Category: blogging

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

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 196

Day 196 – Solving writing problems

…

The Ultimate Writing Hack? Why Carl Reiner’s “Driving and Talking” Method Works (And How to Use It)

Picture this: Legend of comedy Carl Reiner is behind the wheel, cruising down the highway, carrying on a hilarious, animated conversation with… absolutely no one.

To a passing driver, he might look like he’s lost his marbles. But to the creative genius behind The Dick Van Dyke Show and The 2000 Year Old Man, he was hard at work. Reiner famously relied on a peculiar yet powerful writing technique to solve his thorniest narrative problems: driving around and talking out loud to himself.

It sounds eccentric. But is it actually a viable method for tackling writer’s block, structuring plots, and developing dialogue? And more importantly—will it work for you?

Let’s pull back the hood on this unconventional writing strategy, explore the science behind why it works, and look at how you can apply it to your own writing process.

The Carl Reiner Method: How a Legend Solved Story Problems

Carl Reiner wasn’t just a writer; he was a master of comedic timing and narrative pacing. But even comedy legends hit walls. When a scene felt flat, a joke lacked punch, or a plot point refused to click, Reiner didn’t just stare blankly at a blinking cursor. He got in his car.

In the car, free from the physical constraints of a desk and the glaring pressure of a blank page, Reiner would talk to himself. He would pitch lines, argue both sides of an argument, act out character reactions, and narrate action sequences out loud. By the time he got back home, the problem was usually solved.

He wasn’t alone in this. Countless creators, from novelists to screenwriters, swear by the power of vocalisation. But why is a method usually reserved for eccentric commuters actually a goldmine for productivity?

The Science of Out-Loud Thinking: Why Talking to Yourself Cures Writer’s Block

It turns out that talking to yourself in a moving vehicle isn’t just a quirky habit—it’s a neurological cheat code. Here is why the Reiner method is so effective:

1. It Engages the Auditory Loop

When we write, our internal monologue moves fast—often too fast. We skip over logic gaps because our brains instinctively fill in what we mean to say, rather than what is actually on the page.

When you speak your ideas out loud, you force your brain to process them through the auditory loop. Hearing your words in real-time allows you to immediately catch clunky dialogue, pacing issues, and tonal inconsistencies. If a sentence makes you stumble while saying it aloud, your reader is going to stumble over it, too.

2. The Cognitive Offloading of Driving

Why do our best ideas happen in the shower, on a walk, or behind the wheel? Psychologists call this cognitive offloading.

Driving is a largely procedural task that requires just enough low-level brainpower to keep your hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road. This occupies the part of your brain prone to overthinking and anxiety (the default mode network), leaving your subconscious mind free to make wild, creative connections.

3. Activating Performance and Persona

Writing can feel sterile. Sitting at a keyboard is a sedentary, introverted act.

Speaking aloud, however, is a performance. When you talk out loud as your characters, you step into their shoes. You feel the cadence of their speech, the heat of their anger, or the charm of their wit. It shifts your brain from “analyst mode” to “storyteller mode.”

Will It Work for You? (Pros and Cons)

While this method worked wonders for Carl Reiner, every writer’s brain is wired differently. Let’s weigh the benefits and potential drawbacks.

The Pros:

  • Instant Dialogue Polish: Hearing words spoken aloud is the ultimate litmus test for natural-sounding dialogue.
  • Beats Writer’s Block: Movement and vocalisation break the hypnotic, paralysing trance of staring at a blank screen.
  • Multitasking Creativity: You are turning “dead time” (commuting, running errands) into productive ideation time.

The Cons:

  • Distraction Risks: Safety first! If talking through a complex plot point causes you to miss your exit or run a red light, pull over.
  • Transcription Friction: Unlike typing, you can’t easily capture spontaneous brilliance unless you have a voice recorder running (more on that later).
  • Self-Consciousness: If you live in a dense urban area or drive a convertible, you might feel a bit silly yelling at your dashboard.

How to Adapt the Reiner Method for Your Writing Routine

You don’t need to lease a luxury sedan to reap the benefits of Carl Reiner’s favourite writing hack. Here is how you can integrate the “drive and talk” method into your workflow—safely and effectively:

1. Use the “Voice Memo” Safety Net

Never try to rely on memory alone. Before you put the car in drive, open a voice-recording app on your phone (or use a dedicated dictaphone) and mount it securely. Treat your car like a mobile podcast studio. Ramble, argue, pitch, and brainstorm freely, knowing it’s all being captured.

2. Go with a Prompt or Problem

Don’t just get in the car and hope for inspiration. Define your mission before you turn the ignition. For example: “How do I get Character A from the diner to the crime scene without it feeling forced?” or “Let’s workshop the argument between the spouses in Chapter 4.” Give your subconscious a specific target.

