Category: Creative Writing

In a word: While

How long is a piece of string?

Yes, that’s the meaning of the word while.

Simply because I want you to wait here while I go down the shops.

How long will that be?

I don’t know.  A while.  Anything from half an hour to a lifetime.

Then there’s another way of using the word:  While I do this can you do that.

This is more definite but still ambiguous.  How long will that be?

As long as it takes.  Anything from half an hour to a lifetime.

it is by definition, a period of time.

Then it gets more ambiguous, in that the arrangements say in place while he is alive.

Being a murder mystery writer and reader, it becomes a sufficient reason to kill a wealthy relative to get their inheritance.  But, if murder is not in mind, then it can be anything from a half-hour to a lifetime!

Less of an enigma is this use of the word:  I’m going the while away the time playing computer games.

At least you know how long that’s going to be, i.e. till you get bored.

This is not to be confused with the word wile, which means to use a cunning or devious means to get someone to do your bidding.

We’ve all heard of feminine wiles.  Granddaughters are experts in using them, I can personally attest to that.

There are other meanings but these are no longer used in modern English.

‘What Sets Us Apart’ – A beta readers view

There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?

A retired spy, well not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.

But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.

And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.

Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest.  Then, inexplicably, she disappears.  That might have been the end to it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum, find her or come back to work.

Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!

A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.

When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.

I’ve been told there’s a sequel in the works.

Bring it on!

…

The book can be purchased here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

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A photograph from the inspirational bin – 10

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

Train enthusiasts, the called themselves.

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

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

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

But it is what it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now for the ride….

…

© Charles Heath 2021

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 4

Here’s the thing.

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and 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 he believed there was a treasure map…

“My uncle Rico, he was the one my mother always credited 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 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 aunt 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 Aunt.  “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.

I guess it was time to take one for the team!

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

“Betrayal” – the penultimate final draft – Day 17

I’m sure I’ve been down this road more than once, and with the same novel, but whereas the last edit, which was probably the second or third, finished up in the pile, then forgotten.

I’m doing an active update to all my works in progress, and sending them to the editor, after going through the manuscript once again, with a view to publishing.  Hopefully, before the year is out.

…

One of the hazards of writing can be being continually critical of your own work. I’m guilty as charged.

But in writing to a plan and in only 30 days having to edit 50,000 words there is no time to be critical.

Except…

So far down the track, I should be writing, not being critical.

But the thing is, I’m finding that I have to go back three chapters and read them through to pick up the thread. It’s not because it’s changed in any way from the plan, it’s just that I’m finding it hard to edit to a plan when usually I fly by the seat of my pants.

The trouble with doing that, it gives rise to considering changes, and right now there’s no time for change.

I have 13 days to hold it together.

And 13 is an unlucky number, isn’t it?

Searching for locations: Brisbane botanical gardens, Australia

The flowers were out in full bloom the day we took the grandchildren for ‘a walk in the park’.

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Of particular interest was the Japanese garden with a trail with rocks,and mini waterfalls

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And as a fitting end to the day, a chance to feed a family of ducks

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Going to church on Sunday

This is my least favored option for spending a Sunday morning, but having married a Catholic and agreeing to adopt Catholicism, it’s one of those things that has to be done on rare occasions, usually a child’s milestone.

Yes, we went through our children’s moments like baptism, first communion, and confirmation, or these days in a somewhat different order.  Then it came to the turn of our grandchildren and today the last child is making her first communion, and there will end our involvement till the last rites.

Hopefully.

Church to me doesn’t hold any real significance.  It doesn’t mean that I would debunk the idea of religion and I firmly believe that if anyone believes in God, then that’s their right.

And it seems there are a lot of believers.  I’m sitting in the church now and it is packed.  It might be that it’s a captive audience given that it’s a first communion for grade three students and others. but given the enthusiasm of the children involved, I’d say the church was about to get over a hundred new followers.

Of course, a lot depends on the enthusiasm and devoutness of the parents who may wish to spend their Sundays in a different manner, but I suspect there are many here who will continue their devoutness in some form or other.

As for me, sadly, I will continue to use the only day of the week it’s possible to sleep in.

It continued in London – Episode 27

A conversation with a Countess

…

Opera was one of those events most people could take or leave.  Violetta loved it and we went often.  I went because it was more interesting to observe the people who went.

This time was no different.

