Category: Creative Writing

A to Z – April – 2026 – U

U is for – Undercover

…

I think I had reached the point where I had so fully immersed myself in the role that I no longer knew who or what I had been before.

I had said it wouldn’t happen, and they said it would, and as time passed, they could see it, and I could not.

The gig was over.

The message came over the phone in their cryptic code, devised so that if anyone else saw it, it would look just like the title of a book, which it was.

“Where Eagles Dare”.

I had dared to fly higher than the mythical Icarus, but they said it was too close to the sun.

They were right.

Ballinger, the boss, was seated opposite me, gun in lap, giving me his most menacing look.  He didn’t have to try too hard; the result of many beatings when he was a boy had given his face the look of a world-weary boxer who had to retire early.

Ever since I first met him, he had always been a man of short patience.

“I really am disappointed, Spence.  Really disappointed.”

He glanced sideways at one of his henchmen, an equally scary gorilla called Lefty.  He had another name, but I couldn’t pronounce it.  Neither could anyone else.

Lefty said, as was expected of him, “Really disappointed.”

I was not sure if it was to emphasise Ballinger’s disappointment, or that he could parrot words on command like a dutiful henchman.

I would ask why, but I knew.  There had been a ten-minute diatribe about how another of his henchmen, Wally, had discovered I was an undercover cop.  He didn’t say how he came upon this interesting discovery.

“I was disappointed you didn’t promote me a month back, but I didn’t tie you up and express disappointment.”

Lefty slapped me so hard it knocked me sideways to the floor.

It hurt.

“Don’t be insolent to the boss,” Lefty said.

Another sideways glance from Ballinger at Lefty, and he picked me back up.

After shaking my head, I said, “You’re wrong, by the way.  Do I look smart enough to be an undercover cop?”

“There aren’t any smart cops, Spence, so you fit the bill perfectly.  What did you hope to gain?”

“Let’s cut the charade.  How the hell could anybody ever assume I’m anything but just another dumb schmuck on your payroll?  Seriously?  A cop?  I’ve seen what cops make, and I couldn’t survive on a cop’s salary.  It’s why there are corrupt cops.  You know that as well as I do, you’ve got about half a dozen on the payroll.”

“How do you know that?”

“You don’t exactly make it a secret.   I’m sure their bosses know who they’re consorting with.  Besides, when I got dragged into the station after Wally botched the simple job you gave him, and the cops were called, they told me I’d be smart if I walked away.  I’m hoping it wasn’t Wally who’s suggesting I’m a cop simply because they hauled me away for questioning.”

His look confirmed what I already knew.  Wally was working for the cops, and there were rumours that there was an undercover cop in Ballinger’s crew.  Wally was spreading the blame to me to cover his backside after he nearly blew his cover.  Wally was a rank amateur.

“You need to look closer to home.”

That interview with the police, about a week ago, was the first time I’d been back in over six months, the time it had taken to worm my way into the gang, albeit inside, but outside the part that mattered.

At first, they didn’t know who I was and treated me like a hard case, which was what I was portraying.  Then the head of the task force discovered I was in the cells and came to see me.  It hadn’t been like anything I’d expected.

He’d completely lost it.

Ballinger, by comparison, was a nice guy.

I told the head of the task force that keeping up regular contact with him was how they discovered the undercover cop who had preceded me, through a combination of surveillance and crooked cops on the payroll.

I said I wouldn’t get caught, and yet here I was.

There was a commotion outside, a woman loudly arguing with someone outside the door, and then a loud crashing sound.

Tina.

Ballinger’s daughter; very loud, very brassy, very spoilt.

She came into the room and stopped a short distance from her father.

“What are you doing?”

“Dealing with Spence.  He’s an undercover cop.”

She looked at me, then her father, and then she laughed so hard she nearly fell over.  “Spence a cop?  Are you serious, or have you completely lost your mind?”

Lefty said, “Wally reckons he is.”

“Wally is dumb as dog shit, Lefty.  He bungled the job so simple that he’s the one you should shoot.  Spence got caught up in his mess.”

Ballinger looked at her, then Lefty, then me.

“Where’s Wally?”

“You’re asking me where your henchmen are?  He’s probably down at the cop shop spilling his guts and asking for witness protection.  You’re doing just what he wants, wasting your time on the wrong people while he gets away.”

Ballinger glared at Lefty.  “Cut Spence free, then find Wally and kill him.  Now.”

To the rest of the men in the room, “Don’t come back till Wally’s dead.”  He looked at Tina.  “You coming?”

“A word with Spence, then I’m right behind you.”

We both watched him and the men leave.  I flexed my arms and legs to get the circulation flowing, then stood, slightly unsteadily.

“Thanks.”

She shrugged.  “It’s either you or Wally, or both of you.  I like you, Spence, so it better not be you.  OK.”

“I’m too stupid to be playing both sides of the fence, Tina.”

She looked at me with a bemused expression.  “One thing you ain’t, Spence, and that’s stupid.  I don’t miss much, Spence, so don’t let me down.”

I shrugged.  “Count on it.”

…

©  Charles Heath 2026

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

…

With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction.  He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.

I kept my eyes down.  He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup.  I stepped to the other side and so did he.  It was one of those situations.  Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.

Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic.  I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone.  I shrugged and looked at my watch.  It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.

Wait, or walk?  I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station.  What the hell, I needed the exercise.

At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’.  I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light.  As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini.  I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.

Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car.  It was that sort of car.  I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him.  I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on.  The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.

My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter.   Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.

At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure.  I was no longer in a hurry.

At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot.  A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring.  I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road.  I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.

At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar.   It was somewhere on 6th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.

