How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.
In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.
I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.
Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.
There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.
Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.
It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.
For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.
It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination in what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
Jack was the first to realise that Marina was coming back, hearing her outside long before I did. He stood up and looked in the direction of where he expected to see her.
A minute later she appeared, looking and sounding out of breath, as if she had been in a hurry?
Chased, or had some urgent news?
“Is everything OK?” I asked, waiting till she came in and shut the door behind her.
The building we were in used to be a factory or a repair shop. The strange smell I’d picked up a few hours ago was that of machine oil.
“We need to have a chat with the two who picked you up.”
“Where are they now?”
“I’ve organised to meet them at another facility we have. Not everyone comes here. It’s why we are still here. Francesco nor any of the resistance he took with him were aware of this location.
I considered myself lucky to be among the few.
“Is there a reason why I need to be there?”
“Yes. But it’ll wait until we get there. Let’s go.”
She had barely got in the door, nor caught her breath. It was just enough time to collect a spare clip of ammunition for a gun she had on her, but I couldn’t see.
I followed her out into the darkness, not realising it was night, for the first time since I’d arrived, and once outside, realised that it was an underground bunker rather than a building on an allotment, so it couldn’t be easily seen from any direction. It was surrounded by trees and bushes, looking as though they had not been tended properly for some time.
It was as much as I could see, close by because it was a moonless night.
We went up some stairs and came out in a clump of bushes, and walked several yards where there was a disguised walkway zig-zagging through the bushes. It, too, would be hard to see from a distance. When we came out the other side, I could just barely see a car parked under a tree, looking rather worse for wear, and I thought it had been abandoned there.
When Marina told me to get in, I realised it was, like everything else, well disguised.
The surrounding area was that of forest and farms. It was hard to imagine that this part of the world was in the grip of a world war, and not too far away, there was the castle, and further north, the Germans and what was left of the Italian military forces dug in for a last-ditch effort. The tide was turning, but ever so slowly.
It was hard to imagine just how dangerous it was for those defectors to try and get through without being shot.
And, just for good measure, Marina said, there were quite a few soldiers, disguised as ordinary workers who had infiltrated the villages, and surrounding farms, and reporting back what they saw and heard.
We were, in going about in the vehicle, attracting unwanted attention, but it was why we were doing this at night, she said, perhaps gleaning from my expression the fact I was worried about getting caught.
“The people at the castle tend not to go out at night for fear of being picked off. I’m surprised you didn’t learn this when you were there.”
“I suspect the suspended any activities from the moment I arrived. One of the prisoners told me that all movements of people had stopped, and they were waiting to be shipped out. Obviously, they thought I might discover what was going on. They definitely stopped me from going below the main floor.”
“I was told you have some knowledge of the castle layout?”
“Some. We have old plans back in London, but I suspect those would be out of date now and since the German occupation. The only time I got to look downstairs was when I tried to escape and found an old below ground exit, then when they locked me in a cell, and then when I was set free. It matched much of what I remember seeing on the plans. But, I suspect there’s more because I didn’t get to see the holding cells with the other prisoners.”
“Perhaps Carlo can help you with that.”
“We spoke about it. I think he’s going to pay them a visit and exact revenge.”
“I told him we have to wait for some reinforcements.”
“No word from London?”
“Not yet.”
We stopped and parked the car between a church and what was left of what might have been a rectory, set aside from some other buildings that looked like part of a village. It was not that dark that I couldn’t see that several of the buildings had been bombed, minus roofs, and one had the front section reduced to rubble. No attempt had been made to clean it up.
“German tanks,” Marina said. “An early landing party of your army parachuted in about a kilometre behind the church. The local commander mobilised his forces and chased them into those buildings, which, at the time, housed four families. They were given the option to surrender. They didn’t, so the commander gave the order to raze the buildings to the ground, with them in there. Along with the four innocent families. No one survived.”
“The church?”
“The commander thought it would be bad luck to destroy the house of God. The soldiers should have hidden in there. They shot the priest anyway.”
