50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And the story:
…
It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.
The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.
He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.
The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent. We were following the car he was in, from a discreet distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.
There was nowhere for him to go.
The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road we were now on. Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.
Where was he going?
“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter. He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.
“What?”
“I think he’s made us.”
“How?”
“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing. Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain. He’s just sped up.”
“How far away?”
“A half-mile. We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”
It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”
“Step on it. Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”
Easy to say, not so easy to do. The road was treacherous, and in places, just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three-thousand-foot fall down the mountainside.
Good thing then, I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.
Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster. We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.
Or so we thought.
Coming quickly around another corner, we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.
“What the hell…” Aland muttered.
I was out of the car and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility. The car was empty, and no indication of where he had gone.
Certainly not up the road. It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit. Up the mountainside from here, or down.
I looked up. Nothing.
Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”
Then where did he go?
Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.
“Sorry,” he said quite calmly. “Had to go if you know what I mean.”
I’d lost him.
It was as simple as that.
I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.
I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.
It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.
I preferred the version of Martha Rodby that I met the night of the opera. Now I could also understand why Rodby spent so much time at the office.
Yes, I had met her before when I was with Violetta and she was a much more amiable person then, but that was probably because of Violetta. She had that effect on people.
Maybe she was simply angry that Rodby’s work life had impinged on her private life, but that was one of the downsides of being involved with an intelligence agent.
It was a lesson I learned and why I gave it all up for Violetta. I wanted her more than I wanted that other life, that one I once thought was exciting. Perhaps this would be the excuse he needed to retire and have a peaceful rest of his life with her.
Or not.
Rodby was staying at the same hotel I was in, and by the time I arrived back there from Rome, Cecelia and the others were about a half hour away, and Rodby was there to greet his rather dishevelled wife in the lobby.
It was not a tearful reunion.
She had barely spoken on the entire four-hour drive, and any chance of Giulietta striking up a conversation was stopped dead by an icy glare in her direction.
As for myself, I was unimpressed by her attitude, and Rodby for that matter, though the circumstances were quite odd.
I waited an hour before I could no longer hold it in.
“Quite frankly,” I said, “I find it quite astonishing that you were able to hide the fact you had a stepsister from one of the top intelligence officers and research departments in the country. He had me investigated to the point he could tell me I was related to one of the seamen on James Cook’s Endeavour. But you, nothing. How is that possible?”
I gave her one of my icy stares just for good measure.
“He chose not to. I told him if he couldn’t trust me, then it would never work.”
Love trumps common sense. Yes, I could see how that would never be in his playbook.
“I live in a world of lies and deceit. Now your dirty little secret is out, welcome to my world. It’ll never be the same, you know that.”
She didn’t answer. Perhaps she was not used to the rabble talking to her in such a manner.
“Answer one question, did Heidi have a twin?”
She looked at me very strangely. “What?”
“I thought it was a pretty straightforward question.”
“No, she did not.”
“Was she incarcerated with you?”
“No. We were both snatched off the street and separated. I’ve been held by a bunch of thugs since.”
“Were they going to ransom you?”
“No one said anything until yesterday when I was handed a paper and shoved in front of a camera.”
“Did you see any of your captors?”
“No.”
“Would you recognise them later by other means?”
“Maybe.”
“Just one more question. Do you get together with Heidi often?”
“No. I hadn’t seen her for quite a few years, she called me saying she was in London for a few days, we went out, and that’s all I remember till I woke up in a dark room. That’s it.”
The look from Juliet in the back of the car was fascinating.
I had no doubt she was putting two and two together and coming up with anything other than four.
If there was no twin, then the woman who was pretending to be the countess was the countess pretending to be a twin. Convoluted and confusing? Yes. Make any sense, no.
Has she been masquerading as a pretend twin to Dicostini so that she could have an affair, or were they always having an affair, and she was going to … No, don’t go down the rabbit hole. None of it made any sense, and as Martha Rodby said. That’s it. Enough.
An hour after he had taken his wife up to the room and got her settled, Rodby came to see me.
“What the hell happened?”
It was not the polities of tones.
“Take the win.”
“I want to know what happened? One minute I’m getting information that tells me one thing, then next something else entirely.”
