Category: blogging

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I never wanted to be an eyewitness – 5

Five

The main door to the warehouse opened and we drove in. 

The look on Latanzio’s face was one of surprise, but also knowing.  He didn’t say anything yet.

Once inside and the roller door lowered, gradually immersing us into a murky half-darkness, the van stopped.  I thought I heard a collective sigh of relief just before everyone started to move.

Latanzio’s chains connecting his feet, and the one from his feet to his hands were removed, but not the cuffs and I dragged him out of the van, closing the door with an emphatic bang reverberating in the empty space.

The whole operation took just over a minute.  The guards got back in the van without saying a word, their role over.  Just as the engine started the door started going back up, and before it reached the top they had driven out and roared off.  I waited until the door had closed again.

That was when he spoke for the first time.  “You can remove the cuffs now.”  I had deliberately left the hand cuffs on, and although it limited his movements, he had an opportunity to escape, if he wanted to get shot in the back, because if he tried I would have no hesitation in shooting him.

I hadn’t seen anyone else about when we first arrived, but then, up on the mezzanine I could just see several guards with rifles stationed in the shadows.  If anyone had tried to force their way in behind us, they would not have lasted very long.

I didn’t speak, just dragged him up the passage towards the room where I thought Amy would be waiting.

He stopped, once, halfway up the passage, and tried to shrug me off.  “What the hell is going on here.  Where are my people?”

I gave him what I thought was one of my death stares before saying, rather savagely, “We can do this the hard way or the easy way.  The hard way, I shoot you and drag you up the passage.  One way or the other we’ll get to our destination.  It’s up to you how you arrive.”

“Just who the hell are you?”

“If you keep talking, maybe the last person you’ll see alive.  Move.  Now.”

He was wise enough not to argue just then.  He had been liberated from police custody, he had to accept for the moment it was best to follow instructions, something I guess he wasn’t used to.

We went through the large steel-clad door that separated the building we arrived in with the one next door.  If anyone came looking for us, they would only get as far as a door that would be locked on the other side and look as though it hadn’t been opened since the dawn of time. 

As soon as I slammed it shut and rammed home the bolts, a team on the other side were doing their job as set decorators.

They didn’t have very long, perhaps 10 minutes, 20 at most before everyone discovered Latanzio was missing.

As soon as we were on the other side, Amy appeared with a gun in hand.  It was not aimed at him but held loosely at her side.  A room had been set up as a sound studio, and we had four cameras on us, recording everything.

“Who are you?” Latanzio asked her abruptly.

“The person who orchestrated your escape from custody.  You don’t look very grateful though?”

“Believe me I am, except for this bozo.  Where did you find him?  And how about taking off these cuffs?”

We were in a large room, where Amy had put a chair in the middle.  On the opposite side to where we were standing there was another door.  That led to several other rooms where Amy said there were surprise guests waiting.

“First, you have to sit down.  We have a few issues to sort out.”

He looked confused, but again, he was free, so it was probably a small inconvenience.  After all, he had a lot of money that could smooth over any problem.  Or so he believed.

He sat.

There were two other chairs for both Amy and I, and we sat down opposite him.

He started.  “Whatever the problem is, I’m sure we can sort it out.  What is it you want?”

“Money.  And a lot of it.  It isn’t going to be cheap getting you and your family to a safe haven.”

“Who said I wanted to leave.  I can beat this rap.  You heard the news; this so-called witness is missing.  That means he’s either dead or didn’t exist in the first place.  Either way, the DA’s got nothing.”

All true, if the witness was missing.  And still he was not giving anything away.

“Then the question remains, why did a squad of anonymous men hit the hotel where alleged witness was staying, if you are saying there isn’t one?”

“I know nothing about that.  What other people do, and their reasons for doing so, is their business, not mine.”

“Then why were we asked to break you out if you’re not guilty and can beat this charge.  Seems logical, on what you’re saying, we should take you back.  I’ve haven’t been paid yet, and this seems to be a colossal waste of my time.  I need to have a discussion.”

She stood and started walking towards the other door.

“Who are you going to talk to if not me.”

She stopped and partially turned.

“You are just the subject; my business is with the people who employed me to free you.”

“Who are they?”

“Oddly enough, I don’t really know, and for that matter, I don’t really care.  But what I am sure of, it’s none of your business.”

I saw her motion to someone lurking in the shadows, and not one but two men came out into the open where we could see them.  Armed with shotguns and surly expressions.

“Take him and put him in the room with his wife and children.”

“Angelina is here?” he said, somewhat surprised.

“Yes.  Any your mistress, Gianna. It’s going to be interesting if they meet.”

He looked at me just as the two men arrived, each standing on one side of him.

“What the hell is going on here?  This is not what I asked for.  I was supposed to be rescued and taken to a safehouse.  There were no orders involving family or anyone else.”  There was just a slight note of fear in hos tone.

