Category: Book

The cinema of my dreams – It continued in London – Episode 35

Attack!

…

It seemed to me that trouble gravitated towards Juliet, especially when I was around.  Perhaps between the two of us we had that sort of chemistry going.  The sort that attracted bullets.

She had got up to collect her computer from a desk on one side of the dais, and I had just turned after taking her hand to assist her off the dais when I caught sight of a movement out of the corner of my eye, and with barely enough time to consider what it was, I pushed her to one side and dived towards the floor, feeling the plucking effect of a bullet ripping at my sleeve.

“What the…”, was as much as she got to say before she too realised, we were being shot at from the top of the aisle, bullets thumping into the floorboards barely inches from us as we scrabbled to get behind the seats of the first aisle.

Nineteen shots from a silenced gun, then silence.

Was the shooter reloading.

“Is everything alright in here?”  A deep male voice yelled out from above.

Was it the shooter of our saviour?

Juliet put her head above the seats and recognised the man and slowly dragged herself up from the floor.

“Mr Roberts.”

“Is everything alright?”

“No.  We were just shot at by someone up there on the other side of the hall.  Be careful.”

I slowly got up, shook out my clothes and saw the tear from the bullet.  Any closer would have hit my arm and another injury.

“Are you alright?” I asked her.

She glared at me.  “Who did you bring with you?”

“No one.  I made sure no one was following me.  Of that much, you can be assured.  Whoever it was, they were here for you.”

“And you being here, you know who it is?”

The man from the top of the hall, invisible, yelled out, “There’s no one up here now.”

“You’d better call the police.  We have a wrecked floor with bullet holes in it.  It might give some indication of who was shooting at us.”

He came out from behind a wall near the top row of seats.  “What do you mean, shooting at you?  Bullet holes?”

He came down the steps and Juliet took him over to where we were standing when the shots started.  “Why would anyone be shooting at you?”  He looked at the damage to the floor and groaned.

“This is all I need.  The place is booked solid.”

She looked at me.  “Evan?”

“It seems you might be entitled to a share of an estate worth quite a lot of money, and there are people who might not want you to inherit what they think is theirs, not yours.”

She had an expression that conveyed a degree of astonishment, not forced, which told me that it was a surprise.

I don’t know anyone who would have that sort of money.”

“Not immediately, but perhaps we should wait for the police, then have a talk about it.  I was hoping we could have a few glasses of wine first, but that’s not going to be possible.”

The police came and looked at the crime scene, and then one of the constables called a detective who also looked at the crime scene, who then called in the forensic team. 

The hall manager was told the hall would be out of action for a few days, the last news he needed to hear.

The detective asked Juliet a half dozen quests, the usual like, do you know anyone who would want to shoot at you, do you have any criminal connections, a interesting question she answered with a qualified yes, the man was now dead, and did you see anyone suspicious now or earlier in the day, where she was staying, a friend’s apartment in Bloomsbury, how long was she in the city, what she was doing here, and how long was she staying.

It answered nearly all of the questions I’d intended to ask her.

The detective looked at me, asked me why I was there, and was it possible I was the target.  Of course, I had to ask him why he thought I was, so he asked me my profession, and I told him that I was a journalist specializing in Archaeology, which I was.  She too learned where I lived, answers that seemed to amuse her.

Especially the one where he asked what the nature of our relationship was.  I let her answer with exes catching up. 

When he was done, an hour and a half later, along with the forensic team, we were allowed to go.  Her lecture the next day was now not going to happen, calls going to the organisers, and the hall owners.

“Well,” she said, once everyone had left, “you now owe me dinner, and some of your time tomorrow since I now have a free day.”

“You don’t seem overly worried that people are trying to kill you.”

“Why should I.  You’re here to protect me, are you not?”

I don’t think that was in the terms of my remit.

© Charles Heath 2023

The 2am Rant: A pleasant Sunday morning in suburbia

 

All I wanted was a cup of coffee.

OK, I could have made one, I have a Nespresso machine, purchased after watching an inspiring George Clooney advertisement (well, my wife bought it) but I was after something with a little more oomph!

We have a small shopping centre just up the road about a kilometre and I thought, what’s five minutes and a short drive against a cup of hot, steaming, delicious to the last drop, coffee?

That’s where any semblance of sanity ends.

I walked out the back door and forgot the car keys, so I had to go back in.  The door opens and the cat gets out.  Not so bad you think, but no, after three road kills, the cat getting out is a major catastrophe (pardon the pun).

