NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 7

After the cat dragged me out of bed simply because he wanted me to refill the food containers, he did the usual trick of sitting there, watching patiently until I walked off, then went over to the bowl, sniffed, and walked off.

OK, he didn’t need to wake me up if he was going to do that.

Stern words are spoken, but it’s water off a duck’s back (or cat’s back if you like).

I’m annoyed, and he’s, well, he’s just a pain in the neck.

So…

Now that I’m up, I might as well get some work done. I think about breakfast for about a minute, and decide it’s too hard to make toast. Yes, it’s that kind of morning.

Coffee?

Maybe. I put the kettle on as a token gesture of doing something, and go out to the writing room.

I’m calling it that for now, because we’re at the end of the first week of NaNoWriMo, and it’s proceeding well, which means, of course, that something is going to happen, and the wheels are going to come off.

I turn on the laptop, and after waiting the usual five minutes, I have the logon screen and no mouse. It’s been acting erratically for a few days, but that’s Windows anyway.

So, I have a dead mouse.

Should I give it to Chester to play with?

I changed the batteries, usually the problem, but to no avail.

Good thing then we have a few spares because when the granddaughters are over, they are prone to dropping them on the ground and breaking them. I have a drawer full of dead mice.

One day, Chester will be happy, or not. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking.

New mouse, wait for it to install, back to work.

Kettle’s boiled, new distraction, might as well get coffee.

Maybe I’ll get back to work later.

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility that the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’, but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him he was not the concierge, and instead he brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position, then clunked when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the lift lobby, only what was in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over to the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 49

A matter of diplomacy

…

I had to wonder, in that brief moment standing there, how I had come from a contented life plying space in a nomadic cargo vessel, to this, in charge of over 2000 crew, on a spaceship the size of a small town, on a mission to find new life out beyond the known edge of space.

And succeeding beyond all expectations without the loss of a single life, or perhaps that wasn’t quite true, the previous captain had become a casualty in exceptional circumstances.

I looked over at the head of Diplomacy. “Have you given any thought to my suggestion?”

After coming back from the alien vessel, I had immediately gone to the head of the Diplomatic mission and told him to pick a team to go down to the alien planet, telling him that we had been given permission to learn about their culture and others in their galaxy.

There had been no shortage of volunteers, and they had left not much more than an hour after I arrived back on board. It was an opportunity not to be missed.

The other matter was about leaving some people there until we came back, or the next earth vessel arrived. It was not what had been considered back on earth before the mission left, but to me it had some merit, perhaps setting up what might be a galactic embassy smoothing the way for other vessels like ours.

A sea of expectant faces, only one asked the question on everyone’s mind, giving my diplomatic chief a little more time to come up with an answer.

“Who are they, and are they like us?” The fourth officer had finally appeared from his room in engineering where his interest lay, but from a practical standpoint, was there in case the bridge was lost.

“No. And yes. They are consciousness in an artificial body that looks like us, but I imagine it would take the form of any being they came in contact with. I suspect they have evolved beyond the need for a body that wears out over time, which it seems is our problem, and we are only at the threshold of robotics as replacement parts, even bodies. I don’t know the whole story, but that’s one for the medical people. But…”

I turned back to my diplomatic expert, “we are going to have to talk to these people and not only that, we need to understand them and their customs before more of us blunder into their territory and do everything wrong. You have permission to send two representatives to the planet to talk to their scribes, which I believe are most likely historians. They are going to tell us about the peoples of this galaxy and perhaps beyond. It will at least give us something to work with before as they rightly put it blunder our way into possible diplomatic nightmares.”

“Do you think they’d let us set up a diplomatic outpost?”

“You could work on a proposal, but for now we have about six days or so to get as much information as we can. Anything else is your department, and for you to decide. I understand there are some in your department who signed on in the hope they might get to stay in a new world, but, again, you will have to make a threat assessment based on all of the contacts so far. I have endured all of the recordings of our encounters are available.”

“How long have I got?”

“Until we reach the Princesses home planet in about three days’ time.”

Not a lot of time to review and assess given most of the encounters were hostile. But an arrangement with these people would be considered advantageous as a first stop on the way to other galaxies. And I had no doubt they had a vast store of knowledge of other alien life forms which would be invaluable.

“How did we get stuck with taking the Princess home, and how do we know they will want her back? We don’t know the precise circumstances of how she got there in the first place.”