Amy had said that if Angelina’s father had found out he was having an affair, he was as good as a dead man.  Her father took marriage very seriously.

It was clear Latanzio didn’t.

I shrugged.  “I just do as I’m told.  Best not to annoy her.  She has a really bad temper, and I don’t think she likes you.”

I nodded, and the two men took him away.

Phase one was complete; put the fear God into him.

Five

The main door to the warehouse opened and we drove in. 

The look on Latanzio’s face was one of surprise, but also knowing.  He didn’t say anything yet.

Once inside and the roller door lowered, gradually immersing us into a murky half-darkness, the van stopped.  I thought I heard a collective sigh of relief just before everyone started to move.

Latanzio’s chains connecting his feet, and the one from his feet to his hands were removed, but not the cuffs and I dragged him out of the van, closing the door with an emphatic bang reverberating in the empty space.

The whole operation took just over a minute.  The guards got back in the van without saying a word, their role over.  Just as the engine started the door started going back up, and before it reached the top they had driven out and roared off.  I waited until the door had closed again.

That was when he spoke for the first time.  “You can remove the cuffs now.”  I had deliberately left the hand cuffs on, and although it limited his movements, he had an opportunity to escape, if he wanted to get shot in the back, because if he tried I would have no hesitation in shooting him.

I hadn’t seen anyone else about when we first arrived, but then, up on the mezzanine I could just see several guards with rifles stationed in the shadows.  If anyone had tried to force their way in behind us, they would not have lasted very long.

I didn’t speak, just dragged him up the passage towards the room where I thought Amy would be waiting.

He stopped, once, halfway up the passage, and tried to shrug me off.  “What the hell is going on here.  Where are my people?”

I gave him what I thought was one of my death stares before saying, rather savagely, “We can do this the hard way or the easy way.  The hard way, I shoot you and drag you up the passage.  One way or the other we’ll get to our destination.  It’s up to you how you arrive.”

“Just who the hell are you?”

“If you keep talking, maybe the last person you’ll see alive.  Move.  Now.”

He was wise enough not to argue just then.  He had been liberated from police custody, he had to accept for the moment it was best to follow instructions, something I guess he wasn’t used to.

We went through the large steel-clad door that separated the building we arrived in with the one next door.  If anyone came looking for us, they would only get as far as a door that would be locked on the other side and look as though it hadn’t been opened since the dawn of time. 

As soon as I slammed it shut and rammed home the bolts, a team on the other side were doing their job as set decorators.

They didn’t have very long, perhaps 10 minutes, 20 at most before everyone discovered Latanzio was missing.

As soon as we were on the other side, Amy appeared with a gun in hand.  It was not aimed at him but held loosely at her side.  A room had been set up as a sound studio, and we had four cameras on us, recording everything.

“Who are you?” Latanzio asked her abruptly.

“The person who orchestrated your escape from custody.  You don’t look very grateful though?”

“Believe me I am, except for this bozo.  Where did you find him?  And how about taking off these cuffs?”

We were in a large room, where Amy had put a chair in the middle.  On the opposite side to where we were standing there was another door.  That led to several other rooms where Amy said there were surprise guests waiting.

“First, you have to sit down.  We have a few issues to sort out.”

He looked confused, but again, he was free, so it was probably a small inconvenience.  After all, he had a lot of money that could smooth over any problem.  Or so he believed.

He sat.

There were two other chairs for both Amy and I, and we sat down opposite him.

He started.  “Whatever the problem is, I’m sure we can sort it out.  What is it you want?”

“Money.  And a lot of it.  It isn’t going to be cheap getting you and your family to a safe haven.”

“Who said I wanted to leave.  I can beat this rap.  You heard the news; this so-called witness is missing.  That means he’s either dead or didn’t exist in the first place.  Either way, the DA’s got nothing.”

All true, if the witness was missing.  And still he was not giving anything away.

“Then the question remains, why did a squad of anonymous men hit the hotel where alleged witness was staying, if you are saying there isn’t one?”

“I know nothing about that.  What other people do, and their reasons for doing so, is their business, not mine.”

“Then why were we asked to break you out if you’re not guilty and can beat this charge.  Seems logical, on what you’re saying, we should take you back.  I’ve haven’t been paid yet, and this seems to be a colossal waste of my time.  I need to have a discussion.”

She stood and started walking towards the other door.

“Who are you going to talk to if not me.”

She stopped and partially turned.

“You are just the subject; my business is with the people who employed me to free you.”

“Who are they?”

“Oddly enough, I don’t really know, and for that matter, I don’t really care.  But what I am sure of, it’s none of your business.”

I saw her motion to someone lurking in the shadows, and not one but two men came out into the open where we could see them.  Armed with shotguns and surly expressions.

