Category: Blog

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 246

Day 246 – Are modern novels boring?

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Are Modern Novels Boring? (And How Do We Avoid the Literary Abyss)

Scroll through Goodreads, wander the aisles of a major bookstore, or tune into BookTok, and you’ll find a paradoxical landscape. We are currently living through a golden age of publishing volume. Yet, a nagging, heresy-sounding question is echoing among avid readers, critics, and writers alike:

Are modern novels… kind of boring?

It’s a controversial take. After all, thousands of brilliantly crafted, highly praised books hit the shelves every year. So why does a pervasive sense of literary fatigue seem to have gripped the reading public? Why do so many contemporary books feel like they were written by an algorithm, polished by a focus group, and designed to be consumed like fast food rather than savored like a fine wine?

Let’s dive into the state of contemporary fiction, explore why modern novels sometimes feel like an uninspired trudge, and discover how readers can navigate past the noise to avoid the terrifying “literary abyss.”

Part 1: Why Do Modern Novels Feel Boring?

To be clear, “boring” doesn’t necessarily mean slow. In fact, many modern novels move at a breakneck pace. Rather, the boredom stems from a sense of sameness, predictability, and a retreat from genuine artistic risk.

Here are the primary culprits turning contemporary fiction into a snooze-fest:

1. The Domestication of the Plot (The “Cozy” Trap)

In an effort to remain hyper-relatable and emotionally safe, a massive slice of modern literary fiction has retreated into the mundane. We are flooded with novels about contemporary people sitting in apartments, navigating micro-aggressions, having esoteric conversations about modern dating, and agonizing over career pivots.

While everyday life can be profound, too many modern novels mistake triviality for depth. When every book is a quiet, low-stakes character study about upper-middle-class ennui, the genre begins to smell of stale coffee and self-absorption.

2. The Algorithmic Homogenization of Style

Publishing is a business, and businesses hate losing money. In the age of algorithmic marketing, publishing houses increasingly lean toward formulas that have worked before.

This has birthed a distinct “contemporary literary voice”: clean, hyper-accessible, emotionally explicit, and largely devoid of stylistic idiosyncrasies. Authors are often encouraged to write in a cinematic, easily translatable style that makes adaptation for Netflix or HBO effortless. Gone are the eccentric prose styles of the past; in their place is a bland, standardized English designed not to offend anyone’s palate.

3. “Show, Don’t Tell” Has Become “Explain Everything”

Good writing historically trusted the reader to read between the lines. Modern fiction, however, is terrified of ambiguity.

Influenced perhaps by the digital age’s demand for instant clarity, contemporary novels often hold the reader’s hand a little too tightly. Themes are spelled out explicitly in the dialogue. Characters give TED Talks to explain their internal psychology. When a book does all the emotional heavy lifting for you, the act of reading ceases to be a dynamic collaboration and becomes a passive lecture.

4. The Moralization of Art

Literature has always explored morality, but a growing trend in modern fiction is the demand that characters (and by extension, authors) pass strict contemporary ideological purity tests.

When novels become moral instruction manuals rather than explorations of human complexity, they lose their spark. Great literature thrives in the gray areas, the hypocrisies, and the moral ugliness of humanity. When every character has to be a pristine avatar of virtue—or an unambiguously cartoonish villain—the narrative tension evaporates.

Part 2: How to Spot a “Boring” Book Before You Buy

If you want to protect your reading time from the abyss of blandness, you need a radar system. Be wary of books that feature these red flags:

  • The Over-caffeinated Blurb: If the back cover features quotes comparing the author to Joan Didion, Sally Rooney, and Ottessa Moshfegh all at once, you are likely looking at a manufactured trend, not an authentic voice.
  • The High-Concept Gimmick: A book whose entire value proposition is a quirky premise (“What if an AI ran a coffee shop in a post-apocalyptic IKEA?”) but lacks stylistic prose or psychological depth.
  • The Trauma-Drop: Books that rely on an early, shocking revelation of trauma to generate forced emotional stakes, while the rest of the prose coasts on cruise control.