The second officer was not backwards in voicing concerns. He was the ship’s resident Mr doom and gloom. But for all that, his was a view that could be used as a counterbalance when making a decision.

“A good question and one I intend to get answers to right after we finish here.”

That left general business on the table, departmental reports, crew statuses, and the all-important ship systems.

Good to know the crew was reasonably happy, all performing their duties through the various crises, and systems had only minor failed that the skeleton shipbuilders crew were able to fix, one way or another.

Best of all, the chief engineer was happy, so far.

An hour later, it was time to visit the Princess.

…

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 6

The Maple Leafs are playing, and so I thought I would juggle watching them play and work on my NaNoWriMo project at the same time.

It seemed like a good way to get in 3 hours of work and a little entertainment on the side.

But…

First period down, and the Maple Leafs are 2 goals down.

What I first thought was going to be easy is now becoming mission impossible.

After the second Philadelphia goal, Chester, my stalwart anti-everything cat, comes down to see what the commotion is. By that I mean, almost yelling at the TV screen.

A lot of good that’s going to do when they’re 12,000 miles away on the other side of the world.

And by the look on Chester’s face, I think he thinks it’s a waste of time too. Or maybe that’s his usual, I don’t give a $%^^%$ expression he has most of the time.

We have the Philadelphia feed, so we’re getting the joy from the intermission analysts at their team’s lead, but it does take me back to Philadelphia when we were there a few years back, when America was worth visiting, when they cut to shots of the city.

And, of course, instead of having my eyes on the story, I’m now thinking of a subplot, yes, you guessed it, in Philadelphia, which is not very far from New York, where the main action takes place.

Then…

We score. It’s now a more respectable scoreline, but Anderson has his work cut out for him, and I’m thinking of turning off the sound because I don’t want to hear any more praise for their young stars.

The story proceeds, taking out the outline pages and looking to see where it can fit in. Yes, I see a gap where I can fit in an interlude and scribble a few notes.

End of the second period. Still 2 goals to 1 down.

Start of the third period. Chester decided to jump up on the table and, seeing the pencil sitting there, started to push it around with his paw. I snatch it away, and he gives me a chastising swipe.

Blast him, while my attention was diverted, we score again, and I missed it. Thank heavens for the replay. Over and over.

I finish the notes for the interlude, and the game ends in a draw. We now move to overtime.

I get the first few lines of the chapter I began working on at the start of the game, and just as the words are flowing, overtime ends with no score, and we go into a shootout. And before you know it, the game’s over, and we’ve lost.

I swear, Chester is smirking, so I pick him up and put him on the floor with a very stern admonishment.

No, I’m not taking the loss badly, but there are a few bad guys about to die horribly.

A to Z – April – 2026 – E

E is for Empire State Building

…

Making a plan, having certain expectations, taking that leap of faith that all of us are destined to do at least once, I found myself standing at the top of the Empire State Building, on the last day of the twelfth month, exactly five years after making a promise in exactly the same place, I would be there.

There was a 3 pm in there, but that was flexible, because I always liked to be early.

It had been after high school graduation, after the prom, every bit the magical moment it was meant to be, with the girl of my dreams, Margaret Cates. We had spent those last years of high school together, studying hard, each helping the other achieve the grades needed to enter the best University.

There was no talk of romance, of a life together, or anything other than of being brought together, almost inseparable. We were voted the most likely to be married and living contentedly in a house with a picket fence and three children.

Expectations were what parents had, and both of our parents were best friends, who simply chose to believe the inevitable would happen. Graduation, a combined family trip to New York to see the sights, culminating in New Year’s Eve at the top of the Empire State Building.

That was where we made the promise, no matter what, we would reconvene, that was Margaret’s word, at the same time. It was also the first time we kissed, and I think it took a week before my heart rate went back to normal.

Soon after that, Margaret left. She had been accepted into her university of choice. Her parents were surprised, and my parents were in shock.

I was not. It was the plan. Margaret had a plan for everything. There was no plan with me in it. Not in those first five years. I was sad but not devastated.

I said to my parents, if we were meant to be, she would come back. I had to set her free.

…

My plan was there was no plan. I got the grades, and I got accepted into my University of choice.

At the end of the second year, I was in a what could only be described as a car crash, and was badly injured, to the extent that I had to put my life on hold.

I would recover, not one hundred per cent but enough to continue whatever path I’d chosen, but with some limitations. The doctor was upbeat, and my parents were upbeat.

