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:
Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply fly away?
Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, I came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.
But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.
She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level that she, the youngest of the group, would get the position.
It was something that had been weighing her down for the last three months, and if she noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one; no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.
And then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact that she had to entertain more, and frankly, I felt like an embarrassment to her.
So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.
It was then that she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.
Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it was something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.
I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.
What surprised her was my reaction. None.
I simply asked who, where, and when.
A world-class newspaper in New York, and she had to be there in a week.
A week.
It was all the time I had left with her.
I remember just shrugging and asking if the planned weekend away was off.
She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.
Is that all you want to know?
I did, yes, but we had lost the intimacy we used to have, where she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker, but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.
There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.
Her immediate superior was instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position, he had not taken advantage of the situation like some might. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.
One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.
So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.
Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.
Yes, our relationship had a use-by date, and it was in the next few days.
I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me; you can make cabinets anywhere.
I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.
Then the only question left was, what do we do now?
Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.
Getting on the roller coaster is easy. At the beginning, it’s a slow, easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships; they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, followed by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.
What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.
Our roller coaster had just come out of the final turn, and we were braking so that it would stop at the station.
There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in the new job, the last thing she’d want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends, new life.
We packed her bags, threw out everything she didn’t want, a free trip to the op shop with stuff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.
Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming; that moment, the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.
So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning, there had been 6 different types of planes departing, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.
People coming, people going.
Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just to see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.
As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
The Ormiston’s from the papers
…
The Ormiston story and that of the thousand or so acres between the sea and the mountains are now known as Patterson’s reach, but once called The Grove, began in 1865 when the original Henrich Ormiston arrived from Germany.
Originally intending to go to Australia to grow grapes in South Australia, instead, his fate turned West to the Americas, and, eventually, this part of Florida. He started out with the intention of growing grapes, but when that failed to materialize, he moved on to Oranges, hence the name, The Grove.
He had married before leaving Germany and had two children, Marta and Gunter before leaving, and Friedrich after he arrived in 1866. That Friedrich died, according to the gravestone, in 1924. Neither Marta nor Gunter stayed, leaving Friedrich to carry on the business, have an only child which he named after his father, Heinrich, born in 1899 and who died in 1976. He in turn had a single son, which he named Friedrich, the infamous person with who Boggs father had a tempestuous business relationship.
Friedrich was born in 1932, during the depression, and it was about that time that the notion there might be buried treasure, somewhere along that coastal area of Florida, floated by a university professor, Emil Stravinsky, who specialized in old pirates. He had published a book that basically speculated where treasure might be found, and one of those areas was right smack bang in the middle of The Grove.
This information was plucked from the paper’s births, death, and marriages column around the specified dates, the death notices giving some light on the respective Ormiston’s life and toils on their land.
Heinrich, Friedrich’s father, fell for the story hook line and sinker, and with a promise to share the proceeds of an estimated multimillion-dollar trove, invested a fair chunk of the savings he’d amassed over the years in the first of many treasure hunts. The name Stravinsky rang a bell in my head.
A quick look forward to the most recent editions showed it was the man who had died on Rico’s boat, who was, in fact, a third-generation relative of the original professor, an archaeologist in his own right, and digging a bit further into the story, the paper had published a dozen or so extracts from the professor’s book, hinting their subject matter had been derived from a particular pirate’s log, and from notes made over the years of research by the professor. It sounded like there was a diary.
I was going to have to find a copy of the professor’s book, which, if it had been published nearly 90 years ago, would now be out of print.
When the father, Heinrich had failed to locate the treasure, the son Friedrich continued the search, only he put more time and effort into more meticulous research rather than take the professor’s word of its whereabouts.
This was about the time Boggs’s father came into the picture.
He had lived and worked in the Caribbean and discovered quite by chance when a storm had blown his boat way off course on a weekend sailing run, the ruins of an encampment and hidden inlet on an uninhabited island where he believed the pirate had operated from.
While waiting to be rescued, the storm had damaged his boat, he took the time to explore, and although he hadn’t told anyone at the time of his rescue, he had discovered a box buried near where a building had once stood containing a map, several coins, a sextant, and a flag. The news of those discoveries came some years later when it was revealed he’s struck a deal with Ormiston to renew the search for the treasure.
When the result of that expedition came to nothing, each of the partners blamed the other for the lack of success, with Ormiston all but telling anyone who would listen that Boggs had created the map himself for the purpose of extorting money under false pretenses.