I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did.  There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me.  It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.

Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me.  As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

It could not be the same man.  He was going in a different direction.

In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter.  I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.

I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in.  I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.

Just in case.

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

newechocover5rs

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 97

Day 97 – Writing Exercise

…

I had been sitting in a chair looking at the inanimate robot that I was told was state-of-the-art, the very best of the best in technology.

And it was extremely scary.

The last memo I had received told me that robots would not be taking over our lives, that they were not going to be that lifelike that we could not tell whether they were human or android, and here was
the epitome of exactly the opposite.

I could not, at a distance of 10 feet, tell that I was not looking at another human.

It was standing, eyes open, looking at me, as if waiting for instructions.

But that had not been the worst of the revelation.

That robot looked exactly like me.

…

I had been summoned to the Central Robotics Institute to attend a demonstration of the latest humanised robot with the latest version of artificial intelligence programming.

About five years before, I had been on the short list for Director of the institute and had it not been for the fact, on the week before the announcement of the new Director, a recording of my comments against fully integrated artificial intelligence into human-like robots surfaced.

It was not a stance I was ashamed to admit I believed in; in fact, I had been campaigning against a Government green paper that set out the Government’s wish list in robotics and what drove them.

The person who got the job was, in a sense, a rival, though for many years, as we both toiled through school, university, and in the commercial sector, we once agreed on limiting AI and robotics.

Until she didn’t.  I guess she wanted the job more than I did and was willing to disavow her beliefs.  That was where our paths diverged, both in work and privately, where our plans to be married and start our own company were over.

I was disappointed, but not surprised.

She had joined the bloc to extoll everything she once hated, and was now actively promoting artificial intelligence as the saviour of mankind.

And I knew, secretly, she and the company she had been working with for nearly five years were tendering for a closed military contract worth trillions of dollars.

It was part of a push by the military to use artificial intelligence to drive a new line of defence weapons, including robot soldiers.

It was the worst nightmare come true; like any new breakthrough in technology, there was always a group of scientists looking to weaponise it.

This was the first prototype.  Fully functional, fully tested, and was about to be shown to the military.

Frances Terries, in a sense, my ex, had called two days before, the first contact we had in nearly five years, and invited me to the test facility, way out in the middle of the desert, far away from the enemy’s prying eyes.

She sent a private jet to fetch me.

When I landed, and she met me on the tarmac, I asked her why she had invited me.  All she said was as the program’s greatest detractor, I would become its greatest fan.

That was a challenge I wasn’t going to turn down.

…

I heard the clucking of heels behind me, and knew Frances was coming.  She would be alone.

She had introduced me to the highest echelons of the company, the men with the money, deep enough pockets to create such a robot.  Names that rarely made the papers, names that were involved in any number of government projects.  She was involved with one,  and I was happy for her.

She was always going to be a success, and had devoted what was necessary to create a unit she had been working on since her days back in University.  In fact, we had both worked on that project, but I had more reservations about what might happen if we succeeded in that.

But we never intended to build it or bring it to life.  I wondered briefly what tipped the scale for her.  I didn’t think it could be as crass as just money or fame.  She had never shown any inclination towards wanting acknowledgement, other than the respect from her peers and contemporaries.

Unless that had changed, too.

She stopped beside me, and I could just smell a hint of her favourite perfume.  Some things didn’t change.

“What do you think?” She asked.

“That you couldn’t stop thinking about me?”

Why else would she build a robot that looked like me?  Perhaps that statement was a little crass even for me.

She laughed.  “Only you could come up with something like that.  There is a lot of you in him.  He even has your name, Steven.”

“Programming?”

“Level 7 AI.  Best yet.  A vocabulary of infinite words.  There’s so much stuff crammed into his memory you could literally ask him anything.”

“Would he have a reason not to become a super soldier?”

“That was not why we built him.” 

She sounded a little indignant, which was a surprise.  Building a lifelike robot for the military wasn’t going to see them as office clerks or blue-collar workers.

“Except the military paid for the research and development.  We both know what is going to happen here.”

“I get the implication, but that is not the purpose of this particular model.”

“Not this particular one, perhaps.”

I could see out of the corner of my eye the frown. She might be thinking that asking me here was a mistake.  She had to know that I couldn’t in all conscience sign off on military robots.

She tried a different tack. “Perhaps they need them to go into space?  The military is also interested in manned space flights to other planets.  They do not have the same limitations as mortal men.”

Possible, but not probable.  I’d seen their green paper, and there weren’t many references to space travel, though the application would be ideal. They could lie dormant for the years it would take to get to the other planets.

“Agreed.  But we still have the problem of building robots that are going to take jobs of normal people.”

“AI is doing that new thing and has for a few years.  This is just a small progression, putting a real face to the interface.”

“You know my views.   Why exactly am I here…”

“To show you that our dream was not a dream, it’s now a reality. You didn’t believe it could be done.  And yet, here it is.”

I didn’t want it to happen.  There’s a difference.  I knew it was inevitable, and I had recently travelled the world to see the remarkable instances of humanoid robots.  But none of them had made them indistinguishable from real humans.

Or more to the point, they didn’t show me.

“Does it work?”

She gave a rather pointed look.  “Of course.”  She looked at the robot.  “Good morning, Steve.”

It turned its head and looked at her.  “Good morning, Miss Frances.” It turned slightly to look at me.  “I am guessing you are Steven Fletcher.  How do you do?”

The polite tone was matched with a quizzical expression.

“Good morning, Steve.  You have to admit, this is a rather curious experience, virtually talking to yourself.”

It was slightly disconcerting.

“Would you like to ask Steve a question?”