I went home, not quite in the manner I’d intended. I was assured that life was like that, and I had to accept, accident or no accident, life was full of unexpected challenges.

…

Summer Atkins was probably the most irritating, aggravating, and ingratiating person on the planet.

She lived next door, one of five girls, the eldest, and coincidentally in my grade at high school. In fact, she was in all the grades from Elementary.

She was gawky, awkward, loud and clumsy. It was not her fault. She had a kind heart, always the first to volunteer for the worst jobs, and suffered a lot at the hands of the boys and the girls, too.

I was not pleased to say when I looked back at my time that I was one of them, and probably the only one who apologised after the prom for what had been, at times, unforgivable. The prank for the prom was probably her lowest point.

It took a week before she would come out of her room, and I came over every day to join the few who actually cared about her. After Margaret left and before I followed, we spent time together, where she asked me what she needed to do to just get to talk to a guy like me.

I thought it strange. She was talking to me, I was talking to her, we had coffee and cake at the diner and hung out. She had no aspirations to go to college, just to help her parents look after her siblings and work in the diner. I had suggested she might want to do something for herself, and she looked at me strangely. I did not, she said, understand her.

We parted awkwardly, with this thing I had done, but what it was, I had no idea. It ended when she told me that if I was waiting for Margaret, I would be waiting a long time. How did she know anything about what my expectations were?

…

I came back home under the radar. I didn’t want anyone to know because I had set myself a high bar, and I was never going to reach it.

I felt that I had become a disappointment to my parents, and while they put on a brave face, and my siblings were polite, it was clear that they were happy for me to hide away, and my siblings were happy to see the high flyer crash and burn. Kid would be kids, I expected no less.

So when Summer unexpectedly knocked on the door, a certain element of panic went through the house. Upstairs, I heard that voice drift up the stairs with mixed emotions. I wanted to see her, but I didn’t want to see her.

Not like this. It was an odd feeling, and I couldn’t understand what fuelled it. It was Summer, she wouldn’t care, more likely revel in the fact. How the mighty had fallen.

My mother answered the door.

“Mrs Abercrombie, you look tired?” The grating tone had gone, her voice had softened, and there was genuine concern in it.

“It’s…”

She caught herself before mentioning my name. It had been a secret for about a month. I was surprised Summer had not called earlier.

My mother shifted the topic. She was good at that. “How is your father? That latest bout of chemotherapy cannot be helping the diner.”

“He’s responding to the treatment, and we’re managing. How are you faring without Allen? I’m sorry I should have come over more often.”

“It’s fine. We’re all coping with life as best we can.”

“How is Allen, if I may ask?”

That was Summer. Gets the bit between her teeth and doesn’t let go.

My mother was not one to lie. Obfuscate but not lie. Not outright. But confronted…

“Something’s wrong,” she said in a hushed voice, so low I couldn’t barely hear her. I could virtually see my mother’s face. It had always been expressive. It’s why she could never play poker.

It went quiet for a minute or two, and I knew it was time to brace myself. Summer was the last person I wanted to see, perhaps the only one other than Margaret, not that I expected her to drop everything.

Again, I couldn’t explain why, other than showing vulnerability.

A few minutes passed while I was hoping my mother would explain that I didn’t want to see anyone, that I wanted to be better before facing the outside world. Whether Summer would accede to a request if leaving me alone was moot.

If she knew I was there, she would not hesitate to come up and remind me of the Allen of old, with the shoe now firmly on the other foot.

I tried hiding under the covers, but she had X-ray eyes. I knew she was in the room; I could feel her presence. And the scent she used was a hint of primrose. Once it was far stronger, but I suspect she had mastered the art of cosmetic use.

“You will suffocate long before I leave, Allen. I’m not the same girl you left behind. I don’t hate you. I did for a while, but then I realised you cared when all the rest didn’t. I’m sorry we parted angry.”

She sounded reasonable, far more reasonable than I expected. She should have still been angry, if not with me, but with the others.

“OK. If you don’t come out, I’ll get in there with you. You know me well enough to know I will.”

Did I know her well enough? I never took the opportunity. No one wanted to because she didn’t fit the other girls’ profile. It wasn’t like that at University, there it was simply a competition. There was dating, but it was more convenient than romance. There were not many hours left in a day for extracurricular activities.