“Take him and put him in the room with his wife and children.”

“Angelina is here?” he said, somewhat surprised.

“Yes.  Any your mistress, Gianna. It’s going to be interesting if they meet.”

He looked at me just as the two men arrived, each standing on one side of him.

“What the hell is going on here?  This is not what I asked for.  I was supposed to be rescued and taken to a safehouse.  There were no orders involving family or anyone else.”  There was just a slight note of fear in hos tone.

Amy had said that if Angelina’s father had found out he was having an affair, he was as good as a dead man.  Her father took marriage very seriously.

It was clear Latanzio didn’t.

I shrugged.  “I just do as I’m told.  Best not to annoy her.  She has a really bad temper, and I don’t think she likes you.”

I nodded, and the two men took him away.

Phase one was complete; put the fear God into him.

Five

The main door to the warehouse opened and we drove in. 

The look on Latanzio’s face was one of surprise, but also knowing.  He didn’t say anything yet.

Once inside and the roller door lowered, gradually immersing us into a murky half-darkness, the van stopped.  I thought I heard a collective sigh of relief just before everyone started to move.

Latanzio’s chains connecting his feet, and the one from his feet to his hands were removed, but not the cuffs and I dragged him out of the van, closing the door with an emphatic bang reverberating in the empty space.

The whole operation took just over a minute.  The guards got back in the van without saying a word, their role over.  Just as the engine started the door started going back up, and before it reached the top they had driven out and roared off.  I waited until the door had closed again.

That was when he spoke for the first time.  “You can remove the cuffs now.”  I had deliberately left the handcuffs on, and although it limited his movements, he had an opportunity to escape, if he wanted to get shot in the back, because if he tried I would have no hesitation in shooting him.

I hadn’t seen anyone else about when we first arrived, but then, up on the mezzanine I could just see several guards with rifles stationed in the shadows.  If anyone had tried to force their way in behind us, they would not have lasted very long.

I didn’t speak, just dragged him up the passage towards the room where I thought Amy would be waiting.

He stopped, once, halfway up the passage, and tried to shrug me off.  “What the hell is going on here.  Where are my people?”

I gave him what I thought was one of my death stares before saying, rather savagely, “We can do this the hard way or the easy way.  The hard way, I shoot you and drag you up the passage.  One way or the other we’ll get to our destination.  It’s up to you how you arrive.”

“Just who the hell are you?”

“If you keep talking, maybe the last person you’ll see alive.  Move.  Now.”

He was wise enough not to argue just then.  He had been liberated from police custody, he had to accept for the moment it was best to follow instructions, something I guess he wasn’t used to.

We went through the large steel-clad door that separated the building we arrived in with the one next door.  If anyone came looking for us, they would only get as far as a door that would be locked on the other side and look as though it hadn’t been opened since the dawn of time. 

As soon as I slammed it shut and rammed home the bolts, a team on the other side were doing their job as set decorators.

They didn’t have very long, perhaps 10 minutes, 20 at most before everyone discovered Latanzio was missing.

As soon as we were on the other side, Amy appeared with a gun in hand.  It was not aimed at him but held loosely at her side.  A room had been set up as a sound studio, and we had four cameras on us, recording everything.

“Who are you?” Latanzio asked her abruptly.

“The person who orchestrated your escape from custody.  You don’t look very grateful though?”

“Believe me I am, except for this bozo.  Where did you find him?  And how about taking off these cuffs?”

We were in a large room, where Amy had put a chair in the middle.  On the opposite side to where we were standing, there was another door.  That led to several other rooms where Amy said there were surprise guests waiting.

“First, you have to sit down.  We have a few issues to sort out.”

He looked confused, but again, he was free, so it was probably a small inconvenience.  After all, he had a lot of money that could smooth over any problem.  Or so he believed.

He sat.

There were two other chairs for Amy and me, and we sat opposite him.

He started, “Whatever the problem is, I’m sure we can sort it out. What do you want?”

“Money.  And a lot of it.  It isn’t going to be cheap getting you and your family to a safe haven.”

“Who said I wanted to leave.  I can beat this rap.  You heard the news; this so-called witness is missing.  That means he’s either dead or didn’t exist in the first place.  Either way, the DA’s got nothing.”

All true, if the witness was missing.  And still, he was not giving anything away.

“Then the question remains, why did a squad of anonymous men hit the hotel where the alleged witness was staying, if you are saying there isn’t one?”

“I know nothing about that.  What other people do, and their reasons for doing so, is their business, not mine.”

“Then why were we asked to break you out if you’re not guilty and can beat this charge.  Seems logical, on what you’re saying, we should take you back.  I’ve haven’t been paid yet, and this seems to be a colossal waste of my time.  I need to have a discussion.”

She stood and started walking towards the other door.

“Who are you going to talk to if not me.”