Ten minutes later, cornered like a rat in a trap, he is back inside, I have the keys, and out in the car.  It’s a hot day, and the air conditioning isn’t working.  Damn.  It’s like 45 degrees Celsius in the car.

This is the time to give up and go back inside.  The omens are telling!

I don’t.

Our driveway is up a slight hill and usually we back the cars up so it’s easier to drive out onto the street.  We live in a corner house, and whilst it is not a busy intersection, it has been known for cars to treat it like the third chicane of a grand prix.  Late at night cars have rolled trying to make that tight corner.

I’m reversing off the driveway, too lazy the previous day to back it up, and you guessed it, Enzo Ferrari’s brother is making heavy weather in the third chicane and takes the corner wide, sliding across to the other side of the street, a) because he’s going too fast, and b) because he just saw me backing out of my driveway.

I’m having a heart attack and waiting for the bang, and he’s rapidly accelerating, smoke pouring from streaming tyres, and engine roaring in first or second as the revs pass 9000 and are redlining.

Disaster averted.  One speed junkie and daredevil happy, one old man shaken to the core.

So far I’ve travelled 10 metres.

On the radio the station is playing the James Bond theme from ‘You Only Live Twice’.

Apt, very apt.

I am now very sedately driving to the shopping centre, the road following a wide curve.  Nothing can go wrong here, until I reach the T intersection.  I stop like I do every time, and look.  No cars from the left, and one opposite me, turning into my street.

I start to turn.  The car opposite decides to do a U Turn, and I slam the foot on the brakes.  The driver of the other car is oblivious to me, happily chatting on her mobile phone.  Didn’t stop, didn’t look, didn’t care.

My heart rate is now 170 over 122, and perhaps I should be clinically dead.

Coffee is the last thing I need.

But I persevere.  How much worse can it get?

The shopping centre is not far, up to the roundabout and a right turn into the shopping centre car part.  Usually there are plenty of parking spots, today there a none.  I drive down one of the lanes, and nearly get hit but a reversing driver.  Again, not looking, or perhaps distracted by four children in the back seat.

Or the very, very loud music coming from the car.

I thought at first it was the pounding of my headache, brought on by high blood pressure.

I back up the car a) top give the driver more room to reverse out, and b) so I could turn into the spot when he vacates it.

More fool me.  The car backs out, another driver swoops in and takes the spot.

I get out to remonstrate, but he’s three feet wide and seven feet tall with a scarred face and tattoos on both arms.  Time to move on.

Yes, there’s nothing like a tall hot steaming cup of coffee on a pleasant Sunday morning.

In hell!

What I learned about writing – Pet Subjects, or, in other words, writing about what you know.

You will often read in the advice people tend to give budding writers, a section called ‘write about what you know’. It generally follows a rather ambiguous statement that says ‘everyone has one book in them’ and there’s an audience out there if you write about your pet subject.

That assumes we all have a pet subject, you know, something we know all this stuff about, stuff that no one else would care about. Except for other people like us.

But…

Here’s the problem: You have to write it in a way that it is interesting, and if your pet subject is ‘the erosion of sandstone over 20,000 years’, I think you are not going to find a large audience, and your book, though interesting to you, will not necessarily become an instant bestseller.

Not unless you turn it into a thriller where it’s just a passing reference, or a means of escape from the bad guys just before you blow them to smithereens.

Except…

There is a market for every type of book; you just have to do the research and find out exactly what part of your specialist knowledge the intended audience wants.

I could write about mining phosphate on the Pacific Islands at the beginning of the 1900s, which to me was fascinating, but it only appealed to those who were familiar with it. What I was told, however, was that if I wrote a sweeping Gone With The Wind type saga written around the Islands, the minung, the people and the events spanning sixty odd years, I would have a best seller on my hands.

I took their advice, and figured in the end it was going to take three volumes, much like R F Delderfield’s “A Horseman Riding By”, and got as far as almost finishing the first volume, coming in at about 1,300 pages.

That was forty years ago, and I haven’t written a word since.

It will eventually be finished, but there is always something else to do, like my latest pet project, the family history.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 121

Day 121 – Distractions

…

Beyond the Blinking Cursor: How Writers Tame Distraction (and Why It’s Not Always Bad)

We’ve all been there: you sit down with a fresh pot of coffee, a clear idea, and your laptop. Ten minutes later, you’re knee-deep in a Wikipedia thread about 14th-century agriculture or scrolling through a reel of sourdough baking tips.

Writing is a singular act of focus in a world designed to fragment it. For a writer, distraction is the ultimate antagonist. But as we navigate the digital age, the way we handle these interruptions isn’t just about “willpower”—it’s about strategy.