Part 3: How Do We Avoid the Literary Abyss?

If you are suffering from reading fatigue, do not give up on reading altogether. You simply need to change your navigation strategy. Here is how you can step back from the brink of the literary abyss and fall in love with reading again.

1. Read Widely Across Time

There is an entire cemetery of brilliant literature out there waiting to be exhumed. If modern fiction feels flat, step back. Read the 19th-century Russians for sheer psychological depth; read the mid-century modernists for stylistic fireworks; read genre fiction from the 1970s and 80s that prioritized pure, unadulterated storytelling.

A healthy reading diet resembles a balanced ecosystem: mix the old with the new.

2. Seek Out Small Presses and Indie Publishers

While the Big Five publishers are increasingly risk-averse, independent presses (like Graywolf, Coffee House Press, New Directions, and Europa Editions) are taking massive artistic gambles.

Indie publishers are the lifeblood of contemporary literary innovation. They are printing translations of international authors, genre-bending experiments, and unapologetic prose that traditional houses won’t touch because they aren’t “marketable enough.”

3. Embrace Translation

American and British fiction often suffer from a specific cultural insularity. By looking outward and reading translated literature, you instantly escape the stylistic homogeneity of the Anglosphere.

Writers from South Korea, Argentina, Norway, Japan, and France bring entirely different philosophical frameworks, cultural rhythms, and narrative structures to the page. Reading translated works is the literary equivalent of taking off virtual reality goggles and seeing the real world for the first time.

4. Support Books That Take Risks

When you find an author who refuses to play it safe—someone who uses weird punctuation, writes unlikeable characters, tackles bizarre subjects, or structures a plot like a labyrinth—support them. Buy their books, recommend them to friends, and let publishers know that readers still reward audacity.

Conclusion: The Horizon is Still Bright

Are modern novels boring? Many of them are, yes. But boredom is simply a symptom of a bloated marketplace prioritizing commercial safety over artistic peril.

The literary abyss is real, but it is entirely avoidable. By raising our standards, looking beyond the bestseller lists, and championing books with teeth, grit, and originality, we can push past the noise.

Great, vital, mind-altering books are still being written—we just have to be a little braver in how we look for them.

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‘Sunday in New York’ – A beta reader’s view

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.

I’ve been guilty of it myself, as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.

For the main characters, Harry and Alison, other issues are driving their relationship.

For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.

For Harry, it is the fact that he has a beautiful and desirable wife, his belief that she is the object of other men’s desires, and, in particular, his immediate superior’s.

Between observation, the less-than-honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.

When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, and she realises only the truth will save their marriage.

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.

And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, is that nothing is ever what it seems.

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Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

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The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 35

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 prioritizing.

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

Chasing leads, maybe

 

She gave me a minute to think about the situation, and then said what I was thinking, “So he could be anywhere?”

“He was dead.  I felt for a pulse.  There wasn’t one.”

I could interpret that expression on her face, ‘you’re not a doctor’.

She turned another page, read a few lines, then made a note at the bottom.

It read, if my deciphering was up to scratch, ‘doesn’t know if subject dead or not’.

She looked up again.  “It appears these documents are out there,” she waved her hand in the air, “somewhere.  Fortunately, they have not turned up, not has someone tried to sell them back or to the newspapers, so we’re lucky.  So far.  That isn’t going to last for much longer.  Every extra day out there is another chance for the government to be embarrassed.”

“You know what the contents are?”

“Don’t be silly.  That’s above my pay grade, and besides, you and I are better off not knowing.  So, what you need to do is find O’Connell and/or find the documents on this USB drive.”

She slid a card across the table.  It had a name and a telephone number.  Monica Sherive.  A mobile number, a burner no doubt that couldn’t be traced back to her.

“You find either, you tell me first.”

“Nobbin?”

“Second, and when I tell you.”

“So you don’t trust him either?”

“At the moment, for both you and I have to be careful who we trust.”

I added her to the list of people I couldn’t trust, not that she had told me I could trust her.  Yet.