“Lies and deceit. It’s the world we live in.”
“Is that what you’re going to run with?”
“It’s all I know. You ask Mrs Rodby for the details. I’m sure she knows a lot more than all of us. Just the fact the Countess was her step-sister should be ample proof that no one is ever going to get to the bottom of this affair. So, like I said, take the win.”
Of course, I could see it in his face, the man who would make the world’s best poker player. Maybe once. He’s known all along about her secret. Had he been hoping it wouldn’t come out?
I shook my head. “Go away, Rodby. I’m done for good this time. I’m going back to Venice, and spending the rest of my days waiting for the canals to clear up.”
“With Juliet?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“You ask her, her story before you do anything else.”
This word, where I live, has taken on a new meaning. We have telephone scammers who ask your name when you answer the phone, and when you say yes, they hang up.
It doesn’t take much imagination to consider how they can use that recording.
So, I now answer the phone with ‘maybe’, which confuses the real callers who want to know if it is you.
Of course, ‘maybe’ is one of those words that can have so many meanings, but the best one is to use it while you have time to think of a proper answer.
For example, did you get the potatoes? You haven’t been out, it slipped your mind, or you just plain forgot, but run with a ‘maybe’ so you can judge the reaction.
Angry face, you know, no matter what, you’re in trouble.
Genial face, you know that it didn’t really matter, and all is forgiven.
Then there’s the person who doesn’t know you and comes up to you in a crowded room. Are you [put name here]?
Maybe. We want to know if we’re in trouble, or if it’s for something good, or if it is the husband or wife of the person you’ve just spent the last twenty minutes in animated conversation with.
Using ‘maybe’ in writing probably isn’t the best word for us, but I like defying the experts. You can always find a ‘maybe’ or two in any of my books.
“I knew human nature well enough to depict it; in short, that all of the small tasks of which I was capable, literature, properly speaking, was the one that offered the most chance of success as a profession and – let us not mince words – was the way to earn my bread.”
…
When the Muse Meets the Mortgage: The Unromantic Truth of My Literary Calling
We’ve all heard the romanticised tales of artists, poets, and writers – struck by inspiration, driven by an insatiable passion, toiling away in garrets for the sheer love of their craft. While there’s undeniable truth to the passion part, there’s another, often unspoken, dimension to the creative life that an ancient, surprisingly honest quote brings into sharp focus:
“I knew human nature well enough to depict it; in short, that all of the small tasks of which I was capable, literature, properly speaking, was the one that offered the most chance of success as a profession and – let us not mince words – was the way to earn my bread.”
Let’s unpack this gem, because it speaks volumes about the pragmatic, often unromantic, journey of finding one’s professional purpose, especially in the arts.
The Unseen Power of Observation
“I knew human nature well enough to depict it.” This isn’t vanity; it’s a profound self-awareness, the very bedrock of a good writer. It speaks to an innate empathy, a keen eye for detail, and an understanding of the intricate dance of human emotions, motivations, and contradictions. Before words can flow, understanding must exist. This is the writer’s superpower: to see beyond the surface, to connect dots, and to translate the universal human experience into relatable narratives.
Many of us possess this kind of observational skill to varying degrees. We notice things others miss. We’re the friends people come to for advice because we “just get it.” For some, this skill is a social asset; for others, it’s the quiet engine of a potential career.
The Litany of “Small Tasks”
“All of the small tasks of which I was capable…” This is where most of us live, isn’t it? We shuffle through life, picking up skills, trying on different hats. We might be competent at a dozen different things – organising, problem-solving, number-crunching, designing. We can do them, often well enough. But there’s a difference between capability and calling, between competence and conviction.
This phrase beautifully captures the process of elimination. It’s the quiet concession that while we might be able to handle a variety of “small tasks,” none of them ignite that spark, none of them feel like the one. It’s a realistic appraisal of one’s diverse but perhaps diffuse talents, paving the way for the singular realisation.
Literature: The Most Probable Path to “Success”
“…literature, properly speaking, was the one that offered the most chance of success as a profession…” This is the pivotal moment. It’s not just about what you love to do, but what you can actually succeed at. And success, in this context, isn’t necessarily about fame or fortune, but about creating a sustainable livelihood from your distinct abilities.