Here is how professional writers build a fortress around their focus, and the surprising reason why some distractions might actually be a good thing.

1. The Sound of Silence (literally)

While some writers swear by lo-fi beats or cinematic scores, music can often become a “productive distraction”—something that feels like work atmosphere but actually competes for your linguistic brainpower.

The Strategy: When the prose gets tough, turn off the music. Silence forces you to hear the rhythm of your own sentences. If you can’t stand total silence, try brown noise or a simple fan. By removing the melodic pull of a song, you allow your internal narrator to take centre stage.

2. Cutting the Digital Cord

The internet is a writer’s greatest tool and their worst enemy. How many times has “checking a single fact” turned into an hour of aimless browsing?

The Strategy: Disconnect from the internet. Whether you use an app blocker like Freedom or simply flip the Wi-Fi toggle to ‘off,’ creating an offline sanctuary is a game-changer. If you realise you need to look something up, simply write [RESEARCH THIS] in brackets and keep moving. Stay in the flow of the story; the facts can wait for the editing phase.

3. Out of Sight, Out of Mind

The smartphone is the world’s most advanced distraction machine. Even having it face-down on your desk has been shown to reduce cognitive capacity because a small part of your brain is constantly “noticing” it.

The Strategy: Silence or hide your phone. Put it in another room or inside a desk drawer. By adding a physical barrier between yourself and those red notification bubbles, you reduce the “frictional cost” of staying focused. If you can’t see it, your brain eventually stops craving the hit of dopamine it provides.

4. Working Against the Clock

The fear of a long, gruelling writing session is often what leads us to seek distractions. If we think we have to write for five hours, we’ll do anything to escape.

The Strategy: Set a timer for breaks. Techniques like the Pomodoro Method (25 minutes of work, 5 minutes of rest) turn writing into a sprint rather than a marathon. When you know a break is coming in exactly 12 minutes, you’re more likely to push through a difficult paragraph rather than giving up.

Can Distraction Actually Be Beneficial?

It sounds counterintuitive, but not all distractions are created equal. There is a concept in psychology called “incubation.”

When you hit a wall—a plot hole you can’t fill or a transition that feels clunky—staring at the screen often makes it worse. This is where a controlled distraction becomes beneficial.

By stepping away to do something “low-leakage” (like washing the dishes, taking a walk, or staring out the window), you allow your subconscious to work on the problem. The “Aha!” moment rarely happens while staring at a cursor; it happens when you’re distracted enough to let your mind wander, but not so distracted (by social media or email) that your brain is overwhelmed.

The Bottom Line

Managing distraction isn’t about becoming a robot; it’s about setting boundaries. By silencing the noise, disconnecting from the web, and using timers to structure your day, you create the space necessary for deep work.

And when the words won’t come? Lean into a constructive distraction. Walk away, let your mind drift, and trust that the story is still writing itself in the background.

How do you handle the urge to scroll when you should be writing? Let us know your favourite focus hacks in the comments below!

In a word: Flower

It’s what we expect to see when we walk past the front of some houses, but instead sometimes see lawn, rocks, or a disaster.

They are what makes the difference between a delightful street and an ugly one, and by that I mean flowers.

By definition, though, it means the state or period in which the plant’s flowers have developed and opened.

Just beware the man who turns up with a bunch of flowers that look vaguely familiar to those that grow in your neighbour’s gardens.

They are also in abundance in horticultural gardens and in florist shops.

My favourites are roses.

And just a word of warning, look out for triffids.  If you read John Wyndham’s science fiction, you’ll know what I mean.

Another meaning for the word is to reach the optimum stage of development, though the word bloom could also be used to describe the same thing.

There is another similar-sounding word, flour, but this is the stuff used to make bread, scones, and puddings.

By definition, it is the result of grinding wheat or other grains to a powder.

If something is said to be floury, then it means it is bland.

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

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 121

Day 121 – Distractions

…

Beyond the Blinking Cursor: How Writers Tame Distraction (and Why It’s Not Always Bad)

We’ve all been there: you sit down with a fresh pot of coffee, a clear idea, and your laptop. Ten minutes later, you’re knee-deep in a Wikipedia thread about 14th-century agriculture or scrolling through a reel of sourdough baking tips.

Writing is a singular act of focus in a world designed to fragment it. For a writer, distraction is the ultimate antagonist. But as we navigate the digital age, the way we handle these interruptions isn’t just about “willpower”—it’s about strategy.

Here is how professional writers build a fortress around their focus, and the surprising reason why some distractions might actually be a good thing.

