‘The Devil You Don’t’ – A beta reader’s view

It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.

John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.

What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.

The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.

All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.

…

Available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

Writing a book in 365 days – 345

Day 345

From Unsung to Unforgettable: Turning Quiet Heroes Into Celebrated Characters

In every office, neighbourhood, classroom, and family, there exists a quiet force—a person whose actions speak louder than words. These are the unsung heroes: the colleague who picks up the slack without a word, the parent who works two jobs behind closed doors, the volunteer who shows up week after week, rain or shine. They rarely seek the spotlight, and that’s exactly why their stories deserve to be amplified.

But how do we take someone whose humility is their hallmark and transform them into a memorable character—one that inspires and resonates with others? The answer lies not in grand exaggeration, but in thoughtful storytelling that honours authenticity, reveals depth, and celebrates quiet strength.

Here’s how to turn the unsung hero into a character others can truly celebrate.

1. Discover the Quiet Moment That Speaks Volumes

Memorable characters are born not from dramatic acts, but from meaningful details. Instead of focusing on monumental achievements, look for the small, everyday choices that reveal character.

Maybe it’s the teacher who stayed late three days in a row to help a struggling student. Or the janitor who remembers every student’s name and greets them with a smile—even on the toughest days. These moments may go unnoticed, but they form the emotional core of a powerful story.

Tip: Ask, “What would this person do when no one is watching?” The answer often holds the essence of their character.

2. Humanise Through Vulnerability

Audiences connect not with perfection, but with authenticity. Even the most selfless individuals have fears, doubts, and dreams. Sharing a moment of vulnerability doesn’t diminish a hero—it humanises them.

Perhaps your unsung hero once failed spectacularly before finding their stride. Or maybe they help others because they once needed help themselves. These layers of complexity make their journey relatable, and their perseverance even more inspiring.

Tip: Include a moment of doubt or personal struggle. It makes the triumph—however quiet—feel earned.

3. Show, Don’t Just Tell

There’s a difference between saying “she’s kind” and showing her quietly slipping a care package under a coworker’s door after hearing about their illness. Great storytelling doesn’t announce virtues—it reveals them through action.

Use scenes, dialogue, and sensory details. Let readers see the calloused hands of the farmer who rises before dawn. Hear the voice of the mentor who patiently explains the same concept over and over. Feel the tension in the room when someone steps in to defuse a conflict with empathy.

Tip: Write as if you’re filming a movie—what would the camera capture?

4. Anchor Their Story in Purpose

Unsung heroes often act not for recognition, but because they believe in something bigger. What drives them? Is it a personal value? A painful memory? A vision for a better community?

When you reveal their why, you transform them from a background figure into a person with conviction. Purpose gives their actions weight and direction. It’s what makes their consistency remarkable.

Tip: Ask, “What would this person fight for, even if they lost?” That’s the heart of their story.

5. Invite Others to Celebrate

A memorable character doesn’t just exist in isolation—they impact others. Show how their actions create ripples. Maybe a student finally believed in themselves because of a mentor’s quiet encouragement. Maybe a community rallied because someone took the first step.

When others reflect on what the hero has done, it validates their impact. Testimonials, memories, and small acknowledgments from people they’ve helped turn individual actions into a legacy.

Tip: End with a moment of recognition—not for fame, but for appreciation. Let someone say, “I wouldn’t be here without you.”

6. Respect Their Humility

Celebrating an unsung hero doesn’t mean turning them into a caricature of selflessness. Avoid melodrama or exaggeration. Honour their quiet nature by keeping the tone grounded and respectful.

Sometimes the most powerful tribute is understated—a simple portrait, a heartfelt letter, a candid photo essay. Let their actions speak for themselves.

Tip: When in doubt, ask: “Would this person feel seen, not exposed?”

The Power of Recognition

We don’t need more superheroes in capes—we need more stories that illuminate the extraordinary within ordinary lives. When we elevate the quiet, compassionate, consistent people among us, we do more than celebrate individuals. We redefine what it means to be a hero.

By turning unsung heroes into memorable characters, we give others permission to see the value in service, in patience, in showing up—even when no one’s watching.

And perhaps, in doing so, we inspire the next generation of quiet heroes to rise.

Who’s your unsung hero? Share their story—not for applause, but for impact.

“The Things we do for Love”, the story behind the story

This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.

Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.

Why, you might ask.

Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne

At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.

I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.

Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them

Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.

I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.

Damn!

So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years

I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.

It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey. Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.

Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.

So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.

Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.

It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there. She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.

And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions. Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.

Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.

But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.

As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life

If only I’d come from such a background!