For our anonymous author, the ability to depict human nature wasn’t just a passion; it was a skill that, when applied to literature, offered genuine professional viability. It wasn’t a whimsical choice but a strategic one. “Properly speaking” suggests a serious commitment to the craft – not just dabbling, but mastering the tools, understanding the market (even if that market was different centuries ago), and treating it as a legitimate profession.
It challenges the modern narrative that “following your passion” is enough. Sometimes, passion needs a sturdy bridge of practicality to cross into a career.
Let’s Not Mince Words: Earning My Bread
“…and – let us not mince words – was the way to earn my bread.” This is the mic drop. The raw, beautiful, and utterly human truth. Stripped of all artistic pretence, it comes down to survival. To put food on the table. To pay the rent.
This isn’t a cynical statement; it’s an honest one. For many creatives, the initial lure of their chosen field might be passion or talent, but the sustained effort, the diligent practice, and the strategic career decisions are often fueled by the fundamental need to make a living. There’s immense dignity in earning your bread through your craft, through the very expression of your unique insights and abilities.
The Modern Resonance
This centuries-old observation still holds remarkable power today. How many of us choose our careers not just because we love them, but because through them, we are best equipped to contribute, to find a sense of purpose, and yes, to earn our living?
Perhaps your “literature” isn’t writing stories, but is:
Designing elegant user interfaces because you understand human interaction.
Building innovative software because you can conceive of efficient systems.
Teaching complex subjects because you excel at simplifying knowledge.
Crafting beautiful objects because you have an eye for form and function.
The lesson is clear: true professional fulfillment often lies at the intersection of what you’re genuinely good at, what you find meaningful, and what can realistically sustain you. It’s less about a lightning bolt of inspiration and more about a thoughtful, pragmatic assessment of your unique place in the world, and how best to earn your bread with the gifts you possess.
So, what’s your “literature”? What’s the one thing, among all the small tasks you’re capable of, that truly offers you a chance at success, and allows you to earn your bread, no mincing of words required?
From Desk Jobs to Espionage: Why the “Accidental” Writer is More Common Than You Think
We often imagine the “Great Author” as someone born with an ink-stained soul—a tortured genius who spent their childhood reciting poetry and their adolescence crafting sprawling manuscripts in the glow of a candle.
But the history of literature tells a very different story. Take Ian Fleming, the creator of the world’s most iconic secret agent.
Before Fleming became a household name, he was a man desperately trying to outrun his own shadow. He cycled through jobs in journalism, merchant banking, and stockbroking, eventually landing in Naval Intelligence during World War II. It wasn’t until he retreated to his estate in Jamaica—suffering from a classic case of mid-life post-war boredom—that he sat down at a typewriter and hammered out Casino Royale.
Fleming didn’t start as a “writer.” He started as a man with a rich, complicated life who realised he had stories to tell.
As it turns out, Fleming isn’t an anomaly. In fact, he’s the archetype.
The “Portfolio Career” of the Author
If you look at the biographies of the world’s most beloved writers, you’ll find that very few of them spent their twenties in an MFA program. Instead, they were living.
Franz Kafka spent his days as an insurance clerk, navigating the crushing bureaucracy that would later inspire the bleak, surreal landscapes of The Trial.
Harper Lee worked as an airline ticket agent while struggling to write To Kill a Mockingbird.
Charles Bukowski ground out years at the post office, convinced that his life was a series of mundane failures until his prose finally caught fire.
For these writers, the “day job” wasn’t a distraction—it was the fuel. It provided the frustration, the observation, and the grit required to build a believable world.
Why Boredom and Disillusionment are Catalysts
Fleming’s transition from intelligence officer to novelist is a quintessential example of creative displacement. When you have spent your life in high-stakes, high-pressure environments—like intelligence work or banking—the sudden silence of civilian life can feel deafening.
Many writers emerge from this exact place:
The Escape Hatch: Writing is often a way to reconcile with a past we can’t change. Fleming used the pages of Bond novels to process the shadowy, often morally grey world he had inhabited during the war.