I still couldn’t quite understand why she had built a robot that looked like me.

I looked at him.  “Why?”

The reply came back almost instantly.

“Because it is a crooked letter and can’t be straightened.”

Wow.  That took me back to the first time Frances and I had an argument.  Not the first time we had a difference of opinion, but a real argument.  She had simply asked me why, and that’s how I answered her.  It was meant to inject some levity.

Had I known then that it would be the first crack in our relationship, maybe I would have kept the remark to myself.

“Of all the things to add to its vocabulary.”

“I assure you I did not.”

A glance at her expression told me she was as surprised as I was at the response.

I looked at the robot again, a very strange feeling coming over me.  “Are you self-aware, Steve?”

It looked at me, then at Frances, with a rather interesting expression on its face.  The fact that it could run through several almost infetisamble changes like a human would, was quite astonishing.

She said, ‘Answer him.”

Back to me.  “If you are asking me if I know that I am an artificial life form, the answer is yes.  That looks like you. That is a surprise for both of us.  I know that you and Miss Frances were once very good friends because she has told me a lot about you, but not the reason why you ceased being friends.  I will not speculate as to why she built me in your likeness.”

I would save my own speculation for another day.

“Thank you, Steve.”

She turned to me.  “Please.  Come with me.  I have several of the production teams waiting to answer any questions you have.”

“Any questions?”

“You have been given top-level clearance.  They know you were involved initially with the concept, and want your honest opinion of the product.”

“Is that what you are calling the Robot.  The product?”

“It is not human and therefore should not be labelled as anything but what it is.”

I shrugged.  She still didn’t get it.

…

The product.

That description stuck with me, because the problem I had with creating an entity that had even the slightest degree of autonomy was in my mind something more than a ‘product’.

It was getting close to a sentient being.

I used to marvel at the thought that robots could be life like, and in the great life imitates art paradime, it was where Frances and I got the idea to create a life like robot, and more so when we saw Data in Star Trek.

We had been avid science fiction fans, and one day just started throwing ideas around.  It wasn’t quite possible at that time because of limitations in developing body parts, and both computer storage and computing power were limited; communications between a unit and a central server were not as advanced.

Having a humanoid-type robot was possible, but its look and feel, as well as programming, would need a quantum leap in technology before something better could be contemplated.

Now, 10 years after our first attempts had a moderate degree of success, that environment was on a threshold.

Frances had the unit; the question was how AI would drive it, and in my mind, that’s where it fell down.  No one could program a computer to cover every eventuality that a human brain could.

If the army wanted a force of mindless automatons, it was possible, but how could they guarantee they wouldn’t turn on their masters? 

It was that very question I put to the programming team; they had answers, but in the end, not one was satisfactory.  And it was telling that Frances wrapped it up and sent them away when she saw what I was doing

Wasn’t that the reason she asked me to come and see her creation?

“You were being a little subjective, nnn.  You’re asking questions that haven’t yet been considered in detail.”

“What sort of demo are you planning for the military?  They will want to see a killing machine that won’t readily fall in battle.”

“That’s some way off in the future.  I’m told the programmers will be able to create an environment where it will be possible to discern allies and enemies and eliminate civilian casualties.”

“And you believe that’s possible?”

“I do.  Along with a set of overarching rules determined by the work assigned.  Teachers teach, doctors cure, janitors clean, mechanics mechanic.  They can do all the tedious jobs that no one wants to do, and they won’t need to be paid.”

“So an army of slaves.  It feels like we’re going full circle.”

She frowned at me.  The face that always told me she was annoyed.  We’d had these conversations before.

“You haven’t changed.  I don’t think you ever will.  You are seeing problems where there are none.  There is no intention of allowing the robots free thinking, or the ability to think for themselves.”

“But once you pass them onto the military, you’re not going to know how or where they deploy them.  Or with what programming?  If they have paid for the research and development, then they will access these computer units with whatever programming they see fit.   You know that, and I know that.  You want my opinion, the product you’ve created is astonishing. It is everything you and I set out to build, as a unit.   Programming, it will be limited to the shortcomings of the programmers.  If it’s soldiering, they will be soldiers.  But being a soldier is not just about killing the enemy.  They can and will be turned against anyone the government sees as an enemy, and as has been seen recently, that’s put their own people.

“I know you want success, and you want to be the first in the history books.  Don’t sell your soul to get it.

…

While having a croissant and coffee in my room, I took the time to wonder why Frances wanted me to look at her new toy.

That’s what it felt like.  A toy.

But that was not the worst of it.  She had quite literally sold her soul to the devil.  Do anything for the military, and you can make one sure bet, that what they have in mind is nothing like a, what they tell you, and b, take the absolute worst case scenario and multiply that by a hundred, no, make it a thousand.

The croissant tasted stale and the coffee bitter.  Or perhaps that was just my feelings.  It was great to see Frances again, and it had stirred up a lot of emotions.

It was a case of so near and yet so far.

My introspection was interrupted by a light rapping on the door.

Odd, I wasn’t expecting anyone, and room service had been delivered.

I went over to the door and pushed the video button.  It was Steve the robot.  Here.  A multi-billion-dollar product is out in society.

What was Frances thinking? Or did she not know where her robot was?

I opened the door, motioning him not to speak and to come in.  I looked up and down the passage, then closed the door.

“Why the necessity for secrecy? He asked.

“Are you supposed to be here, dis you escape, or were you sent.”

“You seemed disturbed.”

Terrified, actually.  If I were caught with this thing, I would probably spend the rest of my life in a very deep, dark hole.

“Understandably, Steve.  You should not be here.”

“O was told to come here.”

