Category: blogging

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 Blaines at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaines 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 had been 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 get on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds of silence, and many more gasps.

I even 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 a permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and a 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 me, 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 that 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 Blaines were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in.  I didn’t ask if the Blaines 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 realised 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 realised 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 decided 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 studying 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 realised 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; she might have been 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 who recently moved into the tower a block down from us.  I thought I recognised 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 wanted 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 me.  I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, but it didn’t matter.  If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact that I took over the dining engagement did.  She knew well enough that 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, rather than tell 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, that 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: to play them at their own game, watching the deception once I knew there was one, 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 Blaines 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 and 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 2015-2026

Sunday In New York

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!

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect them.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half-brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 209

Day 209 – Writing Exercise – Haven’t you heard?

…

The interesting thing about living in a large family and being the youngest was that you were always last to be told about anything.

Last year it was the vacation.  The family, all fifty-odd members, were converging on my grandmother’s ranch way out there in Colorado.

It was a disaster in the making, and I don’t think my parents, uncles and aunts had any idea the stress it put on their mother.

They told me at the very last minute, and with family obligation ladled out in spades, I had to break off the arrangements I’d made, and lost the one girl I thought was the one.

She preferred stability and predictability to last-minute chaos.  Nobody cared, and for those who had met her, she didn’t fit their family criteria.

It was the last time I would introduce a girlfriend to any of them or mention that I had one, which, following the last debacle, I didn’t.  A year later, I was still heartbroken.

So, having finally moved away for college and no longer having to endure the continual banter the youngest child had to endure, I was basically out of the loop.

It was a good thing and a bad thing.

It simply exacerbated the ‘last to know’ thing, which is why I heard the news by a completely different source, the ex girl friend on my second eldest brother, Eugene.

She was a teacher at the college I’d enrolled with.  Out of all the girls my brothers had dated, Ella was the most grounded and personable.  The trouble was, she could think for herself, she was independent, and was career-minded.

The women who ended up in the Curruthers family had to be dependent, motherly, and homely.  None of the career and work stuff, beyond perhaps waitressing, though someone forgot to tell the men in my family that waitressing was a means to an end, not a career choice.

To me it seemed that my brothers were afraid they might end up with a woman smarter than them.  It might also be the reason why only two of my brothers were married, and in both cases they were struggling, because over time their wives changed; my brothers did not.

That day Ella was sitting alone in the cafe looking rather glum.  It was not a usual look for her because every time I saw her, she was like a bright summer’s day.

I collected my coffee and went over to her.

“Mind if I sit?”

She did not.

“Anything I can help you with?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

My first thought she had been fired.  The college was going through a restructuring, and there were rumours of staff cuts.

“Heard what?”

“Eugene is getting married.”

First I’d heard of it, but no surprise there.  The question was, why did it affect her?

“No, but then no one tells me anything until it’s too late.  Why should that bother you?”

“You remember Alice, she your sumisyer Miranda and me, inseparable.  She rang to tell me the news.  She’s my best friend, or was.  I should have been happy for her, but instead it descended into a bitter argument.  We both said things that we shouldn’t;  seeing red is never a good time to speak. Apparently I’m jealous.”

“Are you?”

“Perhaps a little.  Until I discovered his true nature, he was my first true love.  Those are the ones that are hardest to forget.”

I understood that.  I felt the same amount Wendy, my first true love, and only, it seemed.

“She was having a relationship with him while we were together, and others from what I heard later.  That’s probably what really hurts.”

I thought about going home and giving him a bollocking, but it was pointless.

“I thought Alice was going to be a doctor.”

“Fainted the first time she saw blood.  Not an ideal thing to be doing if someone’s life depends on you.  She doesn’t know what she wants any more.  But marrying Eugene will turn her into a vegetable.”

I hated to agree with her, but that was exactly what would happen.

“When?” I asked.

“Two weeks.  And here’s what really bugs me.  They’re having it at your grandmother’s ranch, and if I know your family, no offence, they’ll make her do all the work and just turn up on the day.”

She knew our family so well.  After all, she did go on a family vacation once and left two days later, after discovering the onus put on the women while the men sat around doing nothing.

“That’s terrible.”  Especially after our last vacation there.  It nearly killed her. 

