Category: blogging

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 220/221

Days 220 and 221 – Writing Exercise

…

It was always the same answer, as it had been from the day I could ask questions: “Who was Uncle Robert?”

My mother was always the first to speak, as he was one of her mother’s siblings, saying he was the black sheep, the one who went down in a hail of bullets.

If that sounded dubious, the next part cemented that remark: that he had died a hero, saving a bus full of children

It was heroic, and he was my uncle, the original font of all things good about my mother’s family, even though once I grew up and understood the nuances of the English language, I also knew what sarcasm was, and how it applied to him.

My mother and two of my aunts on her side, when thinking they were alone and talking about him, dropped a trail of breadcrumbs that said he was a criminal somewhere in Chicago and if he wasn’t already dead, he should be.

That meant a lot.  And it was curious to us children that we should stop asking terrible questions about a man who no longer existed.

Over succeeding years, I tried, but it wasn’t easy because there was always someone inadvertently mentioning his name.

But as the years passed, and I started digging into the genealogical aspect of our family, a chance discovery of a ‘lost’ aunt on my mother’s side who was living on the other side of the country, Charlotte, told me her brother, my uncle, was not dead but very clearly alive.

And what’s more, she gave me his address.

And as soon as I was old enough to travel on my own, I got on the plane and went to Cincinnati.  It was, I discovered, where all the members of my mother’s family came from.

…

Considering where we lived in Arizona, a not-so-large town in the Southwest, Cincinnati was eye-opening.  To me, it was a big city, but not as big as Tucson or New York, where my older sister had gone, but enough to show there was a whole different world out there when I was ready to greet it.

At this time I just wanted to say hello and confirm that the mystery that had hung around for years was not a mystery at all, and then go home.

Of course things were never that simple.  It might have been simple if I had a plan, but all the plan was; was to get from the airport to the house where my potential uncle lived.

And to find out why he had been shunned, or more likely why he had shunned us.

Until I knocked on the door and a boy who looked exactly like me opened it.

“My God,” was his first comment.  It was followed by, “Well, aren’t you the clever one, then.”

Until that exact moment, I was not sure what I was fishing for, perhaps a slightly complimentary remark.  Charlotte had said the uncle was a bit of a smarty pants.  He’d obviously passed that on to his son.

“Is your father here?”

I knew who my uncle was because Charlotte had shown me his photo, and I had rung ahead to let him know who I was and what part in the family I was related. 

He hadn’t seemed impressed that I existed or that he cared whether he knew me or not, though I did detect a slight curiosity in his tone.

He asked only one question.   Was I visiting him of my own volition or had my mother told me to come?  I said that it was a result of my ancestry search that I’d discovered him, and I’d not told my mother anything about this visit.

I had assumed that telling my mother where I was going would set her off, after running a test scenario that just had his name on the tip of my tongue.  Something bad must have happened a long time ago, and it was so bad they stopped talking.

Perhaps I would have to mend some bridges.  After the meeting, of course, and if we dismissed the idea of killing our contemporaries to keep a secret.

There was a story to be had, and once I stepped over that threshold, I was determined to get it, or at the very least, the truth.

I didn’t feel too sanguine, though, just outside the front door, and in a moment of realising that it was quite possible I would not get over the first hurdle. 

I was looking at the uncle’s son’s not-backing-down expression, so I had to consider that first effort might all come to nothing, but perseverance was the ticket to this mission, not failure. 

Until another of my aunts, one I didn’t readily recognise, came down the stairs just inside the doorway.  She stopped on the last step, then put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Was she about to send me on my way?  She gave me an up-and-down look.  “You don’t look like your mother.”

“You don’t look like my mother, and you are supposed to be a sister.”

“Obviously your mother didn’t teach you about insolence.  You should go back to where you came from.”

“They don’t know I’m here, and I didn’t tell them.  I didn’t come to see you; I came to see my uncle.  Is he here or is he playing hide and seek?”