3. Roleplay Both Sides

Reiner was famous for playing multiple parts. If you are struggling with a scene between two characters, play both of them. Switch your pitch, adopt different accents, and let them have a verbal sparring match. You’ll often find that the characters will organically steer the scene in a direction you hadn’t planned—and that direction is usually the right one.

4. No Car? No Problem (The “Walk and Talk”)

If you don’t drive, don’t worry. The principle remains the same: movement plus vocalisation. Pop in some wireless earbuds, turn on your voice recorder app, and go for a brisk walk around your neighbourhood. (Bonus: Walking outdoors is also scientifically proven to boost creative output).

The Verdict: Give Your Writing a Voice

Carl Reiner proved that great comedy—and great writing in general—isn’t always born in absolute silence. Sometimes, it’s forged at 45 miles per hour, fueled by caffeine, road signs, and a writer talking animatedly to themselves.

If you are feeling stuck on a plot hole or your dialogue is feeling wooden, stop staring at the screen. Step away from the desk, grab your voice recorder, and take a drive. Your inner Carl Reiner is waiting to take the wheel.

Have you ever tried talking out loud to solve a creative problem? Let us know your favourite unconventional writing hacks in the comments below!

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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

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

InspirationMaybe1v1

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 40

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…

—

I had to almost restrain Carlo from going up to the castle and singlehandedly kill everyone in it.  I didn’t doubt he could do it, for a short time at least, until they realized what was going on.  There were too many of them to take on alone.

It would need a careful plan, and knowledge of the layout of the castle, and the likely spots where the soldiers were located.  It was a plan that had been slowly formulating in the back of my mind, especially after Carlo’s help with an internal map of the castle, some parts of which I hadn’t got to see in my brief stay.

I forgot that being built back in the middle ages, and the history of cities fighting against each other, there were ways in, out, and around, both inside and in the walls, so that soldiers could travel from one part of the castle to another without being seen, and not having to go inside the castle itself.

There were, also, tunnels, one of which I had inadvertently found, but there were more, and it seems only Carlo knew of those.  Some were useful, others would lead to an early confrontation, and give early notice of our intentions.  Those we would avoid, or use to escape.

We had set up a command center at the church ruins, having found several rooms off the cellar that had two exits.  I didn’t like the idea of being trapped, nor waiting in a location that Fernando was familiar with and was likely to return to.

Which, in a sense, I was hoping he would because we had set a trap and he and his men would be caught in the crossfire.  He was not going to get a chance to explain, nor would I ask any questions, or show him any mercy.

Especially when I found out what he had done to Martina.  If it was as bad as Chiara, he would be repaid in kind, if the opportunity arose.  I tentatively agreed to give Carlo five minutes in the room alone with him, but he knew that expediency might not give him that luxury.  Blinky was not happy about it, but he hadn’t been here long enough to know what the man or his people were like.

We’d also worked out the surveillance system so that we would know when anyone turned up in the village, particularly our prized defector Meyer, and whether anyone left the castle to come down to the village because it was possible there would be more defectors passing through, and they needed to be warned.

What was particularly useful was finding the radio that Martina had been using.  It was in the church grounds, which was not entirely unexpected, but one of Blink’s men had stumbled over it when looking to set up a latrine.

Blinky had brought a radioman, but his radio had been damaged in the parachute landing.  Now he had a new toy to tinker with, and got a connection back to Thompson, after some initial difficulty in translation.  That I could help him with, my Italian was marginally better than a schoolboy.

Thompson was relieved to hear from me, as I was to talk to him.

“It’s been difficult to get a clear picture with Martina, but I got the impression you had to be precise with your questions.”

“A case of getting lost in translation, perhaps.”  I had not had similar problems, but Thompson was from the aristocracy, and his version of English was sometimes quaint.

“The situation is bad, I understand.”

“It is.  The castle is over-run with British-German double agents.  The three you sent out, and reinforcements that followed.  I get the impression we have about 20 odd dead soldiers languishing in shallow graves somewhere on the Italian countryside.”

It hadn’t been hard to realize that while the officers were known British officers, the soldiers were substituted Germans whose English language and mannerisms were impeccable.  I had no doubt once they’d reeled in Meyer, they would move on, integrating into invasion forces and creating havoc from within, unless of course, we stopped them.

A sigh at the other end, perhaps a lamentation of such needless loss of life.  This war was getting tiresome for both of us.

“How close is Meyer?  We last heard he was in Gaole, waiting for a courier to take him to the village.  His arrival is anticipated to be any time from tomorrow onwards.”

“We’ve got men out keeping tabs on everyone.”

“Blinky arrive with his team?”

