Too busy with work I expect.  I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”

I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted and I knew I had to keep it together.  I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down.  I sucked in some deep breaths, and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.

And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown.  Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”

Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth.  It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction.  It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.

When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and I.  I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, it didn’t matter.  If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact I took over the dining engagement did.  She knew well enough the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket.  She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.

But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points.  Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine.  She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.

Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly.  I chose to ignore her, and pretend nothing had happened, instead of telling her how much I was enjoying the evening.

She had her ‘secrets’.  I had mine.

At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me.  It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, Jimmy came looking for me.  I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse.  When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was but neither made any comment.

It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which to a large degree it was for the other three.  But I had achieved what I set out to do, and that was to play them at their own game, watching the deception, once I knew there was a deception, as warily as a cat watches its prey.

I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree.  It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.

We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaine’s back to the Upper West Side.  But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer.  She showed concern for my health, asked me what was wrong.  It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.

She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it.  Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.

And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.

It left me confused and lost.

I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.

And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

Sunday In New York

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 9

This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy. It was, of course, written while travelling on a plane, though I’m not sure if it was from Calgary to Toronto, or New York to Vancouver.

But, there’s more to come. Those were long flights…

And sadly when I read what I’d written, off the plane and in the cold hard light of dawn, there were problems, which now in the second draft, should provide the proper start.

They always come for you just before dawn.

I could hear the words being spoken by the Sergeant Major during lesson one of torture training.  Not us giving it to them, but them giving it to us.  Why?  For some reason at that hour of the morning, you were still asleep, or half asleep, and totally unprepared.

So, lesson number one, if you found yourself in that situation, waiting, you needed to prepare.

Easy to say, not so easy to do.  He then went on to outline the methods to employ when faced with an imminent interrogation.  The problem was, he also told us the methods that would be employed, and that was basically terrifying.  I saw men stronger than me wilting at the thought.

And, right there, sitting in that cold cell, it was not only the cold that was making me shiver.

I wasn’t a brave man.  I think sometimes I might classify myself as stupid, and with a devil may care attitude, to life and other situations; in war, every day could be your last, but I’d always considered it would be a bomb or a bullet.

Something instant, with no time to go through an agonising process of extreme pain, before dying.  Everything that went against the purpose of torture.

But not today.

I heard the sound of a key turning in a lock, in a door that was at the other end of the passage, the sound of the captors coming.

For me?  Or for someone else?

Was it selfish of me to want it to be someone else?

The door swung open with a groan, it had been oiled, but the rust was still thick enough to impede progress.  I was glad of it, it gave me time to compose myself.  I think by then I had convinced myself it was time.   Wallace wasn’t happy I was still alive, and I suspect Johansson had stopped Jackerby killing me for him because I had useful information.

That usefulness would end if I didn’t co-operate.

I could hear the boots on cobbles coming towards my cell, then felt, rather than saw the guards.

I stood and took several steps back from the door.  I could see one of the guards had a gun, trained on me, ready to shoot if I tried anything, flattered that someone thought I might try to resist or escape.  I had given it some thought, weighed the possibilities, and the odds were I’d be shot before I got 10 yards.

“Don’t try anything or you will be shot.”  Surprisingly unaccented English, but an unsurprising threat.  

A different guard, standing back from the door, key in hand, and in the light so that I could see him.  Why?  This one didn’t look German, and he was someone I hadn’t seen before, obviously one of the new arrivals.

Jackerby’s handpicked torture squad?

The door was unlocked and swung outwards, held onto by the man who issued the threat.

The other guard had stepped back two paces.  “Follow him.  I’ll be right behind.  Don’t try anything.”

He didn’t have to add anything to that command.  He was seven inches taller and 60 pounds plus heavier than I was.  Implied message understood.

I followed the guard in front.

© Charles Heath 2019

Once Upon a Time… – A short story

Everyone knows someone who has a child that will not go to sleep.

You can set the bedtime at whatever early hour you like, but by the time they actually fall asleep, there have been two or three hours of up and down, in and out of bed, and at least one episode of a scary monster lurking under the bed, or, worse, outside the window.