“You can leave now.”  She said.

A man came down the stairs and brushed past her.  There was no doubting who he was.

“You’re as feisty as your mother.  Jack, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

He came out the door and closed it behind him.  “Let’s walk.  I wouldn’t worry too much about them.  Annabel is your mother’s twin sister, the one she doesn’t talk about.  It will no doubt answer that question you have about the boy looking like you.”

“I wasn’t going to ask.”

“You were.  What made you think there was a long-lost uncle?”

“The way my mother talks about a part of her life that seems like a made-up story.  How many siblings were there?”

“Fourteen.  Same father, two different women, sisters.  Your grandfather married Elsie first and had eight children, including your mother and Annabel, the last two of the eight, and after they were born Elsie died from afterbirth complications, then he married Agnes, Elsie’s younger sister, and had six more of which I was the first.  Your mother and Amnabel were blamed for her death; each blamed the other, and then the family fractured.”

…

We ended up in a cafe and the story took three cups of coffee.

The grandparents, the marriages, the family fractures, the children, and loss.  Perhaps I was too young to understand the nuances of family, other than my father’s edit that family was supposed to be everything, a hard tenet to follow given how my mother was the complete antithesis of it.

It was why I only assumed there were eight siblings: my mother and her older brothers and sisters, the evil sister Annabel, not knowing Annabel was her twin, and this other bunch of people that I thought belonged to another branch of the family.

My mother never assimilated with her father, and I knew that her mother was dead, but she never seemed to mention her with any fondness. 

No surprise.  She had never got to meet her at the point where she could bond with her or remember her.  She only had a stepmother, though she never mentioned her.  In fact, she rarely mentioned her life before marrying my father, and he seemed quite at home not mentioning her parents either.

The only people both my siblings and I knew were the grandparents on my father’s side.

Now I had a more detailed understanding of mt mothers whole family, and some of the reasons why she never mentioned them.

I could understand why Annabel hated me; she hated her twin, who had been born in a house that treated them badly.  I could not imagine what it would be like to be blamed by everyone for the death of their mother.

Even when it was not their fault, as my uncle had gone out of his way to find the truth and try for years to repair the fractures.

By the time I got back on the plane to go home, two days later, and after sitting at the table with my other six aunts and uncles, I was not sure whether I should be pleased or disappointed I’d found out the family secret.

…

When I walked in the door, back home, and feeling exhausted from the long trip, I wasn’t expecting to walk into a minefield.

My mother was standing in the hallway, arms crossed, and looking black as thunder.

Melanie.  The sister who could never keep a secret.  I had to tell someone in case there was a problem while I was away.

I guess if there was a chance to score points, she would take it.

“You went to Cincinnati?”

It was a statement, not a question.

My father, or anyone else who was around, had seen the storm brewing and left to find a safe haven.

“I did.  Part of this deep desire to see something of this great country I live in.  Maybe next month I’ll go to Texas.”  Better to be flippant.

“So Cincinnati was just a spot like pinning the tail on the donkey?”

“No.  It seemed significant, like you mentioning it with loathing.  I wanted to find out if it was as bad as you seem to think it is.”

“You have no idea what I think.”

“Actually, I think I might have some idea.  I met your twin sister, the evil Annabel.  I get it, by the way.  Sisters can be shitty to one another, and I imagine that can only intensify with a twin.  It’s amusing to discover she had exactly the same loathing of you, which makes it quite funny.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.  After all the times you told me I had to be nice to my siblings, you went and did the exact opposite.  Did Dad know you were one of fourteen?”

“I told him my father was in a mental home and my mother was dead.  I’d like it to stay that way.”

“Why?”

“Because it was better that way.”  The black clouds were passing, and the edge had gone out of her tone.  She was still angry but not as much.

“You spoke to Anthony?”

“You knew he was still in Cincinnati?”

“Of course.  He is my stepbrother, perhaps the only one worth talking to, and the only one who took the time to find the truth.”

