Category: Book

Inspiration, maybe – Volume 1

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

They all start with –

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

lookingdownfromcoronetpeak

And the story:

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

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

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

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

There was nowhere for him to go.

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

Where was he going?

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

“What?”

“I think he’s made us.”

“How?”

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

“How far away?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or so we thought.

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

“What the hell…” Aland muttered.

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

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

I looked up.  Nothing.

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

Then where did he go?

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

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

I’d lost him.

It was as simple as that.

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

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

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

“Maybe next time,” Alan said.

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

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

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

InspirationMaybe1v1

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 72

Day 72  – Focus, concentration – and the cat!

…

Focus and Concentration in a Distracted World

(And Why Your Cat Might Be the Secret Weapon – or the Worst Saboteur)

1. Why Focus Matters More Than Ever

In 2024‑2025 the average knowledge‑worker juggles seven digital tools, nine instant‑messaging channels, and a relentless stream of notifications. The result? A mental‑energy drain that feels like trying to read a novel while the TV is playing the soundtrack of a busy airport.

When you can focus—that state of deep, uninterrupted attention—your brain operates in its most efficient mode:

BenefitWhat It Looks Like
Higher quality outputFewer errors, richer ideas
Speedier completionTasks that once took 2 h now finish in 1 h
Reduced stressLess “I’m behind” anxiety
Better memory retentionInformation sticks after a single deep‑work session

But achieving that sweet spot isn’t a given. It’s a skill that must be deliberately cultivated, and like any skill it runs into obstacles.

2. The Biggest Obstacles to Deep Focus

#ObstacleHow It Sabotages YouQuick Fix
1Digital OverloadPop‑ups, email pings, Slack threads, and endless scrolling hijack the prefrontal cortex, forcing it into task‑switching mode.Turn off non‑essential notifications, batch‑check email 2‑3× per day, use “focus‑mode” extensions (e.g., Freedom, LeechBlock).
2Multitasking MythSwitching costs ~23 seconds per switch and erodes memory. The brain never truly “does” two things at once.Adopt single‑tasking: block 90‑minute “focus windows” and commit to one deliverable per block.
3Physical EnvironmentClutter, poor lighting, uncomfortable seating, and temperature fluctuations raise cortisol, making it hard to settle into concentration.Declutter the desk, invest in ergonomic furniture, use a 6000 K “focus” light, and keep the room at 20‑22 °C.
4Internal NoiseStress, rumination, and low‑grade anxiety flood the mind with “background chatter.”Practice a 2‑minute mindful breathing reset before each work block; keep a “worry journal” to offload intrusive thoughts.
5Biological RhythmsWorking against your circadian peaks (e.g., tackling analytical work at 3 a.m.) lowers cognitive bandwidth.Map your personal “chronotype” and schedule high‑cognition tasks during your natural peak (usually mid‑morning for most).
6The “Cat Effect”A sudden, adorable interruption that pulls you away from the screen.(See the next section – it can be both a curse and a cure.)

While many of these obstacles can be mitigated with tools and habits, the Cat Effect is a special case because it blends the emotional with the environmental in a way few other distractions do.

3. The “Cat Effect”: Remedy or Curse?

3.1 What Exactly Is the Cat Effect?

In productivity circles, the Cat Effect describes the phenomenon where a feline (or any beloved pet) jumps onto your keyboard, sits on your paperwork, or simply meows for attention at the moment you’re deep in concentration. It’s a classic meme: a cat perched on a laptop with the caption “I’m working, don’t disturb.”

But beyond the humour, the Cat Effect raises a genuine question: Can an unpredictable, affectionate animal actually improve focus, or does it merely sabotage it?

3.2 The Science Behind “Cute Interruption”

Research InsightTakeaway
Oxytocin boost – Petting a cat releases oxytocin, a hormone linked to reduced stress and heightened focus. (Study: Journal of Behavioral Medicine, 2023)A brief cuddle can reset the nervous system, making it easier to return to work refreshed.
Micro‑break theory – Short, intentional breaks improve cognitive performance. The Pomodoro Technique (25 min work + 5 min break) is backed by neuroscience.A cat’s “interruption” can act as a natural micro‑break, provided it’s timed right.
Attention residue – Switching tasks leaves “residue” that can linger up to 20 minutes, impairing subsequent performance. (Lleras et al., 2022)If the cat’s demand leads to an unplanned, longer break, you incur the cost of attention residue.
Positive affect – Positive emotions broaden thinking and foster creativity (Fredrickson, 2021).The joy a cat brings can expand your creative bandwidth after the interaction.