I had to do something, anything, before this became a tragedy.

“We have to do something,” she said.

“I agree, but you escaped.  It’s not your problem.”

“Be that as it may, I feel responsible, which, when you think about it, is silly, but I care about Alice and what she’s getting into.  I have to stop it if I can.  And the unnecessary burden on your grandmothers.  Your mother would not have taken no as an answer “

True.  But it was pointless going home.

“How do you feel about a vacation in the country?  Home cooked meals, wide open spaces, starry skies at night, perhaps some snow-peaked mountains in the distance?”

“I’ll ask if I can get some vacation time.  I think I have some.  When are we going?”

“The sooner the better.  Tomorrow, or if you have a more convenient time.”

“Tomorrow afternoon.  I travel light.”

“OK.  I’ll take care of the travel arrangements.  Welcome to my nightmare!”

…

I had a brief conversation with grandmother the night before, telling her that I was coming to help, and that Ella was coming.

It was odd that she thought Ella and I were dating, but I said Ella was six years older than me and a teacher at the college I was a student at, which made it all kinds of wrong.

It had not crossed my mind, and even I knew that it was inappropriate. I said she was coming to talk to her friend, the soon-to-be Mrs Eugene.

I had thought I’d better come and be the conduit between my mother and her because my mother could be overwhelming and I was used to her behaviour.  And two heads were better than one.

Aside from the fact that I just wanted to see my favourite grandmother again.  That admission, I hoped, pleased her.  I was, in some small way, her favourite grandson.  After all, she taught me to ride a horse before I could walk.

…

Ella was quiet, not pensive, during the flight.  I had thought she might be a nervous flyer, but perhaps she was considering the motivation behind such a decision.

She had been to grandmothers before, once when she and Eugene had just started going out together.  I had thought her an odd choice for him, but in those heady first few weeks, we all tended to overlook certain aspects of the relationship.

I liked her, but the others, well, they were, by the time they were returning home, began to consider she was not quite suitable.

It all fell apart soon after they returned.  Mother had no small part in it, and made her views known.  No one crossed Mother, not even me.  It’s why I never brought another girl home, and never would.

It didn’t stop her from trying to find me a suitable girl, and I was glad Myra visits were far and few between.

Grandmother liked Ella, and she would have liked Wendy.  She tolerated the others as much as she tolerated her daughter.  She had confided once that somewhere her daughter had lost her way, and that one day she would find her way back.

I told her not to hold her breath.

By the time the plane touched down, darkness was starting to settle on the countryside, and it was no less beautiful flying over the lush countryside, sprawling ranches, and small towns. 

After I tried to imagine what it was like when the first settlers came out in their wagons, running the gamut of Indians and Wild West characters immortalised by Hollywood, and wondering if any of it was true.

Perhaps some, but it would have been fanciful for those early settlers to imagine the railway, and then cars, and then planes that were to come.

Inside the terminal I got my first surprise, one I had never imagined.  Wendy was waiting, with a small sign with my name on it.

“Who is that?” Ella asked, expecting as I was to see grandmother.

“The love of my life, whom I never expected to see again.”

I stopped in front of her and caught my breath.  She had an effect on me I could never explain.

“How…”

“Your grandmother called a week ago and said she was expecting you to turn up.  I spoke to her way back when I discovered you couldn’t come with me to France, and wanted to see the place you couldn’t shut up about.  And here I am.”  She turned to Ella. “You must be the one that got away.  I’m Wendy, David’s lost love.”

Ella smiled.  “You don’t seem to be lost.”

“Wait till I have to find my way back to the ranch.”

Ella looked at me.  “Well, give the girl a hug.”

I did as I was told, though she would not have to ask twice.

“You haven’t changed,” she said.

“I have found anyone else.  I haven’t got over you.”

“Good.  I never got over you either.”

“You could have called me.”

“And you could have called me, so now there’s no excuse.  Now go and get your bags before the light is gone and I do get lost.”

“I can drive.”

“What you think passes for driving.  No.  You can navigate.  I’ll bring you up to speed on the circus, what your grandmother calls the wedding arrangements, as we go.  Your mother sounds like she might be difficult.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Good.  I can deal with difficult.  Not so good with impossible, but then that’s where you started, and look at the progress we made.”

“We broke up.”