And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.

I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.

One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.

Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.

It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife. Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.

…

“Anyone can have a bad day” – a short story

It had been one of those days, you know, the sort where you hoped when you woke up again, it would be a distant memory if not gone altogether. Everything had gone wrong: the handover from my shift to the next was longer than usual, I got home late to find the building’s security system malfunctioning, and after everything that could have gone wrong had, I was late getting to bed, which meant I was going to be tired and cranky even before my shift started.

But what topped it all off was that the alarm didn’t go off. It was not as if I hadn’t set it; I remembered doing it. There was something else in play.

I rolled over and instantly noticed how dark it was. It was never this dark. It was why I chose an apartment as high up as I could; there would always be light coming from the advertising sign on the roof of the building over the road at night, or direct sunlight not blotted out by surrounding buildings.

I also left the curtains open, deliberately. I liked the notion of being able to see out, sometimes looking at the stars, other times watching the rain, but mostly to see that I was not in a dark place.

Not like now.

I got out of bed and went over to the window. Yes, there were lights, but they were all the way down on the street level. Everywhere else, nothing. It had to be a power blackout. Our first in a long time. I should have noticed the air conditioning was not on, and it was almost silent inside the room.

The apartment had windows that opened, not very far, but enough to allow some airflow, and the room felt stuffy, so I opened one in the bedroom. Instantly, sounds drifted up from street level, and looking down, I could see the flashing lights of police cars and fire trucks, as well as the sounds of sirens.

The cold air was refreshing.

It took a few minutes before I realised the elevators would not be working, and I remembered the only pitfall of having a high-up apartment, it was a long way down by the stairs, and even longer going back up.

In the distance, I could see other buildings, about ten blocks away, with their lights on. It had to be a localised blackout, or perhaps a brownout. We had been having problems across the city with the power supply caused by an unexplained explosion at several power stations on the grid.

Some were saying it was a terrorist attack, others were saying the antiquated infrastructure had finally given out.

My attention was diverted from the activity below by the vibration of my cell phone on the bedside table. I looked over at the clock and saw it was 3:10 in the morning, not a time I usually got a phone call.

I crossed the room and looked at the screen, just as the vibrating stopped. Louis Bernard. Who was Louis Bernard? It was not a name I was familiar with, so I ignored it. It wasn’t the first wrong number to call me, though I was beginning to think I had been given a recycled phone number when I bought the phone. Perhaps the fact that it was a burner may have had something to do with it.

About to go back to the window, the phone started ringing again. The same caller, Louis Bernard.

Curiosity got the better of me.

“Yes?” I wasn’t going to answer with my name.

“Get out of that room now.”

“Who….” It was as far as I got before the phone went dead.

The phone displayed the logo as it powered off, a sign that the battery was depleted. I noticed then, although I’d plugged the phone in to recharge, I’d forgotten to turn the power on.

Damn.

Get out of that room now? Who could possibly know firstly who I was, and where I was living, to the point they could know I was in any sort of danger?

It took another minute of internal debate before I threw on some clothes and headed for the door.

Just in case.

As I went to open the door, someone started pounding on it, and my heart almost stopped.

“Who is it?” I yelled out. First thought: don’t open it.

“Floor warden, you need to evacuate. There’s a small fire on one of the floors below.”

“OK. Give me a minute or so, and I’ll be right out.”

“Don’t take too long. Take the rear stairs on the left.”

A few seconds later, I heard him pounding on the door next to mine. I waited until he’d moved on and went out into the passage.

It was almost dark, the security lighting just above floor level giving off a strange and eerie orange glow. I thought there was a hint of smoke in the air, but that might have been the power of suggestion taking over my mind.

There were two sets of stairs down, both at the rear, one on the left and one on the right, designed to aid quick evacuation in the event of a calamity like a fire. He had told me to take the left. I deliberately ignored that and went to the right side, passing several other tenants who were going towards where they’d been told. I didn’t recognise them, but then, I didn’t try to find out who my fellow tenants were.

A quick look back up the passage, noting everyone heading to the left side stairs, I ducked into the right stairwell and stopped for a moment. Was that smoke I could smell? From above, I could hear a door slam shut and voices. Above me, people had entered the stairwell and were coming down.

I started heading down by myself.

I was on the 39th floor, and it was going to be a long way down. In a recent fire drill, the building had been evacuated from the top floor down, and it proceeded in an orderly manner. The idea was that starting at the top, there would not be a logjam if the lower floors were spilling into the stairwell and creating a bottleneck. Were those above stragglers?

