365 Days of writing, 2026 – My Second Story 10

More about my second novel

…

John is in Vienna, Austria.

It’s been quite some years since we were in Vienna, and I remember it was a very pleasant experience. The copious notes and photographs I took have helped me write this chapter.

There is no doubting the zeal Worthington will put into the capture or assassination of Zoe, if and when she is discovered, and John would be horrified if he knew he was being used in such a manner.

At times, it will be a bit like reading an Eric Ambler thriller: going to the hotel, getting information from concierges, and then tracking her movements. Money, as always, speaks one language: pay enough and you will find out what you want to know.

We know Zoe is languishing in a basement somewhere in Bratislava.

John is about to find out where she went, but searching for someone in Bratislava will be completely different from searching for someone in Austria.

The same rules don’t apply in Hungary.

…

As for our visit, we stayed at the Hilton Vienna Park, though the park was then called something else. It was also when we had our first authentic Vienna Schnitzel and sampled Austrian cherries.

From there, we took the train to Schonbrunn Palace, with its extensive gardens and maze, impressive architecture, old rooms and paintings, and, at the end, so many sets of crockery.

There was also a nearby kitchen that made Apple Strudel, where we watched it being made and then had a slice afterwards.

We also went to a Wiener Palace, which offered a large and varied selection of sausages.

Unfortunately, there were no music recitals or orchestral events during our visit.

What I learned about writing – Writing in the first person or in the third person

Writing in the first or third person is a matter of preference; the former can sometimes be limiting because only one point of view is generally available to the reader, while the latter enables the reader to get more than one point of view.

In the first instance, this is how we tell a story from one perspective that doesn’t necessarily require others. In the second instance, it is useful for writing a murder mystery where different perspectives, attitudes, and characters, depending on circumstances, add to the story in ways a single perspective can not.

However, as I see it, when writing in the 3rd person, the author has to have multiple personalities in order to write different points of view. To me, that’s difficult, but not impossible. It simply means you have to get into character so you can write their story.

That, in turn, takes more time and, to a certain degree, a lot more planning for character development. It’s where a minor character can get to steal the show, as is known to happen in movies. Sometimes, it’s a pleasant surprise; others are not so much.

A pitfall not to fall into is adopting the same persona type for all the characters. You would need to sit down and plan each of the individual characters, no matter how small a role they play.

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.” Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying. There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No. That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks. Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humour failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

lovecoverfinal1

365 Days of writing, 2026 – My Second Story 9

More about my second novel

…

John is in Vienna, Austria.

It’s been quite some years since we were in Vienna, and I remember it was a very pleasant experience. The copious notes and photographs I took have aided in writing this chapter.

There is no doubting the zeal Worthington will put into the capture or assassination of Zoe, if and when she is discovered, and John would be horrified if he knew he was being used in such a manner.

We know Zoe is languishing in a basement somewhere in Bratislava.

John is about to find out where she went, but searching for someone in Bratislava will be completely different from searching for someone in Austria.

The same rules don’t apply in Hungary.

…

As for our visit, we stayed at the Hilton Vienna Park, though the park was then called something else. It was also when we had our first authentic Vienna Schnitzel and sampled Austrian cherries.

From there, we took the train to Schonbrunn Palace, with its extensive gardens and maze, impressive architecture, old rooms and paintings, and, at the end, so many sets of crockery.

There was also a nearby kitchen that made Apple Strudel, where we watched it being made and then had a slice afterwards.

We also went to a Wiener Palace, which offered a large and varied selection of sausages.

Unfortunately, there were no music recitals or orchestral events during our visit.

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovered his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little, Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here: http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life. Again.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 35

There’s something on the long-range scanner

…

I didn’t make it back to the leafy suburban late-night stroll, as much as I wanted to have that relaxing moment, going back to the bridge.

It was quiet, if not a subdued atmosphere, in other words, normal for the hour. It was a skeleton crew, mostly volunteers, those without partners or couldn’t sleep.

Sleep was one of the first problems because there was no real differentiation between night and day, a sort of hangover from those who worked night shift back on earth, only it extended to everyone. I’d long since given up the notion of getting a good night’s sleep.