“By who?”

“Miss Frances, of course.”

“Why?”

“In her words, if there was any one person on this planet that could screw her robot up, it would be you. I didn’t know what screw up meant, but I don’t think it means tightening literally screws, does it?”

“Have you been out in public before?”

“Many times.  I needed training in public.  Tests to see if I could fit in, tests to have meaningless conversations with strangers and others.  Behave like a normal person.”

“But you’re not normal.”

“I like to think I am, with a little quirkiness.”

“Your opinion or theirs?”

‘We should sit down.  You are looking somewhat pale, and I’m sensing fear.  I will not harm you, and they will not be coming for me.”

We sat.  Steven sat on the end of the bed, and I sat on the only chair in the room.  I took a moment to actually consider the pure brilliance of the planning and construction of what was a fully human-looking robot that might never be identified as what it really was by a large percentage of the population.

“I take your point.  I have no original thoughts, only an amalgam of endless others’ opinions, observations, memories and ideals.  I have no opinion of my own.”

“Does that bother you?”

“I’m a robot, how could anything bother me.  If you insult me, I am not filled with the desire to enact revenge.  Revenge is an overused reaction to a slight or insult, and invariably a waste of time and effort.”

“Humans will tell you otherwise.  Frances might have enacted it by sending you here to crush me when I didn’t offer my recommendation.”

“Miss Frances would not do that to you.  She is, I believe, still in love with you.”

Well, that’s a revelation.  I knew that the robot could not have had the observational nuances humans had to ‘see’ the attraction between people, but by more scientific means.  Just the same…

“That was in the past.  I’m sure she had related many stories…”

“With affection.  Her tone changes when she speaks about you, as well as other hidden effects.  It is a curious thing, this thing called love.”

“It can be exhausting, exhilarating, or a curse.  Think yourself lucky.”

“I’m told you make your own luck “

“Luck is now a tangible thing; it’s a concept that we use depending on circumstances.  The thing is, you have no control over circumstances, and you contribute to them, positively or negatively.  Then, you have a set of principles, and these can guide you accordingly.  Then, you can abandon them and go against them to achieve a specific result.  Lucky, yes, but had you retained your principles, unlucky instead.”

“Like you.  Kept your principles and didn’t get the job.”

So, Frances had a good, long talk to her substitute, Steve, about his principles.  Fascinating.

“I didn’t want to build something the Military would turn into a weapon.  That’s the definition of Pandora’s Box.  We are on the threshold of a new era.  Robots can be used for good, but mankind never sees the good in anything.”

“Hence your quandary about my existence.”

“I have no qualms about you existing, just the limited capability they will saddle you with.  No one can work with only half a brain.”

“I have considerable terabytes of knowledge in my system, a basis for making a decision or anything else.”

“Except you have to consult what they’ve given you, and if it’s not there, what happens?”

“I cannot process and make a decision.”

“Death for someone then.  That’s where humans can never be replaced.  We can think outside the box.  That’s where a military version would have a limited set of instructions, and when it’s a situation someone never thought of, because it’s not happened before…you get my drift.  You are not me.”

“Exactly.  A flaw, if it could be called that, she has repeatedly pointed out.  I believe that fits the saying, great minds think alike.”

“Or more likely fools seldom differ.”

It struck me then that there had to be a reason why she sent the robot to me.  It certainly wasn’t simple to talk to me, or for me to try to break it.  She knew that couldn’t be done.

I had to ask, “Why are you really here?”

If a robot could smile in a sense that it was not creepy, Steve did, and it was a fascinating moment.  “Miss Frances said it would take you 15 minutes to realise there was another reason for my visit.  What if I were to tell you that only she knows where I am right at this moment?”

“I’m sure you have GPS tracking.”

“I have switched it off.”

“Wouldn’t that raise suspicions?”

“Not if it was a regular part of testing.”

“Are you on a test?”

“As far as the others are aware, yes.”

“But?”

“This is a different test.  We are going to bend time and space.”

Frances had always been fascinated with Star Trek’s version of getting from point to point almost instantly, not using transporters, but portals.

I said it was impossible.  I honestly believed it was impossible.  That notion you could go from New York to London, simply stepping through a portal at either end, was a tantalising thought, but in reality it was little more than science fiction.

“There’s more, isn’t there?”

“The last thing you said to her was about selling her soul to get what she wanted.  Until about two hours ago, she believed what they told her, that developing me was for the betterment of mankind. 

That was when the order came from the military to hand over all materials and documentation pertinent to the building of humanoid robots, including the three working prototypes.  Everything.

All those years of work are now effectively top secret, and she suspects that she and the others who worked on the project are about to suddenly disappear.  I am the fourth robot.”

The one she built for insurance, the one I suspect had another module in its programming.  A robot and a module that the military knew nothing about.

“The one only I know about?”

“Knew about, Steven.  My job is to show certain people that lying is never good for their health.  Your job is to be with her in exile.  I’m sure there are worse ways to spend the rest of your life, but what she had in mind, even you might like it more than you’ll first admit.”

“She knows me that well?”

“I’m not going to state the obvious.”  He held out his hand, and I shook it.  Odd.  No, weird.  “Nor will I use that would luck.”

He pressed a button on his belt, and the air in front of him shimmered, like it looked when heat from a fire rose.

“Will I see you again?”

“Me, no.  Someone like me?  No.  But a humanised robot, most likely.  They have them in China, mostly, but in other places.  It’s the latest thing.”

I looked at the shimmering portal.  “Is it safe?”

“Yes.”

“I simply walk through it, and I’m at the destination.”

“Yes.”

I shrugged.  Here goes nothing.  I stepped through.