“And if I get contacted by Severin again?”

“Have you?”

I had thought about not telling her about that brief meeting where he told me about the USB drive, but it couldn’t do any harm.  At least she hadn’t asked me if I knew about the USB, which was something, I suppose.

“Yes.  Once.  Told me to keep my head down.  And asked me if O’Connell had time to talk to me.  It was the same answer I gave him back in the alley.  No.  I’d just managed to corner him when he was shot.”

“By Severin, or this other fellow,” she shuffled back several pages, then said, “Maury?”

“No.  That was what was odd about it.  The shot came from somewhere else.  A sniper I would have thought.”

And, my brain suddenly moving into overdrive, piecing together what might be a coincidence, but in our business, they were rarely coincidences.  A sniper shot him., say Nobbin or one of his people, he looks dead, waits for a call to the cleaners, intercepts it, and collects the so-called dead O’Connell.  It was a good conspiracy theory.

And as far-fetched as one.

Severin had to have the body somewhere, trying to figure out how to bring O’Connell back to life so he could torture the USB location out of him.

Hell, that was as twisted as the conspiracy theory.

Time to change the subject.  “Do you have any idea who Severin and Maury are?”

She went to the back of the file and pulled out some photographs, mug shots perhaps of staff members.  She put five faces in front of me and asked me if the two were there.

They were.  The first, with the name of David Westcott, and the fourth with the name of Bernie Salvin.

“Who are they?”

“They used to work in the training department for ten or so years ago.  Westcott was also a handler for several years.  They both requested a transfer to operations, and we give a mission.  Six agents were assigned, and all six were killed, an investigation after the fact found that their identities had been leaked to the enemy before they reached the target.”

“They gave them up?”

“Nobody knows for sure.  There were others in that group, but in the end, the department retired them all.  All their years in training served them well.  We found the place where you were trained.”

Another photograph of the main building.  I nodded.

“It was an old training facility closed down five years ago.  It was just sitting there waiting for an enterprising crew.  It won’t happen again.  Needless to say, we haven’t been able to find either of them, only the people they employed, who believed it was in good faith.  A mess in other words.  Now, go.  Find me answers.”

She stood.  The meeting was over.

© Charles Heath 2020

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

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

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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.

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© Charles Heath 2015-2020

newechocover5rs

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 91

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 instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

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The aftermath and goodbye

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No one in the room, of those who had been forced to remain, could quite comprehend what just happened.

You could read about it in a newspaper, or hear about it on television during the news hour, and think, well, I wasn’t there but it must have been traumatic for those who were, but traumatic didn’t even begin to describe what I just witnessed.

It took everyone more than a few minutes to process those last few seconds before they could move, let alone think about what they were going to do.  With the threat incapacitated, there was no reason to, at least, not straight away.

I was surprised then, that after however long it had been since those events, I heard Charlene’s voice cutting through the fog.

“Are you alright?”

She was shaking me by the shoulder, sitting on the floor next to me, and she looked, and sounded, visibly upset.  I was surprised she was still in town much less anywhere near here.

“I wasn’t the target,” I said, and then realized that was hardly relevant to anything; it was just the first response that popped into my head.

I could then suddenly hear everything as if someone had turned up the volume, and the first background sound was Benderby’s daughter crying.

“You were almost in the line of fire for one of the marksmen.  I thought he’d misaimed. For a moment there, when I saw you fall…

She still cared, which was something I should appreciate.  I took a moment before lifting myself off the floor to sit beside her.

“This was a disaster.  Your father should have realized a woman with a gun would be hell-bent on revenge and wasn’t going to be talked down.  She probably used the time it took to get me to mentally prepare so she could kill the pair of them.  And I’m surprised you didn’t see it coming.”

“It might not have come to this if she hadn’t known Alex and Vince were suspected of killing her son.  Did you tell her about Alex and Vince?”

It was a meaningful look, one that conveyed disapproval because she was right, it had to come from me because I was only one of a very few who knew the actual facts of the matter.”