“Where are we?” I asked, after sitting in the chair and casting a glance over the bridge in semi-darkness, and the view of empty, inky black space outside the ship.

The answer to the question, I thought wryly, was ‘in space’, but I doubt any of those on duty would have the desire to use humour in such a situation.

“In direct line with Pluto’s orbit.”

Salaman, the navigating officer, was not a man with a sense of humour, a just the facts sort of person.

“Any chance if seeing the planet?”

“If we sit here for the next 68 years, maybe.”

OK, so Salaman did have some humour in him if a little dry.

“Engineering.” The Chief Engineer’s voice came over the loudspeaker.

“Good news, I hope?”

“Problem sorted. Another item to take up with the inspection crew when we get home. You’re free to resume.”

“Thank you.” Then to the helmsman, “Let’s take it slowly, quarter speed.”

“Quarter speed it is, sir.”

There was a barely noticeable movement, then it was as if nothing had happened. That was the disconcerting part, the fact we had no discernible way of knowing we were moving.

“Quarter speed, sir, all systems nominal.”

“Give it five minutes, then move to half, and so on “

“Yes, sir.”

I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. I often tried to remember what it was like back home, before the weather changed for the worse, before people changed, not necessarily for the worse, but not as friendly or happy we once were.

That was a long time ago, though, and I’d spent more of my life in space than on earth now and wasn’t sure how I was going to survive once I had to retire. That was, hopefully, a long time away.

“Sir, we have a long-range contact, not sure yet if it’s a meteor or a ship.” The navigator’s voice cut into my reverie.

Did she just add the ship to the report, hoping to make a boring night into something more interesting?

“Should we hold off going to full speed, Sir?”

Probably a good idea until we identified the problem. “OK.”

I stood, walked over to the window, and looked out, symbolically looking for the object. Long-range meant, beyond a million or so earth kilometres, barely discernible to the scanners let alone a human eye.

“It’s moving at about half light speed, coming towards us.”

That might be a stretch assuming that we could possibly be on an intercepting course.

“Change our heading five degrees and see if it changes too.”

There was a slight movement as we changed course. I remained by the window, watching and waiting. There were a few flecks in the blackness, and I wondered if this was the outer rim of a meteor shower. Were they too small for the sensors to pick up, or was the navigator concentrating on the one large object?

Five minutes passed, then ten.

“Object still on a collision course, sir.”

Which missed stating the obvious, that whatever was out there had also changed course. Whoever or whatever was out there wanted to meet us.

“Revert back to the original course. When will we have a clearer picture of this object?”

“Fifteen minutes, sir.”

I had read the specifications of the long-range sensors and scanners, the former mostly do we could avoid space debris that could damage the hull, though that would take a relatively large chunk.

It was our speed, and that of incoming objects that were the problem, and that’s why we had sn autopilot to help avoid these issues.

The scanners could see objects, magnify them, from a reasonable distance, so we could identify them if we had previous knowledge of them. Alien spaceships, if we were to encounter one, might make that identification difficult but not impossible. But, on the other hand, the specifications of every ship in space, that we knew about, of course, was in the database.

Anything else, it could be added.

Nothing more to see, I sat down again. We were still sitting at half speed, and from what I could see on my console, everything was fine.

Then the screen switched to the long-range scan of the object.

It was a ship.

The scanner was going through the known ships list, looking for a match, until it reached the end, bringing up “unknown”.

The navigator stated the obvious, “it’s a ship sir, but not one in our database. Do you think it might be the prototype the Russians were talking about making a dozen or so years ago?”

Everyone knew about the famous, if you won’t share we’ll build our own, bigger and better ship when the space alliance at the time baulked at bully tactics the Russians tried to use to take over running the alliance.

They had backed down in the face of a world united against them, but had they really?

“We’ll soon find out.”

…

“Trouble in Store” – Short stories my way: Adding a catalyst

Just when there’s enough complication in the story, we could leave it there with the current three protagonists and see what happens.

But I like mayhem.

So rather than another customer, it’s time to add a complication; an off-duty policeman, or more to the point, policewoman. A beat cop, if they still exist.