She stopped and partially turned.

“You are just the subject; my business is with the people who employed me to free you.”

“Who are they?”

“Oddly enough, I don’t really know, and for that matter, I don’t really care.  But what I am sure of, it’s none of your business.”

I saw her motion to someone lurking in the shadows, and not one but two men came out into the open where we could see them.  Armed with shotguns and surly expressions.

“Take him and put him in the room with his wife and children.”

“Angelina is here?” he said, somewhat surprised.

“Yes.  Any your mistress, Gianna. It’s going to be interesting if they meet.”

He looked at me just as the two men arrived, each standing on one side of him.

“What the hell is going on here?  This is not what I asked for.  I was supposed to be rescued and taken to a safe house.  There were no orders involving family or anyone else.”  There was just a slight note of fear in his tone.

Amy had said that if Angelina’s father had found out he was having an affair, he was as good as a dead man.  Her father took marriage very seriously.

It was clear Latanzio didn’t.

I shrugged.  “I just do as I’m told.  Best not to annoy her.  She has a really bad temper, and I don’t think she likes you.”

I nodded, and the two men took him away.

Phase one was complete; put the fear God into him.

…

©  Charles Heath 2024

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job? – Episode 5

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

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

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

Is it going to be revenge or just plain bewilderment?

 

There were protocols to handle every situation.  It’s why I was stuck in a room with a dozen others for nearly six months, learning the ropes.

That’s what Alex called it.  He’d also said it was a waste of time because by the time we made it out into the field all the bad guys would be locked up.  Patience wasn’t one of his virtues.

That’s why Alex didn’t make it through the first cut.

It had been a long six months but it had been worth it when ten of us out of the original intake of 24 made it.  I considered myself lucky.

Now three of those men were missing, and I believed they were dead, or if not dead, incapacitated.  This was our first live mission.  We had been excited but held that in check.  We could celebrate our first mission together, and then if it was a success.

At this moment, in my mind, it was anything but a success.

And my anger was building.  I kept the target in sight, and once or twice he nearly slipped away, but I knew the area having studied the maps the day before.  I liked to know what it was like on the ground, and if it was the target’s home turf, then I didn’t want him to have the advantage.

It was those little things, our instructor said, that could make a difference.

It did.

I knew or thought I knew where he was going.

At some point, I was going to have to take a chance, and head him off.  It also meant I might lose him, but I had a point on the map where I believed if he didn’t go where I was anticipating, he’d still be within range to find him again.

Time.

He went right, I went straight ahead.

His most likely destination, the train station.  His training wasn’t much different from mine.  After a calamity, look to make an unexpected exit.  There were buses, but they led basically to the same place.

Five minutes, and I’d know.

I came out on the main street that ran alongside the train tracks, the station was behind me, and he would have to pass me to get there.

There was also a dead end lane between him and me, and that was where I would corral him.

Almost a minute passed, and it was too long.  Two.  The thought of possibly being wrong leapt into my mind, along with the sickening feeling in my stomach of failure.

Two and a half.  I took several steps in his possible direction, then I saw him turn the corner.  I stepped back and out of sight.  I needed him to get to the lane entrance before I made a move.

He was wary and looking around.  He knew I was on his tail.

As he approached the laneway, I stepped out and started walking slowly towards him.  It took a few steps before he realised it was me, and stopped.  Was he surprised at my enterprise, or shocked.

Predictably he turned into the lane.

I ran.

At the entrance to the lane, I stopped and saw him reach the dead end.  There was no climbing over the fence at the end,. Nor were there any ladders or climbable points either side.

He would have to get past me.

I had him, and he knew it.

 

© Charles Heath 2018-2019

Writing a book in 365 days – 365

Day 365

The influence of a writer’s memory

…

The Hidden Muse: How a Writer’s Memories Shape Their Stories

Have you ever wondered where a writer’s ideas come from? While imagination often takes centre stage, the quiet, unsung hero of storytelling is memory. A writer’s recollections—of joy, heartbreak, childhood summers, or quiet moments—act as a wellspring of authenticity, emotion, and cultural depth. Whether conscious or unconscious, memories weave themselves into narratives, transforming personal history into universal art. Let’s explore how memories influence the craft of storytelling and why they’re indispensable to a writer’s voice.

1. Personal Experiences: The Raw Material of Stories

Every life is a tapestry of moments, and for writers, these experiences become raw material. A hike through a forest, a tense argument, or the scent of rain on old pavement can evolve into a pivotal scene or atmosphere in a story. For instance, J.K. Rowling’s childhood fascination with folklore and her own struggles with depression subtly seep into the emotional landscapes of her Harry Potter characters.

Memories act as a “treasure chest” of sensory details—textures, sounds, and smells—that bring fictional worlds to life. A writer might rework a family vacation into a fantastical quest or recast a schoolyard rivalry as a fictional feud. The result? Stories grounded in realism, even when the plot is pure fiction.