“All bar the radio, but as you can hear, we have access to one do it will not be a problem.  I think we might finish this and talk again tomorrow.  Don’t want the Germans tracking the radio waves.”

“Good.  Tomorrow, and hour before today.”

I’d almost forgotten that the Germans were good at tracking radio signals, especially when they thought the enemy was using them, as those at the castle would.  That radio unit could also be used to trace other radio signals, and no doubt they had picked up the signal.  Hopefully, we had not been on long enough for them to run the trace.

That was not going to be a problem.  One of Blinky’s soldiers on village reconnaissance was waiting for us as we approached the church ruins.”

“What is it, man?”

“There are four people at the village, looking for someone or something.”

“More defectors,” I said.  “We’d better get to them before Leonardo and his men get to them first.”

—

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right

Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.

It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.

…

John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence after being so indifferent for so long.

They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable and calls on an old friend for help in finding her.

After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.

But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.

What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 41

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.

 

The expression of Boggs’s face told me he was down here for a reason, and that assumption was proved correct when he started walking towards the middle of the first row of carpark.  

He stopped at a pylon, surrounded by concrete blocks, tiles and broken bricks that looked like they’d been deliberately piled there.  Light on, he went around the back and emerged with a coil of rope.

I knew then what his intention was.

“You not going down there.  That’s too dangerous.”

“It was, once.  Not anymore.”  He tied one end to the pylon and then unraveled it as he approached me, then three the remainder over the edge. 

I watched it fall, reaching the bottom, conveniently over a rock.  The section that was over the side was knotted at intervals.  Anti-slip knots.  He had come prepared.  OR had come earlier to prepare for this.

“You’ve been here before.”

“Several times.  I was looking for a way to get down to below the second level carpark and would have found this wall had those overzealous security guards not come down at the wrong moment.  Aside from that, I had to wait to do this with you, just in case there was a problem.”

“What sort of a problem?”

I think his definition of a problem was a lot different from mine.  This whole scenario was a problem.  Was he thinking we could get down, take a look at whatever he was looking for, then get back up again?

“The guards might come back while I’m down there.  I might need you to pull me back up.  I don’t know, anything could go wrong.”

“And yet you still intend to do it?”

“Of course.”  

He had a second rope, thinner, that I hadn’t seen till the other went over the side.  He tied that around his waist, pulled on it a few times to check the strength of the knot, then looked over the side.

To me, 30 feet looked like 30 miles.

“Wish me luck.”

I simply shook my head and took the rope when he handed it to me, then, after a minute. Perhaps saying a silent prayer, he went over the side, hanging grimly onto the rope.

“Keep your phone handy.  I may have to call you.”

Then he was gone.  It took a minute for me to gather the courage to look over the side again, and by that time, he was almost to the rock.  Two more knots, I saw his feet touch down.  There was no moss on it, and it looked worn smooth from a lot of water over a long period.

He looked up at me.  “It’s like a huge cave.”  Phone in hand, he disappeared under the carpark floor.

A closer look at the gap he had just walked through looked like it once had a wall there, but it had been broken away, leaving only the skeleton of reinforcing steel under to floor lip.  There were also traces of the reinforcement anchors drilled into the rock below.  It was obvious the force of the water had built up like flooding into a dam, and if the pressure was too much, the dam wall broke.

Well, that was never meant to be a dam, just a retaining wall for filling upon which the bottom carpark was built.

I think we could now positively identify this site as one of the two rivers that had existed back when the pirates worked this part of the coast.

Boggs was gone for about half an hour, so I found a spot to sit down and wait.  He signaled me by yanking on the rope.

I stood up by the edge and pulled the rope in as he came back up, then, after a few minutes, he clambered over the side.

“We have to get going,” he said.  “I think we can safely say this is the first of the rivers.”

He untied the rope around his waist, pulled the knotted rope up, coiled them and put them back behind the pylon.

As we headed back up to the mall level, he said, “I took some pictures of the body in the water.  It looked like someone had tossed a mannequin in there, perhaps back before they sealed off the parking area. That’s only been there for a few years, judging by the rust on the latch, and hinges.”

“And down in the cave-like area?”

“The river, now only a stream, but running water none the less.  Where it goes from there to the ocean, is not necessarily a requirement to discover.  I thought it fed the marina pool directly, but it doesn’t.  They actually have a pump house and pumped the water into the pool which is why it had to be treated to keep it clean.”

So that was the odd smell that came from it.  It had been a constant battle to keep the water clean and fresh and keep the fish in it from dying.  There had also seemed like a child screaming at the sight of a dead fish floating among the water lilies.

Approaching the pond we both heard what sounded like a brick dropping on the floor, and turned to look behind us.  It was like peering into the gloom of a foggy night.

Boggs shrugged.  “Must be a ghost.”  Then he kept on walking.