Boggs then had to produce the map, where it was authenticated as a map that had been created at the time of the pirate’s reign, but no one could say whether it was just an invention of someone at the time, or it was real. The fact nothing was found suggested the latter, and it marked to start of the feud between Boggs and Ormiston.
The question in my mind was whether Boggs had that particular map, and had he shown it briefly to me? Certainly, one of the maps he had was quite old, but there were so many variations, and they all looked equally as old, it was hard to tell.
One point I was quite certain on, none of the maps I’d seen showed the treasure’s final resting place as being in a cave, and I got the impression just before when I’d run into Boggs, that it was exactly where he was going.
Had that been the clue his father had referred to? Even with the so-called original map, if it showed the treasure hidden in a cave why did Boggs need Ormiston’s help?
Had Ormiston known that might be the final resting place of the treasure?
I would soon find out. My next stop was the library.
The “Practice Makes Perfect” Myth (and Why It Still Works—for Writing)
“If you do anything seriously long enough, you’ll get better.”
That sentence feels like an old‑school mantra you might have heard from a coach, a music teacher, or a parent. It’s comforting, almost inevitable—just keep at it and the results will follow.
But does the rule hold true for writers? And what does it mean when we say “good writing is contagious”?
In this post I’ll unpack the science behind long‑term practice, show why writing is a uniquely contagious skill, and give you a toolbox of concrete, battle‑tested tips to turn “doing it longer” into real, measurable improvement.
1. The Core Truth: Time + Deliberate Practice = Skill Growth
Fact
What It Means for Writers
Neuroplasticity – The brain rewires itself with repeated activity.
The more you write, the stronger the neural pathways that support storytelling, grammar, and voice.
Deliberate Practice – Not just “doing the thing,” but practicing with feedback and specific goals.
Writing a 500‑word blog post isn’t enough; you must target weak spots (e.g., pacing, dialogue) and refine them deliberately.
Deliberate Practice – Not just “doing the thing,” but practising with feedback and specific goals.
10,000 hours of mindless typing won’t help. Ten hours of focused revision, critique, and study can trump 100 hours of “just writing.”
Plateaus Are Normal – Skill acquisition follows a sigmoid curve: rapid early gains, a plateau, then a second surge after a breakthrough.
Expect periods where progress feels stagnant. Use them to experiment, read, or rest—don’t quit.
Bottom line: Time alone isn’t enough. You need deliberate, feedback‑rich practice to convert hours into mastery.
2. Good Writing Is Contagious – Why It Spreads
Social Proof: Readers (and fellow writers) gravitate toward high‑quality prose. When a piece shines, it sets a new benchmark in its community.
Mirror Neurons: We neurologically mimic the style and tone we consume, especially when we admire the source. Reading great sentences trains our own “inner ear.”
Collective Learning: Writing groups, workshops, and online forums create a feedback loop where one person’s improvement lifts the entire cohort.
Cultural Momentum: Think of the “New Journalism” wave of the ’60s or the rise of flash fiction on Twitter—once a few voices cracked the code, the style proliferated.
In short, exposure to excellent writing accelerates your own growth—if you allow it to.
3. The Pitfalls of “Just Writing More”
Common Misconception
Why It Fails
How to Fix It
“I write 2,000 words a day, so I’m improving.”
Quantity without reflection reinforces bad habits.
After each session, flag 1–2 things you’d change (e.g., redundancy, weak verb).
“I’ll get better after I finish my novel.”
Long‑term projects can hide small‑scale weaknesses.
Break the novel into bite‑size “skill drills” (e.g., one chapter focused on dialogue).
“Feedback is optional; I trust my gut.”
Our internal editor is notoriously biased.
Schedule regular external reviews—beta readers, editors, or a critique partner.
“I’ll read only what I like.”
Comfort zones limit exposure to new structures, vocab, and perspectives.
Add a “genre‑stretch” reading slot each week (e.g., poetry if you write nonfiction).
4. Actionable Blueprint: Turn Hours Into Better Writing
Below is a step‑by‑step system you can adopt today. It’s modular—pick what fits your schedule and skill level, then iterate.
A. Build a Structured Writing Routine
Component
Frequency
Tip
Micro‑Write (10–15 min)
Daily, first thing in the morning
Write a single sentence, a vivid description, or a quick dialogue exchange. No editing, just raw output.
Focused Session (45–90 min)
3–4× per week
Choose a skill goal (e.g., “show, don’t tell”). Work on a specific piece that targets that goal.