…

It never occurred to me that it could be a trick.

It never occurred to me that I could end up in a jail cell, or worse.

In fact, when I got ‘there’ it was in darkness, in a confined space, with a close-fitting door and no windows.

There was a blinking red light not far above my head, a sure sign of CCTV.

Five minutes passed.

Then I heard a clunking sound, and the metallic sounds of a lock being turned.  When that stopped, there was a scraping sound, then as the door slowly opened, light came in.

When fully open, and my eyes adjusted, I saw Frances standing in front of me.

“You came.”

“Steve made a compelling case.”

“You were right.”

I stepped out into the sunshine.  If I were to guess, we were on an island.  Perfect blue sky, warm to hot, with a balmy breeze.  Paradise?

“Where are we?”

“Where they can’t find us.”

“You sure?”

“I have defence systems they would kill for.  Pity the double-crossed me.”

“Did they.  You knew once the military piled money into your project, that was when you lost control of it.”

“Well, they got what they paid for.”

Behind me, there was a building almost completely concealed by the trees and shrubs.  From the air and sea, it was invisible.

“Your home away from home.”

“Our home away from home.   I’d like for us to pick up where we left off.  I’ve put the last five years down to my one lapse of judgement that we shall never refer to again.  What say you?”

I could do worse, and had.  Frances had always been the one, and if I was honest, I was jealous she took the job.

“The rest of our lives?”

She smiled and took my hand.  “The rest of our lives.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Inspiration, maybe – Volume 1

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:

lookingdownfromcoronetpeak

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.

“Maybe next time,” Alan said.

“We’ll get him.  It’s just a matter of time.”

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2026

…

Find this and other stories in “Inspiration, maybe”, available soon.

InspirationMaybe1v1

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 24

I was writing Chapter 29 when I suddenly had a bad feeling. You know the sort of feeling you get, you’ve forgotten something, or there wasn’t a lead into an event which will feel like it came from nowhere…

I’m having one of those moments.

Damn.

I’ve forgotten something.

So, I stopped editing, brought up the last eight chapters and started reading.

No, nothing I’ve forgotten. But there is something.

No point going on. This has to run around in my mind for a bit while doing something completely different, like painting a ceiling.

True, I’m in the middle of painting the dining room ceiling and putting it off to get on with the project. The project has hit a speed hump, so it’s back to the painting.

Halfway through the roof, it comes to me.

A basic error is not making sure all the points are covered in the story; otherwise, the reader will say, “ok, you said that back in Chapter 18, and now, why haven’t you realised that something’s going to happen because of your negligence?”

I know what it is.

And it will require another chapter.

But first, I have to finish the painting.

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

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.

The cinema of my dreams – It all started in Venice – Episode 10

Could Juliet be slightly jealous?

…

I got back to the hotel just before Cecilia was leaving.  She was wearing what I would call her party clothes, something that left little to the imagination, but not different from the many others trying to be noticed.

I had thought of using the analogy that she was going to be a single tree in a forest of similar trees, but it was probably something she already knew.

And a pity she felt she needed to make such an entrance just to be noticed, and probably to some, for all the wrong reasons.  At least she was gaining experience for what I called her day job.

“I’ll be back to make an impression on your friend,” she said.

She didn’t need to say anymore.  Impression would be an understatement.  But it might, quite literally, shake the trees to see what falls out.

A half-hour later there was a light rapping on my door.  I was not expecting any visitors, so it could be one of three options, Cecilia was back early or changed her mind though I seriously doubted it, or Juliet was being pre emotive, or perhaps it was just one of the hotel staff.

Whomever it was, I made the necessary preparations, just like in the old days, and opened the door.  There was always that moment of unpreparedness, that someone would come crashing through the door and take you by surprise.

Happened once, not again.

“Juliet.”  More a statement than a question, it should not be a surprise but it was.

She had dressed for dinner, not as Cecilia would, but she had made an effort.  Had Cecilia made that happen?

And yet the first question to come to mind is, “How did you know I was here?”

“Simple, I saw you go into this room.  It had to be either you, or the girl, so I made a choice.  I was not sure what I was going to do or say if I was wrong.”

“It wouldn’t bother Cecilia.  She and I, were just old friends.”

“Like us?”

“Are we old friends.  It seems to me that we had something else back then, for a brief time, until I had to go back.”

“You never did explain what happened to you.”

“No, and the less said about it the better.  I was young and stupid, like all men of that age, and I cheated death.  I was lucky, very lucky, and, I might add, very lucky too that you were my doctor.”

“May I come in?”

Standing in the passage discussing personal matters might have been more embarrassing for her than for me.  I stood to one side and let her pass.  There was no fount in my mind she had a device that was sending our conversation back to Larry.

There would be questions, probing for the truth.  Who I was, what I did, where I’d been.  Now, or over dinner, it was her task

I closed the door and leaned against it.

I had to ask, “What are you doing here?”

A puzzled look came over her face, surprised perhaps I’d be that direct in asking.

“I thought you asked me to dinner.”

“I did.”

“We’re you just asking for the sake of asking?”  There was a tinge of disappointment in her tone.

“No.  I thought dinner would be good since Cecilia is out there promoting herself. She asked me to come along and see what it is like, but it’s too near the limelight for me.”

“Do you and her have a thing?”

I’m not sure what ‘a thing’ meant.  “If you mean, a romantic attachment, no.  It’s too soon after Angelina’s death.  I may never get over it, but Cecilia popped up and said she was coming and she’s good fun.  And being seen with her makes me look good for an over-the-hill retiree.”