“We agreed to disagree.  I don’t remember ever saying I never wanted to see you again.”

Ella noted the byplay and decided this could wait.  “Bags, drive, circus, bed.  I can see you two are ideally suited, so save it for later.  How far is it again?”

“About two hours.”

“Then let’s get to it.”

…

“Haven’t you heard?  Three words that changed my life forever.”

I looked out across the large attendance who came to Eugene’s memorial service, and eventually my eyes rested on Ella and, sitting next to her, Wendy, both dressed in black, but carrying an elegance that was unmistakable.

“And I had Eugene to thank for it.  For those of us who knew Gene, making rash decisions in his early years was like taking the good with the bad.

“Until that early winter forty-six years ago when he announced that he was getting married.  Normally such pronouncements were taken with a grain of salt, or in our stride, but this one struck a chord.

“If it were not for a very odd coincidence, it probably passed like every other, and the world would have continued on its merry way.

“Ella would not have married the one and only true love of her life, and I would not have married the one true love of mine, Wendy.

“Most of you who attended that wedding are here, and bore witness to the events; a story, when I related it to my grandchildren, sounded very much like a fairy tale.  Perhaps it was.

“But to our Gene, my very special and amazing Gene, I will be eternally thankful, and sorry that his time on this earth was cut short.  We will all miss his special version of mayhem that came from even the simplest of decisions.  But that was our Gene.  God loved him, but we loved him more.”

…

To say he was the human version of the eye of the storm was putting it mildly.  In his world, everything was always calm.  In the periphery, there was chaos.

That was his wedding.

For him, the only part that mattered was to turn up, say I do, and live happily ever after.  I blame his parents for that, especially our father.

He never gave a thought to the feelings of others, especially Alice.  He thought it was all right to string along multiple girls until he picked one.  It mattered not what they felt.

Alice had never been aware that Ella was serious, because he told Ella that what they had was special, and she believed him.  He said to all of the girls he dated because that was what our father told us to do.

Don’t let them think that you are shopping for the right wife.  He called it that ‘shopping’ and it was a recipe for disaster.  Of course the added proviso was that it was until the family decided who he should marry.  That was Alice.

What I didn’t know, and what none of us did, was that he wanted to marry Ella.  It was why he couldn’t bring himself to tell her about Alice.

But perhaps that was all he needed to do. Tell Alice, and watch the ripple effect.

In those two weeks between Ella discovering the ‘news’, and the actual wedding date, Eugene was oblivious to the storm that was unfolding around him.

It was how he got the nickname, Hurricane Gene.

That night, Ella and I arrived at the ranch; there was a hastily organised meeting between everyone involved in the forthcoming wedding.  Or by the time it ended, the start of Operation Ella.

It was where I learned my grandmother was a fairy godmother who had the power to grant wishes, turn mice into horses, frogs into footmen, and pumpkins into carriages.

And Ella into the Princess she was always meant to be.

It was not a tale where the evil Alice ended up in the tower, or where my parents and family were vanquished to the castle dungeons, though if it had been up to me, that’s exactly where they deserved to be sent.

Instead, all they got was a lesson in humility.

Phase one was to invite the impending bride to the ranch.  Phase two was sending Ella and Wendy to collect her from the airport.

To this day, I still didn’t have a clear picture of what happened at the airport or on the drive from the airport to the ranch.  Wendy, even after 46 years, still won’t tell me.

By the time Alice, Ella and Wendy arrived at the ranch, phase three was underway. 

The wedding was going ahead, just not the intended bride.  From there it was a master class in event planning.

Eugene arrived the evening before the wedding.  He was greeted by Ella and Alice, and they disappeared into Grandfather’s study. 

When they came out two hours later, phase four was complete.

Phase five began when the wedding guests boarded their plane, everyone following instructions supplied by the planner.

Fifty-four people were expected to attend the wedding.  At 2:55pm in the marquee, without having seen either the bride or the groom, and just a short briefing by Eugene’s youngest brother, me, on how the programme would run, they were all seated.

Eugene was standing at the altar, the four groomsmen and the four bridesmaids lined up and waiting.  Even they didn’t know what was about to happen.  The maid of honour and best man were in the wings and would join when the bride appeared at the end of the aisle.

At 3 pm the bride appeared.