It seemed odd to me that any sort of group would parachute into this part of Italy for any reason, castle withstanding. There was, as far as I knew, nothing of interest or importance here. Perhaps I’d ask when I made it back to London. If I made it back.
I followed her through the rubble and in through a side entrance to the church. Inside it was dark, and Marina was using her torchlight sparingly in case someone was watching. From what I could see, the inside of the church was untouched, but everything was covered in dust from disuse.
“No one thought to send another priest?” I asked.
“No. When they heard what happened to the last one, they decided to wait until the war was over. Besides, with everything that’s happened, the people around here believe God has abandoned them.”
Perhaps he had. I know that I wasn’t all that religious to begin with, but a lot of people I knew had lost their faith in a God that allowed such tragedies to happen.
We passed through a door at the back of the church, behind the nave, and into what looked like the vestment room. To one side was another door, and then steps down. The church had a cellar.
At the bottom of the stairs, there was a large storage area lit by a portable lantern.
Carlo was standing to one side, his weapon ready to use.
Opposite him were a man and a woman, the woman I’d seen before, she was the one who shot me with the tranquilizer. The man, I’d not seen him before.
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 characterisation.
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. But that takes words, and no one wants to read a biography when they want full-on mayhem.
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, Sam/Graham has a past, and it might catch up with him, but just not in the way he imagined it might. I haven’t quite decided what the past is, but hiding out under witness protection, or just hiding away from a world that he no longer understands, is still in the balance.
…
They say trouble comes when you least expect it.
I can attest to that. It does.
I was at the end of my shift. Another shift, another bright, another 10 hours of my life gone, doing a job that, had you asked me 20 years ago would I be here, I would have said no.
Circumstances and stupidity put me here, and it’s not as if I didn’t deserve it. I was told I had choices, and I did, but I didn’t make the right one.
There are excuses, but that was all they were; excuses.
Jim was like me, and like Joe, and like Mike. My name was Sam. They were easy names to remember; we didn’t need to know much more than that, only that we had each other’s backs.
“Usual weekend?” Jim asked.
I was heading towards the kitchen to get my small fridge bag, then out the back door and off home.
“The boat and the lake await.”
“You still expecting to find fish in that swamp?” Mike had been with me one weekend, and nothing took the bait.
After six or so months, I was beginning to think the locals were right. There were no fish.
“Miracles can still happen.”
“Yeah, right. You should come hunting with us.”
“Don’t like guns.”
Not any more, anyway. There was a time I was happy to use one, when I had a purpose, and there was a reason to use it.
“Then why pick a job that needs one?”
“Chances of having to use it, zero, Mike. If I have to, I will, but until then…”
I left it there. We’d had this conversation, and it always ended the same way.
I collected the bag, told them I’d see them next Monday, the start of the next shift, and stepped out the back door into the early morning dawn, that period just as the light came.
Silent, fresh, the promise of either a good day or a bad. I wasn’t sure. I glanced over towards the car, and it was covered in snow. The weather was clear now, but I could feel that more snow was coming. A white Christmas? That’s all I needed.
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?”
That was another thing about the members of my team. Our current first names were not necessarily our real names. 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 side 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 was she needed the help of a doctor, not a stupid brother, then a second thought, to 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.
…
So, from the last version to this, I decided we didn’t need a sob story; it can play out as and when circumstances require an explanation for our main character’s disposition.
And I have this renewed vigour for getting into action as soon as possible, and, as you can imagine, a lot more is about to happen, in about three sentences time.
5 Proven Ways to Give Your Writing Confidence a Real Boost
Whether you’re polishing a novel manuscript, drafting a blog post, or scribbling down a quick journal entry, every writer hits the “I‑don’t‑know‑if‑this‑is‑good enough” wall at some point. The good news? Confidence isn’t a mystical talent you’re either born with or not—it’s a skill you can train, just like plotting, character arcs, or SEO research. Below are five concrete strategies (backed by research and real‑world experience) that will help you shake off self‑doubt, step into your writer’s voice, and keep the words flowing.