Better then, to admit it.  “No.  But I told my mother, while I was in hospital before I had time to consider the ramifications.  That was some deal Benderby pulled off, to have Vince strung up and a signing a confession to get Alex off the hook.”

“He didn’t exactly get away scot-free.  He still has a string of minor charges to face, and there will be jail time, one way or another.”

I glanced over at Mrs. Boggs spread out on the floor where she had collapsed after being shot at least twice.

Almost before she hit the floor, two deputies were beside her, removing the gun, and checking if she was still alive.  I imagine the sheriff, by the door, phone to his ear, had called for medical assistance, perhaps out of deference to a woman who was a friend, or because he had to show all care and respect for her so a good defense attorney didn’t find a reason to have the case dismissed for lack of respect.  There had been problems handling perpetrators in the past, perpetrators who got off on technicalities.

But all that was moot if she was dead.  She seemed to be alive when she hit the floor, and then hadn’t moved in the last few minutes.  My first thought was that they had killed her, but I saw her hand move, which meant she was still alive, incredibly good shooting on the part of the marksmen considering the obstacles, and the inclination to stop the perpetrator permanently.

Around us, several other deputies were escorting the remainder of the patrons out of the room, now officially a crime scene designated by the ‘do not cross’ tape lines going up.

The sheriff had made it his job to escort Mrs. Benderby, and her daughter, out of the room, and, no doubt get a statement after being checked out by a paramedic.

I could hear sirens in the distance, so they would be arriving imminently.

A. Minute or so later, I was the last civilian in the room. 

I turned to Charlene, “You do realize that both Boggs senior and Ormiston were in that cave, before Alex and Vince cleaned up.”

She smiled.  “Actually, as a matter of fact, I do.  I took a forensic team back to see if we could find either of Alex’s or Vince’s DNA, and not only did we fund it, but the skeletal remains of what appears to be four individuals.”

“Boggs, Ormiston, and two pirates.  One had a sword through the rib cage so I suspect there was a little dissent when the treasure was being divvied up.”

“I’m sure that will be confirmed soon.  I wanted to nail Alex’s ass to the wall, now it appears we might have enough evidence to put old man Cossatino away too.  He was picked up at the airport trying to leave the country.  An all-around good day for team justice.”

“Except for Mrs. Boggs”

“I’m sure she’ll plead temporary insanity, overcome by the grief of losing her son.”

Flippant, perhaps, or just cynical?  It was a bit early in her career to be like that, so perhaps that might be a little of her father rubbing off.

“Perhaps she was hoping the police would kill her.  After all, she has very little left to live for.  I doubt pleading insanity was her first thought when she walked into this room.  You might want to study up on the human condition a little before you start labeling people, and especially if you are thinking of continuing on this detective thing.”

That came out wrong, more a rebuke than an observation, and judging by her expression, she took it as the former.

“There will always be a lot of things we could do better.  You might consider next time to dissuade your friends from doing stupid things, like Nadia kidnapping Alex and Vince in the first place.”

“If you had done your job…”

Neither of us had seen the sheriff come over, and he was there long enough to be privy to the last comments.  “I’m sure at the end of the day, justice will prevail despite the convoluted route it took us to get there.  But for argument’s sake, neither Alex nor Vince would press charges against Nadia, so it was not kidnapping, and since the mall belongs to the Benderbys, neither wanted to press for trespass, so, all in all, no harm done.”

He glared at his daughter.  “I asked you to get his statement, not debate the legalities of the situation. Get it done and get back to the station.”

With that said, he left.

Charlene stood up, glared at me, then said, “no good deed goes unpunished.  Do you want to give it here, or at the station?”

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© Charles Heath 2020-2022

The 2am Rant: It’s dark, it’s late, it’s raining…

Yes, it’s dark and late at night on this side of the world, and I’m guessing where you are, it’s probably winter, the sun’s disappeared, the day is freezing cold, and you’re having a hard time keeping warm.