Rodby was bored, his long-suffering wife, as I came to believe she was, loved it, and used it as a form of torture, and the countess, well, it was difficult to say.  She had other matters on her mind.

I spent the first half wondering what the connection was between Mrs Rodby and the countess, the half-time interval listening to their friendly banter about the old days, discovering they had got up to all sorts of high jinks in a boarding school for elegant ladies of which they were decidedly most not, and then the second half thinking that life was so much easier for the wealthy and powerful fifty years ago than it was today.

In the end, where an opinion had to be professed, I said that had I not been an expert in languages, all of it would have been lost on me.  Even so, as a love story with tragedy, wouldn’t it be better to be more upbeat?

Obviously, I didn’t get it.  Other than that, it was an opportunity to dress up and meet people you’d never normally get to see.

There was a brief debate in the lobby about where we would finish the night and it ended up being at the hotel where the countess was staying.  She made a call, and a room was set aside, with catering.

The countess and I took the chauffeur-driven car, the Rodby’s by their own transport.  I was expecting, after the car moved out into the traffic, our exit from the Opera House far more anonymous than our arrival, she would give me an indication of what I was there for.

And then remembered that she was as surprised to see me as I was to see her, and then to be referred to as a potential suitor, not a troubleshooter.  That label had been attached later by Mrs Rodby.

But I had to ask, in a roundabout way.

“Have you known Mrs Rodby a long time?  I gather it started at school?”

“Boarding school.  We were both daughters of diplomats, though my father was a Lord, hers what the English quaintly referred to as a Gentleman.  My mother was Italian, very feisty but with no maternal instincts.  We used to spend holidays in the South of France at a chateau in Antibes.  We lost touch for a while, living in different worlds.”

“She mentioned to me you might need some help.  Perhaps a relief for you to  know that she was not matchmaking but asked me along for a different reason.”

I watched her expression change several times.  Whatever the problem was, it was one she was reluctant to share.  Was it an embarrassment, or an errant child in trouble, or something worse?  I could not imagine her asking me to ‘retire’ an adversary, an over ardent lover, or a business rival.

“She did say you used to take your wife to the opera.”

“Rather the other way around.  She loved it.  I tried.”

“I must confess, it was my husband’s thing, not so much for the spectacle, but the hobnobbing, if it could be called that.  It was all about ‘being seen’.  That, the races, balls, galas, and everything in between.  Do you dance?”

“Before Violetta, I used to pretend I didn’t.  I had a mother who made it mandatory because you never knew when it would be useful.  I fancy she had high hopes I would marry a princess.  She didn’t live to find out I did.  Not a royal princess, by to me everything but having royal blood.  And., yes, I would not have got that second glance if I could not do the tango.”

“Your favourite?”

“After I met her, it was all I needed to know she was the one.”

“It’s curious, is it not, that it takes just one.  My moment was the quick step, and I hated it.  For a long time, I could never quite get it right, but then the Count turns up, spies me trying to hide on the other side of the ballroom, and picks me out of a gaggle of girls vying for his attention.”

“You were not?”

“I was barely out of school, and totally out of my depth.  My mother decided he was going to be the one, and unbeknownst to me had talked up my attributes to the point where I could never fulfil her lofty expectations, or his.  I thought, then, one dance and I could go.  Damn and blast it was the quick step, and his reputation as a demanding, fussy, easily annoyed with those who fumbled, stumbled, and grumbled, of much renown, I just wanted the floor to open up and suck me it.”

“Up till that moment was it like a fairytale?”

“Odd you should say that, but yes.  Up to that moment.”

“Obviously you pulled off the challenge.”

“Somehow, I managed, but in the process, I made a lifelong enemy.  Perhaps it is this that your friend alludes to.  I mentioned it in passing, but it is of no consequence.  The Count’s family will deal with it, as they always have.  You need not concern yourself, simply enjoy the evening, and tomorrow life will be as it should be.”

Perhaps she should have told Mrs Rodby that, because I had a feeling my life was not going to be ‘as it should be’.

…

© Charles Heath 2023

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

Searching for locations: Flinders Street Station, Melbourne, Australia

This is the famous clock tower of the Flinders Street Station (the main train station for suburban trains) in Melbourne.

We were staying in a hotel (The Doubletree) directly opposite to the station and our room overlooked the station and the clock tower.  I took photos of it during the day:

and this one, at night.  It came out better than I thought it would.

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