1. Celebrate Small Wins – Turn “Done” Into “Done‑and‑Delicious”
Why it works: Psychologist Dr. Barbara Fredrickson’s Broaden‑and‑Build theory tells us that positive emotions expand our mental toolkit, making us more creative and resilient. Acknowledging tiny achievements creates that positive feedback loop.
How to apply it:
Small Milestone
Celebration Idea
Finishing a paragraph
Add a sticky note to your monitor that says “Paragraph conquered!”
Hitting a word‑count target (e.g., 500 words)
Treat yourself to a 5‑minute playlist of your favorite songs
Finding the perfect metaphor
Write it on a slip of paper and tape it on your wall as a visual trophy
Receiving a kind comment on a draft
Save the comment in a “Confidence Folder” (digital or physical) for low‑energy days
Make it a habit: At the end of each writing session, jot down one thing you did well. Over weeks, you’ll have a personal “confidence bank” to draw from when you feel stuck.
2. Adopt a “Draft‑First, Edit‑Later” Mindset
Why it works: Research from the University of Cambridge shows that separating the creative (draft) and analytical (edit) phases lowers perfectionism and increases output quality. When you stop judging while you write, the flow state—that sweet spot where the words seem to write themselves—is easier to achieve.
Practical steps:
Set a timer for a “pure draft” sprint (e.g., 20 minutes). During this window, no back‑spacing, no grammar checks, no Googling synonyms. Just write.
Label the document “RAW” so you consciously know you’ll revisit it later.
Switch gears after the sprint: take a short walk, stretch, then open the file in “Edit” mode. You’ll be surprised at how many “aha!” moments appear when you return with fresh eyes.
Result: The draft becomes a safe space for experimentation, and the later edit feels like polishing a gem rather than fixing a broken vase.
3. Build a “Writer’s Support Squad”
Why it works: Social support is a massive confidence driver. According to a 2022 study in Writing Research Quarterly, writers who regularly share work with peers report 31% higher self‑efficacy (belief in their ability to succeed) than solitary writers.
Ways to create your squad:
Join a local or virtual writing group. Platforms like Meetup, Discord, or even Facebook have genre‑specific circles.
Find a “beta‑reader buddy.” Swap drafts with someone you trust; give each other a single, focused piece of feedback (e.g., “Did the protagonist’s motivation feel clear?”).
Hire a professional editor for a “confidence edit.” Even a brief 30‑minute session can validate that you’re on the right track.
Use accountability apps. Tools like Habitica or Beeminder let you set writing goals and get nudges (or gentle shame‑reminders) from friends.
Tip: Keep the feedback loop specific and positive. A phrase like “I loved how you showed the conflict through dialogue” feels far more empowering than a vague “It’s good.”
4. Leverage the Power of “Impostor‑Syndrome Journaling”
Why it works: Impostor syndrome—feeling like a fraud despite evidence of competence—is rampant among writers. A 2020 meta‑analysis in Psychology of Aesthetics, Creativity, and the Arts found that journaling about these thoughts reduces their intensity by 40%.
How to journal effectively:
Name the feeling. Write, “I’m feeling like an impostor because…”
Collect evidence. List concrete achievements (publications, positive comments, word‑count milestones).
Reframe. Turn “I’m not good enough” into “I’m still learning, and that’s okay.”
Set a “next‑step” goal. E.g., “Read one article on pacing this week.”
Do this once a week, preferably after a writing session. Over time, the journal becomes a personal truth‑checker that reminds you of your progress whenever doubt creeps in.
5. Practice “Micro‑Storytelling” to Warm Up Your Voice
Why it works: Micro‑storytelling (flash fiction ≤ 300 words, Instagram captions, or even 6‑sentence anecdotes) forces you to distill ideas quickly, sharpening your narrative instincts and giving you immediate, tangible proof of skill.