Bottom line: The Cat Effect can be both a remedy and a curse—it hinges on how and when the interruption happens.

3.3 When It Becomes a Remedy

  1. Scheduled “Pet Pomodoros” – Set a timer for 45 minutes of deep work, then allocate a 5‑minute “cat cuddle” break. The cat learns the pattern, and you get a stress‑busting oxytocin hit.
  2. Pre‑work Warm‑up – Spend 2‑3 minutes playing with your cat before you begin a focus block. This releases built‑up tension and signals to your brain that you’re entering a calm state.
  3. Mindful Observation – Instead of shooing the cat away, observe its behaviour for a breath‑count (inhale 4, hold 4, exhale 4). You turn the distraction into a mini‑meditation.

3.4 When It Turns Into a Curse

  • Unplanned, Prolonged Attention – If your cat decides to nap on your keyboard for 10 minutes, you lose momentum and may need to restart a task.
  • Emotional Over‑Attachment – Guilt or anxiety about leaving the cat alone can cause you to pre‑emptively check on it, fracturing the focus block.
  • Multiple Pets – Two or more cats (or a cat + dog) amplify the probability of chaotic interruptions, making the environment too volatile for deep work.

3.5 A Practical Decision Tree

               Is the cat demanding attention?
                       /          
                 Yes (short)   Yes (long)
                  /                
   Is it < 2 min & 5‑min break?  Is it >5 min?
          |                         |
    Allow micro‑break    Gently redirect cat
          |                         |
   Resume work (oxytocin)   Use “cat‑free” zone

If the cat’s request is brief (under 2 minutes) and you’re already scheduled for a short break, embrace it. Anything longer? Redirect—a separate cat‑play area, a treat puzzle, or a scheduled “cat time” later in the day.

4. Building a Focus‑Friendly Ecosystem (Cat‑Friendly Edition)

  1. Create a Dedicated “Focus Zone”
    • Use a separate room or a visual barrier (e.g., a bookshelf) that signals “do not disturb.”
    • Add a cat perch just outside the zone so your feline can still be near you without hijacking your keyboard.
  2. Leverage Technology
    • Noise‑cancelling headphones with a “focus playlist” (Binaural beats, 60 bpm).
    • Smart lighting that mimics daylight during peak hours and dims after your scheduled break.
  3. Set Boundaries with Your Pet
    • Training cue: Teach your cat a “go to bed” command for when you need uninterrupted time.
    • Timed play sessions: 10 minutes of interactive toys (laser pointer, feather wand) right before you start a focus block.
  4. Optimise Physical Health
    • Hydration: Keep a water bottle at your desk; dehydration reduces concentration by up to 30 %.
    • Movement: A 30‑second stretch every 30 minutes combats the “couch‑potato” effect of sitting too long.
  5. Mind‑Body Reset Ritual
    • 2‑minute breathing: Inhale for 4, hold for 4, exhale for 4.
    • Gratitude snap: Look at something you’re grateful for (often, that’s your cat) for 5 seconds—instant positive affect.

5. A Sample Day That Harnesses the Cat Effect

TimeActivityCat Strategy
07:30‑08:00Morning routine (coffee, stretch)Play with cat for 5 min, then give a treat in a separate corner.
08:00‑09:45Deep work block (project planning)Focus cue: “Do not disturb” sign + headphones. If cat jumps, count to 5, gently guide it to the perch.
09:45‑10:00Micro‑breakCat cuddle – 5 min of petting, oxytocin boost.
10:00‑11:30Focus block (writing)Same focus cue. If cat stays on the desk, redirect with a puzzle feeder.
11:30‑12:00Lunch + PlaytimeDedicated 30‑min interactive session with cat; burn energy for the rest of the day.
13:00‑14:30Focus block (analysis)Headphones on, “focus zone.” Cat on perch, watching you.
14:30‑14:35Quick stretch + breathingNo cat interaction; keep the rhythm of work.
14:35‑15:45Wrap‑up & reviewGive cat a final cuddle before shutting down the computer.