I might have agreed with him, by back at the stairs where we had just come from, I thought I saw a splash of bright yellow move very quickly out of sight.  It could have been my imagination, but I also thought I saw a light for a second before it was extinguished.

Ghosts didn’t carry lights.  Someone else was down here, perhaps kids exploring.  Despite the hazard signs, that meant little to kids who had nothing better to do.

I waited for a minute so so, until Boggs flashed his light in my direction, and asked, “You coming?”

There was no more movement, so it had to be my overactive imagination at work again.

“Yep, coming.”  I ran to catch up.

We quickly passed the pond and overgrown garden and made it back to the hole in the wall, with an hour to spare before I had to get to the warehouse and start my shift.

“Did you find what you’re looking for?”

“Yes.  We’re on the right track.  Next, we have to find the other river.”

 We made it back to the bikes and headed back towards the town.  On the way, we were overtaken by a van with Benderby Security Services on the side of it, going too fast, and nearly knocked both Boggs and me off our bikes.

In the struggle to stay on the bike, I happened to see the man on the passenger side.  It was one of the two men who had been down by the pond, earlier.  If there were any bodies down there, they belonged to Benderby.  Good to know.

© Charles Heath 2020

The 2am Rant: I think the asylum is beckoning

I’m sitting at my desk surrounded by any number of scraps of paper with more storylines, written excerpts, parts of stories, and a number of chapters of a work in progress.

Does this happen to anyone else?

The business of writing requires a talent to keep focused on the one project and silence all the other screaming voices in your head, pouring out their side of the story.

But it’s not working.

I try to be determined in my efforts to edit my current completed novel, after letting it ‘rest’ in my head for a few months.

I planned to have some time off, but all of those prisoners in my head started clamouring for my attention.  A story I started some time ago needs revising, another story I wrote last year of NANOWRIMO has come back to haunt me, and characters, well, they’re out in the waiting room, pacing up and down, ready to tell me their life stories.

Is the temporary cure coffee or wine?

Now I think I really do need a holiday

Or a trip to the asylum.  Thank God this is not the early 20th century, or I might never return.  And if it’s named Bellview, it would be just another story to be written.

The Author that went Bonkers!

Does it ever end?

What I learned about writing – What we give up to write

The Unnecessary Sacrifices: What We Really Give Up To Pursue Our Trade

The narrative of the struggling artisan is deeply ingrained in our culture. The solitary writer fueled by instant coffee, the entrepreneur sleeping on their office floor, the painter eating cold beans for dinner—we romanticise the idea that true devotion requires extreme hardship.

We constantly ask ourselves: What must I tell myself I can do without in order to ply my trade?

This line of questioning often leads us to scrutinise the basic necessities of life. Do we cut food? Do we wear patched clothes? Do we forgo self-care?

The truth, however, is far more subtle and far more strategic. If your trade is a marathon, sacrificing your fuel (physical, intellectual, or emotional) is not devotion—it’s self-sabotage. To thrive, we must learn the difference between necessary austerity and counterproductive deprivation.

Here is a professional perspective on what is truly shed when we commit to our craft, and what must absolutely be protected.

1. Shedding the Myth of Monetary Deprivation

The common wisdom suggests we must sacrifice the big three: food, clothes, and looking good.

If we are being honest, very few successful professionals or skilled tradespeople literally starve themselves or wear rags. What we sacrifice isn’t the necessity itself, but the performative consumption surrounding it.

Food: Quality Over Spectacle

We don’t give up food; we give up time-consuming dining experiences and expensive ingredients that don’t increase our productivity.

The sacrifice is the elaborate lunch hour, the $15 artisanal coffee every morning, or the weekend spent trying complicated new recipes. We trade the gourmet for the pragmatic, optimising our diet for consistent energy and focus. The decision isn’t “Should I eat?” it’s “Does this meal purchase me another hour of high-quality work?”

Clothes and Appearance: Utility Over Status

The sacrifice here is not looking presentable; it is the need to impress onlookers and the time spent shopping for trends.

The dedicated professional often adopts a uniform—a set of clothes that are comfortable, reliable, and require zero decision-making energy in the morning (the classic example of Steve Jobs’ turtlenecks or Mark Zuckerberg’s grey t-shirts). This is a strategic sacrifice of bandwidth. We give up the mental effort of fashion tracking and external validation so that our finite focus can be diverted entirely to the work itself.

2. Protecting the Intellectual Engine

The most dangerous question posed by the hustle culture mindset is whether we must give up books and writing to survive.

For the modern professional—be they a coder, a writer, a consultant, or a marketer—these are not luxuries; they are fundamental operating costs.

If your trade requires cognitive skill, problem-solving, or communication, sacrificing these inputs is akin to a carpenter giving up their hammer.