Review & Revise (30 min)
Immediately after each focused session
Highlight 2–3 improvement points; rewrite the same passage with those in mind.
Reading Sprint (30 min)
Daily or every other day
Read a passage from a writer you admire and take notes on what makes it work (sentence rhythm, word choice, structure).
Feedback Loop (1 hr)
Weekly
Send your work to a critique partner or post in a writing forum. Write a response to each piece of feedback, outlining what you’ll try next.
Why it works: The routine mixes production, analysis, and external input—the three pillars of deliberate practice.
B. “Contagion” Tactics – Let Good Writing Infect You
Curated Reading Lists
Classic craft: “The Elements of Style,” “On Writing” (King).
Genre deep‑dive: 5 seminal works from each genre you write.
Modern bite‑size: Follow Twitter accounts that tweet micro‑essays or haiku.
Imitation Exercises
Pick a paragraph you love. Rewrite it in your own voice while preserving the structure and rhythm.
Swap the genre (turn a news article into a short story).
Community Immersion
Join a weekly critique circle (online or local).
Participate in writing challenges (NaNoWriMo, 30‑day flash fiction).
Comment thoughtfully on other writers’ blogs—explaining what you liked forces you to articulate good writing principles.
Mentor‑Mode Writing
Write as if you’re teaching a class. Draft a short guide on a writing technique; the act of explaining refines your own understanding.
C. Metric‑Based Progress Tracking
Metric
Tool
How to Interpret
Word‑per‑hour output
Timer + word count
Aim for a stable range; spikes may indicate “flow” days, drops may signal fatigue.
Revision Ratio (original words ÷ final words)
Drafts in Google Docs
A decreasing ratio (e.g., 1.3 → 1.1) often signals tighter prose.
Feedback Score (e.g., 1‑5 rating from beta readers)
Survey Form
Trend upward? If flat, examine recurring criticism.
Reading Diversity Index (genres read per month)
Spreadsheet
Higher diversity correlates with more varied sentence structures.
Review these numbers every month and adjust your routine accordingly.
5. Real‑World Case Study: From “Stuck” to “Spitting Fire”
Writer: Maya, 34, freelance tech copywriter.
Problem
Intervention
Result (3 months)
Drafts flooded with jargon; readers complained of “dry” tone.
Daily 10‑min “show, don’t tell” micro‑write. Weekly 30‑min reading of narrative non‑fiction (e.g., The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks). Joined a local critique group focused on voice.
• Reduced average sentence length by 15 %. • Client satisfaction score rose from 3.2 → 4.6/5. • Secured a new contract for a storytelling‑heavy whitepaper series.
Maya’s story illustrates that structured, feedback‑rich practice beats sheer volume—and that reading narrative work made her own prose “contagiously” richer.
6. Quick‑Start Checklist (Print & Pin)
Write a 10‑minute “seed” piece every morning (no edits).
Pick one skill goal per week (e.g., stronger verbs).
Read a 5‑minute passage from a master writer daily and annotate.
Submit a draft for critique at least once a week.
Imitate a favourite paragraph once a month, then rewrite it in a new genre.
Log your metrics (output, revision ratio, feedback rating) every Friday.
7. The Bottom Line
Yes—if you do something seriously long enough, you will improve. But the quality of that “serious” effort is what determines how much you improve.
Good writing spreads like a good meme: you absorb it through reading, imitation, and community, and you amplify it by giving feedback and teaching.
By marrying deliberate practice with contagious exposure, you turn the simple mantra “write more” into a powerful, measurable growth engine.
Your next step? Choose one of the tactics above, commit to it for the next 30 days, and watch your prose evolve from “just getting longer” to “getting better.”
Happy writing—and may the contagion be ever in your favour!
If you found this post helpful, share it with fellow writers, and let us know which of the strategies you tried in the comments.
Building the Invisible Architecture: Why Every Novelist Must First Create a World They Believe In
“Every novelist must begin by creating himself a world, great or little, in which he can honestly believe.” — Joseph Conrad
When we open a novel, we aren’t just looking for a sequence of events. We are looking for a portal. We want to step out of the mundane architecture of our daily lives and inhabit somewhere else—whether that somewhere else is the misty decks of a 19th-century trading ship, the neon-lit alleys of a cyberpunk dystopia, or the quiet, devastating emotional landscape of a suburban kitchen.