Result: You experience two intentional cat‑driven micro‑breaks that enhance focus, while preventing unscheduled, disruptive interruptions.

6. The Takeaway

  • Focus is a muscle that needs regular, deliberate training.
  • Digital, physical, and internal distractions are the primary obstacles; each can be managed with clear habits, environment tweaks, and self‑care.
  • The Cat Effect is a double‑edged sword:
    • Remedy when it serves as a short, pleasurable micro‑break that releases oxytocin and resets stress.
    • Curse when it leads to prolonged, unplanned interruptions that create attention residue.
  • The secret lies in predictability: schedule pet time, train boundaries, and design a workspace that welcomes the cat—but only on its terms.

Ready to Test the Cat Effect?

  1. Pick one focus block today (e.g., 90 minutes).
  2. Set a clear cat‑break rule (≤2 minutes, then back to work).
  3. Track the outcome – Did you feel more refreshed? Did productivity improve?

Share your results in the comments! Whether you’re a solo freelancer, a remote team leader, or a cat‑loving student, mastering the balance between focus and feline affection can be the game‑changer you didn’t know you needed.

Happy focusing—and happy cat‑cuddling! 🐾✨

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

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

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

It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.

…

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

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

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

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

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

An excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – Coming Soon

I wandered back to my villa.

It was in darkness.  I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.

I looked up and saw the globe was broken.

Instant alert.

I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there.  I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either.  Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.

Who?

There were four hiding spots and all were empty.  Someone had removed the weapons.  That could only mean one possibility.

I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.

But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.

Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.

There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch.  One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage.  It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief.  It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.

It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely.  It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.

The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground.  I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side.  After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks.  It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that.  I’d left torches at either end so I could see.

I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch.  I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end.  I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door.  It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.

I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.

I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.

Silence, an eerie silence.

I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting.  There wasn’t.  It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.

I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was.  Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.

That raised the question of who told them where I was.

If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan.  The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental.  But I was not that man.

Or was I?

I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness.  My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void.  Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly.  A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.

Still nothing.

I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job.  I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.

Coming in the front door.  If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in.  One shot would be all that was required.

Contract complete.

I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door.  There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting.  It was an ideal spot to wait.

Crunch.

I stepped on some nutshells.

Not my nutshells.

I felt it before I heard it.  The bullet with my name on it.

And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea.  I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.

I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.

Two assassins.

I’d not expected that.

The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part.  The second was still breathing.

I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives.  Armed to the teeth!

I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian.  I was expecting a Russian.

I slapped his face, waking him up.  Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down.  The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally.  He was not long for this earth.

“Who employed you?”

He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile.  “Not today my friend.  You have made a very bad enemy.”  He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth.  “There will be more …”

Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.

I would have to leave.  Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess.  I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.

Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally.  I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.

A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved.  Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.

Until I heard a knock on my front door.

Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?

I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm.  I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.

If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation.  Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.

No police, just Maria.  I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.

“You left your phone behind on the table.  I thought you might be looking for it.”  She held it out in front of her.

When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”

I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”

I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.

“You need to go away now.”

Should I tell her the truth?  It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.

She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity.  “What happened?”

I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible.  I went with the truth.  “My past caught up with me.”

“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss.  It doesn’t look good.”

“I can fix it.  You need to leave.  It is not safe to be here with me.”

The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened.  She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.

I opened the door and let her in.  It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences.  Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge.  She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.

I expected her to scream.  She didn’t.

She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous.  Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about.  She would have to go to the police.

“What happened here?”

“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me.  I used to work for the Government, but no longer.  I suspect these men were here to repay a debt.  I was lucky.”

“Not so much, looking at your arm.”

She came closer and inspected it.

“Sit down.”

She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

“Do you have medical supplies?”

I nodded.  “Upstairs.”  I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs.  Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.

She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back.  I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.

She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound.  Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet.  It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.

When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”

No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.

“Alisha?”

“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you.  She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”

“That was wrong of her to do that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.  Will you call her?”

“Yes.  I can’t stay here now.  You should go now.  Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”

She smiled.  “As you say, I was never here.”

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2022

strangerscover9

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 41

Nothing is ever what it seems

…

I didn’t have the luxury of taking a moment to consider what I was going to do, other than to draw the inevitable conclusion that whatever I did, there would be consequences.