Books and Reading: Fueling the Engine

We cannot afford to stop learning. When we are deep in the trenches of a trade, reading books—whether they are technical manuals, industry reports, or even great fiction—is the only way to fill the well of knowledge needed to stay competitive.

The real sacrifice is often mindless entertainment: binge-watching television that contributes nothing to our professional growth, or endlessly scrolling validated social media feeds. We trade passive consumption for active learning.

Writing: Sharpening the Tool

Whether you write code, marketing copy, or detailed client briefs, writing is how we clarify thought, document processes, and communicate value. Giving up personal writing, journaling, or even drafting non-work-related essays inhibits our ability to structure complex ideas.

The sacrifice is not the act of writing; it is the expectation of perfectionism in every draft. We sacrifice the time spent trying to make the first sentence flawless so that we can get the crucial idea down quickly and move forward.

3. The True Sacrifices: Time, Comfort, and Bandwidth

When we are truly committed to a trade, the things that disappear are not our fundamental needs, but the luxurious buffers we previously relied upon. These are the real opportunity costs:

1. The Buffer of Time

The biggest sacrifice is spontaneity and unstructured time.

If you are serious about your craft, your schedule becomes deliberately rigid. You sacrifice the freedom to say “yes” to every last-minute social invitation, because that time has already been allocated to deep work, administration, or necessary rest. This is often misunderstood as anti-social behaviour, but it is actually the strategic protection of your workflow.

2. The Comfort of Stability

The trade requires a willingness to live closer to the edge of failure. You sacrifice the comfort of guaranteed outcomes.

Every new project, every pitch, every innovative attempt carries a genuine risk of falling short. This trade demands emotional resilience and the sacrifice of the secure, predictable path for one that offers significant growth but zero guarantees.

3. The Need for External Validation

Finally, we sacrifice the energy spent chasing approval.

When you are intensely focused on the quality of your output, you stop trying to manage the fickle opinions of others. This is where the sacrifice of “looking good” truly comes into play—not physically, but professionally. We stop sacrificing genuine progress for the sake of public performance.

The Wise Exchange

The commitment to a trade is not a vow of destitution; it is a vow of strategic alignment.

The professional does not ask, “What must I suffer through?” but rather, “What non-essential things are draining the time, energy, and resources I need to excel?”

Stop sacrificing your intellectual fuel (books, learning) and your physical fuel (health, decent food). Instead, identify and eliminate the silent drains: the distraction, the excessive consumerism, the need for immediate gratification, and the fear of saying “no.”

Ply your trade, but do so from a position of strength, not starvation. Sacrifice wisely, or risk burning out before the real work ever begins.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 195

Day 195 – Writing exercise

…

It was hard, very hard, to stand at the altar and find the words that could adequately describe how much he missed Catherine, or explain in simple words how much she had meant to him.

These days relationships and marriages were throwaway items, something you jump into and out of as easily as getting on and off a boat.

It was a dilemma that had been haunting him since the priest had told him he should prepare some words to remember her in a way everyone would understand.

The thing was, not everyone did.  Certainly not her brother and two sisters. Certainly not her parents; they simply didn’t understand who she was and didn’t try.  They had three other children to bend to their will.

Certainly not my parents, of similar practical ilk as hers, and didn’t understand my choice.  My younger sister did; they were friends, soul mates for life, and her sudden death had affected her as much as it had me.

But to find words that made her relatable?  That was going to take a collaborative effort, simply because she was ‘artistic’.

There were various ways of interpreting artistic, most ending up on a scrapheap of misunderstandings that usually generated into misguided insults.

When I first met her I did the same.  I had not yet broken free of what she called the shackles of formalism.  It was a polite way of saying I was trying to conform to my parents’ ideal person.

Hard working, university educated as a doctor or lawyer, certainly a professional, and ideally working in the family business.  My father was a lawyer; his father was; my brothers were.  Then, my mother was a doctor, and my sister was meant to be, but she, like myself, fell off that wagon before it was too late, and we became autonomous.

My parents blamed Catherine for that.

But that took a while.  I had yet to meet her and go through the hardest year of my life.

…

I was studying law at the same university my great-grandparents and my brothers attended.  We Berkeley’s were well known, even famous, given that Berkeley’s featured everywhere in the walls and the fabric of university lore.

I, like my brothers, had very big shoes to fill, and when you are a so-so student not gifted with instant recall and a photographic memory, law really is a struggle.

Catherine was there doing art history or archaeology or some esoteric degree that to me seemed more fun than gritty learning.  She stood out because of her manner, the way she dressed, and the fact that every day she was like a ray of sunshine.

The first time I met her was in the library.  I was trying to study for a difficult exam that I had to pass, or I would be spending my summer holidays locked in a tutorial instead of going on the family holiday in Capri.