Her back story in a sentence or so:

…

It had been another long day at the office for Officer Margaret O’Donnell, or, out in the streets, coping with people who either didn’t know or didn’t care about the law.

People who couldn’t cross the road where there were crossings and lights to protect them, silly girls shoplifting on a dare, and boys who thought they were men and could walk on water.

The one they scraped off the road would never get to grow up, and his mother, well, she was not doing another call on a family to give them the bad news.

That was her day. So far.

…

What is she doing near the shop? She lives around the corner. Perhaps she knows the reputation of the shopkeeper or perhaps not. It’s not relevant, then, as it is a place she avoids.

Now, she may not have the option. She sees the shop is still open, past the usual closing time.

Let’s continue:

…

She came around the corner into the street where she lived and saw the lights were on in the corner store.

She looked at her watch and saw it was ten minutes to midnight. Long past closing time. She looked through the window but from the other side of the road and could only see three heads and little else.

Damn, she thought, I’m going to have to check it out. There were rumours, and she hoped they were not true.

…

Meanwhile, back in the shop how are the others faring?

The shopkeeper is in an invidious position, he can’t supply the kids with the drugs and get them out, not in front of the customer.

The fact the girl has a gun makes the situation almost impossible. What would happen if he suggests the customer leave? Without him, the situation would be simpler.

Alphonse had only a few moments to sum up the situation, and the sum of those deliberations was the remove the only problem, the customer.

He could still salvage this:

…

The shopkeeper changed his expression to one more placatory, and said quietly to the girl, ‘Look, this is not this chap’s problem.’ He nodded in the direction of the customer. ‘I’m sure he’d rather not be here, and you would be glad of one less distraction.’

He could see she was wavering, she was not holding the gun so steadily, and the longer this dragged on, the more nervous and unpredictable she would become.

And in the longer game, the customer would sing his praises no matter what happened after he left.

The girl looked at Jack. The shopkeeper was right. If he wasn’t here this could be over. But there was another problem. It didn’t look like Simmo was in any shape to get away. In fact, this was looking more like a suicide mission.

She waved the gun in his direction. ‘Get out now, before I change my mind.’

As the gun turned to the shopkeeper, Jack wasn’t going to wait to be asked twice and started sidling towards the door.

…

What happens next?

And the story for this section, with a few minor changes:

It had been another long day at the office for Officer Margaret O’Donnell, or, out in the streets, coping with people who either didn’t know or didn’t care about the law.

People who couldn’t cross the road where there were crossings and lights to protect them, silly girls shoplifting on a dare, and boys who thought they were men and could walk on water.

The one they scraped of the road would never get to grow up, and his mother, well, she was not doing another call on a family to give them the bad news.

That was her day. So far. For now, she was glad to be getting home, putting her feet up, and forgetting about everything until the next morning when it would start all over again.

Coming around that last corner, the home stretch she called it, she was directly opposite the corner shop, usually closed at this hour of the night. It was not. The lights were still on.

She looked at her watch and saw it was ten minutes to midnight, and long past closing time. She looked through the window but from the other side of the road and could only see three heads and little else.

Damn, she thought, I’m going to have to check it out. There were rumours, and she hoped they were not true.

He could see she was wavering, she was not holding the gun so steadily, and the longer this dragged on, the more nervous and unpredictable she would become.

And in the longer game, the customer would sing his praises no matter what happened after he left.

She waved the gun in his direction. ‘Get out now, before I change my mind.’

As the gun turned to the shopkeeper, Jack wasn’t going to wait to be asked twice and started sidling towards the door.

Next: Actions have consequences

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 65

Day 65 – Don’t wait for inspiration

…

Don’t Wait for Inspiration – Go Find It (And Write Even When It Doesn’t Show Up)

“Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working.” – Pablo Picasso

If you’re a writer, a designer, a marketer, or anyone whose craft lives on ideas, you’ve probably felt the sting of a blank page. The old myth that “inspiration will magically appear” lures us into procrastination, self‑doubt, and endless scrolling. The truth is far more practical—and far more empowering: inspiration is a habit, not a miracle.

In this post, we’ll unpack why waiting for inspiration is a dead‑end strategy, explore concrete ways to hunt down that creative spark, and learn how to write anyway when the muse is stubbornly silent.