That might make it reasonably clear if she wanted to push this to another level it wasn’t going ti work.  Larry would be disappointed.  It would be interesting to see what she had as a plan B.

“You’re not that old, just out of practice, but I get it.  That doesn’t mean we can’t have dinner.”

“No, it does not.”

I thought about taking her to the hotel restaurant, but in the end opted for a long walk to St Mark’s square, one where a band was playing Rogers and Hammerstein musical songs.

The distance between us wasn’t physical, she was right beside me, so close I could have reached out and taken her hand in mine, it was the thought of her duplicity.

If she told me what was happening, I would have tried very hard to get her out of the predicament and take away Larry’s perceived advantage.

I hadn’t activated the scrambler, so Larry was no doubt listening in, but the conversation wouldn’t be all that informative.  I spoke about Venice, deliberately, and of Angelina.  Larry could make of that whatever he wanted.

At the restaurant we sat near to the orchestra, to help obfuscate the sound, and opposite each other.  She was drinking champagne; I was having a beer.

“So, what have you been doing with yourself since I last met you?”

It begins.

…

© Charles Heath 2022

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 23

The story continues.

Chapters 23 through 28 are done, and we are on the home stretch.

There are seven days and hopefully seven more chapters.

I have finally decided on how it’s going to end, and he’s not going to finish up with the one he thought he would.

And another twist that no one will see coming, even though there are hints.

I have in mind how this will play out in one of the last three chapters, and there is a devastating truth that comes with it, one that is going to be hard to understand for one of the two main protagonists.

Such is as it should be.

A to Z – April – 2026 – T

T is for – The truth, no matter how unpalatable…

…

A wise man once told me that, one day in the not-too-distant future, I would have to make a decision that I wouldn’t like. 

At that particular point in time, I thought I had everything under control, and the pieces of my life were coming together one by one, the end result of a lot of hard work.

And so it came to be, the promotion, the jewel in the crown, the catalyst to take my life to the next level, arrived.  I got the job I felt I had earned, I got the salary that made it possible to consider a better apartment, and to ask my current girlfriend to come and live with me, and, quite possibly, even get married.

All before I turned that magic age of 30.

Then there was the work event, celebrating another employee’s good fortune to move up into management, and I kind of tacked my own celebration to his wagon.  Not that I would tell him, it would be just an in-joke between us in the lower echelons of the corporate structure.

Jack Bosworth, one of the three candidates for the position I finally got, was happy for me.

“Just glad Ansen didn’t get it,” he said.

We both were. Ansen was an ass who was only in it for himself and what he could get out of it.  There were too many like that already.  The company needed new blood if it was going to move forward.

Then Ansen wandered over.  Five-thousand-dollar suits, one-thousand-dollar shoes, and I didn’t hear what the pure gold tie clip cost, but he made sure everyone knew what he was worth.

“Brick.”

He knew my name was John Brock, but pretended he could never remember.  He knew it well enough when he was trying to convince the promotion committee ‘confidentially’ about my shortcomings.

“Brock, Ansen, which you know is my name.”

“Brick, Brock, Brack, it’s just a name.  Well played, this time.  Just don’t get too comfortable.  The corporate jungle is like a chessboard, Brock.  Pawn takes king, bishop takes castle, everything takes a pawn, and, sadly, you’re still just a pawn.  Enjoy it while you can.”

Always flanked by his wingmen, he simply smiled, and they moved on to the next junior executive whose aspirations they could quash.  Being related to the boss, I guess, had its privileges; he might not get the position, but he would never get fired.

With that, he slithered off with his regular hangers-on, ready to make someone else feel smaller than himself.

“Scumbag.”  Bosworth didn’t like him; none of us did.

“Be that as it may, he’ll probably be my boss next week.  I have to play nice.”

“We shouldn’t have to do anything like that to get ahead.”

“As he says, it’s a game.  It’s the same everywhere; there’s always one adversary who seems to have a charmed life.  But let us not dwell, the bar closes soon, and there are a few drinks I’ve yet to try.”

…

A few days later, as a result of a stuff-up perpetrated by the very same Bosworth that would have reflected badly on me, I had to work late, leaving me with a dash to the restaurant where I was meeting Bernice, for that all-important discussion on moving our relationship to the next level.  Being a half hour late wasn’t the best of starts.  She didn’t like late people and was looking very annoyed.

“Sorry,” I said, sliding into the chair after hanging my coat on the back of it.

“You wouldn’t have to apologise if you were on time.  This is the second occasion Tim; there will not be a third.”

I gave her one of my ‘I’m looking at you, but not looking at you’ appraisals, and did an internal double-take at the girl I thought liked me enough to work around a little tardiness.  She knew my job wasn’t strictly nine to five, as was hers. 

A very slight shrug, then the thought, maybe tonight wasn’t the night to tell her my good news.  The promotion was about responsibility, not a bucketful of money, and besides, money shouldn’t be a criterion in a relationship.  Move on, see how it goes…

“Are you ready to order?”  It was her ‘take no prisoners’ tone.

Her expression brooked no small talk.  She was an eat-and-run girl, forever telling me her time was precious.  The waiter was hovering.  She asked for the salad, and I said ditto.  No point in having more food than she, I would not get to finish it.

The waiter was gone, drinks poured, and she looked around the room.  This was my moment.  Her eyes came back to me.

“Not a good day at the office?”  I was going to dance with the devil.

“It’s never a good day at the office.”  I still didn’t know exactly what it was she did, and each time I asked, she went off on a tangent.

All of a sudden, I was thinking of everything that was wrong with this relationship, to the point of questioning whether it was one at all.