After exhausting every method of achieving a result and failing, I thought I’d try reading.

The first book I picked up was, yes, you guessed it, about monsters. In fact, nearly every book for kids was about monsters, witches, ogres, dragons, and vampires.

I put them back and sighed. I would have to come up with a story of my own.

It started with, “Once upon a time…”

“But that,” Mary said, “only applies to fairy tales.”

“Well, this is going to be a fairy tale of sorts. Minus the fire-breathing dragons, and nasty trolls under drawbridges.”

“It’s not going to be much of a story, then. In fairy tales, there’s always a knight who slays the dragon and rides off with the princess.”

This was going to be a tough ask. I thought of going back to the book pile, but then, I could do this.

“So,” I began again, “Once upon a time there was a princess, who lived in a castle with her father, the king, her mother, the queen, and her brother, the steadfast and trusty knight in shining armour.”

“Why is their armour always shining?”

I was going to tell her to save the questions until after the story, by which time I had hoped I’d bored her enough to choose sleep over criticism. I was wrong.

“Because a knight always has to have shiny armour, otherwise the king would be disappointed.”

“Does the knight spend all night shining his armour?”

“No. He has an apprentice called a squire who cleans the armour and attends to anything else the knight needs.”

“And then he becomes a knight?”

“In good time. The apprentice is usually a boy of about 11 or 12 years old. First, he learns what it means to be a knight, then he has to do years of training until he comes of age.” I saw the question coming, and got in first, “When he is about 21 years old.”

She looked at me, and that meant I had to continue the story.

“The princess was very lucky and lived a very different life than her subjects, except she wished she had their freedom to play, and do ordinary things like cooking or collecting food from the markets. Because she was a princess, she had to stay in the castle and spend most of her time learning how to be a princess, and one day a queen, because when it was time, she would marry a prince who would become a king.”

“Doesn’t sound too lucky to me, being stuck at home. I like the idea of getting somebody to do everything for me though. She does have maids, doesn’t she?”

“Yes. And you’re right, she has everything done for her, including getting dressed. A maid to clean, a maid to dress her, a maid to bring her snacks. And it was these maids she envied.”

Maybe I should not make the story too interesting, or she’ll never go to sleep.

“Well, one day, she decided to change places with one of her maids. They were almost identical and when they exchanged clothes, the other maids could not tell they had changed places. At the end of the day, when the maids went home, the princess headed to the house where the maid she had taken the place of lived.

It was very different from the castle, and the room she usually had. The mother was at home, cooking the food for the evening meal, and it was nothing like what she usually had. A sort of soup with scraps of meat in it. There was a loaf of bread on the table. The father came home after working all day in the fields, very tired. They ate and then went to bed. Her bed was straw and a piece of cloth that hardly covered her. At least, by the fire, it was warm. It didn’t do anything for the pangs of hunger because there had barely been enough for all of them.

The next morning, she returned to the castle and changed places back again. When the maid she changed places with asked about her experience of what it was like in their life, the princess said she was surprised. She had never been told about how the people who served the king lived, and she had assumed that they were well looked after. Now she had experienced what it was like to be a subject, she was going to investigate it further.

After all, she told the maid, I must have all the facts if I’m going to approach the king.

And she thought to herself, a lot more courage than she had.

But, instead of lessons today, she was going to demand to be taken on a tour outside the castle and to see the people.

“This sounds like it’s not going to have a happy ending.”

No, I thought. Maybe I’ll get the dragon that her brother failed to slay to eat her.

“It will. Patience. But that’s enough for tonight. If you want to know what happens, you’ll have to go to sleep and then, tomorrow night, the story continues.”

I tucked her in, turned down the night light so it was only a glow, just enough to see where I was going, and left.

If I was lucky, she would go to sleep. The only problem was, I had to come up with more of the story.

Outside the door, her mother, Christine, was smiling. “Since when did you become an expert on Princesses?”

“When I married one.”

—-

© Charles Heath 2020-2023

The 2am Rant: Why don’t we sit down and talk about it?

An invitation that sounds so innocuous, doesn’t it?

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

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

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

Damn.

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

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

It highlights the difficulties of the novice author.

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

If only I can settle the nerves.