1. The Myth of “Waiting for Inspiration”

What the myth says	What reality looks like
“I’ll start when I feel inspired.”	Inspiration is a by‑product of work, not the other way around.
“I’m waiting for the perfect idea.”	Ideas are often crude drafts that become polished through iteration.
“If I’m not excited, I’m not ready.”	Excitement follows progress, not precedes it.

Why the myth is dangerous

Paralysis by perfection: The moment you decide to wait, you hand the reins over to an invisible force you can’t control.
Self‑fulfilling prophecy: No work → no inspiration → more “waiting.”
Lost opportunities: The world moves on while you sit on the sidelines, watching deadlines and ideas slip away.

The reality check: The most prolific creators—from novelists to tech innovators—agree on a single habit: they show up first. The act of sitting down, opening a document, or sketching a line is the catalyst that lights the fire.

2. Turning Inspiration Into a Search Mission

If you’re comfortable with the idea that you have to go looking, the next step is to turn that intention into an actionable plan. Below are five proven “inspiration‑hunt” tactics, each with a quick starter exercise you can try today.

A. Change Your Physical Environment

Why it works: Your brain is wired to associate surroundings with mental states. A new view can break the monotony that fuels creative blocks.

Starter exercise:

The 10‑Minute Walk: Step outside for ten minutes—no phone, no playlist, just you and the street. Notice three details you’ve never observed before (e.g., the pattern on a fence, the cadence of a neighbour’s footsteps). Jot them down on a sticky note.

B. Consume Outside Your Niche

Why it works: Cross‑pollination of ideas sparks novel connections. A poet reading a physics article may discover a metaphor that reshapes a stanza.

Starter exercise:

Random Article Roulette: Open Wikipedia, click “Random article,” and read for five minutes. Highlight any phrase or concept that resonates, then brainstorm how it could relate to your current project.

C. Use Prompt Generators

Why it works: Prompts force your brain to think in a direction you wouldn’t have chosen on your own, breaking the “blank page” inertia.

Starter exercise:

Visit a prompt site (e.g., r/WritingPrompts, The Story Shack) and copy the first prompt you see. Write a 300‑word piece—don’t edit, just let the words flow.

D. Engage in “Creative Cross‑Training”

Why it works: Physical activity releases dopamine and boosts divergent thinking, while creative activities like doodling or mind‑mapping prime the brain for ideation.

Starter exercise:

15‑Minute Stretch + Sketch: Do a quick stretch routine (or a short yoga flow). While your muscles relax, sketch anything that comes to mind—no rules, just shapes.

E. Set a “Bad‑Idea” Deadline

Why it works: Removing the pressure of perfection opens the floodgates. Bad ideas are just raw material; they can be refined or discarded later.

Starter exercise:

Set a timer for 8 minutes. Write the worst possible opening line for your piece. After the timer, read it aloud. How many elements can you salvage? Often the most surprising gems hide in the trash.

3. When Inspiration Still Plays Hard‑to‑Get: Write Anyway

You’ve tried the tactics, taken a walk, read a random article, and still hear crickets. This is the perfect moment to embrace the “write anyway” mindset. Below are strategies to turn a dry spell into productive output.

1. Free‑Writing (aka “Morning Pages”)

How it works: Set a timer for 10–20 minutes. Write whatever comes to mind—no editing, no judgment. Even if the only thing you write is “I don’t know what to write,” keep typing. The act of movement on the page often unblocks deeper thoughts.
Why it helps: It removes the mental barrier of “I have to be good.” By the end of the session, your brain is warmed up and ready for more focused work.

2. The “One‑Sentence” Rule

How it works: Tell yourself you only need to write a single sentence. It could be a description, a dialogue line, or a statement of intent. Once that sentence is down, you’re more likely to continue.
Why it helps: Small wins create momentum. The brain often resists a large task but is fine with a tiny one.

3. Reverse Outlining

How it works: Take an existing piece of your own writing (even a paragraph from a past blog) and outline its structure. Then, using that outline, write a brand‑new piece on a different topic.
Why it helps: You’re reusing a proven skeleton, which reduces the cognitive load of figuring out how to start.

