The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 46

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 with 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…

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When Carlo heard the shot, he stopped his ‘interrogation’ and sent a soldier over to investigate. To avoid getting shot inadvertently, I came out of the woods with my hands up, and, thankfully, was instantly recognized.

I went over to the barn and looked at the man on the ground. “Do he have anything to say?”

“No.”

The other man, awaiting ‘interrogation’ was visibly shaken by the events. Two dead including Leonardo, and one a bloody pulp on the ground, with a very angry Carlo standing over him, his outlook was very bleak.

“You speak English,” I asked him.

“Yes.”

“Who are you?”

“Alberto, sir. I didn’t agree with anything Fernando did. A few of us refused to kill any of the villagers. That was Fernando. He was the one who beat up the women.”

“You could have stopped him.”

“You know the bastard, Carlo. Not even you could, and you tried.”

Carlo grunted. To make sure the men on the ground were dead, he shot them again, and emptied his gun into Fernando, adding a curse with each bullet.

I glared at Alberto. “Pick a side.”

“I’m with you. There are several others, back in the castle. We would be able to help if you were planning an attack.”

“The last person who told me that is out there in the woods with a bullet in his head. I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you.”

“We can help.”

“And, you will. When we decide to go, we’ll take you with us. You double-cross us, the Carlo gets his five minutes. You try to run away, Carlo will hunt you down and kill you. Understood?”

He nodded.

“Fernando?” The man sent to find the defectors had come back.

I shot him before he could make any sort of move, just as he realized what had happened.

I motioned to the soldiers to get the defectors, who, hearing the shots, had started to flee. Two shots in the air stopped them. Two of them were small children, who would not have survived if they’d been taken to the castle.

All four were visibly frightened by what they’d seen, and of what their fate might be. I assured them, they were now in safe hands, and we were going not to the castle, but to a different place. Desperate people in a desperate situation, I couldn’t imagine where they’d come from, or their journey from Germany with nothing on a promise of safety taken at face value.

“We go to the castle now,” Carlo asked.

“Soon. We need a plan. Let’s go back and make one. But, yes. We go to the castle now.”

Storming the castle might have worked if I had a hundred men, not about ten. Granted Carlo would be the equivalent of another five, but in a hail of bullets, he would not last long.

I had to put myself in Wallace’s shoes and figure out how he would defend the castle once he realized Jackerby and the resistance members were dead.

Panic would be my first thought. Then, when rational thought returned, block off all the known entrances and exits, and post sentries outside. We had about twenty men to deal with, but a dozen were hardened battle soldiers, and that would make a difference. The fact they were inside covering most of the entrance points would make the job harder.

If we had to use the known entrances.

When the time came, they were going to get a surprise because Carlo knew of two others no one but he, and the owners of the castle, were the only ones who knew about them.

But, first, we had to even the odds if possible.

For that, one of Blinky’s team was a sniper, and with him was a sniper rifle and suppressor which meant we would be able to pick off the sentries without anyone hearing the bullets coming for them.

We were only going to get one shot at it because once Wallace discovered the sentries, he wouldn’t post anymore, and would know of our intent.

But, in the end, none of that mattered.

We just got a short communication that Meyer was in Florence and his arrival would be in two days’ time. We were charged with making sure he arrived safely and passed into the pipeline. The only issue with that was that we needed the castle to complete the process.

That meant we had to move up the plans to retake the castle, and there were always problems when details were missed. We had the advantage in our knowledge of the castle and its underground passageways, but would that be enough?

Then there was the surprise. It had just been learned that a very high-ranking Nazi officer was coming to the castle to personally take Meyer back to the fatherland. That meant we had to be in the castle when he arrived, so he could be sent back home for interrogation.

Both men, it appeared, had the capacity to turn the tide of the war in our favour.

Blinky simply shrugged when he got the news, then said, “We could do with some more men.”

Stating the obvious.

“It’s the war, you know. Shortages of everything.”

“Didn’t envisage this at Prep school, did we? Seems the world was a different place, but my father said it couldn’t last.”

“Nothing ever does. It’s going to be interesting when this ends if it ends. There are days I wake up and I can’t remember what it was like, before all this.”

”Well, maybe we get this done, and it’ll be a step closer. At least, we have to believe that.”

I nodded. “Good pep talk. As I remember, you were always trying to talk me into doing something stupid.”