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

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

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

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

That was an interesting question, and one that has several answers, but the one most relevant was; “It was the secret alter ego of one of the women I used to work with.  I asked her one day if she wasn’t doing what she was, what she would like to do.  And, surprisingly, I thought she would have made an excellent assassin, the last person you would expect.”

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

Maybe I’ll tell you next time.

Writing a book in 365 days – 352

Day 352

Great Fiction Writers Don’t Just Tell Stories—They Leave You Changed

There’s a quiet magic in the best fiction—a kind that doesn’t announce itself with flashy prose or intricate plots, but lingers long after the last page is turned. You close the book, set it down, and somehow feel… heavier. Not weighed down, but fulfilled—as though you’ve absorbed something essential, something that wasn’t there when you began.

Great fiction writers don’t write for themselves. They write for you—the reader. And the greatest among them give you more than entertainment or escape. They give you something.

What Is That “Something”?

It’s not always easy to name. It might be a sudden clarity about human nature—why your father acted the way he did, or why forgiveness is harder than anger. It could be an aching empathy for someone unlike yourself, conjured through a character so vividly drawn that their pain feels like memory. It might be the unsettling truth that you’re not as alone in your fears or dreams as you thought.

That something is the residue of real art: emotional weight, intellectual insight, or a quiet shift in perspective. It’s the feeling you get after reading Toni Morrison’s Beloved, or finishing a Chekhov story, or stepping out of the world of George Eliot’s Middlemarch. You’re changed. You carry the story with you, not as memorised lines, but as lived experience.

And that’s the hallmark of a true artist: they offer their work not as a monument to their own genius, but as a gift to the reader’s soul.

The Writer’s True Purpose: Not Self-Expression, But Soul-Transmission

So many aspiring writers believe their job is to express themselves—to pour out their thoughts, traumas, or clever wordplay onto the page. And while honesty and authenticity matter, the goal cannot stop there. Great fiction isn’t exhibition; it’s invitation.

When you write to express yourself, the work orbits inward. But when you write for the reader, it expands outward—reaching, resonating, transforming. The best writers understand this intuitively. They labor not to impress, but to impact. They revise not for elegance alone, but for emotional precision—because they know a single well-placed sentence can alter someone’s understanding of love, loss, or what it means to be human.

Think of Harper Lee handing Scout Finch to the world—not as a self-indulgent character study, but as a lens through which generations would confront race, justice, and moral courage. Or consider Kazuo Ishiguro, whose restrained narratives coil around memory and dignity, leaving readers quietly devastated—and wiser.

These writers didn’t write to soothe their own egos. They wrote to give you something to carry.

Your Work Is Not About You—And That’s the Point

If you’re writing fiction to be seen, praised, or validated, you’re writing in the wrong direction. Real art doesn’t seek applause. It seeks resonance.

When you shift your focus from What do I want to say? to What does the reader need to feel, see, or understand?, your writing transforms. Your characters deepen. Your themes gain weight. You begin to sculpt stories that don’t just entertain, but endure.

Every choice—of voice, of silence, of detail—becomes an offering. The description of a worn kitchen table isn’t just set dressing; it’s a vessel for memory. A character’s hesitation isn’t just pacing—it’s a reflection of universal doubt.

This reorientation is humbling. It asks you to let go of the need to be clever, shocking, or profound on the surface. Instead, it calls you to serve the story—and, through it, the reader.

Walk Into the Light, Leave With Weight

The finest novels, the unforgettable stories, don’t leave you lighter. They leave you fuller. You walk into them seeking diversion, and you walk out carrying a new emotional memory, a truth you didn’t have before.

So if you’re serious about writing fiction that matters, remember this: your work is not yours. It never was. It belongs to the reader—the one who will read your words late at night, who will underline a passage, who will feel less alone because of something you wrote.

Let that be your compass. Write not for your name on a cover, but for the weight you leave in someone’s chest. Because great fiction doesn’t just live on the page. It lives in the reader—long after the book is closed.