Everybody turned, and then a murmur went through the crowd.

The wedding march started, and Ella was accompanied by her father.  Alice appeared, now the matron of honour and another of my brothers, William, appeared as the best man.

My mother was about to have a fit until grandmother went over and sat next to her, and words were spoken.

From that moment, it was like it had always meant to happen just the way it did.  Alice was not angry or upset, nor did she hate her friend. She had known in her heart Eugene and Ella were perfect for each other.  Time has proven that it was meant to be.

A year later, almost to the day, Wendy and I married in the same place, at the same time, in front of the same people.  Alice married the man she was meant to, the year after that.

But perhaps the most significant thing to come out of it was finding my way out of the fog that was settling around me.  Until I ran into Ella on that fateful day, I was about to give up college and go home, resigned to the fact I was the failure everyone said I was.

Stepping onto the ranch, I felt something go through me that was energising.  The air, the freedom, the work.  It took a week to realise this was what I wanted to do.

I didn’t go home.

Wendy went back, but lasted a month before she returned.  The ranch bug had struck her too.

When grandmother died, Eugene returned with Ella to support me in running the ranch.  In time, we learned that she had left the ranch to me, the one person she believed would keep it going. The others got money, which was all they wanted.

Eugene didn’t.  Like me, his time at the ranch had given him focus.  He stayed, and we ran it together.

It was pleasing that at least one of both Eugene and my family’s children loved the ranch as much as we did, and would carry on the family tradition.

A fairy tale come true, a story the children and grandchildren of mine lived to hear as much as I like telling them. Especially the part when I said their grandmother was almost sent to the dungeons.

They didn’t like her very much, even after she had mellowed with age.

..

At the end of the last day of Fall, snow appeared for the first time on the distant mountains, and a cold chill in the breeze that just picked up, pulling the first dark clouds of winter with it.

Wendy and I sat on the porch looking out over the southern pastures.  There was a peacefulness that couldn’t be matched anywhere else.

“Could you have predicted this fifty-odd years ago?”

I turned to look at what was still the most beautiful woman I had ever known.  “I want to say yes, but the real answer is no.”

“Any regrets?”

“No.”

“You?”

“None.”

“That was a nice elegy for Gene.”

“I meant it.  If it wasn’t for him we wouldn’t be here.”

“Not true.  Your grandmother knew what happened that year you couldn’t come with me.  She had been keeping an eye on you.  And me.  Gene was just a catalyst that brought her plan ahead.  She was a very astute woman; she also knew your affinity with this land, for you and for me.  And in a way, Gene too.  He only thrived once he got away from your parents.  So did you, by the way.”

“So, what did happen that day at the airport?”

She smiled – what I called the Cheshire cat smile, the one where she knew the answer but was never going to tell me.

“Good try, David.  Maybe one day I’ll tell you.  I can’t break a pinkie promise.  You know that.”

I sighed.  One day.  Maybe.

Ellen, our eldest daughter, here on holiday, poked her head out the door.  “You two should get in here before you freeze to death.”

I shook my head.  Her years in the city had softened her resilience. “How long is she staying?”

I helped her out of her chair.

“Richie’s coming tomorrow.”

Childhood friend, went to school with her, salt of the earth type.

“You women and your plans.”

“It’s written in the stars, David.  It’s written in the stars.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 53

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the Second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

…

War is hell. 

I remembered an old Sargeant Major was telling us that going to war was not fun, that the very real possibility of getting killed should be the only thing on our minds.

Along with keeping your head down and being very aware of your surroundings.

Apparently, he had been at a place called Gallipoli, and from what I had read, that was a special kind of hell.

He had also said fifty per cent of us wouldn’t return.  I hoped to be in the fifty per cent that did.  Just to spite the old bastard.

I knew it was going to get problematical sooner than we thought, I could smell the aroma of burning bush on the air, and as we got closer to the castle, the smoke got denser.

Wallace had a cunning plan, he’d used flame throwers to set the bush on fire so we couldn’t get to the castle under the cover of the forest.  It was a plan he hadn’t me about.

Carlo had stopped, also understanding what Wallace had done.  Would this interfere with us getting to the external entrances, or if the other three were unattainable, could we get to the secret entrance?

I caught up to him.  “Not exactly what we envisaged.  I had no idea Wallace was planning this?”