One thought did cross my mind, in relation to the alien ship and her Captain, why hadn’t they exercised their superior capability, stopped the Russian ship, and taken the offenders away themselves.  And, given the captain was prepared to destroy my ship, why had he let the Russians go?

“The Russian ship is hailing us, sir.”

“Very good, I’ll be there in a moment.”

They had waited a long time before asking our intentions, so what had they been waiting for?  The fact they appeared to be immobilized was, to me, a little too convenient.  Also, they had to know the alien ship was nearby, but even that raised the question of why they were standing off, and not alongside us.

Something was not right about this whole scenario.

I came on to the bridge, Number One standing in front of the Captain’s chair, the bridge crew waiting expectantly.

“Get the Russian ship’s Captain on screen.”

A moment later he appeared, with a depleted bridge crew, different from the last time we spoke.

“What can I do for you?”

“Why is the alien vessel here?”

“I think you know the answer to that question.”

“What did he tell you?”

“How about you tell me why you think he’s here?”

Why was his concern more about the alien vessel than the state of their propulsion unit?  Unless there was nothing wrong with it.

Silence.

I motioned to the comms officer to cut our side of the conversation.

“General?”

He had taken up a position behind the defense team.

“Sir?”

“If they try to move or power weapons, stop them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Russian ship powering up propulsion, sir.”

“General?”

“Just say the word.”

“Comms.”

A gesture told me the artesian ship was back online.

“Do not try to leave or we will disable your ship.”

A tense few seconds before the navigator said, “powering down.”

“Good choice.  Now, prepare to be boarded.  Any resistance will be met with force.  Am I understood, Captain?”

A measured reluctance in his tone when he said, “Yes.”

“Number one, boarding team assembled?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.  Any resistance is to be dealt with severely.  If the Captain or a representative of the ship wants to come with their crew members, let them.   Bring those on the list back here.”

“Understood.  Sir.”

The Russian captain was still on the screen.

“You have no right or jurisdiction to do what you are doing, and I will be recording this as an act of piracy.”

“Will that be with the international space agency?”

“My superiors, we have already alerted them to the situation.”

“As far as I am aware, your superiors did not register your flight plan as per the treaty that they are signatories to.  Also, you are on a ship that no one knows about.  All of that could be forgiven though, but you had to cause what can I call it, an Intergalactic incident which may yet setback relations with an alien race for a long time.  You would be well advised to tell me now what the hell happened so I can at least try and save you from very severe consequences.”

On a secondary channel that number one had switched to after arriving at the Russian vessel, I heard, “what do you mean you cannot dock?”

The pilot replied, “They haven’t initiated the docking sequence.”

“Is it an incompatible system?”

“No, it’s exactly the same as ours.  It’s like they’ve ripped everything off.  They’re stalling.”

To the captain of the Russian ship, I said, “I get it.  No Captain likes to have his ship boarded.  But this is not the time.”  To the General, “Target their propulsion unit.  On my mark…”

“You are making a mistake,” the Russian captain said.

“Docking initiated.  It is exactly like our system, right down to the override authorization code.”  Number one had the same thought that just come to mind.  Then, “Lieutenant, don’t hesitate to use force if you have to. We have to assume anyone on the other side of the door is a potential hostile.  Counting down, three, two, one…”

I heard the whoosh of the door, and then utter silence, broken only by Number One, “What the hell…”

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2022

“Trouble in Store” – Short stories my way: Character refinement

I have reworked the first part of the story with a few new elements about the characters and changed a few of the details of how the characters finish up in the shop before the policewoman makes her entrance.

This is part of the new first section is the one that involves Annalisa, and her boyfriend, Simmo:

 

Annalisa looked at the two men facing her.

Simmo, the boy on the floor, had told her that the shopkeeper would be a pushover, he was an old man who’d just hand over the drugs, rather than cause trouble for himself.

Where Simmo had discovered what the shopkeeper’s true vocation, dispensing drugs to the neighborhood addicts, she didn’t know, but it was not the first place like this they had visited.

She had always known Simmo had a problem, but he had assured her he had it under control.  Until a month ago, when he had tried something new.

It had changed him.