Kick‑start ideas:
Prompt
Word Limit
Goal
“The last word you ever typed”
150
Capture tension in a single scene
“A coffee shop conversation that changes everything”
200
Practice dialogue
“A piece of advice you’d give to your younger self”
250
Tap into voice & authenticity
“Rewrite a classic fairy tale in 3 sentences”
100
Hone brevity & wit
Routine: Spend the first 10 minutes of every writing day on a micro‑story. When you finish, you have a finished piece to share, post, or shelve—instant confidence.
Putting It All Together: A 7‑Day Confidence Sprint
Day
Focus
Action
1
Celebrate Wins
Write 3 bullet‑point win notes after your session.
2
Draft‑First
20‑minute sprint + “RAW” label.
3
Squad Up
Post a snippet in your writing group, ask for one specific comment.
4
Impostor Journal
Follow the 4‑step journaling template.
5
Micro‑Story
Complete a flash‑fiction piece (≤200 words).
6
Edit Session
Revisit Day 2’s draft with fresh eyes.
7
Review & Reward
Compile all win notes, journal entries, and micro‑stories. Celebrate with a treat or a leisure activity.
At the end of the week, you’ll have a portfolio of proof—a tangible collection that demonstrates progress, skill, and resilience. And more importantly, you’ll have rewired your brain to associate writing with positive outcomes rather than fear.
Final Thought: Confidence Is a Muscle, Not a Magic Spell
Every writer—whether a debut novelist, a seasoned journalist, or a hobbyist blogger—needs a reliable toolbox for moments of doubt. The strategies above are evidence‑based, low‑cost, and adaptable to any schedule or genre. Try one or mix several, track what resonates, and watch your inner critic shrink while your creative voice grows louder.
Ready to boost your confidence? Grab a notebook, pick the first tip, and start today. Your future self (and your readers) will thank you.
While we get to talk about characters and characteristics later, part of what sets the scene is the details, those little things about people, places, and sometimes just everyday items that will make a story from routine to, well, slightly more interesting.
For others to find these details relatable makes it even better.
I’ve been to the Eiffel Tower, but I’m sure there’s a detail that can transform words on a page into a picture in the reader’s mind.
Walking across a meadow isn’t just walking, it’s watching the swirling grass as the breeze pushes it one way then another, all around the sounds of birds and insects.
For added colour, you could add a dog, about the same height as the grass, one minute bounding through the grass, the next hot on the trail of a small animal like a field mouse or rabbit.
Above, the sky is blue, the sun is shining, not a hot day, but warm, the sort you don’t need a jumper.
It could be the first day or the last day of the holidays, or you could be staying with an aunt or uncle on a farm in the countryside, in the distance, the farmhouse sitting in a familiar position overlooking the valley before it.
There could be a babbling brook, a small bridge to cross, even though it is not very deep, and hiding in the rocks, fish waiting to be caught, taken back to the house, and later become part of supper.
And tying the elements together:
…
It was almost the end of the holidays, and I didn’t want to go back to the city. The last few weeks had opened my eyes to a world I had never known existed.
Sitting under the apple tree on the edge of the grove, I looked out across the meadow that fell gently down towards the creek when the other day I had taken my aunt’s advice and gone for a dip to cool off.
Now, as I looked out and tried to form a permanent image of the scene in my mind so I could remember it in the coming weeks and months, there was something new and different from the other days.
Yes, the grass, as high as Cyclops, my aunt’s dog, was swirling in the breeze, and was bounding as he always did through the grass, searching for a rabbit, or he just caught a scent. Yes, the sky was blue, though now there were wispy clouds in the distance, perhaps an omen that the weather was about to change, but that was not it.
A different sound from the birds chirping and the insects buzzing, someone singing not loudly but as they would to themselves when they knew no one else was around.
And then I saw her, a girl my age, long blonde hair tousled by the breeze, in a summery dress with flowers and birds. The elusive Erica, the girl from the next farm, who, my aunt said, sometimes came to pick some apples to take back to her mother to bake apple pie.
Apple pie that was to die for.