I knew I wasn’t going to make it.

That day I was searching for a law volume, and she was up a ladder and dropped a book on my head.  She said it slipped out of her hand.

It hit me in just the spot where it briefly knocked me out cold.  A book.  I couldn’t believe it.

Anyway, when I woke up, I was in a medical room lying on a cot with a doctor looking concerned, and Catherine, though I didn’t know her name then, hovering at the end of the cot, hoping, she said later, she hadn’t killed me.

The doctor asked me if I knew where I was, loosely translated to ‘at the university ‘, and what day it was, ‘the worst day of my life ‘, and what happened to me, ‘God was answering my prayer to kill me now before I failed the exam and went straight to hell’.

I think there were tears because my head really hurt, so he recommended painkillers and bed rest.  The nurse was very unsympathetic.  Catherine was contrite.

She sat down beside the cot and held my hand.

I’d seen her many times, always from afar.  I was not in her classes nor did I have a reason to be in her friend group.  Why she had stayed was unexplainable.  I had survived; her obligation was over.  I didn’t blame her for anything.  It could have happened to anyone.

She opened with, “I’m so sorry. Things like that just happen to me.”

“Dripping books of heads?”

“Books, spilling drinks and food, bumping into things.  People say I’m in a different world.”

“Are you?”

She smiled.  “Most of the time I see the world differently.  It’s the same as everyone else.  I just see only the good things.”

“How?”

“Take your accident.  It brought us together.  That’s a good thing.  Unless you’re an axe murderer.”

“They don’t let me bring my axe to school.”

She gave me a strange look, then smiled again.  “You have a sense of humour.  That will never work if you’re going to be a lawyer.”

“How do you know…”

“You look like your brother Aloysius.  I hope you’re not like him.  He keeps asking me out, but it’s only to settle a bet.  He’s basically horrible.  I’m sorry, but that’s how I see him.”

She was right, of course; he was.  And I knew about him and his university friends.  They had no respect for women, a trait handed down from their father.  Mine too, but that part missed me.  He called me ambivalent, a traitor as wild as my red hair.

He stopped short of saying I wasn’t his son, especially when my mother was not around.  Curiously, I never suspected her of having affairs, not like him in his quest to stay relevant and young, a battle he was losing as he got older.

“I hate to say it, but I agree with you.  I’ll be happy to kick his ass if he tries too hard, if you like.  It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You’d do that for me, even after I tried to kill you.”

“I think it was the law trying to kill me.  It was sending me a message.  You just happened to be nearby.”

“Now you’re being too nice.”  She stood.  “You seem to be alright, so I’ll leave you to contemplate the hidden meaning behind the attack of the book.  Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Probably not.  We moved in completely different circles, and I was not the sort of person that fitted into her friend group.

“Maybe.  I could get delayed amnesia, and forget you.”

“You could, but I am unforgettable.”  That said, she left.

I didn’t expect to see her again, except from afar.  Somehow that made me feel sad.

. .

Some people stay in your mind for a variety of reasons.  Catherine stayed in mine simply because she was different, in a way that made her, as she said, unforgettable.

But toiling with the vicissitudes of the law took my mind off everything as I battled to get my head above water.  Law just wasn’t my thing.

Later that year, when I was seriously contemplating leaving university and going home to face the music, I wandered into the cafe looking for a cup of strong black coffee.

That’s when I saw her again, sitting with two other girls who no doubt were in her classes.  What bothered me was that my brother was talking to her.

Well, not talking to her as such, it looked to me like he was being an ass.  Again.

I stood on the doorway for a fraction too long, causing a hold-up that drew comment and her attention.

Just what I didn’t want.

I was going to leave, but she saw me and waved.  My brother turned to see who she was waving at, and that sealed my fate.

The last thing I wanted to do was confront him.  He was condescending at best and abrasive at worst when I wandered into his line of sight.

It was a shame I had to go to the same school as he did.

Fate sealed, I wandered over.

She was more interested in me than him.  He glared at me, “What are you doing here?”

“Getting coffee, though something stronger would be better.  What are you doing?  Harassing the female students in your usual manner?”

If her plan was to put us against each other, it might just work.  I was in a bad mood, and he was just the person to take it out on.

“Just go away and get whatever it is you came for.”

She looked at me, and I think she could see I was spoiling for a fight.  Maybe she wanted to throw some duel on the fire.

“Your brother is being a pain.”

“No.  My brother wanted to win a bet that he can get you to go out with him.  Put him out of his misery, and as a gentleman he will go away and not bother you again “

I looked at him.  “Not that you know what a gentleman really is.  Perhaps I should have a quiet word to Margaret and tell her you’re still sowing those wild cats Dad keeps banging on about.”

“You should be minding your own business.”