The breaking point came earlier that day when, seeing how sick he was, she threatened to leave.  It brought out the monster within him, and he threatened to kill her.  Not long after he had changed into a whimpering child pleading with her to stay, that he hadn’t meant anything he’d said before.

All he needed was one more ‘score’ to get his ‘shit’ together, and he would do as she asked, and find help.

She believed him.

He said he knew a place not far from the apartment, a small shop where what he needed was available, and said he had the money.

That should have been the first sign he was not telling the truth because she had been funding his habit until her parents cut off the money supply.  She suspected her father had put a private detective on to find her, had, and reported back, and rather than make a scene, just cut her off so she would have to come home or starve.  Her father was no better than Simmo.

And, as soon as they stepped into the shop, Simmo pulled out the gun,

Instead of the shopkeeper cowered like Simmo said he would, he had laughed at them and told them to get out.  Simmo started ranting and waving the gun around, then all of a sudden collapsed. 

There was a race for the gun which spilled out of Simmo’s hand, and she won. 

That was just before the customer burst into the shop.

It had been shortly before closing time.  Simmo had said there would be no one else around.

Wrong again.

Now she had another problem to deal with, a man who was clearly as scared shitless as she was.

This was worse than any bad hair day, or getting out of the wrong side of bed day, this was, she was convinced, the last day of her life.

She heard a strange sound come from beside her and looked down.  There was a trickle of blood coming out of his mouth and Simmo was making strange sounds like he was choking.

Any other time she might have been concerned, but the hard reality of it was, Simmo was never going to change.  She was only surprised at the fact it took so long for her to realize it.

As for the man standing in front of her, she was safe from the shopkeeper with him around, so he would have to stay.

“No.  Stay.”

Another glance at the shopkeeper told her she had made the right decision, his expression said it all.  Gun or no gun, the moment she was alone with him, he would kill her.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 71

Day 71 – Luck

…

Writing Is a Blend of Drafts, Practice, Patience… and (Yes) Luck
How much does luck really matter, and can you manufacture your own?

1. The Four Pillars of the Writing Process

PillarWhat It Looks Like in PracticeWhy It Matters
DraftA messy, imperfect first version that never sees the light of day.Gets ideas out of your head and onto paper before they evaporate.
PracticeWriting daily, experimenting with genre, studying the craft.Turns raw talent into reliable skill; the more you write, the better you become at spotting what works.
PatienceAllowing stories to simmer, waiting for feedback, revising until the narrative sings.Prevents rushed, half‑baked work and gives you the space to notice subtle improvements.
LuckThe right eyes on the right piece at the right time.Bridges the gap between “good enough” and “published, celebrated, paid.”

Most writers feel comfortable dissecting the first three. They’re concrete, measurable, and—most importantly—controllable. Luck, on the other hand, feels ethereal, like a gust of wind you can’t predict or direct. Yet, it’s a factor that many successful authors (and their agents, editors, and readers) cite as a turning point in their careers.

2. Luck: Myth, Mystery, or Measurable Influence?

a. The “Right Person” Phenomenon

The story you’ll hear a thousand times: “I sent my manuscript to 50 agents, and the 51st said yes.”

  • Statistical reality: If an agent receives 200 submissions a week and picks one, the odds are 0.5 % per submission. That’s a very real, quantifiable element of luck.
  • Why it matters: Even a superb manuscript can sit in the abyss of an overburdened inbox forever without that serendipitous glance.

b. Timing is Everything

A dystopian novel released in 2024 lands in a saturated market; a similar story in 2008 rides the wave of post‑9/11 anxiety and becomes a bestseller.

  • External factors: Cultural mood, current events, emerging trends, even algorithm changes on platforms like Amazon or TikTok.
  • The luck factor: Being in sync with the zeitgeist often feels like luck, but it’s also a product of awareness and timing.

c. Network Effects

A friend shares your article on LinkedIn, it goes viral, and a publishing house reaches out.

  • The roulette wheel: Who you know, where you post, which forum you frequent—these are chance encounters that can catapult a piece from obscurity to spotlight.

Bottom line: Luck isn’t a mystical force; it’s the intersection of your work with unpredictable external variables. And that intersection is not completely out of your control.

3. Engineering Your Own Luck

If luck is a probability, you can raise the odds. Below are proven tactics that writers use to manufacture their own good fortune.