Exercise for Writers: Keep a memory journal. Note fleeting recollections, no matter how small. Years later, you’ll discover how these fragments can be reshaped into compelling narrative fuel.

2. Emotional Authenticity: Memory as a Resonance Chamber

Memories are steeped in emotion, and emotions are the lifeblood of storytelling. When a writer draws from their past, their words gain a visceral truth that readers can’t help but feel. A breakup you lived through will carry nuances—lingering anger, bittersweet nostalgia—that you can’t fully invent without personal experience.

Maya Angelou once said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” By channelling their memories, writers give voice to their innermost truths, creating characters and conflicts that resonate on a deeply human level. Think of a mother’s recollection of a child’s first steps becoming the poignant backstory of a character’s protective instincts or a survivor’s trauma morphing into a symbol of resilience.

3. Cultural and Familial Narratives: The Stories We Inherit

Our memories aren’t just individual; they’re shaped by the stories we inherit. Family legends, cultural traditions, and historical contexts form a collective memory that writers often mine for themes. A grandmother’s tales of immigration, a holiday ritual, or a national tragedy becomes part of a writer’s lens, enriching their work with cultural specificity and depth.

For example, Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude is steeped in the myths and history of his Colombian upbringing, while Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Americanah explores the duality of identity through her own experiences as a Nigerian in the West. These stories don’t just entertain—they preserve heritage and spark cross-cultural understanding.

4. Transforming Pain into Art: The Alchemy of Memory

Not all memories are easy to confront, but they often yield the most powerful stories. Writers frequently rework pain—grief, injustice, or personal failure—into fiction, offering both catharsis and connection. Consider how Colson Whitehead reimagined his family’s history of slavery in The Nickel Boys, or how Sylvia Plath’s confessional poetry transformed private anguish into poetry that speaks to millions.

This process isn’t about reliving trauma but about distilling it into something universal. By fictionalising painful memories, writers can explore complex emotions with nuance, giving readers a safe space to reflect on their own struggles.

5. The Creative Process: Mining Memory for Detail

Memory is a writer’s secret tool in the creative process. When crafting dialogue, setting, or character motivations, recollections provide a blueprint. A childhood friend’s lisp, a grandparent’s philosophical musings, or the ache of a long-gone summer home can become the DNA of a fictional character or location.

But memory isn’t just about fact—it’s about mood. A forgotten alleyway lit by sunset or the taste of your first love’s coffee might never happen in real life again, but in a story, they become immortal.

Conclusion: Your Memories Are Your Superpower

Next time you pick up a pen—or a laptop—remind yourself that your past is a universe waiting to be explored. Memories are not just relics of the past; they’re the tools that make stories real. They allow writers to breathe life into characters, build worlds with texture, and speak truths that transcend time.

So, ask yourself: What hidden gems lie in your own memories? What stories are begging to be reborn? The next great novel, poem, or script might be hiding in the quiet corners of your past.

Final Challenge: Pull out an old photo, a birthday card, or a childhood diary entry. Let the memories spark a scene, a character, or a theme. You never know where it might lead.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Asuncion

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

Nature & Wildlife Experiences

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

Unique Cultural Immersion

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

What I learned about writing – The Timeless Lessons of Mrs. Dalloway

Virginia Woolf in the Literary Landscape – and the Timeless Lessons of Mrs. Dalloway

Introduction: A Voice That Still Echoes

When you hear the name Virginia Woolf, the first images that usually surface are the tranquil gardens of Bloomsbury, a quiet house on the banks of the River Ouse, and a pen that turned everyday moments into lyrical reveries. Yet Woolf is far more than a historical figure; she is a literary compass that continues to steer writers, scholars, and readers toward new ways of seeing the world.

In this post we’ll map out where Woolf sits in the broader literary map—modernism, feminism, narrative experimentation—and then dive deep into the lessons that her masterpiece Mrs Dalloway offers to anyone navigating the complexities of 21st‑century life.

1. Virginia Woolf’s Position in the Literary Landscape

Literary TraditionWhat Woolf ContributedWhy It Matters
ModernismPioneered stream‑of‑consciousness and interior monologue; shattered linear time.Opened the door for writers to explore subjective reality rather than external plot.
Feminist ThoughtWrote essays like A Room of One’s Own; gave voice to women’s interior lives.Laid the groundwork for contemporary gender studies and the demand for women’s spaces—both literal and metaphorical.
Narrative FormBlended past and present, memory and perception (e.g., To the Lighthouse, Mrs Dalloway).Demonstrated that narrative can be a psychological map rather than a chronological itinerary.
Literary CriticismChampioned impressionistic reading over moralistic or didactic approaches.Influenced how we teach literature today—favoring close reading, tone, and mood over plot summarisation.
Social CommentaryCaptured post‑WWI disillusionment, class stratification, and mental health stigma.Provides a historical lens that still resonates with today’s conversations around trauma and inequality.