When she reached the grove, she saw me and stopped. The happy, cheerful expression turned to one of curiosity.
“Who are you?”
“Andy. I’m staying with my aunt. How come I haven’t seen you before?”
“I’ve been here. You have not, or I would have seen you.”
True. I had spent most of my time, up until this day, working with my uncle in the barn and on the tractor ploughing other fields. I was only here because my aunt had sent me to get some apples fresh from the tree.
“I have been helping my uncle.”
…
It started out as an awkward conversation because I was not very comfortable around girls. Those that I knew in the city were not very nice. By the end, I had found a new friend, and it made it all the more impossible to go home.
And, although I didn’t know it then, it was the start of a relationship that would continue until the day we both died.
…
It, of course, needs refinement and more interweaving of the elements around us, but it’s a start.
John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
5 Proven Ways to Give Your Writing Confidence a Real Boost
Whether you’re polishing a novel manuscript, drafting a blog post, or scribbling down a quick journal entry, every writer hits the “I‑don’t‑know‑if‑this‑is‑good enough” wall at some point. The good news? Confidence isn’t a mystical talent you’re either born with or not—it’s a skill you can train, just like plotting, character arcs, or SEO research. Below are five concrete strategies (backed by research and real‑world experience) that will help you shake off self‑doubt, step into your writer’s voice, and keep the words flowing.
1. Celebrate Small Wins – Turn “Done” Into “Done‑and‑Delicious”
Why it works: Psychologist Dr. Barbara Fredrickson’s Broaden‑and‑Build theory tells us that positive emotions expand our mental toolkit, making us more creative and resilient. Acknowledging tiny achievements creates that positive feedback loop.
How to apply it:
Small Milestone
Celebration Idea
Finishing a paragraph
Add a sticky note to your monitor that says “Paragraph conquered!”
Hitting a word‑count target (e.g., 500 words)
Treat yourself to a 5‑minute playlist of your favorite songs
Finding the perfect metaphor
Write it on a slip of paper and tape it on your wall as a visual trophy
Receiving a kind comment on a draft
Save the comment in a “Confidence Folder” (digital or physical) for low‑energy days
Make it a habit: At the end of each writing session, jot down one thing you did well. Over weeks, you’ll have a personal “confidence bank” to draw from when you feel stuck.
2. Adopt a “Draft‑First, Edit‑Later” Mindset
Why it works: Research from the University of Cambridge shows that separating the creative (draft) and analytical (edit) phases lowers perfectionism and increases output quality. When you stop judging while you write, the flow state—that sweet spot where the words seem to write themselves—is easier to achieve.
Practical steps:
Set a timer for a “pure draft” sprint (e.g., 20 minutes). During this window, no back‑spacing, no grammar checks, no Googling synonyms. Just write.
Label the document “RAW” so you consciously know you’ll revisit it later.
Switch gears after the sprint: take a short walk, stretch, then open the file in “Edit” mode. You’ll be surprised at how many “aha!” moments appear when you return with fresh eyes.
Result: The draft becomes a safe space for experimentation, and the later edit feels like polishing a gem rather than fixing a broken vase.
3. Build a “Writer’s Support Squad”
Why it works: Social support is a massive confidence driver. According to a 2022 study in Writing Research Quarterly, writers who regularly share work with peers report 31% higher self‑efficacy (belief in their ability to succeed) than solitary writers.
Ways to create your squad:
Join a local or virtual writing group. Platforms like Meetup, Discord, or even Facebook have genre‑specific circles.
Find a “beta‑reader buddy.” Swap drafts with someone you trust; give each other a single, focused piece of feedback (e.g., “Did the protagonist’s motivation feel clear?”).
Hire a professional editor for a “confidence edit.” Even a brief 30‑minute session can validate that you’re on the right track.
Use accountability apps. Tools like Habitica or Beeminder let you set writing goals and get nudges (or gentle shame‑reminders) from friends.
Tip: Keep the feedback loop specific and positive. A phrase like “I loved how you showed the conflict through dialogue” feels far more empowering than a vague “It’s good.”