1️⃣ Show Up Consistently (The Visibility Engine)

  • Why it works: The more you publish—whether it’s blog posts, flash fiction, or LinkedIn threads—the higher the chance one piece lands in the right feed at the right moment.
  • Action step: Commit to a minimum output (e.g., 500 words a day or one medium‑length article per week). Use a content calendar to keep yourself accountable.

2️⃣ Target the Right Gatekeepers

  • Research before you pitch: Identify agents, editors, or influencers whose recent purchases align with your genre or theme.
  • Personalise: Mention a specific piece they’ve championed and explain why your manuscript complements it.
  • Result: You’re no longer sending a blind shot in the dark; you’re aiming at a moving target you’ve studied.

3️⃣ Leverage “Micro‑Virality” Platforms

  • Twitter, TikTok, Substack, Medium: These ecosystems reward shareable, bite‑sized content. A well‑crafted hook can earn thousands of impressions overnight.
  • Tip: Repurpose a chapter excerpt into a 280‑character “teaser” or a 30‑second video reading. Cross‑post to maximise reach.

4️⃣ Build a Community First

  • Why it matters: A loyal readership will champion your work, give honest feedback, and amplify your voice.
  • How: Host virtual writing circles, participate in genre‑specific Discord servers, or run a monthly newsletter with exclusive drafts.
  • Outcome: When you finally release a book, you already have a built‑in launch squad.

5️⃣ Collect Data, Iterate, and Scale

  • Track metrics: Open rates, click‑throughs, submission response rates.
  • A/B test subject lines, cover designs, query letters.
  • Refine: Treat each launch as an experiment; the data reveals which “luck‑generating” tactics actually work for you.

6️⃣ Stay Informed About Industry Shifts

  • Subscribe to trade newsletters (Publishers Weekly, The Bookseller, etc.).
  • Attend virtual conferences and note emerging trends (e.g., the rise of interactive fiction or AI‑assisted storytelling).
  • Result: You can anticipate the next wave and position your manuscript to ride it—turning what looks like luck into strategic timing.

4. A Real‑World Example: From “Luck” to “Preparedness + Opportunity”

Case Study – Maya Patel, debut sci‑fi author

  1. Draft & Practice: Wrote three full manuscripts over four years, revising each based on beta‑reader feedback.
  2. Patience: Held back on publishing, waiting for the right moment to submit to agents specialized in climate‑fiction.
  3. Manufactured Luck:
  • Joined a niche Discord for “eco‑thrillers.”
  • Shared a 1,000‑word excerpt, which was retweeted by a popular environmental activist.
  • The tweet caught the eye of an agent who listed “eco‑drama” as a current interest.
  • Within two weeks, Maya’s manuscript was under contract.

Maya’s story illustrates that the “lucky” agent discovery was the result of deliberate community building and strategic exposure.

5. The Mindset Shift: From “I’m Unlucky” to “I’m Luck-Optimising.”

Fixed‑Luck ThoughtLuck‑Optimizing Reframe
“I never get noticed; it’s just bad luck.”“I need more visibility points where luck can happen.”
“If I’m not published by 30, it’s fate.”“I’ll create multiple launch pathways—self‑publish, serialized web‑novel, audiobooks.”
“Publishers are gatekeepers I can’t influence.”“I can build relationships with them through consistent, high‑quality content.”

By treating luck as a resource you can attract rather than a random wind you must endure, you shift from passive resignation to active agency.

6. Quick‑Start Checklist: Crafting Your Own Luck

✅Action
1Set a daily word‑count goal and log it for 30 days.
2Compile a list of 10 agents/editors who have sold books similar to yours.
3Publish a 500‑word excerpt on two social platforms this week.
4Join one writing community (Discord/Reddit/Slack) and contribute weekly.
5Track the performance of each post (views, shares, comments).
6Review data every two weeks; tweak headlines, posting times, or formats.
7Pitch one query letter per week, using the personalized research you did.
8Celebrate every small win—an extra comment, a retweet, a beta‑reader endorsement.

Consistently checking off these items builds “luck capital” that compounds over time.

7. The Bottom Line

Writing success is rarely a straight line from draft → practice → patience → publication. Luck—those unpredictable moments when the right person sees the right piece—plays a genuine role. But luck is not a cosmic lottery ticket you either draw or don’t. It’s a probability that you can raise dramatically by:

  1. Increasing the number of opportunities (more drafts, more posts, more pitches).
  2. Targeting the right people (research, personalisation).
  3. Timing your releases (stay current, watch industry trends).
  4. Cultivating a community that will champion your work.