The Modernist Hub

Woolf’s work belongs to the core of high modernism, a movement that includes James Joyce, T.S. Eliot, and Marcel Proust. What makes Woolf distinct within that circle is her feminine sensibility—she did not merely adopt the avant‑garde techniques, she re‑oriented them toward women’s interiority. While Joyce’s Ulysses maps the streets of Dublin, Woolf maps the rooms of the mind; while Eliot’s The Waste Land fragments Western civilisation, Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway fragments a single day in London to reveal an entire civilisation of feeling.

A Bridge to Contemporary Voices

Fast‑forward to today: authors like Zadie Smith, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, and Rachel C. Vogels honour Woolf’s legacy by blending narrative experimentation with social critique. In creative nonfiction, the “Woolfian” approach—melding memoir, essay, and fiction—has become a staple for writers exploring trauma, identity, and queerness. Woolf’s influence reaches beyond the novel: her essays have been adapted into podcasts, her notebooks inspire visual artists, and her ideas about the “room” echo in discussions about digital safe‑spaces.

2. Mrs. Dalloway: A Day, A Life, A Lesson

Mrs. Dalloway (1925) may seem like a simple account of a high‑society woman preparing a party, yet the novel is a microcosm of modern existence. By following Clarissa Dalloway’s thoughts as they intertwine with those of Septimus Warren Smith—a war‑scarred veteran—Woolf forces us to confront several enduring lessons.

Lesson 1: Time Is Fluid, Not Fixed

“Mrs. Dalloway said she would go to the party.”

Woolf plays with “psychological time”. The narrative leaps between present moments, childhood memories, and future anticipations, all within a single day. The lesson? Our perception of time shapes our experience of life. In an era of instant messaging and binge‑watching, we often feel time is either accelerating or standing still. Woolf reminds us that moments are layered—past informs present, and present reframes past—encouraging a more mindful engagement with each passing hour.

Takeaway for Readers

  • Practice “temporal breathing.” When you notice a thought drift to a memory, pause and observe how it colours what you’re doing now.
  • Write a “time collage.” List a day’s events alongside the memories they trigger; watch the pattern emerge.

Lesson 2: The Invisible Ties That Bind Us

Clarissa’s party is a social hub, but the novel reveals the silent bonds—between mother and daughter, lover and friend, citizen and state. Although the characters rarely converse directly about their deeper fears, Woola’s omniscient yet intimate narration pulls these undercurrents to the surface.

What we learn: Human connections are often invisible, yet they shape our identities. In modern life, the rise of remote work and digital communication can make us feel isolated. Woolf’s portrait shows that even when we are physically apart, our lives echo each other’s rhythms.

Takeaway for Readers

  • Map your invisible networks. Sketch (or list) the people whose lives intersect with yours, even if you rarely speak to them. Recognise the subtle influence they hold.
  • Cultivate “listening spaces.” Like Woolf’s quiet passages, create moments where you simply absorb another’s presence without the pressure to respond.

Lesson 3: Mental Health Is Not a Private Secret

Septimus Warren Smith is the novel’s tragic counterpoint: a World‑I veteran haunted by shell‑shock (what we would now call PTSD). Woolf portrays his mental disintegration with stark empathy, refusing to treat his condition as a mere plot device. The result is an early, powerful protest against the stigma of mental illness.

What we learn: Our societies still marginalise those who struggle with inner demons. Woolf invites us to see Septimus not as “other,” but as a mirror reflecting the fragile line between sanity and madness that every person walks.

Takeaway for Readers

  • Practice “vigilant compassion.” When you hear a friend speak of anxiety or depression, resist the urge to rationalise; simply sit with them.
  • Advocate for systemic change. Woolf’s critique of early 20th‑century psychiatric institutions echoes today’s calls for more humane mental‑health policies.

Lesson 4: The Power of the Ordinary

If you strip away the lavish party, Mrs. Dalloway is a meditation on the beauty of the mundane: a flower in a garden, the sound of a carriage, the rhythm of a heartbeat. Woolf asks us to recognise that every day contains the potential for revelation—if we only attend to it.

What we learn: In an age saturated with spectacle, the ordinary can be radical. By pausing to notice, we foster gratitude and creativity.

Takeaway for Readers

  • Start a “daily wonder” journal. Write one sensory detail each day that caught your attention.
  • Slow down the scroll. Allocate a “no‑screen” hour each week to observe your surroundings without distraction.