“And you knew Annabel was staying with him?”

“You went to the home we were brought up in.  She was never going to leave him, married or otherwise.  You would have met your doppelganger Eric, too.”  She shrugged.  “She dated your father for the whole of high school, got pregnant, which, given the type of girl she was, surprised no one.  It’s why he looks like you; he’s your father’s illegitimate child.  He invited her to the prom, and she got sick, and told me to go with him instead so another girl wouldn’t steal him from her.”

I could see how that would work.  “Except…”

“He preferred me.  One night it took.  The Prom.  She was a bitch at the best of times.  I wasn’t.  You can only put up with that stuff for so long.  But there was the pregnancy and the obligation.  Our parents expected him to do the right thing.  He didn’t.”

I could see now why Annabel hated her.  Bad choices and expectations.

She continued, “To make things easier for her, I left home, came here, told him he had to marry her, but he said he’d made his bed, asked me to marry him.  I said no.  He eventually married her, the child was born, and then they divorced.  She cheated on him, not surprising.  A year later, your father came here, asked me again, and I said yes.  She hated me ever since.  The guy she ended up with was better for her, but you could never tell her anything.  She blew that marriage up too, by the way.”

I had some experience in breaking up with a first love.  The next was never the same, even after you got over that broken heart, which I didn’t think I had.

“I’m sure there’s a moral in this story somewhere.  If anything, given my family, perhaps it’s better not to get married, or if you do, stick to one wife, and not have eight, six or fourteen kids.  And not marry a twin.”

I thought i saw the beginnings of a smile.  I could have been mistaken.

“What are you going to do with this newfound knowledge?”

“Talk to the aunts and uncles I know about the aunts and uncles they quite clearly knew about but never spoke about because of you.”

“Not me exactly.  Out of deference to me.  They regretted blaming us for our mother’s death, because at that age everything was more intense and easily explained in a child’s head, aside from our father hammering it in because of his own misery.

It was what it was.  I should have handled it better, but I didn’t.  Perhaps in some small way, you doing what you just did might be the first step along a long path back.  If you want, invite Anthony to come and visit you.  See what he says.”

I knew what he would say, but I wasn’t going to tell her.

I’d let that be a surprise.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

…

With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction.  He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from the eye socket to the mouth, and he was wearing a black shirt with a red tie.

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

He apologised as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.

I kept my eyes down.  He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognise later in a lineup.  I stepped to the other side, and so did he.  It was one of those situations.  Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I went towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.

Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic.  I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone.  I shrugged and looked at my watch.  It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.

Wait, or walk?  I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station.  What the hell, I needed the exercise.

At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’.  I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light.  As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tyres.

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

It was a high-powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini.  I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.

Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car.  It was that sort of car.  I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him.  I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on.  The moment had passed, and everyone went back to their business.

My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter.   Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.

At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure.  I was no longer in a hurry.

Next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot.  A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring.  I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road.  I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.

At the next intersection, I realised I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar.   It was somewhere on 6th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.

I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did.  There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me.  It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.

Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me.  As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger was a large man with a red tie.

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

It could not be the same man.  He was going in a different direction.

In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long, cold winter.  I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.

I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in.  I would have a few drinks and then leave through the back door if there were one.

Just in case.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

newechocover5rs

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 10

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

An interrogation continues

 

“So, take it from the top, give me a detailed rundown on the operation, from the briefing to coming here.”

That was an interesting request.  My usual report would not go into so much detail, and I had been compiling it on the go because if left until the end, crucial details were always omitted.

And, with the explosion, a lot of details had been mislaid in my mind, with more important or over-arching problems, getting a more prominent place in my memory.  It was a valuable lesson learned on reporting, we’d received from a man who most of my classmates thought odd, to the point of paranoid.

“I received the text message the night before to report to the midtown office for the briefing.  The code word was Chancellor and it was recognised at the security station.  If it was bogus I would not have made it in the building.”

