The Writer’s Paradox: Why Consumption Isn’t Creation
We live in a culture that loves to romanticise the “writer’s life.” We imagine it involves a worn leather notebook, a steaming cup of artisan coffee, and someone hunched over a desk, reading the classics until the prose is so deeply ingrained in their psyche that they eventually exhale a masterpiece.
But there is a dangerous misconception hidden in that romantic ideal. It is the belief that if you read enough, if you consume enough “good” writing, you will eventually wake up one morning and find that the words have seeped into your marrow, ready to flow out of you onto the page.
Here is the cold, hard truth: If reading is your pleasure, then simply read. Enjoy the stories. Let them move you. But do not mistake the act of consumption for the act of creation.
The Illusion of Osmosis
Many aspiring writers fall into the trap of “productive procrastination.” They justify spending six hours a day reading literary journals, studying sentence structures, and analysing plot devices, telling themselves, “I’m doing research. I’m filling my well.”
While reading is vital fuel for any writer, it is not the engine. You can read every shelf in the library, but your shelves will never write a paragraph for you. There is no biological osmosis in writing. The words you consume do not undergo a mystical transformation inside your bones and emerge as your own voice.
Reading is a passive experience. It is a dialogue between you and the author. Writing, however, is a monologue—a messy, uncomfortable, and often lonely exertion of will.
The Anatomy of a Writer
If you want to be a writer, you must stop waiting for the inspiration of others to do the heavy lifting for you.
When you read, you are a spectator. When you write, you are an athlete. You can watch the Olympics every single day for ten years, but that won’t make you a runner. To run, you have to strap on the shoes and hit the pavement when your lungs are burning, and your legs are heavy.
To write, you have to:
Face the blank cursor: It is the most terrifying and honest thing in the world.
Write badly: You have to produce “bone marrow” that isn’t quite ready yet. You have to write the rough, ugly, incoherent drafts before you can ever arrive at the polished prose you admire in others.
Commit to the output: A writer is defined by what they produce, not what they consume.
Stop Waiting, Start Doing
If you love books, keep reading. Let them be your sanctuary, your education, and your joy. But if you call yourself a writer, you must accept that your primary job is to create.
The words won’t flow out of your marrow until you force them out. They come from the friction of your own thoughts, your own experiences, and the sheer discipline of showing up to the page—even when you have nothing to say.
Don’t wait for the osmosis. Don’t wait for the “right time” or for your brain to be “full enough.”
If reading is your pleasure, read. But if you want to be a writer, write.
This is sometimes how we must feel when overlooked or ignored, like a nobody.
And some people will treat you like a nobody, i.e. someone who is just not important.
That’s just one use of the word.
Another might be…
Who did that to your room?
‘Nobody’ is the plaintiff’s reply. The infamous Mr Nobody. We’ve never met him, but he’s always there. And, what’s more, he seems to be able to be in more than one place at a time.
Then there’s that time when there’s nobody in the room, nobody agreed with me, hell, that happens all the time, and when I rang your phone nobody answered.
Nobody? Was I expecting Mr Nobody to answer? Surely the response should have been, ‘and you didn’t answer’.
Of course, let’s not delve too deep here, lest we might find out something we didn’t want to know.
I went to your house last night, but nobody was home.
How is it we refer to the people whom we know live in that house as ‘nobody’. Shouldn’t we be saying, ‘none of you was at home’?
It seems nobody is one of those words we often use in vain.
John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly, he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
The Writer’s Paradox: Why Consumption Isn’t Creation
We live in a culture that loves to romanticise the “writer’s life.” We imagine it involves a worn leather notebook, a steaming cup of artisan coffee, and someone hunched over a desk, reading the classics until the prose is so deeply ingrained in their psyche that they eventually exhale a masterpiece.
But there is a dangerous misconception hidden in that romantic ideal. It is the belief that if you read enough, if you consume enough “good” writing, you will eventually wake up one morning and find that the words have seeped into your marrow, ready to flow out of you onto the page.
Here is the cold, hard truth: If reading is your pleasure, then simply read. Enjoy the stories. Let them move you. But do not mistake the act of consumption for the act of creation.
The Illusion of Osmosis
Many aspiring writers fall into the trap of “productive procrastination.” They justify spending six hours a day reading literary journals, studying sentence structures, and analysing plot devices, telling themselves, “I’m doing research. I’m filling my well.”
While reading is vital fuel for any writer, it is not the engine. You can read every shelf in the library, but your shelves will never write a paragraph for you. There is no biological osmosis in writing. The words you consume do not undergo a mystical transformation inside your bones and emerge as your own voice.