3. Bringing Woolf Into the 21st Century Classroom (and Beyond)

If you’re a teacher, book club leader, or avid reader, here are three quick ways to make Woolf’s insights actionable:

ActivityGoalHow It Works
“Stream‑of‑Consciousness Remix”Experience Woolf’s narrative technique firsthand.Ask participants to write a 5‑minute “thought‑flow” about a mundane task (e.g., making coffee).
“Dalloway Dialogue”Explore the novel’s social critique.Pair students as Clarissa and Septimus; have them write a short conversation that reveals their inner conflicts.
“Temporal Collage”Visualise Woolf’s fluid time.Create a digital collage using photos, old letters, and music clips that represent a single day’s emotional timeline.

These exercises not only deepen appreciation for Woollian craft but also cultivate empathy, reflection, and narrative awareness—skills that are increasingly valuable in a world that prizes rapid production over thoughtful consumption.

4. The Bottom Line: Why Virginia Woolf Still Matters

Virginia Woolf sits at a crossroads of artistic daring and social conscience. She taught us that:

  1. Narrative can be a mirror of consciousness, not just a vehicle for plot.
  2. Women’s interior lives deserve the same literary gravitas accorded to male heroes.
  3. Literature can be an act of quiet rebellion—against war, against oppressive mental‑health regimes, against rigid temporal structures.

Mrs. Dalloway remains an infinite well—each reading yields fresh insights about time, connection, mental health, and the sanctity of the everyday. In a period when attention is fragmented, Woolf’s invitation to linger, to listen to our own thoughts, and to recognise the interwoven humanity around us is more urgent than ever.

Final Thought: A Modern Prompt

Write a paragraph about a single ordinary moment in your day, then let your mind wander—what memory, future hope, or hidden fear surfaces?

If you’ve ever felt the weight of a day slipping away, you’ve already taken a step into Woolf’s world. Keep stepping, and you’ll discover that the line between fiction and life is thinner—and richer—than you ever imagined.

Feel free to share your reflections in the comments below, or tag us on social media with #WoolfToday. Let’s keep the conversation alive, just as Clarissa kept her parties buzzing, and Septimus kept his thoughts reverberating.

References & Further Reading

  • Woolf, V. (1925). Mrs. Dalloway. Hogarth Press.
  • Woolf, V. (1929). A Room of One’s Own. Harcourt Brace.
  • Richards, A. (2004). Virginia Woolf and the Modernist Novel. Cambridge University Press.
  • Bell, A. (2020). “The Stream of Consciousness in Contemporary Fiction.” Journal of Narrative Theory, 50(2).

Happy reading!

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first.  I have come, basically to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us with an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that.  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Montevideo

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

Unique Local Exploration

  • Experience Candombe in Palermo or Barrio Sur: Instead of a formal show, witness the authentic candombe music and dance that originates from the descendants of liberated African slaves, recognised by UNESCO as intangible cultural heritage. This is often performed in the streets of the Palermo and Barrio Sur neighbourhoods on Sunday evenings.
  • Winery Day Trip in Canelones: Venture outside the city to the surrounding Canelones region, known for its wineries and vineyards. Explore local, family-owned bodegas like Bodega Spinoglio or Pizzorno Family Estates for a tour and tasting of the local Tannat wine, offering a more intimate experience than city-centre wine bars.
  • Discover the Castillo Pittamiglio: Explore this unique architectural landmark, also known as the “Alchemist’s Castle”, a building with an eclectic mix of styles (Gothic, Art Nouveau, etc.) built by an eccentric architect. It offers guided tours and a fascinating, slightly mysterious history, distinct from the city’s neoclassical buildings.
  • Browse the Feria de Tristán Narvaja: Skip the standard souvenir shops and visit this large, vibrant street market on Sunday mornings in the Cordón neighbourhood. You can find everything from antiques and second-hand books to local crafts, fresh produce, and unique oddities, providing a genuine slice of local life.
  • Visit the Jardín Botánico: For a peaceful natural escape, the Montevideo Botanical Garden in the Prado neighbourhood is a serene urban oasis. It features diverse plant species, walking trails, and a Japanese garden, and is a great spot to enjoy a quiet picnic or read a book, largely frequented by locals. 

Writing a book in 365 days – 365

Day 365

The influence of a writer’s memory

…

The Hidden Muse: How a Writer’s Memories Shape Their Stories

Have you ever wondered where a writer’s ideas come from? While imagination often takes centre stage, the quiet, unsung hero of storytelling is memory. A writer’s recollections—of joy, heartbreak, childhood summers, or quiet moments—act as a wellspring of authenticity, emotion, and cultural depth. Whether conscious or unconscious, memories weave themselves into narratives, transforming personal history into universal art. Let’s explore how memories influence the craft of storytelling and why they’re indispensable to a writer’s voice.