“It is a logical move.  He can’t leave the castle, and as it was, he knew the forest would give us cover until the very last moment.”

“And now?”

“Now we use another entrance.  Take longer, but we’ll get there.  Only problem, they will be expecting us, and waiting.”

The others joined me, just as Carlo did an about-face and started going back the way we came.

“Where is he going?” Blinky asked.

“Another way.  Wallace is burning our cover.”

He shrugged.  “I suppose it would be too much to ask for some rain?”

“Sadly no.  Fine and clear with a touch of fog, well, smoke maybe.”

He didn’t think it was funny.  War I guess could do that to you.

When Thompson and company were planning the operation that was set up primarily to get defecting Germans out of the country, there was only so much research that could be done.

It was one of the reasons I got a seat at the table, my exploits in Italy looking at ancient buildings suddenly became a red-hot reason to be included.  The war had all but petered out in that part of the country, the Germans were shoring up the Italians, and the Allies had bigger plans to invade via Sicily, or one of those islands.

Someone mentioned something hush-hush about Italy and the road back to peace, but at that point in time, the end of the war was not in sight.

The point was, the castle was in a strategic location, it was only being held by a small garrison, according to the resistance, ideal for what Thompson wanted.  Approvals gained, he sent in a team of German-speaking soldiers to replace those there, as if nothing had happened and then set up the pipeline.

It worked.

For a while anyway.  Several months after the new team had set themselves up and the personnel was moving through, it all stopped.

First thought was the Germans had discovered what was going on and switched the team again.  Until Thompson noted we were still getting reports from Wallace, one of his men on the ground.

That’s when Thompson decided to send me.

And. No, it was not just a matter of saying, great, I always wanted to holiday in Italy, and particularly Tuscany.  My excuse, I was not trained to be a commando or a secret agent.

Of course, I made that one fatal mistake, I had enlisted to fight in the war, and it was not my decision where they sent me.

So, I was on the next plane to Tuscany.

The trouble was, Thompson and I both agreed that it was more likely the men we selected had not changed their allegiances, they just went back to what they were before.  Wallace, Johannesen and Jackerby had all been extricated from blown missions, and Thompson had been left scratching his head as to who the mole was in his office.

Too many coincidences proved it wasn’t.

Except coincidentally, Thompson had teamed up all the traitors in one place.

So, my mission was twofold, first to ascertain if they were traitors, and, if they were, to execute them.

The next problem, the mission was almost over before it started, because even though Thompson had told Wallace the wrong pick-up point where my plane would be landing, cloud cover made it impossible to guarantee I’d be jumping at the correct spot.

As it turned out, the resistance had planned a huge ambush in exactly the same place my plane landed, and I was in the middle of it.  The rest as they say is history.

The thing is, ever since I landed, I had the benefit of a huge amount of good luck.

That couldn’t last.

Carlo seemed unfazed about the fire, perhaps he had expected it, but his only concern was time.  We had to be in the castle just as the explosions started.

With 23 minutes to go, Carlo stepped up the pace.  For a big man, he didn’t make much noise.  I wished I could say the same for myself.

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2023

“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!

Now only $0.99 at https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.

Suddenly, he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.

If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.

At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.

That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.

Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.

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The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 54

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.

…

A dark room, a dark woman, and a dark desire.

A very, very bad combination.

But in a moment where my brain must have switched off for at least ten seconds, I kissed her back, and that was a fatal mistake.

I closed my eyes and went with it.  Until one or other or both of us decided this was not the time or the place.

And then she said something that really worried me.

“I’m sorry.”

She unbolted the door, opened it and we stepped out.  Instantly the temperature dropped forty degrees.

And sanity returned.

I tried getting my mind back onto realistic matters, like leaving.  “Do you think they might be waiting, just in case there is someone here, like us?”

“Then we have to go another way.”

“There is only one way, the way we came.  It was a dead-end where the torture room is, and, apparently, where there’s a safe.”

“WE’RE not staying to find out, maybe another day.  It’s time to leave before they possibly come back. There’s a back way in here.”

I followed her out of the room, up two offices, and then into what would be the middle office.  It looked like a reception area, with dusty seats along the wall, under peeling wallpaper.  At the back there was another door, shut.  She opened it, and it led to a passage.