Here, in the so-called land down under, which surprisingly a lot of people from the other side of the world do not know about, it is wet and cool, where it should be sunny and hot as well as humid.

Now, hang on, that can’t be true; others don’t know about us, because we all know the world is round and there has to be something or somewhere opposite.  I know that north we have China, and Europe, and further away, the United States.

Been to China, Europe and the United States, so I know you’re all there, somewhere.

And, as you can see, the rain and the cold have amped up the boredom factor and pushed me to do anything other than writing.  I have three jobs I’m supposed to be doing,

  1. Editing the second Walthenson PI, a Private Detective novel
  2. Writing two episodes of a serial story about surveillance going wrong, and
  3. Finishing off some new travel blog posts

None of them is appealing to me at the moment.

Instead, I find myself looking at what is shown on Winter TV in the US, one of which is reruns of Snowpiercer and is suitably cold.  It’s also complicated, and sometimes a little hard to follow, which means it takes two viewings to understand what’s going on.  It will be interesting to see where series three leads us … and I’m hoping Melanie will be back

Fascinating.

Then there are several of my favourites, FBI, The Rookie, a show called The Equaliser, a new version of an old TV show I used to watch many years ago.  Another will be the next series of Bridgerton, which was odd but interesting since we like those Jane Austen-like programs.  Now, hopefully, there will be another series of Miss Scarlett and the Duke, set in Victorian England.

And as for the blacklist, since Liz left, it had gone downhill … let’s hope they find something to lift it, like Liz’s evil twin sister!  Perhaps wisely, they wrapped it up, and it’s over.

There’s more, but I’d better get back to work.

What I learned about writing – The Editing roundabout

I think that most authors are their own worst enemies!

Just when you think that the story is done, and you’re on the third re-read, just to make sure…

Damn!

I don’t like the way that chapter reads, and what’s worse, it’s about the tenth time I’ve looked at it.

It doesn’t matter the last three times you read it, it was just fine, or the editor has read it, and the chapter passed without any major comment.

I think the main problem I have is letting go.  For some odd reason, certain parts of a story sometimes seem to me as though they are not complete, or may be missing a vital clue or connection for the story’s continuity.

That, of course, happens when you rewrite a section that is earlier in the story, and then have to make ongoing changes.

Yes, I hear the stern warnings that I should have made a comprehensive outline at the beginning, but the trouble is, I can change the ending as I’m writing it and then must go back and add the hooks earlier on.  Not the best method, but isn’t that what an editor is for, to pick up the missed connections and out-of-the-blue events that happen for no reason?

I find that often after leaving a finished story for a month before the next reading, the whole picture must formulate itself in my head, so when I re-read, there was always a problem, one I didn’t want to think about until the re-read.

Even then, it might survive a second pass.

I know the scene is in trouble when I get to it, and alarm bells are going off.  I find anything else to do but look at it.

So, here I am, making major changes.

But at least now I am satisfied with where it’s going.

Only 325 pages to go!

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 245

Day 245 – Vivid Descriptions

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What Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon Teaches Us About Plotting and Vivid Description

When we talk about the titans of American crime fiction, one name towers above the rest: Dashiell Hammett. Before Raymond Chandler gave us poetic metaphors, and long before modern thriller writers cluttered pages with convoluted twists, Hammett stripped the genre down to its bone and sinew.

At the centre of his legacy is The Maltese Falcon (1930). Beyond its status as the quintessential noir novel, The Maltese Falcon is a masterclass in two distinct literary arts: exemplary plotting and vivid, objective description.

If you are a writer looking to sharpen your craft, or simply a lover of brilliant storytelling, Hammett’s seminal work offers invaluable lessons. Let’s dive into the anatomy of The Maltese Falcon and explore what we can learn from the man who revolutionised modern fiction.

1. The Power of the Objective Eye (Vivid Description Through Action)

Many aspiring writers believe that “vivid description” means loading a paragraph with purple prose, elaborate metaphors, and sweeping adjectives. Hammett proves the exact opposite.