But before a reader can ever step foot into that fictional realm, the author must build it, brick by invisible brick. And as Joseph Conrad famously noted, that process begins with belief.
If the writer doesn’t buy the reality of the world they are constructing, why should the reader?
Let’s explore what Conrad’s timeless wisdom means for modern novelists, world-building, and the psychological heavy lifting required to write fiction that resonates.
The Anatomy of Belief: What Does It Mean to “Believe” in Your World?
Belief in writing is not about magic systems, historical accuracy, or encyclopedic lore (though those things can help). It is about internal coherence and emotional truth.
When Conrad spoke of creating a world “great or little,” he wasn’t just talking about epic fantasy maps. A “little” world might be a single boarding house in Dublin, a courtroom during a three-day trial, or the strained silence across a breakfast table.
To believe in your world, you must know its gravity. You must understand:
The sensory reality: What does it smell like after a heavy rain? What is the quality of the light at 4:00 PM?
The unspoken rules: What do the inhabitants take for granted? What are the cultural taboos, economic pressures, and quiet griefs that shape their daily choices?
The moral pulse: Even if the author is entirely objective, the world must operate on a set of internal cause-and-effect dynamics where actions have real, believable consequences.
If you are writing a scene and you feel a twinge of artificiality—a sense that you are moving characters around like chess pieces just to get to the next plot point—you have stopped believing in your world. And the moment the author stops believing, the reader’s suspension of disbelief shatters like cheap glass.
World-Building is Self-Discovery
Notice the phrasing in Conrad’s quote: “creating himself a world.”
Before a novelist creates a world for the reader, they must create it for themselves. Writing a novel is an act of self-interrogation. The world you build often becomes a mirror for your own obsessions, fears, questions, and philosophies.
Tolkien didn’t just invent Middle-earth for the sake of an adventure; he built it out of a profound love for lost mythologies and philology, creating languages that necessitated a world to speak them.
Austen mapped the rigid, polite, and deeply economic marriage market of 19th-century England because she was keenly interested in the intersection of female autonomy, social survival, and genuine affection.
When you sit down to write, your fictional world is your testing ground. It is the ecosystem where you explore what you actually believe about human nature, power, love, and betrayal. If your heart isn’t invested in the truths of that ecosystem, your prose will lack the pulse of life.
The Danger of the “Cardboard Set”
We have all read books that feel like movie sets made of painted cardboard. The dialogue is snappy, the plot moves fast, but the moment a character leans against a wall, you feel like the whole thing might tip over.
This happens when a writer focuses entirely on mechanics rather than immersion. They outline the plot beats, design the twists, but fail to inhabit the space.
To avoid the cardboard set trap, adopt Conrad’s mindset:
Dig deeper than the surface details. Don’t just invent a futuristic city; figure out where the garbage goes, who cleans the streets, and what people sing when they’re drunk.
Let the world talk back. A believable world has momentum. When your characters make a choice, the world should react in ways that aren’t always convenient for your outline.
Write for the senses, not just the intellect. Bring your scenes to life through texture, temperature, and tone.
How to Cultivate Radical Belief in Your Writing
If you are struggling to connect with your story-world, how do you bridge the gap? How do you reach that state of honest belief?
Write toward the unknown: Don’t plan every single square inch before you start. Leave room for discovery. Sometimes, believing in your world means exploring it alongside your characters, letting it surprise you.
Anchor the fantastical in the visceral: If you are writing high fantasy or hard sci-fi, ground the extraordinary in ordinary human experiences. A dragon rider still gets a sore back; a starship captain still worries about aging or estranged children.
Interrogate your own cynicism: If you find yourself rolling your eyes at your own plot developments, stop. Figure out why. Fix the underlying logic until you can nod to yourself and say, Yes, that is how this world works.
Final Thoughts: The Invitation to the Reader
Writing a novel is an act of supreme audacity. You are essentially asking a complete stranger to sit in a quiet room, look at a series of black symbols on a white page, and hallucinate an entire reality for several hours.
The only way that magic trick works is if your own conviction is absolute.
When you create a world—whether it spans galaxies or exists entirely within the confines of a single room—you must believe in it first. Pour your curiosity, your empathy, and your attention into its soil. Because when you honestly believe in the world you’ve made, the reader won’t just visit it—they will live in it.
Are you currently building a fictional world? What is the hardest part of making it feel real to you—the physical details, the emotional stakes, or the internal logic? Let us know in the comments below!