When I peeled back the covers, it was like seeing an angel, the sun shining in the window, throwing a glow over her. Summer had changed from the awkward, ugly duckling into a graceful Swan.

A look of concern crossed her face. Just lifting the covers was a difficult task, like most normal movements we all took for granted. It was getting easier and less painful, but it would take time.

“What happened to you?”

“A car and I had a disagreement. It won.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me. How long have you been here? What do you need? Tell me, and I’ll make it happen.”

…

Summer basically glued me back together. It was, she said, one of her projects, others minding the children of silly sisters, nursing her farther past cancer, keeping up her waitress job at the diner, and just being Summer, the girl who always pitched in.

Such was the value of her help that my mother said I should marry her before someone else snapped her up. Just before I was to go back to University, I did just that, but she rejected me.

There was someone else, and he was going to propose any day.

I could respect that. Whatever I thought she might think of me, I would forever be one of those boys who made her life hell. I didn’t deserve someone like her. I just got on the train and left.

But the truth was, I was never the same again.

How could I?

I had tried to tell Margaret, but the terms of the pact were clear. 5 years, do your thing, meet and discuss. If feelings were the same, who knew what might happen?

I was disappointed I hadn’t been able to find her, but I had a story to tell.

A year after returning, I gave it up. I didn’t have the same enthusiasm, and feeling like a failure, I didn’t go home. I simply pretended everything was fine and moved to New York and found work in a rather offbeat bookshop in Queens.

It fuelled my love of literature, and after reading anything and everything, I started writing my version of the Great American Novel. Small-town boy makes it big in the big city. A bit like my life, really.

Which brings us back to the Empire State Building.

3pm.

And Margaret.

I saw her and thought she was coming to the spot. She looked different, older, smarter, and with a touch of elegance and sophistication.

Halfway, I saw her smile and then wrap her arms around this bear of a man whom I instantly recognised. I mean, you would have to live under a rock not to know him.

Her parents were there, and a bunch of media people. The oohs and ahhs told me it was the moment he went down on one knee; it was going to be a News At 6 moment.

I was but a distant memory, forgotten in her moment of agreeing to be Mrs Albert Johnstone Gerythorn III.

I guess the employee of an eclectic bookshop was hardly a match for a multi-billionaire, or one who was soon to be.

“Sucks to be you.”

It did. That voice, the one that had grated on my nerves nearly all of my school years, came from behind me.

I knew who it was. I didn’t turn around.

“I knew it was a mistake to tell you my innermost secrets.”

“Oh, I would not have missed this for the world.”

I felt her hand slip into mine and her body move closer.

“Five years is a long time. People change.”

“People like us change, Allen. People like her do not.”

“I thought you were getting married?”

“So did I. I guess we were both wrong. Found that cute little bookshop of yours. If I didn’t know you better, I’d be guessing you’ve started that great American novel. Am I right or am I right?”

“You know me too well. You want to stay, or shall we find another circus, something a little more our style?”

“Do we have one?”

“Of course. Everyone has style.”

Then I noticed Margaret was coming towards us, a rather serious expression on her face. Had she finally recognised me?

“Excuse me, but the photographers would like to get some photos of my fiancée and me by this corner. It would be most appreciated.”

No. No sign of recognition.

Summer instead smiled sweetly, ” Of course, Margery Mugmouth, the pleasure would be all ours.”

It was Margaret’s nickname among those girls she trashed, and she instantly recognised Summer, and then me.

“Five years, to the day. You came. Have a happy life, Margaret.”

With that, we left.

A reporter, or just someone with a notepad, was scribbling frantically and then tried to head us off at the elevator. Just too late. The doors closed.

“The nerve,” Summer said. “That was our corner. Or I hope it will be.”

“So did I. Would you like to marry me?” I asked.

The elevator went silent, except for the whishing sound of it going down.

“She made a face, quite amusing, and then said, “Yes.”

People outside the elevator when it arrived thought something bad had happened, given the roar and applause which followed us out into the foyer after it arrived.

Five years, on the last day of the last month at 3 pm, something did happen. I proposed to the girl of my dreams. I just hadn’t realised it until then.

