After the third attempt, still needs work

I have a stab at improving this starting piece every now and then, a project that started about a year or so ago, and I find myself rewriting the start over and over because I’m not satisfied with the characterization.

It’s not so much the storyline, as it is in trying to create sympathy for the character and not find him as dull as ditchwater. He’s improving with age. As writers, we tend to create colourful characters and shy away from those who are dull and boring, because after all, as a reader, you want to become something or someone who is far from ordinary. Well, Graham is starting out ordinary, but he will be anything but by the time I write those words ‘The End’.

I promise.

…

I am the master of my own destiny.

My father had drummed that into me, as well as my older brother and younger sister, over and over, until it became a mantra.

For them.

I could not say I didn’t have the same advantages afforded to them, afforded to me. I did.

But somewhere lost in the translation, someone forgot to tell me that it was only advice, not an order, and mistaking it for the latter, I struck out on my own path.

And for the next ten years, it was a long and winding path that led me to this point in time, in a small room that held nothing to tell me where I came from, or who I really was.

My parents were very wealthy with an Upper Westside Apartment in Manhattan and a holiday house in Martha’s Vineyard, my sister had a successful medical career and married a most eligible bachelor, as expected, and my brother, he was a politician.

I’d not seen any of them in at least five years, and they hadn’t called me.

You see, I was the black sheep of the family. I dropped out of college when it all became too much and drifted. Seasonal labourer, farmhand, factory worker, add job man, and night watchman.

At least now I had a uniform, and a gun, and looked like I’d made something of myself.

It was hard to say why, but just before I was about to head out of the factory to end my shift, those thoughts about them came into my mind. They might be gone, but I guess I would never forget them. I wondered briefly if any of them thought about me.

It was 3 a.m. and it was like standing on the exact epicentre of the South Pole. I’d just stepped from the factory warehouse into the car park.

The car was covered in snow. The weather was clear now, but I could feel more snow coming. A white Christmas? That’s all I needed. I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.

As I approached my car, the light went on inside an SUV parked next to my car. The door opened and what looked to be a woman was getting out of the car.

“Graham?”

It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time.

I looked again and was shocked to see my ultra-successful sister, Penelope. She was leaning against the front fender, and from what I could see, didn’t look too well.

How on earth did she find me, after all the years that had passed? Perhaps that sparked my un-conciliatory question, “What do you want?”

I could see the surprise and then the hurt in her expression. Perhaps I had been a little harsh. Whatever she felt, it passed, and she said, “Help.”

My help? Help with what? I was the last person who could help her, or anyone for that matter, with anything. But curiosity got the better of me. “Why?”

“I think my husband is trying to kill me.”

Then, with that said, she slid down the side of the car, and I could see, in the arc lamps lighting the car park, a trail of blood.

My first thought, she needed the help of a doctor, not a stupid brother, then a second thought, call 911, which I did, and hoped like hell they got here in time.

And, yes, there was a third thought that crossed my mind. Whether or not I would be blamed for this event.

…

The 2am Rant: A door that is always open

My opinions are my own

It’s always a good thing to get that across, especially if you work for an organisation that could misinterpret what that opinion is, or generally have an opposing opinion. Of course, by saying your opinions are your own, you’re covering yourself from becoming unemployed, but is this a futile act?

Perhaps it’s better to not say anything because everything you say and do eventually finds its way to those you want most not to hear about it, perhaps one of the big negatives of the internet and social media.

And…

It seems odd to me that more often than not, you can’t have an opinion of your own, even if it is contrary to that of the organisation you work for, and especially if their opinion has changed over time. An opposing opinion, delivered in a non-derogatory manner, would be expected to spark a healthy debate, but it doesn’t always end up that way.

I’m sure there are others out there that will disagree and use the overused word, ‘loyalty’. Perhaps their mantra will be ‘keep your opinions to yourself’.

This, too, often arises in personal relationships, adding weight to the statement, ‘you can pick your friends but not your relatives.’

I’m told I have an opinion on everything, a statement delivered in a manner that suggests sarcasm. Whether it’s true or not, isn’t the essence of free speech, working within the parameters of not inciting hate, bigotry, racism or sexism, a fundamental right of anyone in a democracy?

Seems not.

There’s always someone out there, higher up the food chain, with an opinion of their own, obviously the right one, and who will not hesitate to silence yours. But, isn’t it strange that to silence you, they have to use leverage, like your job, to get theirs across?

Well, my opinions are in my writing, and whether or not you agree with them or not, I’m sure you will let me know. In a robust but respectful manner.

Unlike some, my door is always open.

Writing a book in 365 days – 356

Day 356

The “Practice Makes Perfect” Myth (and Why It Still Works—for Writing)

“If you do anything seriously long enough, you’ll get better.”