As a former operative for the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, Hammett wrote what he knew. His descriptions are rooted in strict realism. He doesn’t tell us how a character feels; he shows us how they move, how they dress, and how they react to their environment.

The Iconic Introduction of Sam Spade

Look at how Hammett introduces his protagonist, private investigator Sam Spade, in the opening pages:

“Spade’s blondish gray hair was cut short, made his head-top look like a rose-bush with the blossoms clipped off. Eyes-yellow-gray—were small and wary. His chin prominent and hard… He sat reading a newspaper with a hard-boiled unconcern.”

Notice what’s missing? There is no deep internal monologue explaining Spade’s moral ambiguity. Instead, Hammett uses concrete, sharp imagery—”hard,” “wary,” “blossoms clipped off”—to paint a picture that lets the reader’s imagination do the heavy lifting.

What We Can Learn:

  • Show, Don’t Preach: Let your characters’ physical traits and micro-actions reveal their inner psychology.
  • Precision Over Poetry: Choose nouns and verbs that pack a punch. Instead of saying a room was messy, describe the exact placement of the half-empty highball glass and the unread mail.
  • Behavior as Characterization: Hammett understood that in high-stakes environments, people reveal themselves through posture, tics, and glances, not soliloquies.

2. The Architecture of Exemplary Plotting

A common trap in genre fiction is the “plot maze”—where authors add twists just to confuse the reader, resulting in a narrative that collapses under its own weight. The Maltese Falcon avoids this by treating its plot like a piece of precision machinery. Every scene moves the ball forward, and every character has a distinct, driving motivation.

The plot kicks off when Brigid O’Shaughnessy (disguised as “Miss Wonderley”) walks into Spade’s office with a lie. From that moment, a chain reaction of greed is set in motion, drawing in a colourful rogues’ gallery: Kasper Cairo, Joel Cairo, and the ominous Kasper Gutman (the “Fat Man”).

They are all hunting the elusive, jewel-encrusted black bird. But the falcon itself is famously a MacGuffin—an object that drives the plot forward while ultimately holding no intrinsic value.

What We Can Learn:

  • Character-Driven Plotting: Hammett doesn’t force his characters to do unnatural things just to make a plot twist work. The plot is an inevitable collision course driven by greedy, desperate people all chasing the same prize.
  • Master the MacGuffin: Give your characters a focal point of desire, but remember that the pursuit of the object is always more interesting than the object itself. The tension comes from the shifting alliances and betrayals among the hunters.
  • Tight Causality: In a well-plotted story, Scene A must lead directly to Scene B, connected by either “therefore” or “but”—never “and then.” Hammett ensures that every lie told and every body dropped has immediate consequences for Sam Spade.

3. The Enigma of the Protagonist (Ambiguity is Magnetic)

Traditional heroes up to that point were often clear-cut champions of good. Sam Spade shattered that mold. He is sleeping with his late partner’s wife, he is mercenary about his fees, and at the end of the novel, he turns the woman he loves (and desires) over to the police because, as he tells her, “I’m not going to play the sap for you.”

Hammett teaches us that a protagonist doesn’t need to be likable to be compelling. They need to have a code. Spade’s code isn’t about traditional morality; it’s about professional pride and survival in a corrupt world.

What We Can Learn:

  • Embrace Moral Grey Areas: Flawed protagonists are infinitely more relatable and realistic than paragons of virtue.
  • Define Your Character’s Code: Even if your character is a scoundrel, they must have lines they refuse to cross. This creates internal tension and reader loyalty.

Final Takeaway: Read Hammett Like a Blueprint

Dashiell Hammett didn’t just write pulp detective stories; he wrote literature that exposed the anxieties of modern life through the lens of crime.

By studying The Maltese Falcon, writers can learn how to strip away narrative fat. Through vivid, objective descriptions, you can ground your readers in reality, and through rigorous, cause-and-effect plotting, you can keep them turning the pages late into the night.

The falcon may have been a fake, but the lessons Dashiell Hammett left behind are the real deal.

Are you a fan of classic noir? What is your favorite Dashiell Hammett novel? Let us know in the comments below!