1. Personal Experiences: The Raw Material of Stories

Every life is a tapestry of moments, and for writers, these experiences become raw material. A hike through a forest, a tense argument, or the scent of rain on old pavement can evolve into a pivotal scene or atmosphere in a story. For instance, J.K. Rowling’s childhood fascination with folklore and her own struggles with depression subtly seep into the emotional landscapes of her Harry Potter characters.

Memories act as a “treasure chest” of sensory details—textures, sounds, and smells—that bring fictional worlds to life. A writer might rework a family vacation into a fantastical quest or recast a schoolyard rivalry as a fictional feud. The result? Stories grounded in realism, even when the plot is pure fiction.

Exercise for Writers: Keep a memory journal. Note fleeting recollections, no matter how small. Years later, you’ll discover how these fragments can be reshaped into compelling narrative fuel.

2. Emotional Authenticity: Memory as a Resonance Chamber

Memories are steeped in emotion, and emotions are the lifeblood of storytelling. When a writer draws from their past, their words gain a visceral truth that readers can’t help but feel. A breakup you lived through will carry nuances—lingering anger, bittersweet nostalgia—that you can’t fully invent without personal experience.

Maya Angelou once said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” By channelling their memories, writers give voice to their innermost truths, creating characters and conflicts that resonate on a deeply human level. Think of a mother’s recollection of a child’s first steps becoming the poignant backstory of a character’s protective instincts or a survivor’s trauma morphing into a symbol of resilience.

3. Cultural and Familial Narratives: The Stories We Inherit

Our memories aren’t just individual; they’re shaped by the stories we inherit. Family legends, cultural traditions, and historical contexts form a collective memory that writers often mine for themes. A grandmother’s tales of immigration, a holiday ritual, or a national tragedy becomes part of a writer’s lens, enriching their work with cultural specificity and depth.

For example, Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude is steeped in the myths and history of his Colombian upbringing, while Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Americanah explores the duality of identity through her own experiences as a Nigerian in the West. These stories don’t just entertain—they preserve heritage and spark cross-cultural understanding.

4. Transforming Pain into Art: The Alchemy of Memory

Not all memories are easy to confront, but they often yield the most powerful stories. Writers frequently rework pain—grief, injustice, or personal failure—into fiction, offering both catharsis and connection. Consider how Colson Whitehead reimagined his family’s history of slavery in The Nickel Boys, or how Sylvia Plath’s confessional poetry transformed private anguish into poetry that speaks to millions.

This process isn’t about reliving trauma but about distilling it into something universal. By fictionalising painful memories, writers can explore complex emotions with nuance, giving readers a safe space to reflect on their own struggles.

5. The Creative Process: Mining Memory for Detail

Memory is a writer’s secret tool in the creative process. When crafting dialogue, setting, or character motivations, recollections provide a blueprint. A childhood friend’s lisp, a grandparent’s philosophical musings, or the ache of a long-gone summer home can become the DNA of a fictional character or location.

But memory isn’t just about fact—it’s about mood. A forgotten alleyway lit by sunset or the taste of your first love’s coffee might never happen in real life again, but in a story, they become immortal.

Conclusion: Your Memories Are Your Superpower

Next time you pick up a pen—or a laptop—remind yourself that your past is a universe waiting to be explored. Memories are not just relics of the past; they’re the tools that make stories real. They allow writers to breathe life into characters, build worlds with texture, and speak truths that transcend time.

So, ask yourself: What hidden gems lie in your own memories? What stories are begging to be reborn? The next great novel, poem, or script might be hiding in the quiet corners of your past.

Final Challenge: Pull out an old photo, a birthday card, or a childhood diary entry. Let the memories spark a scene, a character, or a theme. You never know where it might lead.

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

In a Word: Egg

 

This is another of those words that can be used for manly different situations.

But…

What happened to it being just an egg, you know the sort you can have for breakfast, fried, scrambled or boiled.  Or eggs Benedict.

Or…

We can go down that path where the discussion is about what came first, the chicken or the egg?  Don’t ask me, it could be both.

So, now it seems egg has a few other meanings that could be considered somewhat obscure, such as,

He is a good egg.

Wow, comparing someone to an egg?  I guess I’d hate to be compared to a rotten egg.

 

What about, the crowd egged the man on to start a fight.

Well, perhaps a couple of rowdy schoolboys looking for some action behind the shelter shed, or at least that’s what we called it when I went to school (when I’m told, dinosaurs walked the earth)

 

Then,

If you do something embarrassing, then you are said to finish up with egg on your face.

Oh dear, been there a few times.

 

Or…

If you were to put all your money into that match tree forest in Ecuador, that’s the equivalent to putting all your eggs in one basket.

In other words, when you discover that the match tree forest in Ecuador was really your financial advisor’s private bank account and he’s now living in a non-extradition country, you understand just what that expression means.

In other words, diversify.

And lastly, if the above happens to you, then it’s time to go on an expedition, to find the goose that laid the golden egg.