That sentence feels like an old‑school mantra you might have heard from a coach, a music teacher, or a parent. It’s comforting, almost inevitable—just keep at it and the results will follow.

But does the rule hold true for writers? And what does it mean when we say “good writing is contagious”?

In this post I’ll unpack the science behind long‑term practice, show why writing is a uniquely contagious skill, and give you a toolbox of concrete, battle‑tested tips to turn “doing it longer” into real, measurable improvement.

1. The Core Truth: Time + Deliberate Practice = Skill Growth

Fact	What It Means for Writers
Neuroplasticity – The brain rewires itself with repeated activity.	The more you write, the stronger the neural pathways that support storytelling, grammar, and voice.
Deliberate Practice – Not just “doing the thing,” but practicing with feedback and specific goals.	Writing a 500‑word blog post isn’t enough; you must target weak spots (e.g., pacing, dialogue) and refine them deliberately.
Deliberate Practice – Not just “doing the thing,” but practising with feedback and specific goals.	10,000 hours of mindless typing won’t help. Ten hours of focused revision, critique, and study can trump 100 hours of “just writing.”
Plateaus Are Normal – Skill acquisition follows a sigmoid curve: rapid early gains, a plateau, then a second surge after a breakthrough.	Expect periods where progress feels stagnant. Use them to experiment, read, or rest—don’t quit.

Bottom line: Time alone isn’t enough. You need deliberate, feedback‑rich practice to convert hours into mastery.

2. Good Writing Is Contagious – Why It Spreads

Social Proof: Readers (and fellow writers) gravitate toward high‑quality prose. When a piece shines, it sets a new benchmark in its community.
Mirror Neurons: We neurologically mimic the style and tone we consume, especially when we admire the source. Reading great sentences trains our own “inner ear.”
Collective Learning: Writing groups, workshops, and online forums create a feedback loop where one person’s improvement lifts the entire cohort.
Cultural Momentum: Think of the “New Journalism” wave of the ’60s or the rise of flash fiction on Twitter—once a few voices cracked the code, the style proliferated.

In short, exposure to excellent writing accelerates your own growth—if you allow it to.

3. The Pitfalls of “Just Writing More”

Common Misconception	Why It Fails	How to Fix It
“I write 2,000 words a day, so I’m improving.”	Quantity without reflection reinforces bad habits.	After each session, flag 1–2 things you’d change (e.g., redundancy, weak verb).
“I’ll get better after I finish my novel.”	Long‑term projects can hide small‑scale weaknesses.	Break the novel into bite‑size “skill drills” (e.g., one chapter focused on dialogue).
“Feedback is optional; I trust my gut.”	Our internal editor is notoriously biased.	Schedule regular external reviews—beta readers, editors, or a critique partner.
“I’ll read only what I like.”	Comfort zones limit exposure to new structures, vocab, and perspectives.	Add a “genre‑stretch” reading slot each week (e.g., poetry if you write nonfiction).

4. Actionable Blueprint: Turn Hours Into Better Writing

Below is a step‑by‑step system you can adopt today. It’s modular—pick what fits your schedule and skill level, then iterate.

A. Build a Structured Writing Routine

Component	Frequency	Tip
Micro‑Write (10–15 min)	Daily, first thing in the morning	Write a single sentence, a vivid description, or a quick dialogue exchange. No editing, just raw output.
Focused Session (45–90 min)	3–4× per week	Choose a skill goal (e.g., “show, don’t tell”). Work on a specific piece that targets that goal.
Review & Revise (30 min)	Immediately after each focused session	Highlight 2–3 improvement points; rewrite the same passage with those in mind.
Reading Sprint (30 min)	Daily or every other day	Read a passage from a writer you admire and take notes on what makes it work (sentence rhythm, word choice, structure).
Feedback Loop (1 hr)	Weekly	Send your work to a critique partner or post in a writing forum. Write a response to each piece of feedback, outlining what you’ll try next.

Why it works: The routine mixes production, analysis, and external input—the three pillars of deliberate practice.

B. “Contagion” Tactics – Let Good Writing Infect You

Curated Reading Lists
- Classic craft: “The Elements of Style,” “On Writing” (King).
- Genre deep‑dive: 5 seminal works from each genre you write.
- Modern bite‑size: Follow Twitter accounts that tweet micro‑essays or haiku.
Imitation Exercises
- Pick a paragraph you love. Rewrite it in your own voice while preserving the structure and rhythm.
- Swap the genre (turn a news article into a short story).
Community Immersion
- Join a weekly critique circle (online or local).
- Participate in writing challenges (NaNoWriMo, 30‑day flash fiction).
- Comment thoughtfully on other writers’ blogs—explaining what you liked forces you to articulate good writing principles.
Mentor‑Mode Writing
- Write as if you’re teaching a class. Draft a short guide on a writing technique; the act of explaining refines your own understanding.