“You go there for all your briefings?”

“Yes.”

“Same team?”

“For the previous five, yes.  This last one, a different team.  “One of us asked what happened to the previous team and we were told that it was none of our business.  We were given orders and sent out into the field to do a job.  That job, we were reminded, was not to ask irrelevant questions.”

“The leader told you that?”

“In no uncertain terms.”

“Go on.”

“We were given a photograph of the man that I have just given to you.  No mention was made of what he had done to warrant surveillance, only that we were to not lose him and to note everything he did.

“We were told where he might be found at a particular time, and a particular place, information that was correct.”

“Your team members?”

“Fiona Davis, Jack Venables, Walter Arbon, and me.”

“I take it you had the target under surveillance, ready to hand off to the next team member?”

“Before the explosion, yes, it was my leg.”

“You’re referring to the explosion in Church Street?”

“Yes.  I’d just past it when there was an explosion, and I was caught in the aftermath, and narrowly avoided the shrapnel raining down.  Others were not so lucky.”

“That’s where you lost him?”

“He was in front of me, thus avoiding the fallout.  It took a minute or so to get my bearings, and even then it was very hazy with the dust and carnage around me, but I did manage to see him in the distance heading towards the next person’s tag point.”

“You didn’t resume surveillance?”

“Couldn’t.  Too disoriented.  I put out an alert on the comms, but no one answered, not straight away.”

“You didn’t suspect anything?”

“Not then.,  I put it down to a malfunction from the blast.”

“You said ‘not straight away’?”

“About five minutes had passed when a voice came in my ear, asking for an update.  I didn’t think much about it at the time, because of the temporary disorientation, but it was about the time for the next team to take over.  There were two rolling teams of four.”

“Why did you think it odd?”

“Because they would know about the explosion.  Everyone within a mile radius would.  But at the time I simply said I was caught up in the aftermath and that the target was last seen heading towards the takeover point.  Then I was told the target was sighted.”

“I assume you then considered your role had ended?”

“Yes.  I’d been told to follow the advice of the medical staff on site.”

“Which was?”

“Go to the hospital for a check-up.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.  I was heading away from the blast site when I saw the target again.  I stopped, watched, got out of sight, and waited.  He was coming back in my direction.”

“Was that an expected scenario, that he might backtrack?”

“No.  In the briefing we were told it was possible he would be moving from the point where we found him, to another for a clandestine meeting, away from the blast site.”

What did you do then?”

“Checked the position of the next member of the surveillance team. C I found him, and he was dead.  I made an assumption that the other two may have suffered a similar fate, and resumed surveillance on the target.”

“Did you report it?”

“Over the comms, yes.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing, no one answered.”

“Not even the director?”

“No.”

She made a note, crossed it out and wrote another with an underline.  A thick black line repeatedly, expressing her anger.

“You maintained surveillance?”

“Yes.”

“Until?”

“I’d cornered him in an alley, near a railway station.  I suspected he might head for it.  He’s seen me, and nearly dispatched me in the same manner as the others.  Luckily it was only a scratch.”

It was more than that and required 12 stitches but they didn’t need to know that.

“Then, Severin arrived, and out of nowhere, he was shot dead.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“Only to ask what he had done with the other members of my team.  He never answered.”

“Did you report that you’d caught him?”

“No.  Didn’t have to.  Severin arrived just after I had.”

“And that’s all of it?”

“In my report.  Yes.  When I get to write it, but I’ll need my phone.  It has the relevant details, except for the last part where I’d found him.”

“No name?”

“No.”

“You didn’t know he was one of ours?”

“No.  That fact only came to my attention when he told me.  When you’re given a target, you don’t ask what the relevance is, or what he’s done.  I’m sure you’re fully aware of the current practices and procedures.”

That last sentence slipped out, and by the look on her face, wasn’t well received.  I’d forgotten the golden rule.  Stick to the facts.  No embellishment, no emotion.