I descended ten floors and still hadn’t run into anyone, but the smell of smoke was stronger. I stopped for a moment and listened for those who had been above me. Nothing. Not a sound. Surely there had to be someone above me, coming down.

A door slammed, but I couldn’t tell if it was above or below.

Once again, I descended, one floor, two, three, five, all the way down to ten. The smoke was thicker here, and I could see a cloud on the other side of the door leading out of the stairwell into the passage. The door was slightly ajar, odd, I thought, for what was supposed to be a fire door. I could see smoke being sucked into the fire escape through the door opening.

Then I saw several firemen running past, axes in hand. Was the fire on the tenth floor?

Another door slammed shut, and then above me, I could hear voices. Or were they below? I couldn’t tell. My eyes were starting to tear up from the smoke, and it was getting thicker.

I headed down.

I reached the ground floor and tried to open the door leading out of the fire escape. It wouldn’t open. A dozen other people came down the stairs and stopped when they saw me.

One asked, “Can we get out of here?”

I tried the door again with the same result. “No. It seems to be jammed.”

Several of the people rushed past me, going down further, yelling out, “There should be a fire door leading out into the underground garage.”

Then, after another door slammed shut, silence. Another person said, “They must have found a way out,” and started running down the stairs, the others following. For some odd reason I couldn’t explain, I didn’t follow. A mental note popped up in my head telling me that there was only an exit into the carport from the other stairs; on this side, the exit led out onto an alley at the back of the building.

If the door would open. It should push outwards, and there should also be a bar on it, so when pushed, it allows the door to open.

The smoke was worse now, and I could barely see or breathe, overcome with a coughing fit. I banged on the door, yelling out that I was stuck in the stairwell, but there was no reply, nor could I hear movement on the other side of the door.

Just as I started to lose consciousness, I thought I could hear a banging sound on the door, then a minute later, what seemed like wood splintering. A few seconds after that, I saw a large black object hovering over me, then nothing.

It was the culmination of a bad night, a bad day, and another bad night. Was it karma trying to tell me something?

…

When I woke, I was in a hospital, a room to myself, which seemed strange since my insurance didn’t really cover such luxuries. I looked around the room and stopped when I reached the window and the person who was standing in front of it, looking out.

“Who are you?” I asked and realised the moment the words came out, they made me sound angry.

“No one of particular importance. I came to see if you were alright. You were very lucky, by the way. Had you not stayed by that door, you would have died like all the rest.”

Good to know, but not so good for the others. Did he know that the fire door was jammed? I told him what happened.

“Someone suspected that might be the case, which is why you were told to take the other stairs. Why did you not do as you were told?”

“Why did the others also ignore the advice?” It was not a question I would deign to answer.

“They didn’t know any better, but you did, and it begs the question, why did you take those stairs?”

Persistent and beginning to bother me. He sounded like someone else I once knew in another lifetime, one who never asked a question unless he knew the answer.

The man still hadn’t turned around to show me his face, and it was not likely I’d be getting out of bed very soon.

“You tell me?”

He turned slightly, and I could see his reflection in the window. I thought, for a moment, that it was a familiar face. But I couldn’t remember where it was from.

“The simple truth is you suspected the fire was lit to flush you out of the building, and you thought taking those stairs would keep you away from trouble. We both know you’ve been hiding there.”

Then he did turn. Hiding, yes. A spot of trouble a year or so before had made leaving Florida a necessity, and I’d only just begun to believe I was finally safe.

I was not.

They had found me.

And it only took a few seconds to pull the silenced gun out of his coat pocket, point it directly at me, and pull the trigger.

Two stabbing pains in the chest, and for a moment, it was as if nothing had happened, and then, all of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe.

The last thing I saw and heard was several rounds from at least two guns, voices yelling out in the passage, and people running.

As I lay dying, my last thought was that it had been a good run, but no one can run forever.

Writing a book in 365 days – 344

Day 344

Balancing Ink & Life: How Writers Can Master Their Craft While Taming Distractions

“You can’t write what you don’t know, but you can’t write what you’re not focused on.” – Anonymous

Writing is a solitary art that demands deep concentration, yet writers are also humans with families, jobs, errands, and the ever‑present buzz of notifications. If you’ve ever stared at a blank screen while the dishwasher hums, the dog barks, or the inbox pings, you’re not alone. Below is a practical, battle‑tested roadmap for managing the work‑life tug‑of‑war and carving out a distraction‑free zone where words can flow.