Carlo had been listening to us was a puzzled look. “Are all you English like you two?”

Blinky answered. “No. We’re unique.”

Clearly, he had no idea what that meant. Blinky was going to try and explain but instead, shrugged. “Let’s go kill some Germans.”

That Carlo did understand.

——-

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 10

It was a relic from the past, put back together by a dedicated group of volunteers who had not wanted the last vestiges of the past to disappear.

Train enthusiasts, the called themselves.

They’d put together a steam locomotive, five carriages, a restaurant car, and the conductor’s car. The original train might have been twice to three times as long, but these days, the tourist market rarely filled the train.

I was one of a group who made it their mission to visit and rate every vintage train, not only in this country, but all over the world. It was a sad state of affairs when I first began, with locomotives and carriages dropping out of the system due to lack of funds, but more disheartening, the lack of government assistance in keeping it’s heritage alive.

It seemed money was short, and there were better things to spend it on, like two brand new 737-800 jets just to ferry the prime minister and government officials around. Just think of what that quarter of a billion dollars could have bought in heritage.

But it is what it is.

What I had before me was one of the most recent restorations to check out, and on first glance, it was remarkable just how lifelike and true to age it was.

Of course, I was of an age that could remember the old railway carriages, what were called red rattlers because of the ill fitting windows that went up and down, allow fresh air, or in days gone by, smoke from the locomotive hauling the train. I had not travelled during the last glorious years of steam, but the carriages had lived on briefly before the advent of the sterile aluminum tin cans with uncomfortably hard seats.

These carriages were built for comfort, and my first experience had been a five hour trip from Melbourne to Wangaratta, in Victoria, on my way to Mt Buffalo Chalet, a guesthouse owned by the Railways.

That too had been a remarkable old chalet style guest house with a room and all the dining included. I always left after the week having put on weight. Breakfast, morning tea, lunch, afternoon tea, and dinner, every day, and high tea on Sunday.

But this carriage, the polished wood that had shellac rather than varnish, highlighting the timber’s grain, the leather seats with generous padding, the curved ceilings with hanging lights, windows the could be opened and closed, allowing fresh air to circulate.

There was also a carriage with the passageway, and five or six separate compartments, each sitting six passengers. I remembered these well, having quite often ridden in one to work for some years when the country trains still ran.

It was always remarkable how a sight or a scent could trigger such memories.

For this carriage on this train, it used to ply the Gympie to Brooloo branch line from about 1915 onwards.

That was the history. It only went as far as Amamoor these days, it was still long enough to capture the sensation of riding the rails back in what is always referred to as the good old days, even if they were not.

Now for the ride….

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The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 29

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Chasing leads, maybe

Alone in the room, Herman returned. I hadn’t seen him leave, but he was a cat, and cats were adept at slinking around, quietly stalking their quarry. On the edge of that threshold between passage and living room, he was sitting, watching me.

“So, Herman. The stories you could tell, eh?”

It elicited a meow and a deadpan expression. No point in trying to read his mind, I’d probably finish up with a headache.

“Don’t suppose you could tell me where O’Connell’s secret hideout is?”

Another meow.

If he could talk no doubt he was saying that he wouldn’t tell me even if I tried to bribe him. I thought about it, but instead went over to the door and opened it about six inches.

“You can go now. It’s not safe, for man, woman or cat.”

Nothing this time.

“You’d better go before I change my mind.”

We were having a staring match.

Was that a nod? He stood and started walking towards the door. Perhaps he sensed I might close it just before he made it there. Then, in a flash, he was gone.

I shrugged, and followed him out, closing the door behind me.

He was fast. He was nowhere in sight. Places to go no doubt.

Like me.

Only I wasn’t quite sure where it was. I pulled out the piece of paper that was for a flat for sale, with several part words on it, ‘oak’ and underneath it, ‘Brom’.

It had to be part of the street name and a suburb. The ‘Brom was obviously Bromley, the other a part of the street address.

I needed to find an internet café and do some research. I also needed a new cell phone, but that could wait. The main problem was finding an internet café, once just about on every corner, but now, with everyone owning a smartphone, there were very few to be found.

It took an hour before I found one in a back street in an area where there were several low-cost hotels, the sort that backpackers stayed in.

Armed with coffee and a sandwich, I began the search, starting with the realtor, and found the listing was no longer available, that is, not on their internet site. It told me that the flat was taken up, possibly by O’Connell.