“The cells.”

“Like a jail?”

“Like rooms for the shoplifters awaiting their punishment.”

She stopped at a doorway and looked in.  I saw her physically shudder, before moving on.

“Bad memories?” I asked.

“It might not have happened if I’d acted my age, but you know what it’s like.  When you’re sixteen, you want to be twenty-one, and when you’re twenty-one, you want to be sixteen again.  Trouble is, you can’t get back what you’ve lost.”

I wondered briefly if that something was innocence.  Some people seemed to think I still had mine, but I wasn’t so sure.

The passage didn’t go very far before it turned right, and then to the top of another staircase.  We went down, and then to the left again.  From what I could remember, we were on the other side of the mall.

There was another door, and we went through it, and out into the mall itself.  It was the second level, near the center where the garden was, and moments later we were at the railing looking down to the ground floor.

And a faint glow of light, moving around as if it was being carried by someone moving slowly towards the pond.

And voices.

“Look, Alex, there’s no one here.  We’ve just done a circuit of this creepy place and found no one and nothing else to show there is anyone here.”

“I can feel it.

“That’s the coke you had, Alex.  Turns you paranoid.  Let’s get the hell out of here, before the guards get back.”

We moved back from the edge just in time as a stronger beam of light swept past just where we had been standing.

She had held my hand as we moved backward, and I could feel a tremor in it.

After another sweep of the beam, he said, “I swear someone’s here.”

“It’s a ghost.  There are supposed to be a few.  Ask your father.  He’s responsible for at least three of them.”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“Just shut up and let’s go, before I shoot you myself, and then you can talk to your friends.”

We waited ten minutes until there was a boom, the sound of a door slamming shut.  They had left by the front entrance where there was a large, heavier door, beside the large main entrance.

“Time for us to go too, Smidge.”

Even so, she didn’t let my hand go, not until we got back to her car.

And when we were back, safely inside her room, she asked me to stay.  She said nothing on the way back.  The bravado she had shown was just that, and the last encounter, at the mall center had shaken her.

Perhaps I would stay until her nerves had settled.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

The 2am Rant: There ain’t no mountain high enough

If only it was as easy to write one line of a song as it is to write a sentence, a paragraph, or a page of a book.  Of course, if you were to ask a songwriter the same question, he or she would probably twist it around, and not without reason.

The bottom line in all scenarios, whether writing a story, writing a song, or writing a letter, at times it feels like it is like climbing a mountain.

It’s why we have waste paper bins, and imaginary shooting practice sessions.  By the way, I don’t get very many scrunched paper balls in.

Curiously, we seem to categorize almost insurmountable problems in terms of climbing mountains.  Of course, I’ve yet to attempt to climb the north face of Mount Everest, but I suspect I’ll have to do a lot of practice to do so.

Maybe that’s what I need to do as a writer.  Practice, not climbing mountains.

Mountains have always been part of the metaphor for overcoming obstacles.  So, metaphorically, to overcome this ‘obstacle’, we can choose to climb over it, blow it up, or tunnel through it.

But the salient point is the same in all cases, obstacles, metaphorical or not, are not insurmountable, they just need time to find a solution.

So, in my case, there are two items to note when it comes to mountains, the first, I prefer to go through a tunnel, and the second, there’s not a mountain I’ve been up that hasn’t had a magnificent view.  Of course, getting to the top has been easy, I just hopped on the tram or the gondola.

After all, isn’t that what they’re there for?

Ok, flippancy aside, I have had to climb a few mountains of my own over the years, and, yes, it’s hard work, and, at times, I’ve wanted to give up.

But, not today.  Today is a good day.

And as the title says, ‘There ain’t no mountain high enough!’

 

 

What I learned about writing – Unlock Your Potential

Unlock Your Potential: The Power of Joining a Writer’s Group

Writing is often a solitary pursuit. Hunched over a keyboard, staring at a blank page, or lost in the quiet hum of creativity—these moments define the life of a writer. But what if there was a way to transform isolation into inspiration? Enter writers’ clubs, workshops, or writing groups: vibrant communities that offer more than just feedback. They become the bedrock of growth, connection, and resilience for writers at any stage of their journey. Let’s explore the transformative benefits of joining such a group.