1. Map Out Your Priorities – Then Align Your Schedule

a. Define What You’re Writing For

Goal	Frequency	Time Needed	Deadline
Draft novel chapter	3×/week	2 hrs	End of month
Blog post for client	1×/week	1 hr	Wednesday
Personal journaling	Daily	15 min	—

Why it works: When the purpose and deadline are crystal clear, you can allocate slots that protect both writing and non‑writing responsibilities.

b. The “Two‑Bucket” Calendar

Bucket 1 – Core Writing Blocks: Reserve 2–4 dedicated hours on your most alert days (morning for most, late night for night‑owls).
Bucket 2 – Life Obligations: Place meetings, family duties, errands, and “buffer” time here.

Treat the writing bucket like a non‑negotiable meeting with yourself. If a personal event threatens to intrude, move it to Bucket 2 or reschedule—never cancel the writing block.

2. Design a Physical “Write‑Only” Sanctuary

Element	Practical Tips
Location	Choose a spot that’s separate from TV, kitchen, or bedroom. Even a small corner with a desk and a single chair works.
Lighting	Natural light boosts mood; if that’s impossible, use a daylight‑mimicking lamp (4,000–5,000 K).
Ergonomics	Invest in a supportive chair and keep the monitor at eye level to prevent fatigue.
Signal	Put a simple sign (“Writing in progress”) on the door or a colored flag on the desk; it tells others you’re in focus mode.
Minimalism	Keep only the essentials: laptop, notebook, pen, a cup of tea. Clutter equals mental clutter.

Pro tip: If you can’t leave home, recreate this “sanctuary” with a portable setup—fold‑out lap desk, noise-cancelling headphones, and a “Do Not Disturb” status on your phone.

3. Shut Out the Digital Noise

Turn Off All Non‑Essential Notifications
- Use the Do Not Disturb mode on all devices.
- On Windows/macOS, set Focus Assist or Focus Mode to silence alerts.
- On iOS/Android, create a custom “Writing” profile that only allows calls from emergency contacts.
Leverage Website Blockers
- Freedom, Cold Turkey, or the free LeechBlock extension can lock you out of social media, news sites, and even email for the duration of a writing block.
The “30‑Minute Rule” for Email
- Open email only at the start and end of your day. If something urgent pops up, note it on a “Later” list and return to it after the writing block.
Physical Device Separation
- Keep your phone in another room or inside a drawer. If you need it for reference, set a timer (e.g., 5 min) and then return it to its “out of sight” spot.

4. Master the Mental Muscle of Focus

a. The Pomodoro‑Plus Method

25 min writing (single‑task, screen‑only).
5 min micro‑break (stretch, hydrate, glance away).
After four cycles, take a 15‑20 min longer break (walk, snack).

Why the “plus”? After each Pomodoro, jot a one‑sentence note of where you left off. This “mental bookmark” prevents the brain from trying to remember the plot thread during the break, keeping the next session smoother.

b. The “Pre‑Write Ritual”

5‑minute breathing (inhale 4‑sec, hold 4‑sec, exhale 4‑sec).
Sensory cue (light a candle, play a specific instrumental track).
Goal statement: “In this session, I will finish the opening dialogue for scene 3.”

Rituals cue your brain that it’s time to shift into creative mode.

c. The “One‑Idea‑Only” Technique

When a stray thought appears (e.g., “Did I lock the front door?”), write it down on a “Distraction Pad” and promise yourself you’ll address it after the current block. The act of externalising the thought releases the mental load.

5. Protect Your Life Outside the Desk

Area	Simple Guardrails
Family	Set a daily “family check‑in” (15 min) to answer questions, then return to writing.
Household chores	Batch tasks (laundry, dishes) for evenings or weekends; schedule them like appointments.
Exercise & Health	Block a 30‑minute workout slot before or after your writing block—movement fuels focus.
Social Media	Allocate specific windows (e.g., 8–9 pm) for scrolling; keep the rest of the day offline.
Sleep	Treat bedtime as a non‑negotiable meeting; aim for 7–8 hours for optimal cognitive performance.

When your non‑writing life runs on a predictable rhythm, fewer emergencies bleed into your writing time.

6. Real‑World Example: A Day in the Life of a Freelance Novelist

Time	Activity
6:30 am	Wake, 5‑min breath, coffee, quick 10‑min journal (personal thoughts only).
7:00 am	Focus Block #1 – 2 hrs: Draft Chapter 12 (Pomodoro‑Plus).
9:00 am	15‑min walk, stretch, check messages (only urgent).
9:30 am	Family Check‑In – 15 min breakfast with partner, kids.
10:00 am	Admin: emails, invoices (30 min).
10:45 am	Focus Block #2 – 1.5 hrs: Revise previous scenes.
12:30 pm	Lunch + offline.
1:30 pm	Household chores (30 min).
2:00 pm	Creative Play – free‑write, brainstorming (45 min).
2:45 pm	Short break, snack.
3:00 pm	Focus Block #3 – 1 hr: Outline next chapter.
4:00 pm	Exercise (30 min).
4:45 pm	Wrap‑up: review notes, set tomorrow’s goal.
5:15 pm	Family time, dinner.
9:30 pm	Light reading, unwind.
10:30 pm	Lights out.