She made another note, closed the book, and got up.  “I’d like you to stay, just for the time being while we sort through the details.”

Then she left.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

Inspiration, maybe – Volume 1

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like.  For instance:

lookingdownfromcoronetpeak

And the story:

…

It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.

The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.

He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.

The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent.  We were following the car he was in, from a discreet distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.

There was nowhere for him to go.

The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road we were now on.  Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.

Where was he going?

“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter.  He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.

“What?”

“I think he’s made us.”

“How?”

“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing.  Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain.  He’s just sped up.”

“How far away?”

“A half-mile.  We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”

It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”

“Step on it.  Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”

Easy to say, not so easy to do.  The road was treacherous, and in places, just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three-thousand-foot fall down the mountainside.

Good thing then, I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.

Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster.  We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.

Or so we thought.

Coming quickly around another corner, we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.

“What the hell…” Aland muttered.

I was out of the car and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility.  The car was empty, and no indication of where he had gone.

Certainly not up the road.  It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit.  Up the mountainside from here, or down.

I looked up.  Nothing.

Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”

Then where did he go?

Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.

“Sorry,” he said quite calmly.  “Had to go if you know what I mean.”

I’d lost him.

It was as simple as that.

I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.

I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.

It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.

“Maybe next time,” Alan said.

“We’ll get him.  It’s just a matter of time.”

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2026

…

Find this and other stories in “Inspiration, maybe”, available soon.

InspirationMaybe1v1

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 66

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

Where is Boggs

…

It was getting to the point where I couldn’t remember the last time I saw Boggs.

I’d dropped by his place and found his mother having a cup of coffee before heading off to her day job.  Boggs, she said, had gone off somewhere, these days he didn’t tell her what he was doing, and wouldn’t be back for an hour or so.

But, seeing me, she stopped cleaning and invited me in for coffee, and a chat.  I knew it was going to be about what Boggs was doing, rather than what he was supposed to be doing, getting a job.

“Ever since he found his father’s papers in a box in the attic, he’s become obsessed with the treasure.   There is no treasure, there never was, only in his father’s imagination.  Anything to keep him from having a proper job.  It was always about easy money, him and that layabout brother of his Rico.”

“What’s happened to Rico?”

I had meant to ask the sheriff, but he hadn’t dropped by to see my mother lately, and there’s been no news in the paper.

“He’s being indicted for murder.  He didn’t do it, or so he says.  I knew he was a criminal, but I didn’t think he was capable of murdering anyone.  Seems I was wrong.  We can’t afford a lawyer and the person the court has appointed to represent him is not very good.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think Rico killed him either.”

“Who was he, this man on his boat?”

“An archaeologist.  Someone who knew about treasure, though I’m not sure it’s the treasure Boggs is looking for, more about some coins that were found in the ocean off the coast.  I think that discovery put a fire under the other treasure story, you know, coins falling out of the chests as they were being brought ashore.”

“You should tell Benny this.”

“He won’t believe me.  Do you know anything that his father might have known and told you about?”

“It’s all he ever went on about, especially when he had too much to drink, how it was going to make us rich and we’d live in a large house with servants.  Look where it got us?”

Not in a large house with servants.

“The maps?”

“He drew them himself.  Told me he had a commission from old man Cossatino to create treasure maps for the fools who believed there was treasure buried somewhere on the coast.  They were all different.”

“Was there an original map that he based all the others on?”

She shook her head.  “No.  Though he did say one time that he’d seen a map out at the Cossatino’s place in Patterson’s Reach, up on the wall that looked old.  Probably just a piece of artwork because they had a lot of paintings and artwork on the walls.  Knowing the Cossatino’s, they probably invested the first map themselves.”

“Boggs said he had an original, found it in his father’s stuff.”

“A copy of a copy most likely.  I don’t think Al knew what was real and what was not in the end.  He stopped talking to me about it because, by that time, I’d had enough of his obsession and told him to get a real job.”