4. Leverage the Power of “Impostor‑Syndrome Journaling”
Why it works: Impostor syndrome—feeling like a fraud despite evidence of competence—is rampant among writers. A 2020 meta‑analysis in Psychology of Aesthetics, Creativity, and the Arts found that journaling about these thoughts reduces their intensity by 40%.
How to journal effectively:
Name the feeling. Write, “I’m feeling like an impostor because…”
Collect evidence. List concrete achievements (publications, positive comments, word‑count milestones).
Reframe. Turn “I’m not good enough” into “I’m still learning, and that’s okay.”
Set a “next‑step” goal. E.g., “Read one article on pacing this week.”
Do this once a week, preferably after a writing session. Over time, the journal becomes a personal truth‑checker that reminds you of your progress whenever doubt creeps in.
5. Practice “Micro‑Storytelling” to Warm Up Your Voice
Why it works: Micro‑storytelling (flash fiction ≤ 300 words, Instagram captions, or even 6‑sentence anecdotes) forces you to distill ideas quickly, sharpening your narrative instincts and giving you immediate, tangible proof of skill.
Kick‑start ideas:
Prompt
Word Limit
Goal
“The last word you ever typed”
150
Capture tension in a single scene
“A coffee shop conversation that changes everything”
200
Practice dialogue
“A piece of advice you’d give to your younger self”
250
Tap into voice & authenticity
“Rewrite a classic fairy tale in 3 sentences”
100
Hone brevity & wit
Routine: Spend the first 10 minutes of every writing day on a micro‑story. When you finish, you have a finished piece to share, post, or shelve—instant confidence.
Putting It All Together: A 7‑Day Confidence Sprint
Day
Focus
Action
1
Celebrate Wins
Write 3 bullet‑point win notes after your session.
2
Draft‑First
20‑minute sprint + “RAW” label.
3
Squad Up
Post a snippet in your writing group, ask for one specific comment.
4
Impostor Journal
Follow the 4‑step journaling template.
5
Micro‑Story
Complete a flash‑fiction piece (≤200 words).
6
Edit Session
Revisit Day 2’s draft with fresh eyes.
7
Review & Reward
Compile all win notes, journal entries, and micro‑stories. Celebrate with a treat or a leisure activity.
At the end of the week, you’ll have a portfolio of proof—a tangible collection that demonstrates progress, skill, and resilience. And more importantly, you’ll have rewired your brain to associate writing with positive outcomes rather than fear.
Final Thought: Confidence Is a Muscle, Not a Magic Spell
Every writer—whether a debut novelist, a seasoned journalist, or a hobbyist blogger—needs a reliable toolbox for moments of doubt. The strategies above are evidence‑based, low‑cost, and adaptable to any schedule or genre. Try one or mix several, track what resonates, and watch your inner critic shrink while your creative voice grows louder.
Ready to boost your confidence? Grab a notebook, pick the first tip, and start today. Your future self (and your readers) will thank you.
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
You know how it goes, somebody breaks into your house and they steal the family jewels, which means, they’ve taken something that’s not theirs.
Baseballers will be well familiar with the term steal a base because that sneaky second base runner is trying to get to third, before the pitcher fires in a curveball.
But then there’s that same thief trying to rob you is stealing his way downstairs.
You come across a bargain, that is the seller doesn’t quite know what they’ve got and assumed it’s junk, that’s a steal.
On stage, one actor can steal the limelight from another. if a film, an actor with a lesser part, can, if their good enough, steal the scene.
And if you’re lucky enough, you might steal a kiss, or just get slapped.
Then there’s the government, using a certain event to change the laws, and it might just steal your liberty.
This is not to be confused with the word steel, which means something else entirely, like a very malleable metal that’s low in carbon.
Or like most of our heroes, they have nerves of steel, or if they are like us, they need to steel themselves with a suitable fortification, rum is my choice.
But for me, I like the phrase, he had a steely look on his face and it was hard to tell if that was good or bad.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 