Key takeaways:

Writing blocks are front‑loaded when mental energy peaks.
Each block is surrounded by a deliberate transition (walk, check‑in) to keep the brain from “bleeding” into other tasks.
The day ends with a clear boundary—no screen time after 9 pm to protect sleep.

7. Troubleshooting Common Roadblocks

Symptom	Quick Fix
“I’m tired, can’t focus.”	Do a 3‑minute power pose (stand tall, shoulders back). It boosts dopamine and can reset alertness.
“The house is noisy.”	Invest in a white‑noise app or a pair of noise‑canceling headphones. Create a “quiet signal” (e.g., a door sign) for housemates.
“I keep thinking about tomorrow’s errands.”	Write a “Tomorrow List” at the end of today’s block. Offloading the mental checklist reduces anxiety.
“I’m stuck on a paragraph.”	Switch to free‑write mode: write anything for 5 minutes about the scene, even nonsense, then return to the stuck spot with fresh eyes.
“My motivation drops after a week.”	Revisit your why: Keep a visible reminder (sticky note, vision board) of the bigger purpose—publishing, income, personal growth.

8. The Bottom Line: Discipline + Compassion = Sustainable Writing

Discipline: Treat your writing time as a professional appointment—schedule, guard, and honour it.
Compassion: Accept that life will occasionally intrude. When it does, pause, breathe, and gently return.

When the two coexist, you build a resilient workflow that lets you produce quality prose and enjoy a balanced life.

Ready to Give It a Go?

Start tonight:

Pick a 90‑minute slot tomorrow morning.
Clear your desk, turn on Do Not Disturb, and place a “Writing in Progress” sign.
Write a one‑sentence goal for that session.

Share your experience in the comments—what worked, what needs tweaking. Let’s turn the solitary struggle into a community of focused creators!

Happy writing.

What I learned about writing – It never seems to be easy

It’s Wednesday again.

Or on this side of the world, it’s actually Wednesday morning.

Very, very early in fact.

It’s also very cool, which is unusual for a city near the tropics in early summer. Also, it’s raining for the first time in a month or so, and we really need the rain.

I survived another week, still working on priorities, and the fact that I’m juggling too many stories at once. You’d think it was easy by now to find something that resembles a routine.

First, stick to one story at a time, then

Outline the story, write the chapters, bundle it all up and let it stew in the back of your mind for a few months.

In that time, write the blog, work on the 3,4,5, or is it 6 stories being written as episodes. I wanted to get a feel for what it was like for Charles Dickens all those years ago, writing stories in parts.

Then, after doing that and clearing the mind,

Come back and do the first edit, find all the grammatical errors, fix holes in the plot, and make sure the subplots don’t take over, or minor characters steal the limelight.

It’s where a character mysteriously changes name, goes from being a son to a nephew, or an aunt is revealed to be from the wrong side of the family. A car that was red is suddenly blue, a man who smokes cigars now hates them, and the Mercedes changed model five times, about the same times as the age of the mother in the story.

Who said art imitates life?

Or was it that I was missing character motivation? The main character was drifting, much like I am, and I realised there was a little of my circumstances coming across in the story. Time to push those thoughts to the curb, and fill him with someone else’s ego.

So they’re fixed. Now it’s the time to cut, slash, and burn.

Back to the blog and episodic stories for another month or so, just to let those new changes swirl around.

Piece of cake.

I’ve got this writing thing down!

What story was I working on again????

An excerpt from “Sunday in New York”

Now available on Amazon at: https://amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

Williams’ Restaurant, East 65^th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.

We met the Blaine’s at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaine’s frequently visited, and had recommended.

Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’. It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.

It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over. It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.

Aside from the half frown half-smile, Alison was looking stunning. It was months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5^th anniversary that cost a month’s salary. On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to. She had adored it, and me, for a week or so after.

For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.

She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars got on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds silence, and many more gasps.

Even I had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room. Once more I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me. Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others ‘out there’ who were more appealing.

Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight. She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.

More than once I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”

Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together. It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement. Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.

The battle lines were drawn.