C. Metric‑Based Progress Tracking

Metric	Tool	How to Interpret
Word‑per‑hour output	Timer + word count	Aim for a stable range; spikes may indicate “flow” days, drops may signal fatigue.
Revision Ratio (original words ÷ final words)	Drafts in Google Docs	A decreasing ratio (e.g., 1.3 → 1.1) often signals tighter prose.
Feedback Score (e.g., 1‑5 rating from beta readers)	Survey Form	Trend upward? If flat, examine recurring criticism.
Reading Diversity Index (genres read per month)	Spreadsheet	Higher diversity correlates with more varied sentence structures.

Review these numbers every month and adjust your routine accordingly.

5. Real‑World Case Study: From “Stuck” to “Spitting Fire”

Writer: Maya, 34, freelance tech copywriter.

Problem	Intervention	Result (3 months)
Drafts flooded with jargon; readers complained of “dry” tone.	Daily 10‑min “show, don’t tell” micro‑write. Weekly 30‑min reading of narrative non‑fiction (e.g., The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks). Joined a local critique group focused on voice.	• Reduced average sentence length by 15 %. • Client satisfaction score rose from 3.2 → 4.6/5. • Secured a new contract for a storytelling‑heavy whitepaper series.

Maya’s story illustrates that structured, feedback‑rich practice beats sheer volume—and that reading narrative work made her own prose “contagiously” richer.

6. Quick‑Start Checklist (Print & Pin)

Write a 10‑minute “seed” piece every morning (no edits).
Pick one skill goal per week (e.g., stronger verbs).
Read a 5‑minute passage from a master writer daily and annotate.
Submit a draft for critique at least once a week.
Imitate a favourite paragraph once a month, then rewrite it in a new genre.
Log your metrics (output, revision ratio, feedback rating) every Friday.

7. The Bottom Line

Yes—if you do something seriously long enough, you will improve. But the quality of that “serious” effort is what determines how much you improve.

Good writing spreads like a good meme: you absorb it through reading, imitation, and community, and you amplify it by giving feedback and teaching.

By marrying deliberate practice with contagious exposure, you turn the simple mantra “write more” into a powerful, measurable growth engine.

Your next step? Choose one of the tactics above, commit to it for the next 30 days, and watch your prose evolve from “just getting longer” to “getting better.”

Happy writing—and may the contagion be ever in your favour!

If you found this post helpful, share it with fellow writers, and let us know which of the strategies you tried in the comments.

What I learned about writing – Seasons can affect your writing

I have to say that I prefer that time a month into Autumn (or as it is called in other parts of the world, Fall) when the temperatures become bearable, and often there is the soft patter of rain and it’s a calming effect.

It suits my mood and it helps me with my writing, those days when you don’t feel like going out, you just stare out the window contemplating nothing in particular. These are days when it’s possible to write like you feel.

Melancholy, reflective.

Unlike a lot of people, I actually like the rain. The pattering of raindrops on the roof and on the leaves of the foliage outside the window, the droplets running down the glass of the windows.

It has a calming effect, a serenity about it, that with a fire burning in the background (and I mean a real fire with burning logs) and soft music, perhaps some gentle jazz, or a symphony (please, not the Pastoral Symphony, but maybe Vivaldi’s Four Seasons).

Moving closer to winter, it gets colder, but not that bone-chilling cold of minus 29 degrees Fahrenheit that Northern Hemisphere winters have) but the 16 degrees centigrade we have, along with the rain and the wind.

Different seasons have different winds. Summer, they are strong and warm, Autumn, swirling and cool with that rustle through the leaves, Winter, hard and, well, not very cold as they are down south in places like Tasmania, and Spring, the gentle breeze with a hint of the coming summer.

On rare occasions, it can have the unnerving effect, sort of like the wailing of a banshee. Or a sort of humming sound as it blows through the electricity lines.

It reminds me of a set of allegories I read about a long time ago,

Winter – sad

Spring – hope

Summer – Happy

Autumn – reflective

Perhaps it is a little early for me to be reflective because where I live, Autumn is just about over and Winter is coming.

But, of course, this year will be different. Aside from the usual spate of colds and flu, we have a bigger problem, the possibility of never shaking off COVID 19.

We may have won a short-term victory but this is war, and as we all know, wars take years to win.

But in self-isolation, there is a silver lining. I might get to write that trilogy I’ve always wanted to.

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

…

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

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

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

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

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…