1. The Sound of Silence (literally)

While some writers swear by lo-fi beats or cinematic scores, music can often become a “productive distraction”—something that feels like work atmosphere but actually competes for your linguistic brainpower.

The Strategy: When the prose gets tough, turn off the music. Silence forces you to hear the rhythm of your own sentences. If you can’t stand total silence, try brown noise or a simple fan. By removing the melodic pull of a song, you allow your internal narrator to take centre stage.

2. Cutting the Digital Cord

The internet is a writer’s greatest tool and their worst enemy. How many times has “checking a single fact” turned into an hour of aimless browsing?

The Strategy: Disconnect from the internet. Whether you use an app blocker like Freedom or simply flip the Wi-Fi toggle to ‘off,’ creating an offline sanctuary is a game-changer. If you realise you need to look something up, simply write [RESEARCH THIS] in brackets and keep moving. Stay in the flow of the story; the facts can wait for the editing phase.

3. Out of Sight, Out of Mind

The smartphone is the world’s most advanced distraction machine. Even having it face-down on your desk has been shown to reduce cognitive capacity because a small part of your brain is constantly “noticing” it.

The Strategy: Silence or hide your phone. Put it in another room or inside a desk drawer. By adding a physical barrier between yourself and those red notification bubbles, you reduce the “frictional cost” of staying focused. If you can’t see it, your brain eventually stops craving the hit of dopamine it provides.

4. Working Against the Clock

The fear of a long, gruelling writing session is often what leads us to seek distractions. If we think we have to write for five hours, we’ll do anything to escape.

The Strategy: Set a timer for breaks. Techniques like the Pomodoro Method (25 minutes of work, 5 minutes of rest) turn writing into a sprint rather than a marathon. When you know a break is coming in exactly 12 minutes, you’re more likely to push through a difficult paragraph rather than giving up.

Can Distraction Actually Be Beneficial?

It sounds counterintuitive, but not all distractions are created equal. There is a concept in psychology called “incubation.”

When you hit a wall—a plot hole you can’t fill or a transition that feels clunky—staring at the screen often makes it worse. This is where a controlled distraction becomes beneficial.

By stepping away to do something “low-leakage” (like washing the dishes, taking a walk, or staring out the window), you allow your subconscious to work on the problem. The “Aha!” moment rarely happens while staring at a cursor; it happens when you’re distracted enough to let your mind wander, but not so distracted (by social media or email) that your brain is overwhelmed.

The Bottom Line

Managing distraction isn’t about becoming a robot; it’s about setting boundaries. By silencing the noise, disconnecting from the web, and using timers to structure your day, you create the space necessary for deep work.

And when the words won’t come? Lean into a constructive distraction. Walk away, let your mind drift, and trust that the story is still writing itself in the background.

How do you handle the urge to scroll when you should be writing? Let us know your favourite focus hacks in the comments below!

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 that 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 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.

There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping 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 he was not the concierge, and instead he 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, then clunked 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 lift lobby, only what was 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 to 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

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 12

It’s still a battle of wits, but our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because the enemy if it is the enemy, doesn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

If at first, you don’t succeed, try a few threats, or leverage

 

He took a deep breath, gave me a look a parent would give a miscreant child, and started again.

“What’s the deal with you and Commander Breeman?”

Yes, he does know about her proclivities, but he was hardly in a position to condemn her.  He, too, had a ‘thing’ for the female trainees under his command, and one in particular.

“She has to eat, I have to eat, in the same mess as it happens.”

He gave me another of his penetrating glares.

“Nothing else?”

“That would be against regulations, as I think you are fully aware.”  I returned his glare but with more intensity.

“What did you discuss over the dinner table?”

Odd question.  Not operational matters, if that was what he wanted to hear.  But what we spoke about had little relevance to work.

“Cars.”

It was true.  She liked restoring old cars from the mid-war period, some of which had been used as props in period movies.  I had an old Cadillac, the sort that would fail any fuel economy test.

I could see it was not the answer he was looking for.  He would have to ask a specific question in order to get a specific answer one way or the other.

“Did she mention the no-fly zone?”

I thought about it for a moment, and then said, “No, there are no cars out there to speak of.”

“Flippancy doesn’t become you, Alan.”

Perhaps not, but it was all he was going to get.

And for added emphasis, I said, “Like I said to your predecessor, I don’t know how or why you would have to ask the pilot.”

He stood abruptly, nearly knocking the chair over.  Angry.

“You know something, Alan, otherwise you would not have been on that helo.  She threw you under the bus, and the quicker you realize that the better.”

Then he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

 

© Charles Heath 2019