“What happened to him, do you know?”

“The last I remember was that he told me this time he’d worked out where the treasure was buried, what he called the ‘X marks the spot’ moment.  I ignored him, because there had been dozens before that with no results, and by that time we were defaulting on everything, I was working two jobs, and just too tired to care.  We argued, he stormed out and that was the last I saw of him.”

“Lenny reckoned he went down the hotel and started bragging about having found where the treasure was.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.  As far as the investigation into his disappearance went, he was seen leaving with two men in suits who had arrived in town earlier that day, asking for him.  They said they were reporters doing a story on the possibility pirates from the Caribbean had buried treasure along the Florida coastline, and that he was something of an expert.  He would have fallen for that flattery hook line and sinker.  After that, nothing.  Because he’s not officially dead, I can’t even get a death payout from the insurance company, so here we are.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s not your fault.  I’m just glad he has a friend like you that cares.  He’s never really got over his father’s disappearance, not the idea that cursed treasure exists.  But he doesn’t listen to me, nor you, I guess, so all I can do is hope he finally comes to his senses eventually.  Now, I have to go to work.  If you find him, tell him to come home.”

“I will.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

The 2am Rant: It’s good, it’s bad, and at times it can be very, very ugly

It was as if Microsoft Word was sent down from that place in the universe where a group of torturers sit around a table to find new ways of making our lives just that little bit more difficult.

I mean, most of the time it works really well and behaves itself.

But…

Then there are the times, usually when you are stressed about a deadline, or you are nearly at the end of what you believe to be the most brilliant writing you have ever put on paper.

Then…

Disaster strikes.

It could be the power goes off, even for just a few seconds, but it’s enough to kill the computer.  It could be that you have reached the end and closed Word down, thinking that it had autosaved, all the while ignoring that little pop up that says, ‘do you want to save your work’?

It’s been a long day, night, or session.  You’re tired and your mind is elsewhere, as it always is at the end.

You always assume that autosave is on.  It was the last time, it has been since the day you installed it however long ago that was.

So…

When the power comes back on, you start the computer, go into Word, and it brings back all the windows you had open when the power failed, and the one with the brilliant piece you just wrote, it’s just a blank sheet.

Or up to where it last autosaved, which is nowhere near the end.

Or it didn’t save at all.

You forget the software updated recently and that always brings changes.  Usually unwanted changes.

By which time you have that sinking feeling that all is lost, deadline missed, brilliant work lost, it’s the end of the world.

You promise yourself you’re going to get Scrivener, or something else, where this doesn’t happen.

Or if you’re like me, you put the cat on the keyboard and tell him to sort the mess out.

What I learned about writing – The Unwritten Prologue

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

  1. Compulsive Storytelling: They create worlds in play, crafting elaborate scenarios with toys or friends.
  2. Early Fascination with Letters and Sounds: They recognise letters before starting school, perhaps scribbling “I don’t know what this letter is, but it’s magic!”
  3. Imaginative Interpretations of Reality: They reimagine everyday events as adventures, turning a walk to the park into a quest.
  4. 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.
  • Memorise and adapt fables, internalising the structure of storytelling.

Even without words, they’re practising 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.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – Beyond the second novel

Creating a dynasty

…

Crafting Epic Bloodlines: How to Use Real Genealogy to Build a Multi-Generation Book Series

How to Build a Book Dynasty Series Using Real Genealogy Meta Description: Writing a multi-generation book series? Discover how studying real family trees and genealogy can help you plot realistic time intervals, family dynamics, and historical ties.

When you set out to write a book series that spans generations—whether it’s a sweeping historical epic, a multigenerational sci-fi saga, or a sprawling fantasy family curse—you aren’t just plotting a story. You are playing the role of God, historian, and architect rolled into one.

You have to create a dynasty.