1. Constructive Feedback and a Fresh Perspective

One of the most immediate benefits of joining a writing group is the constructive feedback you receive. While self-editing is essential, external perspectives can unveil blind spots. For example, a fellow writer might notice an inconsistency in a character’s motivation or suggest a pacing adjustment you hadn’t considered. Workshops often foster a culture of honesty and kindness, helping you refine your work with specific, actionable insights.

Moreover, reading others’ work exposes you to diverse styles, genres, and techniques. This cross-pollination of ideas can spark creativity and broaden your own writing toolkit.

2. Motivation, Accountability, and Discipline

The writing process can be inconsistent. Deadlines slip, self-doubt creeps in, and distractions abound. A writer’s group provides structure and accountability. Regular meetings, shared writing goals (like word counts or drafting timelines), and peer encouragement create a rhythm that keeps you on track.

Imagine committing to write 500 words a week, knowing your group will check in on your progress. Suddenly, the task feels personal and collaborative. The shared energy of a room (or virtual space) filled with fellow writers can reignite your passion on even the toughest days.

3. Learning and Skill Development

Writing groups often double as learning hubs. Many workshops include writing exercises, mini-lessons on grammar or storytelling techniques, or guest speakers who share industry tips. For instance, a member might lead a session on dialogue writing, or the facilitator could guide a critique focused on character development.

Even informal exchanges—discussing a favourite novel or dissecting a challenging scene—can deepen your understanding of the craft. The more you engage, the sharper your skills become.

4. Networking and Collaboration Opportunities

Connections matter. By joining a writing group, you become part of a network of like-minded individuals. These relationships can lead to collaborations—co-authoring a story, editing each other’s manuscripts, or even finding a publishing agent through introductions.

Additionally, many groups host or share information about contests, publications, or local literary events. For emerging writers, these opportunities can be invaluable for visibility and growth.

5. Emotional Support and Validation

Writing is an emotionally charged endeavour. Rejection letters, “fix-it” feedback, and the pressure to publish can wear you down. A writer’s group offers emotional support, a safe space to vent, celebrate small wins, and process setbacks.

Feeling part of a community combats the isolation many writers face. Sharing your struggles with others who “get it” fosters resilience and reminds you that your voice matters.

6. Access to Resources and Creative Stimulation

Many groups curate resources: writing prompts, book recommendations, or even shared tools like grammar checkers. Some offer access to exclusive workshops or masterclasses. Online groups, in particular, can connect you to global experts and trends in the literary world.

The collaborative brainstorming sessions are gold, too. A tired plot idea revived by a group member’s unexpected twist, or a new genre explored through peer encouragement—these moments keep creativity alive.

7. Building Confidence and Overcoming Self-Doubt

Imposter syndrome is common among writers. Hearing peers praise your work or admit they struggle with similar doubts can be incredibly validating. Over time, the supportive environment of a writing group helps you trust your voice and embrace your unique style.

Additionally, sharing your writing aloud in a group setting helps build confidence in your work—and your ability to receive feedback without defensiveness.

Find Your Tribe: Where to Start

Still unsure? Begin by searching for local writing groups through libraries, community centres, or platforms like Meetup and Eventbrite. If in-person isn’t possible, online writing communities (e.g., Reddit’s r/writing, Scribophile) offer equally rich interactions. For the bold, consider starting your own group!

Final Thoughts

A writer’s group isn’t just a place to “get feedback.” It’s a village of collaborators, cheerleaders, and mentors who help you grow both personally and professionally. By joining such a community, you invest in your craft—and your confidence. So, take the leap. Share your work, lean on others, and watch your writing thrive in ways you never imagined.

What’s your favourite benefit of a writing group? Share your experiences in the comments below!

Ready to connect? Explore local or online writing groups today and unlock the power of collective creativity. 

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 208

Day 208 – Writing is like riding a fine steed

…

The Bit and Reins of Writing: How to Ride Your Creativity Without Falling in the Ditch

“Writing is like riding a fine steed: Even if it has a noble air, you must control it with the bit and reins. Don’t let it go off the tracks, gallop to its heart’s content, and fall into a ditch somewhere.” — Yan Zhitui

We’ve all been there. You sit down to write, and inspiration strikes like lightning. Your imagination rears up, proud and powerful. Words flow effortlessly, ideas cascade onto the page, and for a moment, you feel like a literary god.