Jimmy was looking fashionable, with the permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it. Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.

The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out she had straightened it. And took the moment to look deeply into my soul. It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.

Then it was gone.

I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me. A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.

When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.” It was not a question, but a statement.

I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’ but I accepted it with good grace. Sometimes Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand. I guessed she was talking about the new job. “It was supposed to be a secret.”

She smiled widely. “There are no secrets between Al and I, are there Al?”

I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.

I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al. I tried it once and was admonished. But it was interesting her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not. It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.

Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil. As I understood it, the Blaine’s were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in. I didn’t ask if the Blaine’s thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.

And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realized I was looking at both of them. I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand. And yet, apparently, Alison did. I must have missed the memo.

“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”

No secrets. Her look conveyed something else entirely.

The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us. It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me. We were going to need it.

Then, a toast.

To a new job and a new life.

“When did you decide?” Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.

Alison had a strange expression on her face. It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind. Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.

Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realized it would be churlish, even silly if I made a scene. I knew what I wanted to say. I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine, or upsetting Alison. This was not the time or the place. Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.

Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing. If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decide there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control. “It’s the little things. They all add up until one day …” I shrugged. “I guess that one day was today.”

I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real? Or; I told you he’d come around.

I had no idea the two were so close.

“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me. I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points. It was all I could come up with at short notice.

“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted. “Alison was off to get some study in with one of her friends.”

“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up, and immediately got the ‘shut up you fool’ look, that cut that line of conversation dead. Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.

It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose. Care to join me, Al?”

A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend. “Yes.”

I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation. I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.

I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.

There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show. I was quite literally gob-smacked.

I drained my champagne glass gathering some courage and turned to him. “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up. You know Alison is doing her law degree.”

He looked startled when he realized I had spoken. He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed. Or perhaps it was deliberate. She’d definitely had some enhancements done.

He dragged his eyes back to me. “Yes. Elaine said something or other about it. But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week. Perhaps I got it wrong. I usually do.”

“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.” I shrugged, as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again. “This week or next, what does it matter?”

Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart. It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; it was possible she was now telling me lies. If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?

We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”

“Trouble, I suspect. Definitely more money, but less time at home.”

“Oh,” raised eyebrows. Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details. “You sure you want to do that?”

At last the voice of reason. “Me? No.”

“Yet you accepted the job.”

I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him. Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him. “Jimmy, between you and me I haven’t as yet decided one way or another. To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”

“Barclay?”

“My boss.”

“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay that recently moved in the tower a block down from us. I thought I recognized the name.”

“How did Elaine get the job?”

“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”

“When?”

“A couple of months ago. Why?”

I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker. I felt sick, faint, and wanting to die all at the same moment. “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time. Too busy with work I expect. I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”

I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted and I knew I had to keep it together. I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down. I sucked in some deep breaths, and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.

And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown. Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”

Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth. It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction. It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.

When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and I. I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, it didn’t matter. If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact I took over the dining engagement did. She knew well enough the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket. She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.

But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points. Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine. She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.

Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly. I chose to ignore her, and pretend nothing had happened, instead of telling her how much I was enjoying the evening.

She had her ‘secrets’. I had mine.

At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me. It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, Jimmy came looking for me. I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse. When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was but neither made any comment.

It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which to a large degree it was for the other three. But I had achieved what I set out to do, and that was to play them at their own game, watching the deception, once I knew there was a deception, as warily as a cat watches its prey.

I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree. It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.

We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaine’s back to the Upper West Side. But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer. She showed concern for my health, asked me what was wrong. It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.

She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it. Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.

And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.

It left me confused and lost.

I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.

And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.

Sunday In New York

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

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!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

Writing a book in 365 days – 344

Day 344

Balancing Ink & Life: How Writers Can Master Their Craft While Taming Distractions

“You can’t write what you don’t know, but you can’t write what you’re not focused on.” – Anonymous

1. Map Out Your Priorities – Then Align Your Schedule

a. Define What You’re Writing For

Goal	Frequency	Time Needed	Deadline
Draft novel chapter	3×/week	2 hrs	End of month
Blog post for client	1×/week	1 hr	Wednesday
Personal journaling	Daily	15 min	—

Why it works: When the purpose and deadline are crystal clear, you can allocate slots that protect both writing and non‑writing responsibilities.

b. The “Two‑Bucket” Calendar

Bucket 1 – Core Writing Blocks: Reserve 2–4 dedicated hours on your most alert days (morning for most, late night for night‑owls).
Bucket 2 – Life Obligations: Place meetings, family duties, errands, and “buffer” time here.