Reading is a passive experience. It is a dialogue between you and the author. Writing, however, is a monologue—a messy, uncomfortable, and often lonely exertion of will.
The Anatomy of a Writer
If you want to be a writer, you must stop waiting for the inspiration of others to do the heavy lifting for you.
When you read, you are a spectator. When you write, you are an athlete. You can watch the Olympics every single day for ten years, but that won’t make you a runner. To run, you have to strap on the shoes and hit the pavement when your lungs are burning, and your legs are heavy.
To write, you have to:
Face the blank cursor: It is the most terrifying and honest thing in the world.
Write badly: You have to produce “bone marrow” that isn’t quite ready yet. You have to write the rough, ugly, incoherent drafts before you can ever arrive at the polished prose you admire in others.
Commit to the output: A writer is defined by what they produce, not what they consume.
Stop Waiting, Start Doing
If you love books, keep reading. Let them be your sanctuary, your education, and your joy. But if you call yourself a writer, you must accept that your primary job is to create.
The words won’t flow out of your marrow until you force them out. They come from the friction of your own thoughts, your own experiences, and the sheer discipline of showing up to the page—even when you have nothing to say.
Don’t wait for the osmosis. Don’t wait for the “right time” or for your brain to be “full enough.”
If reading is your pleasure, read. But if you want to be a writer, write.
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy. It was, of course, written while travelling on a plane, though I’m not sure if it was from Calgary to Toronto, or New York to Vancouver.
But there’s more to come. Those were long flights…
And sadly, when I read what I’d written, off the plane and in the cold hard light of dawn, there were problems, which now, in the second draft, should provide the proper start.
…
There were eleven stormtroopers and Wallace, eighteen in Johansson and Jackerby’s group. One of those would be in the communications centre, leaving, at worst, twenty-nine men out looking for me.
I also assumed that Jackerby would approach the search in much the same manner as I would, the men in pairs, as singly, he knew that I would have an advantage.
Eight pairs would be inside, doing a room-to-room search, from the top down.
Five pairs would be outside, one group in the centre, one group at each of the corners, all working the perimeter, all in constant communication with each other.
In normal circumstances, I would be caught.
These were not normal circumstances.
Jack padded his way just ahead of me, stopping every few yards and both sniffing and listening. At a junction he would stop, wait, and then make a decision about which way to go.
I had to trust his instincts.
Just ahead of me there was a cracking sound followed by falling rocks and a shaft of light.
An opening in the roof where it was too close to the surface.
Jack went quite still. Voices.
“Be careful.” German.
Followed immediately by “Speak in English you fool. You were saying,”
The man switched to careful English, “Be careful, or you’ll fall down that hole. They should have told us the ground around here is on top of an old mineshaft.”
“Better, Corporal. Remember. English at all times.”
“Could be where they buried the bodies hastily before they left.”
The man was referring to the story the previous custodians of the castle had killed about a hundred of the nearby villagers and buried them in a mass grave near the castle. No one had been able to verify the account, nor had anyone found any skeletal evidence.
Yet.
“Let’s get out of here. The last thing I want to see is a ghost.”
Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledged that something had happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive, she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realises is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
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 instalment of an old feature, and back on the treasure hunt.
…
“Who the hell is that horrible man?” I asked, still staring after the car, long after it had gone.
I knew trouble when I saw it, and that man was serious trouble.
And the fact that he believed there was a treasure map…
“My uncle Rico, he was the one my mother always credited with leading my father astray. Whatever they had been doing back then, it was never anything legal.”
So, he knows about the treasure map?”
“He knows nothing. He thinks he knows something, he thinks I know something, but he’s not going to get it out of me.”
“What if he comes after me next?”
It was a daunting prospect, and just looking at Rico was enough to scare me. If he had a machete to back up his insistence, I would tell the truth? I shuddered.
“You tell him the truth. We have a map, we bought it at the bar like everyone else.”
He was right.
“Boggs?”
His mother yelled out his name in a manner that meant he was in trouble.
He motioned to keep quiet and follow him.
He took one step before she added, “You take one more step away from this house, and you’ll have more than Rico to worry about.”
A shrug, a wan smile, and then he turned back. “Nothing more today. See you at the Bar tomorrow, and we’ll start the search.
“Surely you don’t think that map is real?”
“Real enough, with missing pieces, we have to track down. Tomorrow.”He turned and went back into the house, the wooden screen door slamming shut behind him.
Followed by the raised voice of an angry mother. “What is all this malarkey about a treasure map, and what the hell were you doing in a bar? I bet it was that Johnson kid leading you astray again.”
Never, according to her, Boggs’ fault, and always mine.