“Your misbehaving is my business.  I’m protecting the family name while you seem to think besmirching it is fine.”

“Go away, Steven.  Or else.”

“Or else what?”

“You don’t want to know.”

He was bigger and meaner than me, a member of the rugby team.  I’d seen what he could do when he took his temper out on Jeffery, our middle brother.

I was no match in size and weight, but he had no finesse.

I looked back at her.  “You want this jackass to leave you alone?”

“He doesn’t understand the word no.”

“Not when money is involved.”  I looked at him.  “You and me, the gym.  I win, you leave alone.”

“And if I win,” he said, grinning.

“You won’t.”

He looked me up and down, evaluating his chances.  They were good.  Probably better than good.

“Done.  6 pm.  You really are that stupid.”

Perhaps I was, but one thing I knew in that moment.  I was going to take my temper and all the bad stuff about law I hated on him.

…

“You really shouldn’t be doing this,” Catherine said.  She had decided to come with me to the gym to watch the epic battle.

She didn’t portray it as two fools fighting over a girl who wanted nothing to do with either of them.  She wanted to believe I was defending her honour.

That might have been the case if it was 1780, or a page out of a Jane Austen novel. 

The truth was I hated him.  He was the favourite; everything came easy for him.  Law studies were easy, rugby was easy, dating any girl he wanted was easy.

I just wanted to wipe that smirk off his face.

In reality, I was going to get pounded into the middle of next week.

And I think she knew that my gesture was just that, one that I hadn’t thought through.  She had already told me I didn’t have to go through with it. 

I said it was about time I stuck up for myself instead of living in his shadow.  This was sibling rivalry, and she was just an excuse I was using to justify my actions.

Yet she did go off after telling me I was being stupid, or that she didn’t appreciate me making a fool of myself on her behalf.  I think I was offended at her lack of faith.

When I got there, about five minutes before the event, there was a crowd of about two hundred.  Friends of his, and people who had learned there was going to be a fight.

A civilised fight.

He was dressed for the occasion, in fact, the whole boxing thing, and it didn’t surprise me he was into sparring.  I had been taking lessons, but the odds of any of it sticking in my brain were slight.

“Go change.  We do this properly.”

I shrugged, then climbed into the ring.  One of the gym staff came over with gloves and a helmet and helped me put both on.

Then he read the riot act, as much to say this was going to be by the book and no underhanded punching and clinging.  There was more, but I wasn’t listening.  I was trying to remember what my instructor had told me.

We took our corners.

The gym instructor stood in the middle.  Someone clanged the bell, and it was on.

I watched him circle, fists pumping like pistons, throwing out exploratory jabs as he circled.  Perhaps he thought it would make me dizzy watching him.

Then he came at me, trying to land a punch on the way past.  I saw the move and moved out of the way, and landed a punch to his upper arm that elicited a grunt.

And an expression changed.  Perhaps I might take a little effort on his part.

More circling, more punches, one of which rattled me, but not unduly so.  I had lowered my guard.

Then he came at me.  Perhaps he thought he had me at a disadvantage.  He landed one, but while he was doing that, he left himself exposed, and I lashed out with all the force I could muster.

Thwack. That’s what it sounded like.  Clean, hard, and right on the money.

He crumpled, collapsing to the floor and then didn’t move.  The gym instructor was beside him checking the damage.

It wasn’t much.  I had caught him flush, and it knocked him out.  A few seconds later he was awake, realised what had happened and tried to get up.  His legs could not support the weight, and he had to stay down.

But the fight was over.

I stood there and looked down at him.  There was a vacant stare behind those eyes of his.  Stunned perhaps at the idea that I could beat him.

“You win,” he said. “No hard feelings.”

Pity.  I wanted to pound him some more. Instead I just shrugged and took off the gloves.  By the time I got out of the ring, my brother was back on his feet.  He would survive.

The crowd had dispersed.

Catherine was still there, sitting on a seat by the wall well away from the ring.

“Did you win?”

“Of course.  What were you expecting?”

“Taking you to hospital in an ambulance.  It seems to me the only time we spend together is me taking you to random medical facilities “

“Well, you don’t have to.  He won’t be annoying you again.”

“What about you?”

“I won’t be annoying you at all.”

“What if I want to be annoyed by you?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.  I’m not your sort.”

“How do you know what my sort is?”

“It would not be a deadly dull law graduate.  You have too much life in you to be dragged backwards by a dour person like me.”

I had no idea how or why this conversation was going, other than it shouldn’t.  We were opposites that in a normal world would never meet.

“OK.  Take me to dinner.  If by the end of it I judge you to be too dour, we’ll call it off.  But what you just did, no one has ever done for me before.  That’s not dour.”

“No.  It was bloody stupid.”