The Need to Orchestrate: People who have worked in rigid systems (like banking or the military) often turn to fiction because, for the first time, they are in total control. The author is the ultimate intelligence chief; they decide who lives, who dies, and how the plot unfolds.
The “What If” Factor: Many accidental authors start writing because they are bored with reality. They find the world as it exists to lack adventure, mystery, or romance. Writing becomes the tool they use to build a version of the world that is, frankly, more interesting.
The “Ian Fleming Path” to Creativity
If you are currently sitting in a cubicle, working a job that feels worlds away from your creative ambitions, take heart. You aren’t “not a writer” because you aren’t currently writing. You are, like Fleming, building your archive.
You are observing office politics, understanding the nuances of human manipulation, learning how systems break, and experiencing the distinct, soul-sucking weight of boredom. These are not wasted years. These are the bricks you will use to build your own “Casino Royale.”
Many of the best writers in history didn’t start by chasing the dream of being an author. They started by living through enough reality that they eventually had to write it down to make sense of it.
So, if you’re looking for a sign to start that manuscript, look at Fleming in Jamaica. He didn’t wait for inspiration to strike; he waited until he was bored enough, experienced enough, and ready enough to translate his life into a legend.
It’s, on the one hand, the opposite of major, and not the military rank, but the lesser of two evils.
It was a minor misdemeanor, so you won’t be going to jail for life, just 20 years, maybe.
Or perhaps you’re referring to a child who is also known as a minor.
And, once upon a time, there was a car called a Morris Minor. I know, my father owned one.
And one of my uncles owned a Morris Major, yea, the Morris car company didn’t have much imagination.
Music-wise it is having intervals of a semitone between the second and third degrees, and others.
It is also qualifying in a subsidiary subject in college in America.
And while we’re still in America, there are the minors, a rather interesting description for the minor baseball league.
Something I remember when reading books about children in British private schools, was where there were two boys in different grades, one would have minor attached to his name, e.g. Smith minor.
The Billy Bunter books spring to mind, but the discrimination police would have them banned these days.
Of course, there’s another word that sounds somewhat similar, miner.
We all know that a miner digs ore out of the ground, a name given to a single man, or a huge corporation.
A computer program could be called a data miner.
A miner is a South American bird, and it’s also an Australian bird.
It also describes a person who obtains units of cryptocurrency using a specific computer program.
There is another variation, mynah, but that used to describe a bird.
Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right
Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.
It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.
…
John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence after being so indifferent for so long.
They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable and calls on an old friend for help in finding her.
After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.
But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.
What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.
It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door, so I could see to unlock it.
I looked up and saw that the globe was broken.
Instant alert.
I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup, and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.
Who?
There were four hiding spots, and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.
I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.
But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbour and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.
Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.
There were three entrances to the villa: the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room, which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.
It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were in the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.
The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa, behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I moved aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.
I closed the door after me and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage, which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.
I stepped into the darkness and closed the door.
I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.
Silence, an eerie silence.
I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.
I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.
That raised the question of who told them where I was.
If I were the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.
Or was I?
I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.
Still nothing.
I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked, and where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I were not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk in. One shot would be all that was required.
Contract complete.
I sidled quietly up the passage, staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.
Crunch.
I stepped on some nutshells.
Not my nutshells.
I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.
And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.
I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me, and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.
Two assassins.
I’d not expected that.
The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.
I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!
I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.
I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.
“Who employed you?”
He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today, my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed, and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”
Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.
I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.
Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect the dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.
A half-hour passed, and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.
Until I heard a knock on my front door.
Two thoughts: it was either the police, alerted by the neighbours, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?
I stood and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.
If it were the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.
No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.
“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.
When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”
I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”
I looked at my arm and realised it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.
“You need to go away now.”
Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she were any sort of law-abiding citizen, she would go straight to the police.
She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”
I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”
“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”
“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”
The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.
I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.
I expected her to scream. She didn’t.
She gave me a good, hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.
“What happened here?”
“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”
“Not so much, looking at your arm.”
She came closer and inspected it.
“Sit down.”
She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.
“Do you have medical supplies?”
I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.
She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed, though I was not sure why it might interest her.
She helped me remove my shirt and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.