When you combine solid craft with a systematic “luck‑building” strategy, you turn the nebulous element of fortune into a replicable part of your writing business.

Remember: “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.”—Seneca (or at least a modern writer’s version of it).
So keep drafting, keep practicing, keep being patient, and then engineer the circumstances where luck can finally knock on your door.

Ready to boost your luck? Drop a comment below with the first step you’ll take today, and let’s hold each other accountable. Happy writing! ✍️🚀

What I learned about writing – Writing is the supreme solace.

Perhaps it can be.

I remember when my mother died. It was the closest I had ever been in the presence of death.

I got a phone call to tell me I should come to the hospital; she was not going to last much longer.  I was on the way out the door when the call said she had passed.

That was followed by going to the hospital, where I stayed for an hour, trying to assemble my thoughts.

In that moment when I first saw her, I felt numb.  And much as I hate to say it, she was not much of a mother to me or any of us, for that matter, and I never really understood why.

Our grandmother, her mother, had been more caring and considerate.

For a few days after, I guess I went through a period where I tried to think of all the good things about her, but the bad still intruded.  Those thoughts included my father, who was still alive, and had we been on speaking terms, perhaps it might have helped.

Instead, I was left with mixed emotions.

A few days later, I started putting words on paper, deciding that I would try to put together a eulogy of sorts, in case it was called for.

Writing about it was a form of solace, a period where I could address what it was that I felt, and at the end of it, I felt better.

Only later, much later, when I started digging into the family genealogy, did a lot of stuff start making sense.

Like most people, she was as complicated as the day was long. 

She had an older sister whom I believe she was very jealous of; she had a boyfriend who was a local boy, since she was sixteen, writing continually during the war after he signed up, and writing about the life they would have together.

She had an explosive temper and managed at one time or another to alienate or get on the wrong side of everybody she cared about, and girlfriends in particular.  That tempered extended, eventually to her boyfriend, now home from the war, and I believe they were looking forward to getting married.

A row put an end to it.  He didn’t answer her letters of apology and ignored a telegram she sent, an indication of how badly she had fractured their relationship.

It’s 1946, and she’s working in Melbourne. 

My father had gone overseas, why, we’ll never know, and ended up with his own matrimonial disaster, and having a wedding planned called off, he returned home disappointed and alone, going back to his old job of projectionist that he had before he enlisted.

It’s 1947, and he’s in the Snowy Mountain district as a roving projectionist.

I could only imagine how she and her family managed her disappointment situation, and her sister, who herself had married and had her own life, might account for my mother’s feelings towards her.

With that failed relationship in the past, her matrimonial prospects are now in the hands of a woman who is charged with finding a suitable husband.

That man was my father.

He gets the introduction, goes to see her, and she has gone home for the weekend to her parents’ house.  It’s not surprising she had had another row with her girlfriends, and she faces time alone in her room.

He writes, not in the same romantic flowery prose of her last boyfriend, but of how domestic his life is, and how much he needs a wife to do those chores.

The thing is, he is a returned serviceman and used to fending for himself.  This is not going to be a match made in heaven.  He has his own anger management issues and battles with his own family, and it’s no surprise to learn there were ultimatums and threats to call off the wedding.

And yet, in 1950, it finally went ahead.  There may have been compelling reasons, but one thing that was assured, neither of them advertised the fact that they had families, and we, as children, rarely, if ever, saw our aunts and uncles, only on rare occasions our grandparents.

Does snake me feel any better writing this down?

No.  It does, however, provide a deeper understanding of the two people who were my parents and sadness at the loss of never knowing my aunts, uncles and grandparents, and goes a long way towards explaining why I am the way I am.

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the type of clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’ but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

The was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him was not the concierge, and instead brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position and then made a clunk when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the life lobby, only in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over the the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

© Charles Heath – 2018-2025

“Sunday in New York”, a romantic adventure that’s not a walk in the park!

“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.

When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.

From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.

There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.

Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?

Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?

Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?

As they say in the classics, read on!

Purchase:

http://tinyurl.com/Amazon-SundayInNewYork