“Calculated, yes; stupid, no.  You knew you could beat him.”

“I knew the odds were in my favour.  But fights like that are unpredictable.  I could have got hurt.”

“Then I would have taken you to hospital and got you patched up.  Then I would tell you how remarkable I think you are.  You should never be the person other people want you to be, but the person you want to.  He’s in there,” she touched my heart, which coincidentally was beating rather faster than normal, “and we’ll find him.”

“Dinner?”

“A posh restaurant.  Impress me.  I can be impressed.”

Then she took my hand in hers, and she stood.

I knew then that she was the one, the only one for me; and that I was never going to be a lawyer

…

I was standing behind the priest who had just delivered a remarkable eulogy, one that encapsulated her life, her manner, and her influence over the world at large.

It was meant to light up what a very sad day was, and it did.  I remembered her, not only from the first day I met her, but through that amazing dinner date at her so-called posh restaurant, to the day I asked her to marry me and she said yes.

What could I say that could ever tell anyone what I had and what I’d lost?

I could not.

But given the chance to get back at my brother, well, there was a wealth of stories right there.

I looked out over the crowd, all sitting and expecting something witty.

“Everyone knew Catherine, and unfortunately for some, Catherine knew them.  I remember her speech at the wedding.  As progressive as we were, she took us all by surprise…

“Some more than others…

Quite a few of those before me were there.  It was the first inkling they got that she was not afraid to speak her mind or trample on egos.

I was not going to remind them, but it led into more humorous memories, and it got the conversation going.  We remembered, we laughed, and how we laughed, until we cried.  She had that effect on each and every one of us.

And yes, as I spoke, I knew she was standing next to me, slipping her hand in mine and squeezing it gently, just to let me know I was not, and never would be, alone.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Ankara

Off the Beaten Path: Top 5 Alternative Things to Do in Ankara

Ankara, the capital city of Turkey, is often overshadowed by its more popular counterpart, Istanbul. However, this vibrant city has a rich history, cultural significance, and a plethora of exciting activities to offer. While many tourists flock to the Anıtkabir, the Museum of Anatolian Civilisations, and the Kocatepe Mosque, there’s more to Ankara than meets the eye. In this blog post, we’ll delve into the top 5 alternative things to do in Ankara, taking you on a road less travelled.

1. Explore the Hamamönü District

Tucked away in the heart of the city, the Hamamönü District is a charming neighbourhood that showcases Ankara’s Ottoman heritage. This historic district is filled with beautifully restored 19th-century Ottoman houses, quaint shops, and traditional Turkish cafes. Visitors can wander through the narrow streets, admire the architecture, and experience the local culture. Don’t miss the opportunity to try some traditional Turkish delight and coffee at one of the many cafes in the area.

2. Visit the Ankara Castle

Perched atop a hill in the Ulus district, the Ankara Castle offers breathtaking panoramic views of the city. This ancient fortress dates back to the 7th century and has been occupied by various civilisations, including the Romans, Byzantines, and Ottomans. While the castle itself is impressive, the surrounding neighbourhood is also worth exploring, with its narrow streets, historic mosques, and traditional shops.

3. Discover the Turkish Aerospace Museum

For aviation enthusiasts and families alike, the Turkish Aerospace Museum is a hidden gem. Located near the Etimesgut Air Base, this museum showcases a vast collection of aircraft, including historic planes, helicopters, and even a spaceship. With interactive exhibits and a play area for kids, this museum is an excellent alternative to the more traditional attractions in Ankara.

4. Wander through the Gençlik Park

The Gençlik Park, which translates to “Youth Park,” is a tranquil oasis in the heart of the city. This beautiful park offers a peaceful escape from the hustle and bustle of Ankara, with its lush greenery, walking trails, and picturesque lake. Visitors can rent a boat and enjoy a relaxing ride, or simply sit back and enjoy the scenery. The park also hosts various events and festivals throughout the year, making it a great place to experience local culture.

5. Explore the Söğütözü District’s Street Art

Ankara’s Söğütözü District is a hub for street artists, with vibrant murals and graffiti adorning the walls of buildings. This up-and-coming neighbourhood is a great place to explore, boasting an eclectic mix of boutiques, cafes, and restaurants. Visitors can take a self-guided walking tour to discover the unique street art, which reflects the city’s modern and artistic side. Be sure to check out the iconic “Ankara” mural, which has become a popular spot for Instagram-worthy photos.

In conclusion, Ankara is a city that offers much more than the usual tourist attractions. By venturing off the beaten path, visitors can experience the authentic culture, history, and beauty of this vibrant city. Whether you’re interested in history, art, nature, or simply exploring a new neighbourhood, Ankara has something to offer. So, take a road less travelled and discover the hidden gems of Ankara – you won’t be disappointed!