Treat the writing bucket like a non‑negotiable meeting with yourself. If a personal event threatens to intrude, move it to Bucket 2 or reschedule—never cancel the writing block.

2. Design a Physical “Write‑Only” Sanctuary

Element	Practical Tips
Location	Choose a spot that’s separate from TV, kitchen, or bedroom. Even a small corner with a desk and a single chair works.
Lighting	Natural light boosts mood; if that’s impossible, use a daylight‑mimicking lamp (4,000–5,000 K).
Ergonomics	Invest in a supportive chair and keep the monitor at eye level to prevent fatigue.
Signal	Put a simple sign (“Writing in progress”) on the door or a colored flag on the desk; it tells others you’re in focus mode.
Minimalism	Keep only the essentials: laptop, notebook, pen, a cup of tea. Clutter equals mental clutter.

Pro tip: If you can’t leave home, recreate this “sanctuary” with a portable setup—fold‑out lap desk, noise-cancelling headphones, and a “Do Not Disturb” status on your phone.

3. Shut Out the Digital Noise

Turn Off All Non‑Essential Notifications
- Use the Do Not Disturb mode on all devices.
- On Windows/macOS, set Focus Assist or Focus Mode to silence alerts.
- On iOS/Android, create a custom “Writing” profile that only allows calls from emergency contacts.
Leverage Website Blockers
- Freedom, Cold Turkey, or the free LeechBlock extension can lock you out of social media, news sites, and even email for the duration of a writing block.
The “30‑Minute Rule” for Email
- Open email only at the start and end of your day. If something urgent pops up, note it on a “Later” list and return to it after the writing block.
Physical Device Separation
- Keep your phone in another room or inside a drawer. If you need it for reference, set a timer (e.g., 5 min) and then return it to its “out of sight” spot.

4. Master the Mental Muscle of Focus

a. The Pomodoro‑Plus Method

25 min writing (single‑task, screen‑only).
5 min micro‑break (stretch, hydrate, glance away).
After four cycles, take a 15‑20 min longer break (walk, snack).

b. The “Pre‑Write Ritual”

5‑minute breathing (inhale 4‑sec, hold 4‑sec, exhale 4‑sec).
Sensory cue (light a candle, play a specific instrumental track).
Goal statement: “In this session, I will finish the opening dialogue for scene 3.”

Rituals cue your brain that it’s time to shift into creative mode.

c. The “One‑Idea‑Only” Technique

5. Protect Your Life Outside the Desk

Area	Simple Guardrails
Family	Set a daily “family check‑in” (15 min) to answer questions, then return to writing.
Household chores	Batch tasks (laundry, dishes) for evenings or weekends; schedule them like appointments.
Exercise & Health	Block a 30‑minute workout slot before or after your writing block—movement fuels focus.
Social Media	Allocate specific windows (e.g., 8–9 pm) for scrolling; keep the rest of the day offline.
Sleep	Treat bedtime as a non‑negotiable meeting; aim for 7–8 hours for optimal cognitive performance.

When your non‑writing life runs on a predictable rhythm, fewer emergencies bleed into your writing time.

6. Real‑World Example: A Day in the Life of a Freelance Novelist

Time	Activity
6:30 am	Wake, 5‑min breath, coffee, quick 10‑min journal (personal thoughts only).
7:00 am	Focus Block #1 – 2 hrs: Draft Chapter 12 (Pomodoro‑Plus).
9:00 am	15‑min walk, stretch, check messages (only urgent).
9:30 am	Family Check‑In – 15 min breakfast with partner, kids.
10:00 am	Admin: emails, invoices (30 min).
10:45 am	Focus Block #2 – 1.5 hrs: Revise previous scenes.
12:30 pm	Lunch + offline.
1:30 pm	Household chores (30 min).
2:00 pm	Creative Play – free‑write, brainstorming (45 min).
2:45 pm	Short break, snack.
3:00 pm	Focus Block #3 – 1 hr: Outline next chapter.
4:00 pm	Exercise (30 min).
4:45 pm	Wrap‑up: review notes, set tomorrow’s goal.
5:15 pm	Family time, dinner.
9:30 pm	Light reading, unwind.
10:30 pm	Lights out.

Key takeaways:

Writing blocks are front‑loaded when mental energy peaks.
Each block is surrounded by a deliberate transition (walk, check‑in) to keep the brain from “bleeding” into other tasks.
The day ends with a clear boundary—no screen time after 9 pm to protect sleep.