And that’s how art becomes legacy.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – New York

Beyond the Skyline: 5 Off‑the‑Beaten‑Path Experiences in New York City

You’ve checked off Times Square, the Statue of Liberty, and the Met. Now it’s time to slip into the city’s quieter corners, where locals and seasoned explorers discover a side of New York that most tourists never see. Below are five unforgettable, low‑key adventures that let you experience the “real” New York—without the selfie‑stick crowds.


1. Wander the Forgotten Tunnels of the Elevated Acre

What it is: A hidden 2‑acre rooftop garden perched atop a 19th‑century freight elevator shaft at 55 Water Street, overlooking the East River. The space is a lush, industrial‑chic oasis complete with a waterfall, pine forest, and a panoramic view of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Why it feels off‑beat: The Elevated Acre is tucked behind a nondescript metal door that looks like a service entrance. Only the occasional office worker or curious local stumbles upon it, making it an ideal spot for quiet contemplation or a low‑key picnic.

Insider tip: Arrive just after sunrise (the garden opens at 6 a.m.) to watch the city wake up. Bring a reusable coffee cup—there’s a small café kiosk that serves locally roasted brews and pastries.

Cost & Logistics: Free entry. The nearest subway stop is Wall Street (4/5) or Broad Street (J/Z); a short walk east across the waterfront will bring you to the entrance on Water Street.


2. Catch a Silent Disco in the Underground Tunnels of the Grymes Hill Tunnel (Brooklyn)

What it is: A pop‑up, headphone‑only dance party held inside the historic, brick‑lined railway tunnel beneath the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. DJs spin everything from deep house to vintage funk, while participants groove to their own private soundtrack.

Why it feels off‑beat: The tunnel is usually off‑limits to the public and used only for maintenance. The secretive nature of these events draws a small, eclectic crowd—often artists, students, and New York’s indie music scene.

Insider tip: Follow the whisper campaign on the neighbourhood’s Facebook “Brooklyn Secret Events” group for the next date. Arrive early to snag a spot near the tunnel’s natural “light well,” where shafts of sunlight pierce the ceiling—perfect for Instagram stories that look like a scene from Inception.

Cost & Logistics: Tickets range $15‑$25, which include the headphones. The entrance is at Pier 6, Brooklyn Bridge Park; take the 4/5 to Fulton St then walk south along the waterfront.


3. Explore the Vegan Artisanal Market at The Gowanus Canal’s “Greenhouse”

What it is: A seasonal, open‑air market set on a reclaimed warehouse rooftop overlooking the industrial‑chic Gowanus Canal. Local vendors showcase vegan cheeses, fermented kombuchas, hand‑crafted soy candles, and artwork inspired by the city’s waterways.

Why it feels off‑beat: While the Gowanus Canal is often associated with gritty urban renewal, this market celebrates sustainability and community creativity, drawing in a crowd of eco‑conscious locals who prefer farmers’ markets in the Bronx or Queens.

Insider tip: Bring a reusable tote and a curiosity for “wild” flavours. Try the cashew‑based mozzarella paired with locally grown heirloom tomatoes, then stroll across the canal’s footbridge to watch kayakers glide by at sunset.

Cost & Logistics: Entry is free; items for purchase range $3‑$20. The market runs on the first Saturday of each month from 11 a.m.–4 p.m. Nearest subway: F to York St, then a 10‑minute walk west on 9th St.


4. Attend a Midnight Screening at The Film Forum’s “Cinematic Night Shift”

What it is: A series of late‑night showings of obscure foreign films, cult classics, and experimental works, held in the intimate 224‑seat theatre on the Lower East Side. Each session includes a brief Q&A with the director or a film scholar.

Why it feels off‑beat: While most visitors flock to the big multiplexes in Times Square, Film Forum’s midnight series draws cinephiles who value conversation over popcorn. The dimly lit lobby, vintage posters, and the smell of old leather seats create an atmosphere that feels like stepping into a secret society of film lovers.

Insider tip: Arrive early for the complimentary “screening cocktail”—a rotating concoction inspired by the evening’s film (think a “Bong Joon‑ho” mocktail for a Korean thriller). Seats fill fast, so reserve online at least a week in advance.