And building a believable, breathing dynasty is harder than it looks. It’s easy to fall into the trap of treating descendants like interchangeable action figures, or worse, messing up the timeline so drastically that a grandmother and granddaughter end up looking like college roommates.

So, how do you fix this? Where do you find the blueprint for generational momentum?

The secret weapon hiding in plain sight is genealogy. By studying real family trees—especially your own ancestry—you can unlock the secret rhythms of time, inheritance, and human connection that will make your fictional dynasty feel startlingly real.

Here is how to use real genealogy as a masterclass in world-building for your next multi-novel series.

1. Stealing Time: Mapping Realistic Intervals

One of the biggest pitfalls in writing a multi-generational series is temporal whiplash. Authors often guess how time passes between generations, leading to biological impossibilities or unnatural pacing.

Real genealogy solves this by providing hard, empirical data on human biology and historical timelines.

  • The Math of Motherhood: Historically, women didn’t have children evenly spaced every ten years; generations often clustered tightly or stretched wide depending on war, famine, and economics. Look at your own family tree. Notice the average age at which women had their first child, and when the last child was born.
  • The “Generation Gap”: In the 19th century, a new generation might arrive every 20 to 25 years because people married and started families much younger. In modern times, that stretch often pushes past 30. Aligning your fictional timeline with realistic biological intervals prevents your characters from aging too fast—or suspiciously slow.
  • Leapfrogging Eras: Genealogy teaches you about overlap. Did a grandfather live long enough to meet his grandson, or did he pass away a decade before the child was even born? That gap creates built-in narrative tension: characters shaped by the ghosts of ancestors they never physically met.

2. Uncovering the Ties That Bind (and Break)

Real families are messy. When you look back at census records, immigration papers, and old wills, you start to see patterns of human behaviour that no plotting manual can teach you.

When building your fictional dynasty, ask yourself what historical forces are pulling your ancestors—and by extension, your characters—together or tearing them apart:

  • The Economics of Inheritance: Look at old property deeds or probate records. Who got the land? Who got cut out? Financial pressure is the engine of family drama. In your series, how does the passing of an estate change the power dynamics between siblings in Book 2 versus Book 4?
  • Forced Migration and Diaspora: Did your ancestors move across countries or continents? What triggered it? Was it a potato famine, a gold rush, or a shifting border? Use these real-world catalysts to drive your characters across your fictional map. A dynasty isn’t born in a vacuum; it is shaped by geography and displacement.
  • The Black Sheep and Forgotten Branches: Every family tree has a branch that simply disappears from the records—someone who ran away to sea, changed their last name, or was disowned. These historical mysteries are goldmines for fiction. In a multi-novel series, a “lost” ancestor from Book 1 can become the inciting incident or the mysterious benefactor in Book 5.

3. Genetics, Culture, and the “Ghost” of the Ancestor

In a long-running book series, characters need to feel like they belong to the same lineage, even if they never share a page together. Genealogy gives you the tools to weave cultural and genetic DNA through your cast.

  • Recurring Naming Conventions: Look at real family trees, and you’ll notice names recycling every generation—the eldest son is always a Thomas, or middle daughters are named after grandmothers. Doing this in fiction creates an immediate subconscious link for the reader. When Book 3 features a fierce, rebellious character named Elinor II, the reader instantly remembers the original Elinor from the founding novel.
  • Generational Trauma and Triumph: Real-world genealogy often reveals overarching themes. One branch of the family might consistently marry into military families, while another works the land for centuries. Use these ancestral echoes in your writing. If the founding patriarch was a liar and a cheat, how does that “stain” manifest in the great-great-granddaughter three books down the line? Is she desperately trying to overcompensate, or is it in her blood?

How to Start Your Research (Even If You Aren’t Writing Historical Fiction)

You might be thinking: “My series is high fantasy with dragons; how does my great-grandfather’s immigration record help me?”

The setting changes, but the human element does not.