It’s always a good thing to get that across, especially if you work for an organisation that could misinterpret what that opinion is, or generally have an opposing opinion. Of course, by saying your opinions are your own, you’re covering yourself from becoming unemployed, but is this a futile act?
Perhaps it’s better to not say anything because everything you say and do eventually finds its way to those you want most not to hear about it, perhaps one of the big negatives of the internet and social media.
And…
It seems odd to me that more often than not, you can’t have an opinion of your own, even if it is contrary to that of the organisation you work for, and especially if their opinion has changed over time. An opposing opinion, delivered in a non-derogatory manner, would be expected to spark a healthy debate, but it doesn’t always end up that way.
I’m sure there are others out there that will disagree and use the overused word, ‘loyalty’. Perhaps their mantra will be ‘keep your opinions to yourself’.
This, too, often arises in personal relationships, adding weight to the statement, ‘you can pick your friends but not your relatives.’
I’m told I have an opinion on everything, a statement delivered in a manner that suggests sarcasm. Whether it’s true or not, isn’t the essence of free speech, working within the parameters of not inciting hate, bigotry, racism or sexism, a fundamental right of anyone in a democracy?
Seems not.
There’s always someone out there, higher up the food chain, with an opinion of their own, obviously the right one, and who will not hesitate to silence yours. But, isn’t it strange that to silence you, they have to use leverage, like your job, to get theirs across?
Well, my opinions are in my writing, and whether or not you agree with them or not, I’m sure you will let me know. In a robust but respectful manner.
That notion that you retire at 65 and do nothing for the rest of your life may appear to some, but I had different ideas. Where would I begin…
…
That is a wonderful perspective to have. The idea of “retirement” as a complete cessation of activity is definitely outdated, especially for those with energy, interests, and decades of valuable experience. Your mindset—that it’s a starting line, not a finish line—is the key.
Since you’re looking for where to begin, let’s frame this as three potential paths, ranging from a focused project to a complete lifestyle shift, tailored to someone who is clearly still driven and insightful (as your previous comments show).
Path 1: The Intellectual and Creative Pursuit (The Author/Analyst)
Given your previous flair for connecting disparate events and creating compelling narratives (the thriller plot), your retirement could be the perfect time to dedicate yourself to a long-form creative or analytical pursuit.
A. Write the Book
The Thriller Novel: You already have the instincts of a thriller writer. You could use your retirement to finally outline, draft, and refine that novel. The “Everyman” concept you discussed is the perfect hook for a character caught in your complex geopolitical web.
Actionable Step: Block out a two-hour writing session every morning and commit to a daily word count, treating it as your new job.
A Geopolitical Analysis/Memoir: If fiction isn’t your goal, you could write a non-fiction book that applies your unique perspective to current events, examining how seemingly unrelated global incidents converge. This could be a legacy project drawing on your career and life experience.
B. Launch an Analytical Blog or Newsletter
You don’t have to wait for a book deal. Start sharing your insights immediately.
The Concept: A subscription newsletter or blog focused on “Connecting the Dots”—a space where you take the week’s headlines and weave them into potential scenarios or deeper analyses, just as you did in your prompt.
Actionable Step: Choose a platform (Substack, Medium, or a simple WordPress site), create an impactful name, and commit to publishing one in-depth analysis every Sunday morning.
Path 2: The Experience & Mentorship Path (The Giver)
After a career, many people find immense satisfaction in applying their learned wisdom to help others or to a cause they care about.
Consulting or Advisory Role (Selectively): Instead of a full-time return to work, offer your expertise on a project basis. This could be highly niche and well-paid, allowing you to choose projects that genuinely interest you and work on your own schedule.
Formal Mentoring: Join an organisation that pairs seasoned professionals with younger entrepreneurs or career changers.
Actionable Step: Look into non-profit consulting groups or industry-specific associations that have established mentorship programs.
Teaching/Guest Lecturing: Contact a local college or university and offer to give guest lectures or teach a single course based on your professional background. This allows you to stay current and engage with a new generation.
Path 3: The Skill and Community Path (The Learner/Connector)
Use this time for total immersion in a new area, satisfying that innate curiosity that drives your thinking.
Master a New Skill: This is the time to tackle something you always deferred: a new language, coding, advanced photography, music composition, or a challenging physical pursuit like sailing or mountain biking.
Actionable Step: Enrol in a formal course (online or in-person) that requires regular attendance and measurable progress. The structure prevents the project from fading away.
Community Leadership: Focus your energy on local impact. Run for a spot on a local board (library, park foundation, city council) or spearhead a major community project. This offers structure, purpose, and immediate, visible results.
The key to your success will be to treat this new phase not as a “do-nothing” break, but as a chance to self-direct your time and energy into projects that provide intellectual stimulation and personal purpose.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 