…

If I only had one day to stop over in – Moscow – what would I do?

Making the Most of Your One-Day Stopover in Moscow: The Ultimate Guide to Red Square

If you’re whisked away on a one-day stopover in Moscow, you’re in for a whirlwind of history, grandeur, and unforgettable vistas. While the city teems with landmarks, there’s one place that captures Moscow’s soul and serves as the perfect hub for a memorable day: Red Square. This iconic plaza isn’t just a single attraction—it’s the heart of Russia’s capital, where centuries of imperial history, stunning architecture, and vibrant culture converge. Here’s how to make the most of your day.

Morning: Arrival and the Majesty of Red Square

Start your day early to beat the crowds and soak in the serene, pre-dawn atmosphere of Red Square (Красная площадь). As the sun rises, the golden domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral shimmer, and the Kremlin’s fortress walls glow in the light. Begin your stroll here, taking photographs and marvelling at the square’s historical energy.

  • St. Basil’s Cathedral: Pop into this kaleidoscopic masterpiece. Climb its domes for panoramic views of Moscow, or simply admire its colourful onion-shaped roofs.
  • GUM Department Store: Adjacent to the square, this neoclassical shopping arcade has sold luxury goods to Russian elites for centuries. Grab a coffee at its open-air café to people-watch.

Midday: Kremlin Intrigue

A short walk away lies the Kremlin—Moscow’s most powerful symbol. This fortified complex is a labyrinth of palaces, cathedrals, and museums. Allocate 2–3 hours here to explore:

  • Kremlin Walls and Towers: Walk along the 19th-century fortress walls, with stunning views of the city below.
  • Cathedrals of the Assumption and St. George: Tour these UNESCO-listed churches, where Russian emperors and Soviet leaders are buried.
  • The Armory Chamber: Discover opulent treasures like the Diamond Fund and Fabergé eggs.

Pro Tip: Book your Kremlin tickets in advance to skip the lines—especially recommended if you’re short on time.

Afternoon: The State Historical Museum

Head back to Red Square for a deeper dive into Russia’s past at the State Historical Museum (Gosudarstvennyy istoricheskiy muzei). Its gold-domed façade is a masterpiece itself, but inside, you’ll find exhibits spanning Byzantine icons to Soviet memorabilia. This is a must for history buffs, offering context for the landmarks you’ve seen.

Alternatively, take a lunch break at Ermolaevskiy (just steps from the square). This historic restaurant serves traditional Russian dishes like borscht and pelmeni in a lively, old-world setting.

Evening: A Walk to the Kremlin Wall and Beyond

As the sun sets, stroll along the Kremlin Wall Gardens, a hidden gem with a prime view of the Kremlin and St. Basil’s. For a romantic finale, visit Sparrow Hills (Vorobyevy Gory) in Moscow’s southwest. The 200-meter hill offers sweeping views of the city’s skyline and is lit up at night—a magical way to cap your day.

In a word: Not

You will not go outside, you will not go to the movies.

The word not, when used by your parents when you are a child is the key in the lock keeping you from having fun.

It is the very definition of everything negative, and much harsher than just a plain no.

That you will ‘not…’ has been the gateway for many an exploit or adventure, because anything you have done contrary to the ‘not’ is all that much sweeter.

Until you get into trouble, but, then, isn’t that how you learn life’s lessons?

But if you are a programmer like me, not takes on a whole new meaning in a language like,

‘If not like …. then’

meaning in layman’s terms if something isn’t like a specific value then do something else.

Hang on, isn’t that a bit like reality?

This is not to be confused with the word Knot which is,

A blemish in a piece of wood

The speed of a ship, winds, and sometimes a plane

But basically,

Something you tie to keep your shoes on, or around your finger to remind you to tie your shoes before getting on the 36-knot high-speed ferry made of knotty wood.

It is also something you find in tangled hair and is very painful trying to remove it.

It is also an unpleasant tightness in body muscles and you need a masseuse to get rid of them.