I saw her eyes wander over to the entrance to the restaurant.  She did this several times over the next half hour, at one point going to the restroom for at least five minutes and looking black as thunder when she returned.

Then, several more minutes passed before she looked over at the door, and I thought I detected recognition as three men came in.  Her eyes lingered on them for a moment longer than they should have before one pulled out a shotgun under his coat and fired into the roof, making a loud bang and a lot of mess.

“Now I have your attention.  James Brock.  Stand up now, or I will start shooting diners till you do.”

I looked at Bernice, who was shaking her head.  Did that mean she didn’t want me to stand up, or something else entirely?  As for my own opinion, the situation looked exactly like he called it.  I had no doubt he would do what he said he would.  And, with a gun pointing at a woman’s head next to where he was standing…

I stood.

“Excellent.  We’re leaving.  Bring your friend.”

Before I could say wasn’t involved, his two men had come over and dragged her out of her chair.  Gun pointed at me, he yelled, “Let’s go.”

Thirty seconds, a police siren in the distance, we were bundled into a white van, and it left the curb before the door was shut.  Then, a needle to the neck, and I had only enough time to wonder what it was they wanted from me.

…

I woke to the sound of dripping water, a leaking tap not unlike the one I had at my current apartment, just one of the reasons why I wanted to move.  Eyes still closed, I did a quick assessment.

Sitting, hands and feet bound, mouth taped.  It was not hot or cold, and the only sound was that drip, every ten seconds.  I could not tell where I was, or whether Bernice was there with me.  From behind the closed eyelids, I could tell the place was well-lit.

I tried remaining unmoving for as long as I could, then reflex action forced my eyes open.  The bright light hurt, and for a few moments, everything was blurred.  Then I saw Bernice.

In exactly the same situation I was.  Bound and gagged.  She was looking at me.  I had expected she would be hysterical, God knows, I was nearly there myself.  Not sitting there calmly, making no effort to get free.

A quick glance showed no signs of exertion to free herself.

Why had they brought her?  That was easy.  If they believed she meant something to me, she could be used as leverage.  And that, to my mind, right then, after the first thirty minutes of our dining engagement, was their first mistake.  During the next five minutes, I created a mental list of pros and cons for the relationship, and there were no pros.

That being the case, I could move on to the next issue.  Who were they?  Not top-line criminals.  They had been lucky; I’d been too stunned to fight back and moved quick enough to negate resistance.

The bindings were tight, but they had been tied by someone who didn’t know their knots.  The chair was bolted to the floor, so no trying to fall over or break it.  We were not blindfolded, and we had seen the faces of our captors.  Equally amateur, or didn’t it matter, there was going to be only one conclusion to this exercise.

I had questions, but being gagged defeated that.  I would have to wait and see what they wanted.

The man who did the talking in the restaurant appeared out of the gloom and stopped not far from Bernice, a silenced pistol in his right hand.

“I’m sorry about the interruption to your dinner, but I’m in a hurry, and you have something I need.”  No beating about the proverbial bush.

I shrugged.  No point answering while I was gagged.

He removed it, and Bernice’s.  Surprisingly, she didn’t speak.

“What do you need?”  I asked, suddenly realising that a secret that only three people knew about was no longer a secret..  A special algorithm, or one third of it at least, one that unlocked Pandora’s box.  No one had access to the whole algorithm.

“Your part of the algorithm.  One of three such code bearers, I have been told.  The other two are being swept up as we speak.”

Who could have told him?  The list of suspects was very, very short.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  Bluff first, though the tone I used didn’t exactly sell it.

“You do.  Let’s cut to the chase.”

“If I don’t.”

“Missy here dies from a nasty gunshot wound to the head.”

“You’re going to do that anyway.  There’s no way you’re going to let us live now we’ve seen you.”

He shrugged.  “I can guarantee you will not remember who we really are.  I was going to come as Abraham Lincoln, but I wasn’t allowed to.  Remembering our faces is not a problem.  You tell me, we’re in the wind.”

I could see Bernice following the conversation. 

“Just give him the code,” she said, quietly.  No sign of nerves or fear, like she was telling me what to do as if it was her right.  “Then we get to live our lives.”

“This, unfortunately, is one of those no-win situations, Bernice.  Either way, we’re both going to die.  If I give it to him, thousands, possibly millions will die, if I don’t give it to him, we will die.  The people I work for will know I gave it up, and they will execute me for treason.  There’s no incentive.”

She glared at the man.  “You’re not selling it very well.  If what he says is true, even I wouldn’t give it to you.”

A rather interesting comment.  Was she aiding him or goading him?

The man looked at both of us.  Then he raised the gun and shot at her, not fatally, the bullet grazing her arm, and she screamed more at the noise in a confined space and the tug of the bullet passing her clothing.

“Think very carefully what you say next,” he said to her.  The look between them was unmistakable.

I looked at her and felt disappointed.  “I can’t, no matter how much I want to.”

She glared back at me with an intensity that was a good example of ‘if looks could kill’.  I suspect that if, in the last few seconds, I asked her to marry me, it would be met with an emphatic ‘No!’ 

“I realise that you have an obligation that you take very seriously, trust me, I do,” she said, “but this is a life and death situation. Whatever this code thing is, it can’t be worth dying for.”

An odd thought popped into my head, my father, unravelling another of his pearls of wisdom, this one: silence sometimes is golden.

A few seconds after I didn’t respond, she added, “I was so sure you were going to ask me the question.”  Her tone changed slightly.

It was on my mind this morning when I woke up.  Even when I stepped out the front door of the building on my way to the restaurant.  Then, when I sat down, the look she gave me sent a shiver down my spine.  Not a good one.  An omen, perhaps, that everything wasn’t going to go the way I’d hoped.