  1. Build a Fictional Family Tree First: Before you write a single chapter of Book 1, map out four or five generations of your dynasty. Use genealogy software (like Ancestry, Scrivener’s corkboard, or even a giant piece of butcher paper) to track births, deaths, marriages, and major life events.
  2. Consult Your Own Past: Pull up your own family tree or talk to older relatives. Ask them about the family lore. What was the biggest scandal? Who lost the family fortune? Who was the black sheep? Truth is almost always stranger—and more creatively inspiring—than fiction.
  3. Impose Historical Pressure Points: Just as real families had to navigate wars, depressions, and industrial revolutions, your fictional families must navigate the magical equivalents: the breaking of a covenant, a shifting pantheon, an economic collapse driven by new technology, or a plague.

The Payoff: A Dynasty That Feels Alive

When readers invest in a multi-novel series, they want to feel the weight of history. They want to see how the choices made by a desperate ancestor in a dusty prologue ripple forward to alter the fate of a panicked descendant in the explosive finale.

By turning to genealogy—by studying how real people lived, loved, migrated, and died across the spans of time—you stop guessing. You start building a bloodline that feels heavy, authentic, and utterly unforgettable.

Now, open up your family tree, look at the gaps in the timeline, and start writing your epic.

…

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Asuncion

For a road less travelled, explore some of Asunción’s hidden gems and unique local experiences beyond the main tourist routes:

Nature & Wildlife Experiences

  • Go birding or take a river boat tour: Instead of just strolling the Costanera, take a Paraguay River Nature and Wildlife Boat Tour from Asunción. This allows you to explore wetlands and riverbanks and spot abundant bird species and capuchin monkeys in the nearby Botanical Garden’s forest remnant.
  • Hike to Salto Cristal (Crystal Waterfall): Venture on a day trip to Salto Cristal, a lesser-known, nearly untouched waterfall with natural pools for swimming. It involves a scenic journey and a descent through the jungle, offering a serene nature experience away from the city. 

Unique Cultural Immersion

  • Explore the Cementerio de la Recoleta: Known for its elaborate mausoleums and beautifully designed tombs, this cemetery offers a fascinating glimpse into the city’s history and the wealth of its elite, providing a unique architectural and cultural experience.
  • Visit a local town like Areguá or Luque: Take a short trip to nearby towns like Areguá (known as the “City of Strawberries and Art”) to see artisan markets and pottery workshops, or Luque (the “Capital of Filigree”) to watch local craftspeople work. These trips provide a genuine taste of local life outside the capital’s centre.
  • Attend a local football match: Experience the passion of Paraguayan culture firsthand by attending a match at one of Asunción’s stadiums, such as Estadio Defensores del Chaco. The lively atmosphere and local traditions (like enjoying chipa and a drink) offer a non-touristy immersion into local life. 

In a word: Air

Yep, another of those interesting little words that mean more than it appears.

Aside from the fact it is the air that we breathe, it can also be used to describe music.

It can be a breath of fresh air, though it’s hard to say where in this ever increasingly polluted atmosphere than we could literally draw one, except on a mountain top, where conversely it would be hard to breathe at all.

Have the air sucked out of us, well, that literally isn’t possible unless some madman comes up with a weird sort of vacuum cleaner, but that might be an episode for the X-Files.

He had an air about him, or her, as the case might be, which might refer to a sort of deference or manner.   There again that air might be one of boredom, which is what a lot of students seem to have in class.

Sorry, been a teacher, and know well the expressions on their faces.  Had one myself once, and finished up on the end of a chalkboard eraser.  Yep, in the good old day’s teachers used to chuck stuff at us recalcitrant students to get our attention, and not undergo a storm of protest from irate parents.

These days those same parents would most likely air their grievance, opinion, or view to the headmaster.

I’m guessing that same headmaster would be wishing those same parents to vanish into thin air, though I’m not sure how that would be possible.

And lastly, television stations air shows.

Weird, eh, how such a simple word can be used in so many contexts.