Next, I brought up a map application and put in the address, for information on both pieces of paper and ended up with Oakwood Avenue of Bromley Road, nearer to Beckenham than Bromley.

I had the flat number, now all I had to do was check it out.

Another search on the computer gave me the relative times, and a map to follow, by bus, train, and car. I would have to get my car, which would take about half an hour, then drive out to the address which would take a further half-hour.

The flat was on the ground floor, and the realtor’s brochure had the layout of the block, and where the flat was located. That it was on the ground floor and on a corner would make it easier to gain access without causing any trouble.

I would time my arrival for after dark so that I would go relatively unnoticed.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 23

Day 23 – The subtle art of getting a message across

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The Subtle Art of Getting a Message Across

(And Why You Should Stop Preaching to the Converted)

If you’ve ever read a post, an op‑ed, or a social‑media thread that felt more like a sermon than a conversation, you know the feeling: the message lands in a vacuum, heard only by those who already agree, while everyone else scrolls past, rolls their eyes, or—worst of all—writes back with a snarky “thanks, Captain Obvious.”

It’s a common trap for writers, marketers, and anyone trying to influence opinions: preaching to the converted. You assume your audience already shares your worldview, and you end up sounding like a church bulletin rather than a compelling storyteller. The result? Your ideas get stuck in an echo chamber, your reach stalls, and the people who could benefit most from your insight remain untouched.

In this post, we’ll explore:

Why preaching to the converted is a dead‑end.
How to spot the symptoms in your own writing.
Practical techniques for widening your net without diluting your voice.
A quick checklist to keep you honest.

Let’s turn that echo chamber into a lively town square.

1. The Hidden Cost of Talking to the Choir

What It Looks Like	Why It Fails
“All true leaders know X, Y, and Z. If you’re still doing A, you’re obviously clueless.”	Assumes agreement – readers who don’t already see themselves as “leaders” feel dismissed.
“As we all know, climate change is real, and we must act now.”	No invitation – skeptics are met with a wall of affirmation, not a door to dialogue.
“If you love productivity hacks, you’ll love this new framework.”	Self‑selection bias – you’re preaching to an audience that already bought into the premise.

The core problem is audience mismatch. When you talk only to those who already nod along, you:

Limit impact – only a fraction of the potential readers engage.
Reinforce tribalism – echo chambers tighten, making it harder to bridge divides.
Waste energy – perfecting a sermon for a crowd that’s already convinced feels like polishing a trophy you’ll never win.

The antidote? Write as if you’re inviting a stranger into a conversation, not delivering a lecture to a congregation.

2. Diagnose Your Own Writing: Are You Preaching?

a. The “We All Know” Test

If you can replace “we all know” with “some people think,” you’ve probably slipped into preaching.

Original: “We all know that the best way to boost ROI is by cutting costs.”
Revised: “Many marketers believe that cutting costs can boost ROI, but there are other angles worth exploring.”

b. The “Assumed Identity” Check

Ask yourself: Does my reader already identify as X? If the answer is “no,” you need to re‑frame.

Original: “If you’re a seasoned entrepreneur, you already understand the power of pivoting.”
Revised: “Even if you’re just starting out, the concept of pivoting can be a game‑changer.”

c. The “Zero‑Tolerant” Scale

Do you use absolutes like “always,” “never,” “must,” or “should” without qualification? Absolutes tend to alienate.

Original: “You must stop using email for lead generation.”
Revised: “Consider whether email is the best tool for your current lead‑generation goals.”

If any of these red flags light up, you’re on the preaching‑to‑the‑converted track.

3. How to Speak to the Unconverted (Without Selling Out)

1. Start With Curiosity, Not Conviction

Instead of stating the conclusion first, pose a question that acknowledges the reader’s perspective.

Preachy: “The truth is, remote work kills collaboration.”
Curious: “What impact does remote work have on collaboration, and how can teams preserve synergy?”

2. Use Stories as Bridges

Stories are the universal language. Show, don’t tell. A personal anecdote or a case study with relatable characters invites empathy, even from sceptics.

Example: “When I first tried the Pomodoro technique, I was skeptical. After three weeks, I realized it helped me finish my thesis without the usual midnight panic. Here’s how you can adapt it for any project.”