4. Turn Constraints into Catalysts

How it works: Impose an artificial limitation: write a story without the letter “e,” or draft a blog post in exactly 150 words.
Why it helps: Constraints force you to think laterally, often sparking surprising ideas that would never surface in a free‑form environment.

5. Talk It Out—Verbally, Not Textually

How it works: Record yourself talking about your topic for five minutes, as if you were explaining it to a friend. Then transcribe the audio (or just listen back) and pull out usable sentences.
Why it helps: Speaking loosens the inner critic; you’re less likely to self‑edit in real time. The resulting transcript can become raw material for polished prose.

4. The Science Behind “Doing the Work”

Psychological Principle	How it Relates to Writing
The Zeigarnik Effect – unfinished tasks stay on our mind	Starting a sentence, even a terrible one, creates a mental “open loop” that pushes us to finish it.
Flow State – deep focus occurs when challenge meets skill	By setting low‑stakes prompts (e.g., 5‑minute free‑write), you hit the sweet spot of challenge, making flow easier to achieve.
Neuroplasticity – the brain builds new pathways through repeated activity	Consistently showing up to write rewires your brain to treat writing as a habit, not a rare event.

Understanding that the brain rewards action, not anticipation, flips the script: you’re not waiting for inspiration; you’re creating it through deliberate practice.

5. A Real‑World Example: From “Stuck” to Published

Case Study: Maya, freelance copywriter
Maya hit a wall on a landing‑page project for a wellness startup. She’d stared at the brief for three days, hoping a “big idea” would suddenly appear. Instead, she tried the steps above:

Walked around her neighborhood, noting the colors of sunrise.

Read a short article on the science of habit formation.

Set a 5‑minute timer and wrote the worst possible headline (“Feel Amazing Today—Or Don’t”).

She then turned that bad headline into a list of 10 alternatives, choosing the one that resonated most.

Finally, she drafted the page in 30‑minute bursts, ignoring perfection.
Result? The client loved the final copy, and Maya delivered the project ahead of schedule. She credits the “write anyway” phase for breaking the mental block that was costing her both time and confidence.

Maya’s story illustrates a simple truth: the more you move, the more ideas surface. You don’t need a mystical muse; you need momentum.

6. Quick‑Start Checklist: “Inspiration on Demand”

	Action	Time Needed
1	Take a 10‑minute walk and note three new observations.	10 min
2	Read a random article from a field outside yours.	5 min
3	Write a 300‑word piece using a prompt.	15 min
4	Do a 5‑minute free‑write (any topic).	5 min
5	Choose the worst sentence you can think of; improve it.	3 min
6	Review and select one idea to develop further.	5 min

Total: ~43 minutes.
If you can’t spare that much, pick any two items and repeat daily. Consistency beats intensity.

7. Take the First Step Right Now

Your challenge: Pick one of the tactics above, set a timer for 8 minutes, and start writing. Don’t worry about the outcome. When the timer dings, read what you’ve produced. Notice the shift in your mental state—often you’ll feel a spark that wasn’t there before you began.

Closing Thoughts

Waiting for inspiration is like waiting for a bus that may never arrive. By going looking—whether that means walking, reading, prompting, or simply forcing yourself to write—you become the driver of your own creative journey. And when the bus does finally pull up, you’ll be ready with a ticket, a seat, and the confidence to hop aboard.

Remember:

Show up first. The act of writing is the catalyst.
Seek stimuli actively. Your environment, consumption habits, and prompts are tools, not distractions.
Write anyway. Bad ideas, half‑baked sentences, and free‑writes are the raw ore from which gold is refined.

So, next time you stare at a blank screen and hear the internal mantra, “I’ll wait for inspiration,” flip it: “I’m going to find it—and I’ll write, no matter what.”

Your next masterpiece is waiting on the other side of that first typed word.

Happy hunting, and happy writing!

Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance

One writer's experiences, and battles with words

Category: Book

365 Days of writing, 2026 – My Second Story 10

What I learned about writing – Writing in the first person or in the third person

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – My Second Story 9

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 35

“Trouble in Store” – Short stories my way: Adding a catalyst

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 65