And then, disaster strikes.

You look up an hour later, blinking in confusion. You started writing a blog post about time management, but somehow you are deep into a tangent about the history of hourglasses, debating the philosophy of time, and questioning your life choices. Your magnificent steed has bolted off the path, leaped over the guardrails, and dropped you headfirst into a muddy ditch.

Writing is a wild, beautiful, and exhilarating beast. But as sixth-century scholar Yan Zhitui so brilliantly observed, raw talent and unbridled passion aren’t enough. Without the bit and reins of discipline, structure, and editing, even the noblest piece of writing will crash.

Here is how to master the art of the equestrian writer—how to give your creativity enough room to run, while keeping it safely on the path.

1. Why the “Fine Steed” Needs Freedom First

Before we talk about control, we have to acknowledge the horse. Yan Zhitui calls it a fine steed with a noble air.

In writing terms, this is your raw inspiration, your voice, and your creative flow. If you immediately slap a heavy saddle on a horse and beat it into submission, it won’t move. Likewise, if you stifle your writing with too many rules, outlines, and self-censorship before you even begin, you kill the magic.

  • The Draft Phase is the Gallop: When you first sit down to write, let the horse run. Turn off your inner critic. Allow yourself to explore unexpected avenues, type out messy paragraphs, and chase the thrill of discovery.
  • Embrace the Chaos (Temporarily): Great writing often requires a messy first draft. Don’t worry about grammar, formatting, or word count while the adrenaline is pumping. Just let the steed move.

2. Recognising the Ditch: When Freedom Becomes Chaos

The danger of the blank page is no longer just writer’s block; often, it’s writer’s avalanche. We get lost in our own verbosity.

How do you know your creative steed has gone off the tracks and is heading for a ditch? Watch out for these warning signs:

  • The Rabbit Hole: You are three paragraphs deep into a sub-point that has almost nothing to do with your main headline.
  • The Bloated Sentence: You’ve used four adjectives where one strong noun would do, simply because it felt poetic in the moment.
  • The Lost Point: You reach the end of a section and realise you’ve completely forgotten what question you were trying to answer.

If left unchecked, unbridled creativity doesn’t lead to a masterpiece; it leads to reader fatigue and writer burnout.

3. Forging the Bit and Reins: Tools for Control

This is where the real craft of writing begins. Taming the steed doesn’t mean breaking its spirit; it means directing its immense power toward a specific destination.

Here is how you apply the bit and reins to your writing process:

A. The Outline (The Pre-Ride Check)

Before you let the horse run wild, map out where you are going. An outline doesn’t have to be rigid—think of it as the trail map. Knowing your destination (your core thesis) and your major waypoints (your sub-headings) ensures that even if your horse gallops wildly between points, it is still heading in the right direction.

B. The Discipline of Cutting (The Reins)

Stephen King famously advises writers to “kill your darlings.” This is the ultimate pull on the reins. That clever sentence you spent twenty minutes crafting? The one that sounds amazing, but adds nothing to the argument? Pull back. Yank the reins. Cut it. A disciplined writer knows that what is left out of a piece is often just as important as what is left in.

C. The Editing Phase (Riding the Trail Again)

Never let your first draft be your final draft. The first draft is the wild ride; the editing phase is where you groom the horse, fix its footing, and polish its coat. Read through your work with a critical eye. Ask yourself:

  • Does every paragraph serve the main idea?
  • Are there any linguistic ditches (confusing metaphors, run-on sentences) I need to steer clear of?
  • Is the pacing smooth, or does it jerk the reader around?

Conclusion: Master the Ride

Writing is a lifelong balancing act. Lean too far toward absolute control, and your writing becomes stiff, academic, and lifeless. Lean too far toward unbridled freedom, and you’ll end up lost in a swamp of your own making, leaving your readers behind.

Be a master equestrian of your own thoughts. Let your imagination provide the fire, the speed, and the nobility. But always keep your hands firm on the reins, guiding your ideas down the path of clarity, purpose, and impact.

After all, it’s much better to cross the finish line in style than to win a fast race straight into a ditch.

What about you? Do you tend to let your writing run wild, or do you keep a tight grip on the reins? Let us know in the comments below!

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