When she’d finished, she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”
No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.
“Alisha?”
“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”
“That was wrong of her to do that.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”
“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”
From Desk Jobs to Espionage: Why the “Accidental” Writer is More Common Than You Think
We often imagine the “Great Author” as someone born with an ink-stained soul—a tortured genius who spent their childhood reciting poetry and their adolescence crafting sprawling manuscripts in the glow of a candle.
But the history of literature tells a very different story. Take Ian Fleming, the creator of the world’s most iconic secret agent.
Before Fleming became a household name, he was a man desperately trying to outrun his own shadow. He cycled through jobs in journalism, merchant banking, and stockbroking, eventually landing in Naval Intelligence during World War II. It wasn’t until he retreated to his estate in Jamaica—suffering from a classic case of mid-life post-war boredom—that he sat down at a typewriter and hammered out Casino Royale.
Fleming didn’t start as a “writer.” He started as a man with a rich, complicated life who realised he had stories to tell.
As it turns out, Fleming isn’t an anomaly. In fact, he’s the archetype.
The “Portfolio Career” of the Author
If you look at the biographies of the world’s most beloved writers, you’ll find that very few of them spent their twenties in an MFA program. Instead, they were living.
Franz Kafka spent his days as an insurance clerk, navigating the crushing bureaucracy that would later inspire the bleak, surreal landscapes of The Trial.
Harper Lee worked as an airline ticket agent while struggling to write To Kill a Mockingbird.
Charles Bukowski ground out years at the post office, convinced that his life was a series of mundane failures until his prose finally caught fire.
For these writers, the “day job” wasn’t a distraction—it was the fuel. It provided the frustration, the observation, and the grit required to build a believable world.
Why Boredom and Disillusionment are Catalysts
Fleming’s transition from intelligence officer to novelist is a quintessential example of creative displacement. When you have spent your life in high-stakes, high-pressure environments—like intelligence work or banking—the sudden silence of civilian life can feel deafening.
Many writers emerge from this exact place:
The Escape Hatch: Writing is often a way to reconcile with a past we can’t change. Fleming used the pages of Bond novels to process the shadowy, often morally grey world he had inhabited during the war.
The Need to Orchestrate: People who have worked in rigid systems (like banking or the military) often turn to fiction because, for the first time, they are in total control. The author is the ultimate intelligence chief; they decide who lives, who dies, and how the plot unfolds.
The “What If” Factor: Many accidental authors start writing because they are bored with reality. They find the world as it exists to lack adventure, mystery, or romance. Writing becomes the tool they use to build a version of the world that is, frankly, more interesting.
The “Ian Fleming Path” to Creativity
If you are currently sitting in a cubicle, working a job that feels worlds away from your creative ambitions, take heart. You aren’t “not a writer” because you aren’t currently writing. You are, like Fleming, building your archive.
You are observing office politics, understanding the nuances of human manipulation, learning how systems break, and experiencing the distinct, soul-sucking weight of boredom. These are not wasted years. These are the bricks you will use to build your own “Casino Royale.”
Many of the best writers in history didn’t start by chasing the dream of being an author. They started by living through enough reality that they eventually had to write it down to make sense of it.
So, if you’re looking for a sign to start that manuscript, look at Fleming in Jamaica. He didn’t wait for inspiration to strike; he waited until he was bored enough, experienced enough, and ready enough to translate his life into a legend.
My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.
I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.
Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.
Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility that the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.
The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.
I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.
The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the clientele the hotel attracted.
I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’, but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.
Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?
Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.
There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.
The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.
As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.
There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.
With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.
A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him he was not the concierge, and instead he brushed past me like I wasn’t there.
He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.
Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.
I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position, then clunked when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the lift lobby, only what was in the direction of the car entrance.
The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.
“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”
Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”
“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”
He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.
Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.
“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”
“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”
“Good. Let’s go over to the desk and see what we can do for you.”
I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.
“Name of guest, sir?”
“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.
She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”
Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”
Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”
An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.
“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”
Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”
Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”
I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.
“No.”
“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”
She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”
“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.
“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”
I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”
She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.
The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”
“No. You have more than you can know.”
“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”
“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”
Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.
I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 