Cost & Logistics: $12 per ticket, plus a small “donation” for the Q&A. The theatre is located at 209 West Houston St; accessible via B/D at Grand St or L at 1st Ave.


5. While officially called the Ellis Island Hard Hat Tour, the experience is described by visitors as “eerie” and “haunting,” and includes access to areas like the former morgue and contagious disease wards.

This 90-minute guided tour offers a fascinating look into the abandoned hospital complex, which has been closed to the public since 1954. 

Tour Details

Age Restriction: All participants must be at least 10 years old

Focus: The tour focuses on the history of the hospital and the experience of the over one million immigrants who passed through its doors. It’s not a ghost tour with actors or jump scares, but the abandoned atmosphere provides a naturally eerie environment.

Key Sights: Visitors walk through the contagious disease wards, laundry rooms, kitchen, staff quarters, and the autopsy room, which features an eight-cadaver refrigerator. The tour also features an art installation by JR, with life-sized historical photographs placed within the decaying buildings.

Tour Operator: These exclusive tours are offered only by Save Ellis Island, the non-profit partner of the National Park Service dedicated to the preservation of the hospital complex. Tour fees support these conservation efforts.

Booking: Tours run daily, year-round, but must be booked in advance as they often sell out. You can purchase tour tickets through the Save Ellis Island website or the ferry operator, Statue City Cruises.

Tickets & Pricing: The Hard Hat Tour costs approximately $50 extra per adult, in addition to the ferry ticket required to reach the island.


How to Weave These Hidden Gems Into Your Itinerary

  1. Map Your “Off‑The‑Beaten‑Path” Day: Start early at the Elevated Acre for sunrise, then head downtown for the Ghost Walk in the evening.
  2. Balance the Unusual with the Classic: Pair a quiet morning with a traditional brunch in the West Village, then cap the night with the silent disco.
  3. Travel Light, Travel Curious: Pack a small backpack with reusable items (water bottle, tote, portable charger) so you’re ready for any spontaneous discovery.

Final Thoughts

New York’s allure isn’t limited to its glittering skyscrapers and iconic museums. Its true soul lives in the nooks and crannies that only the curious dare to explore—whether it’s a rooftop garden hidden above the financial district, a clandestine tunnel humming with music, or a silent hallway echoing with ghost stories.

Next time you book a trip to the city that never sleeps, give yourself permission to wander off the well‑trodden path. You might find that the best memories are made in places you never expected to see.

Happy exploring, fellow wanderer!


What I learned about writing – It’s OK to ask for help

When I was last in Europe we decided to get the Eurostar, from London, through the Chunnel, to Paris Disneyland.  Not exactly as fast as the Japanese bullet trains, but faster than anything we have in this country.

You are hurtling along at up to 160 kph, though it feels a lot faster, and then you begin to brake, and it seems like nothing is happening, except for some outside friction noise, and the speed dropping.

I feel like that now, on my way to the bottom of the abyss.

At the end of that fall, it is something referred to as hitting rock bottom.

I’m told once you hit rock bottom the only way is up.

The question is, who do you know that has fallen into the abyss and come back to tell you about it?

Put into layman’s terms, hurling down the abyss is like having a severe episode of depression.  There are different types, some worse than others.  Hitting the ground is roughly the equivalent of looking for a way out that eases the pain and not finding one, and that, for some people, is a quite drastic answer.

But the sign that the free fall is braking, like the express train slowing down, is a sign that you’ve seen the light, that there are external forces that can render assistance.

I see them now, the hands of friends, the hands of people I don’t know, but who are concerned.

Writers like any other professional people are the same as everyone else, but with one rather interesting difference.  It is a profession where a lot of the time you are on your own, alone with your thoughts, your characters, your fantasy world, which sometimes so frighteningly drifts into your reality.

Some of us will make a fortune, some of us will make an adequate living, and live the ‘dream’ of doing the one job they always wanted to, and most will not.

I’m not rich, I’m not one who gets an adequate income, yet.

But I will get out of this abyss.

I can feel the brakes.

My eldest granddaughter, who is 15, tells me the fantasy story where she is a princess I’m writing for her is brilliant.

The free fall has stopped.  I step out into the sunshine.

All I needed was a little praise.