3. Offer Evidence, Not Edicts

Give data, cite sources, and explain the reasoning behind your claim. Let the reader see the logic rather than being handed a verdict.

Instead of: “SEO is dead.”
Try: “Recent studies from Moz and Ahrefs show a 30% decline in organic traffic for sites that ignore user intent. Here’s what that means for your SEO strategy.”

4. Invite the Reader to Test the Idea

A call to experiment rather than a command lowers defensiveness.

“Try swapping your usual morning coffee for a 10‑minute walk. Track your focus for a week and see if you notice any difference.”

5. Acknowledge Counterarguments

Show that you understand the other side. A brief, respectful nod to opposing views builds credibility.

“Some argue that rapid iteration leads to sloppy products. While that’s a valid concern, incorporating a lightweight QA step can keep quality high without sacrificing speed.”

6. Use Inclusive Language

Words like “we,” “us,” and “together” can be powerful—but only when they truly include the reader. Pair them with clarifying qualifiers.

“We—whether you’re a freelancer or part of a large corporation—face the same challenge of balancing creativity with deadlines.”

4. The One‑Minute Checklist Before Publishing

Check	What to Look For
Audience Gap	Have I assumed the reader already agrees?
Open‑Ended Intro	Does the opening pose a question or scenario?
Story > Statement	Is there at least one anecdote or case study?
Evidence	Do I cite data, sources, or personal experiments?
Invitation	Have I encouraged the reader to try something?
Counterpoint	Have I respectfully acknowledged an opposing view?
Inclusive Language	Does “we” really include them, not just me?

If you can answer “yes” to every line, you’ve likely avoided preaching to the choir.

5. A Mini‑Exercise: Rewrite a Preachy Paragraph

Original (Preachy):

“If you’re serious about personal finance, you must start budgeting today. Anyone who doesn’t track every dollar is basically throwing money away.”

Revised (Conversational):

“Wondering how to get a better handle on your money? Many people find that tracking their spending—whether through a simple spreadsheet or an app—offers surprising insights. Give it a try for a week and see where your dollars actually go; you might be surprised by the small changes that add up.”

Notice the shift from imperative to suggestion, the inclusion of a low‑bar entry point, and the invitation to experiment.

6. Closing Thought: Influence Is a Conversation, Not a Sermon

The most persuasive writing feels less like a lecture hall and more like a coffee‑shop chat where both parties leave a little wiser. By recognising the echo chamber, checking our assumptions, and crafting content that invites curiosity, we can reach new audiences without compromising our core message.

Next time you sit down to write, ask yourself: Am I preaching, or am I inviting? The answer will determine whether your words echo in a closed room or ripple across a broader community.

Happy writing—and may your messages travel farther than the choir they were meant for.

Preaching to the converted limits reach and reinforces echo chambers.

Spot the habit with “we all know,” assumed identities, and absolutes.
Replace them with curiosity, stories, evidence, experiments, and respectful counterpoints.
Use the one‑minute checklist before you hit “publish.”

Your audience is waiting—just open the door.

What I learned about writing – Reference books

Today, we’re tackling the subject of reference books for writers, the sort that teach us the rudiments of grammar, style, how-to, and how not to write.

Short of getting a complete idiot’s guide, which may or may not help, the sort of books that tell you how to write a novel in a week, month, or year may be equally amusing. It may have worked for the author, but when it comes to another individual, I’m not so sure it helps.

For me, I collected a wide range of how-to and references to aid in writing and read a great many articles in magazines, all of which helped in small ways. I kept my own references, and out of those notes are bits and pieces I add to my blog for people to read or ignore as they wish.

No one ever likes the idea of being told what to do, except when it comes to a publisher’s editor, because in the end, we all want our book published and to hold that final product in our hands and say, I did that.

As a magazine, I find Writer’s Digest is quite good if it is still published. I used to get it, but the subscription lapsed a few years back. Others are Poets and Writers, and The Paris Review.

Books that I found useful: A Style Manual, Self-Editing for Fiction Writers, A Compendium of Good Writing, the Oxford Essential Guide to Writing, and quite a collection of dictionaries and thesauruses, the best of which is the Oxford Shorter Dictionary, though how the word shot got in the title is beyond me.

And then there are the obligatory books on writing by famous authors such as Stephen King and Patricia Highsmith, just to name two.

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

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

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

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

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

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Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

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