Aside from the fact it is one of those necessary items to walk with, and the fact we can have two or four for most humans and animals, there are a few other uses for the word ‘leg’.
Like…
‘You haven’t got a leg to stand on’, doesn’t necessarily mean you have no legs, but that you are in a precarious position.
“the table had ornate legs’, yes, even non-living objects can have legs, like tables and chairs.
“It was the fifth leg of the race’, meaning it can be a stage of a race.
“He was legless’, meaning that he was too drunk to stand up. Some might think being legless is a badge of honour, but I suspect those people have been drinking a long time and the alcohol has destroyed most of their brain cells.
“leg it!’, meaning get the hell out of here before you’re caught.
Then, finally, ‘he’s on his last legs’, meaning that he’s exhausted, or about to die.
I’m sure there’s more but that’ll do for now.
I have to use my legs to get some exercise, of which the first leg is to the tripod to check if its legs are stable, and the second leg is to come back to the table and replace one of the legs which is broken. Then I’ll leg it to the pub where hopefully I won’t become legless.
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 realises 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.
Building the Invisible Architecture: Why Every Novelist Must First Create a World They Believe In
“Every novelist must begin by creating himself a world, great or little, in which he can honestly believe.” — Joseph Conrad
When we open a novel, we aren’t just looking for a sequence of events. We are looking for a portal. We want to step out of the mundane architecture of our daily lives and inhabit somewhere else—whether that somewhere else is the misty decks of a 19th-century trading ship, the neon-lit alleys of a cyberpunk dystopia, or the quiet, devastating emotional landscape of a suburban kitchen.
But before a reader can ever step foot into that fictional realm, the author must build it, brick by invisible brick. And as Joseph Conrad famously noted, that process begins with belief.
If the writer doesn’t buy the reality of the world they are constructing, why should the reader?
Let’s explore what Conrad’s timeless wisdom means for modern novelists, world-building, and the psychological heavy lifting required to write fiction that resonates.
The Anatomy of Belief: What Does It Mean to “Believe” in Your World?
Belief in writing is not about magic systems, historical accuracy, or encyclopedic lore (though those things can help). It is about internal coherence and emotional truth.
When Conrad spoke of creating a world “great or little,” he wasn’t just talking about epic fantasy maps. A “little” world might be a single boarding house in Dublin, a courtroom during a three-day trial, or the strained silence across a breakfast table.
To believe in your world, you must know its gravity. You must understand:
The sensory reality: What does it smell like after a heavy rain? What is the quality of the light at 4:00 PM?
The unspoken rules: What do the inhabitants take for granted? What are the cultural taboos, economic pressures, and quiet griefs that shape their daily choices?
The moral pulse: Even if the author is entirely objective, the world must operate on a set of internal cause-and-effect dynamics where actions have real, believable consequences.
If you are writing a scene and you feel a twinge of artificiality—a sense that you are moving characters around like chess pieces just to get to the next plot point—you have stopped believing in your world. And the moment the author stops believing, the reader’s suspension of disbelief shatters like cheap glass.
World-Building is Self-Discovery
Notice the phrasing in Conrad’s quote: “creating himself a world.”
Before a novelist creates a world for the reader, they must create it for themselves. Writing a novel is an act of self-interrogation. The world you build often becomes a mirror for your own obsessions, fears, questions, and philosophies.
Tolkien didn’t just invent Middle-earth for the sake of an adventure; he built it out of a profound love for lost mythologies and philology, creating languages that necessitated a world to speak them.
Austen mapped the rigid, polite, and deeply economic marriage market of 19th-century England because she was keenly interested in the intersection of female autonomy, social survival, and genuine affection.
When you sit down to write, your fictional world is your testing ground. It is the ecosystem where you explore what you actually believe about human nature, power, love, and betrayal. If your heart isn’t invested in the truths of that ecosystem, your prose will lack the pulse of life.
The Danger of the “Cardboard Set”
We have all read books that feel like movie sets made of painted cardboard. The dialogue is snappy, the plot moves fast, but the moment a character leans against a wall, you feel like the whole thing might tip over.
This happens when a writer focuses entirely on mechanics rather than immersion. They outline the plot beats, design the twists, but fail to inhabit the space.
To avoid the cardboard set trap, adopt Conrad’s mindset:
Dig deeper than the surface details. Don’t just invent a futuristic city; figure out where the garbage goes, who cleans the streets, and what people sing when they’re drunk.
Let the world talk back. A believable world has momentum. When your characters make a choice, the world should react in ways that aren’t always convenient for your outline.