7. Troubleshooting Common Roadblocks

Symptom	Quick Fix
“I’m tired, can’t focus.”	Do a 3‑minute power pose (stand tall, shoulders back). It boosts dopamine and can reset alertness.
“The house is noisy.”	Invest in a white‑noise app or a pair of noise‑canceling headphones. Create a “quiet signal” (e.g., a door sign) for housemates.
“I keep thinking about tomorrow’s errands.”	Write a “Tomorrow List” at the end of today’s block. Offloading the mental checklist reduces anxiety.
“I’m stuck on a paragraph.”	Switch to free‑write mode: write anything for 5 minutes about the scene, even nonsense, then return to the stuck spot with fresh eyes.
“My motivation drops after a week.”	Revisit your why: Keep a visible reminder (sticky note, vision board) of the bigger purpose—publishing, income, personal growth.

8. The Bottom Line: Discipline + Compassion = Sustainable Writing

Discipline: Treat your writing time as a professional appointment—schedule, guard, and honour it.
Compassion: Accept that life will occasionally intrude. When it does, pause, breathe, and gently return.

When the two coexist, you build a resilient workflow that lets you produce quality prose and enjoy a balanced life.

Ready to Give It a Go?

Start tonight:

Pick a 90‑minute slot tomorrow morning.
Clear your desk, turn on Do Not Disturb, and place a “Writing in Progress” sign.
Write a one‑sentence goal for that session.

Share your experience in the comments—what worked, what needs tweaking. Let’s turn the solitary struggle into a community of focused creators!

Happy writing.

In a word: Page

We as authors always like to see two little words in every review, page turner.

Alas, sometimes they’re not, but usually this applied to non fiction simple because they’re reference books. Then another two words apply: boat anchor.

The good stuff is usually over the page.

Page in this instance refers to a leaf in a book, which generally has many pages.

Then the is a page boy, not what you’d find lurking around these days but were more common in days past, but refers to a boy in training to become a knight, or an errand boy for a nobleman.

These days a page boy opens doors and runs messages in a hotel.

Another variation is being paged over the P.A. system, always a major cause of embarrassment because you and everyone else thinks your in trouble.

Of course, before there were mobile phones, there were pagers, and sometimes in the deathly silence of the classroom, it went off. Definitely not advisable to have one on you if you are trying to sneak up on someone. Same goes for the modern equivalent, the mobile phone.

For the person who uses a word processor, you are familiar with pages, and having the software generate page numbers, of course, not for the title page, and a different numbering for other pages like an index, before the story starts.

Complicated? Sometimes.

And many years ago a boss of mine often used to say I needed to turn over a new page, and it did make much sense to me. That might have been because I was young and stupid. But, later on I realised what he was really saying was that I needed to turn over a new leaf.

Kind of strange, but then a lot saying are.

And did I?

Eventually.

And just to end on a high note, Paige is also the name of a girl, I think, and one I’ve decided to use in a story.

One writer's experiences, and battles with words

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1. Discover the Quiet Moment That Speaks Volumes

2. Humanise Through Vulnerability

3. Show, Don’t Just Tell

4. Anchor Their Story in Purpose

5. Invite Others to Celebrate

6. Respect Their Humility

The Power of Recognition

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Balancing Ink & Life: How Writers Can Master Their Craft While Taming Distractions

1. Map Out Your Priorities – Then Align Your Schedule

a. Define What You’re Writing For

b. The “Two‑Bucket” Calendar

2. Design a Physical “Write‑Only” Sanctuary

3. Shut Out the Digital Noise

4. Master the Mental Muscle of Focus

a. The Pomodoro‑Plus Method

b. The “Pre‑Write Ritual”

c. The “One‑Idea‑Only” Technique

5. Protect Your Life Outside the Desk

6. Real‑World Example: A Day in the Life of a Freelance Novelist

7. Troubleshooting Common Roadblocks

8. The Bottom Line: Discipline + Compassion = Sustainable Writing

Ready to Give It a Go?

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Balancing Ink & Life: How Writers Can Master Their Craft While Taming Distractions

1. Map Out Your Priorities – Then Align Your Schedule

a. Define What You’re Writing For

b. The “Two‑Bucket” Calendar

2. Design a Physical “Write‑Only” Sanctuary

3. Shut Out the Digital Noise

4. Master the Mental Muscle of Focus

a. The Pomodoro‑Plus Method

b. The “Pre‑Write Ritual”

c. The “One‑Idea‑Only” Technique

5. Protect Your Life Outside the Desk

6. Real‑World Example: A Day in the Life of a Freelance Novelist

7. Troubleshooting Common Roadblocks

8. The Bottom Line: Discipline + Compassion = Sustainable Writing

Ready to Give It a Go?

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