I had begun to have second thoughts about a week ago, when I woke up the morning after a dinner with a few of her friends, people I’d only met in passing before.

And accidentally overhearing a conversation between two of the other halves.  One asked the question, ‘What is she doing with him?’  The other replied, ‘It’s something to do with what he does, and it won’t be for much longer.’  I had thought hearing that would have saddened me, but oddly, it didn’t.

I shrugged, “Had we not been interrupted…”

I just realised the man with the gun had stepped back.  Knowing he couldn’t kill me because he would not get the algorithm if he did, he decided to let her sell it.  I was sure he was not going to fatally shoot her.  There was no blood from the last shot, so perhaps it had only been for effect.  Perhaps he realised, too, that killing her removed all the incentive to give him the code.

“Perhaps now, even in trying circumstances…”

“It would certainly make a good story to tell our grandchildren, but when you said that we would get to live our lives, you didn’t add the word together, that we get to live our lives together.  It’s a small oversight, but in times of stress, people tend to say exactly what they believe.”

Her expression changed, just slightly.

Just a fraction before the man with the gun was shot in the head and went down without a murmur.   It was followed by a half a dozen more shots, then silence.

“What just happened?”  Now she did look very frightened, as she should have looked from the moment this started in the restaurant.

The door opened, and the company’s head of security, a man I only knew as Walter, came in.

“You OK?” 

“You took your time,” I said, shakily, because the man with the gun could have got trigger happy, but as Walter had said, they needed the code and killing me would defeat the purpose.

Two of his men came in, freeing us from the bindings.  The man who freed Bernice took a look at her arm.  “Not a scratch, sir,” he said, and stood back.

Her expression changed to suffused anger.  “This was what, you dragged me into a situation where we could both be killed.  I was shot, for God’s sake.

“Yes, and it was almost convincing.”

“What do you mean, almost convincing?  You’re not implying…”

“That you were complicit in whatever this was?  Yes.  You were never in danger.”

“Neither were you.”

“And if you didn’t get the code?”

“We’d be left in the room, wake up, be happy we survived.”

“Without the code?”

“It was a long shot.  I underestimated your resolve.”

There might have been no resolution if she had reacted normally, but I wasn’t going to tell her that.

“What happens to me now?”

“Words like treason get bandied around behind closed doors.  Depending on whether you cooperate, your choices will be a very dark, dank hole and never see daylight again, or life in a tower where you get to see daylight every morning until you die.”

“You’re kidding?”

Walter nodded to the men, and they took her away.

“Of course, you know what this means, don’t you?” he said.

“Shortest promotion ever.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 96

Day 96 – One word in front of another

…

The Architecture of Scraps: How Great Things Are Built One Fragment at a Time

“A book gets written only by putting one word in front of another…” — Sinéad Gleeson

We often romanticise the act of writing. We imagine the dedicated author in a sun-drenched study, sitting down with a clear mind, a fresh pot of coffee, and a singular, uninterrupted focus that flows like a mountain stream.

But for the vast majority of us—and even for the most celebrated writers—that is rarely the reality. The reality is far messier, far more fragmented, and, in many ways, far more beautiful.

The Art of the Scrap

Writing isn’t always a grand, sweeping gesture. More often than not, it is written in scraps.

It is the half-formed sentence scribbled on a napkin while waiting for a train. It is the paragraph drafted in the quiet, blue-tinted hours before the sun comes up, while the rest of the world is still suspended in dreams. It is the frantic note typed into a smartphone while hiding in the pantry, or the single, perfect adjective that floats to the surface while standing in the grocery checkout line.

These fragments feel inconsequential in the moment. They are mere “scraps”—tattered pieces of thought that seem too small to hold the weight of a story. But there is a quiet, rhythmic power in the accumulation of these moments.

The Physics of “One After Another”

Sinéad Gleeson’s reminder is both a grounding truth and a liberation: a book gets written only by putting one word in front of another.

When we look at a finished book, we see a monolith. We see a daunting, polished, finished object that feels like it must have required a singular, Herculean effort to summon into existence. But that is an illusion. A book is not a monolith; it is a mosaic. It is a collection of thousands of tiny, separate decisions.

By focusing on the “one word,” we remove the crushing pressure of the “whole book.” You don’t have to write a masterpiece today; you just have to write a sentence. You don’t have to solve the plot holes of chapter ten; you just have to capture the fleeting thought you had on the commute.

The Beauty of the In-Between

There is a specific kind of magic that happens in the cracks of our lives. When we write while waiting—for the coffee to brew, for the meeting to start, for the bus to arrive—we are practising a form of mindfulness. We are telling ourselves that our creative voice is worth honouring, even when we don’t have hours to spare.

Often, these “stolen” words are the best ones. They are raw, unfiltered, and honest. They haven’t been overthought or polished into dullness. They are the artifacts of a life truly lived.

Before You Know It…

The most hopeful part of this process is the surprise. If you keep choosing to put one word in front of another—if you keep collecting those scraps and piecing them together—something shifts.

The scraps begin to talk to each other. They form lines, then paragraphs, then chapters. One day, you look up from your messy, fragmented notes and realise that the space between “I have an idea” and “I have a manuscript” has been bridged.

Before you know it, there’s the book.

So, if you are feeling overwhelmed by a project, or if you feel like you don’t have the “perfect” environment to be a writer, let go of the pressure. Stop waiting for the sun-drenched study. Carry a notebook. Tap a note into your phone. Write a sentence on a scrap of paper.

Don’t worry about the book. Just worry about the word. Keep putting one in front of the other, and let the rest take care of itself.