Write for the senses, not just the intellect. Bring your scenes to life through texture, temperature, and tone.
How to Cultivate Radical Belief in Your Writing
If you are struggling to connect with your story-world, how do you bridge the gap? How do you reach that state of honest belief?
Write toward the unknown: Don’t plan every single square inch before you start. Leave room for discovery. Sometimes, believing in your world means exploring it alongside your characters, letting it surprise you.
Anchor the fantastical in the visceral: If you are writing high fantasy or hard sci-fi, ground the extraordinary in ordinary human experiences. A dragon rider still gets a sore back; a starship captain still worries about aging or estranged children.
Interrogate your own cynicism: If you find yourself rolling your eyes at your own plot developments, stop. Figure out why. Fix the underlying logic until you can nod to yourself and say, Yes, that is how this world works.
Final Thoughts: The Invitation to the Reader
Writing a novel is an act of supreme audacity. You are essentially asking a complete stranger to sit in a quiet room, look at a series of black symbols on a white page, and hallucinate an entire reality for several hours.
The only way that magic trick works is if your own conviction is absolute.
When you create a world—whether it spans galaxies or exists entirely within the confines of a single room—you must believe in it first. Pour your curiosity, your empathy, and your attention into its soil. Because when you honestly believe in the world you’ve made, the reader won’t just visit it—they will live in it.
Are you currently building a fictional world? What is the hardest part of making it feel real to you—the physical details, the emotional stakes, or the internal logic? Let us know in the comments below!
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.
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 prioritising.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
A body and a whole bunch of questions.
A full minute passed, with only one car passing, the rest of the time there was a strange sort of silence.
The man on the ground didn’t move. Whoever shot him had shot to kill. I took the few steps to stand beside him and could see the hole and the bloodstain of the wound. Shot in the heart, instant death.
Usually, if it was a sniper, it was a head shot. Less chance of missing a vital organ and leaving the target alive.
Odd too that it was just before he told me where some ‘evidence’ was located. And who the hell was this Alfred Nobbin?
I heard a car turn into the alley and come towards me. Halfway, it stopped, the engine switched off, and the doors opened.
Two men. Maury, my handler, and Severin, the instructor. Neither was carrying a gun, so neither had shot him. That meant someone else was still in play.
I said, “I had him, but someone shot him.”
Stating the obvious, Maury’s expression told me.
“You’re not dead.”
“Perhaps I wasn’t a target.”
“Today. Did he say who he was?”
“No.”
No hesitation or they’ll think I’m lying, which I am. I was not sure why, but was it because I detected a note of sincerity in the target’s tone?
“Checked for identification yet?”
“Just about to.” I knelt down and went through his pockets. Nothing. I told Maury that.
“Pity.” He hadn’t moved from where he stopped. Severin had been looking back up the alley, no doubt looking for where the bullet came from.
Had he reached the same conclusion I had, a balcony on the third floor of the left-hand building? The shooter would be long gone by now.
A white van pulled into the lane and pulled up behind Maury’s car. The cleaners.
It raided questions. How did Maury know we’d be here, and that the target would be shot dead? Or had he assumed I’d all but kill him in revenge for what had happened to the others.
What had happened to the others?
“The rest of the team,” I asked.
“Two dead, one critical. One safe. Let’s go. We need to have a debriefing.”
I took a last look at the body, the joined Maury and Severin in the car. I had questions of my own.
“A bad day’s work,” Severin muttered, as he drove off.
“But conclusive proof we have a traitor, the last thing we need right now.”
I was surprised they were discussing high-level matters that I considered above my pay grade. And, I had to say, it worried me.
Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.
We met the Blaines at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaines 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 had been months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th 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 get on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds of silence, and many more gasps.
I even 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 a permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and a 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 me, 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 that 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 Blaines were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in. I didn’t ask if the Blaines 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 realised 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 realised 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 decided 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 studying 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 realised 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; she might have been 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 who recently moved into the tower a block down from us. I thought I recognised 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 wanted 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 me. I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, but it didn’t matter. If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact that I took over the dining engagement did. She knew well enough that 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, rather than tell 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, that 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: to play them at their own game, watching the deception once I knew there was one, 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 Blaines 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 and 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.
Daily 10‑min “show, don’t tell” micro‑write.
Weekly 30‑min reading of narrative non‑fiction (e.g., The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks).
Joined a local critique group focused on voice.