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 79

Day 79 – Irrelevant trivialities

…

Why the Small Stuff Beats the Big Stuff: What Really Hooks Readers (And Why Over‑The‑Top Heroes Can Turn Them Off)

Readers remember the everyday, not the epic. A scene about a coffee‑spilled meeting can out‑shine a chapter on a geopolitical summit.
Tiny, relatable details act as emotional anchors that keep the audience glued to the page.
“Chest‑pounding, wildly gesticulating heroes” feel like propaganda, not people. Readers want flawed, grounded protagonists, not cartoon‑ish mascots.
Writing tip: Sprinkle specific, sensory “trivialities” throughout your narrative and let your characters react authentically.

1. The Myth of the “Grand Event”

When you think of a story set against the backdrop of political turbulence—a coup, a trade war, climate‑policy battles—you might assume the macro events are the magnetic core. After all, they’re the headlines.

But ask yourself:

Do readers remember the exact date a treaty was signed?
Do they recite the exact number of votes in a parliament?

Rarely. What stays is the human fallout of those events: the cramped office where a junior analyst slips a secret note under a coffee mug, the nervous laugh of a teenager watching a televised protest, the sound of a door that refuses to close properly in a tense diplomatic hallway.

These are the “irrelevant trivialities” that feel relevant because they are personal.

The Science

Cognitive psychologists call this the “concreteness effect.” Concrete, sensory details are easier for the brain to encode and retrieve than abstract concepts. A story about “economic sanctions” can be dull, but a story about “the metallic clink of a coin dropping from a nervous hand as a sanction is announced” sticks.

2. Trivialities as Story‑Fuel: A Few Proven Examples

Trivial Detail	What It Reveals	Why It Hooks
A broken pen on a diplomat’s desk	The diplomat’s hurried preparation, underlying anxiety	Readers picture the scene; the pen becomes a symbol of vulnerability
The way a protester’s shoes squeak on wet pavement	The protester’s perseverance despite discomfort	Auditory detail pulls readers into the moment
A toddler’s “why?” after hearing the news	The generational ripple of political events	Highlights stakes in a fresh, innocent voice
The smell of burnt toast in a kitchen where a secret meeting is planned	The domestic normalcy juxtaposed with clandestine action	Smell is a powerful memory trigger; it grounds the plot
A half‑written text message left unsent	The character’s indecision, fear of consequences	Creates suspense without a single explosive headline

Takeaway: The tiny can carry the weight of the massive. Use them as micro‑hooks that pull the reader deeper into the macro plot.

3. When “Heroic Gestures” Turn Into Annoyance

Imagine a scene where the protagonist, after a tense negotiation, slams his fist on the table, chest out, voice echoing:

“We will not be bowed down! Our destiny is ours!”

It might feel satisfying on paper, but to a modern reader it can feel over‑the‑top for three reasons:

It’s Show‑rather‑than‑Tell on Steroids
The gesture tells us “this character is brave” without letting us experience the courage through choices, doubts, and consequences.
It Undermines Relatability
Real people don’t deliver speeches in Hollywood slow‑motion. They fidget, they bite their lip, they stumble over words. When a character behaves like a marble statue, readers can’t see themselves in them.
It Drowns Out the Real Stakes
The drama of the political storm is drowned in a melodramatic performance. The audience’s attention shifts from what’s happening to how loudly the hero is shouting.

The Better Way: Flawed, Measured, Human

Instead of a grandiose chest‑pound, try:

A quiet, nervous laugh after a risky decision.
A hand trembling as they sign a treaty, betraying fear.
A solitary walk through a rain‑slicked corridor, reflecting on the consequences of the day’s events.

These moments show bravery, fear, doubt, and resolve through action—they let the reader feel the hero rather than being told they’re a hero.

4. Practical Strategies for Writers

Below are actionable steps to let trivialities do the heavy lifting and keep heroic gestures in check.

A. Build a “Triviality Checklist” for Every Scene

Scene Element	Trivial Detail to Add	Sensory Cue
Political rally	A protester’s cracked phone screen	Visual (shattered glass)
Diplomatic briefing	The faint hum of an air‑conditioning unit	Auditory (steady whirr)
War‑room decision	A coffee mug with a chipped rim	Tactile (cold ceramic)
After‑effects of a treaty	The lingering scent of fresh‑cut grass from a nearby park	Olfactory (green, hopeful)
Personal fallout	A child’s drawing pinned to a refrigerator	Visual (crayon lines)

Why? It forces you to pause and ask, “What little thing is happening here that could reveal something deeper?”

B. Replace One “Heroic Gesture” with a Micro‑Choice

Instead of: “He raised his sword and shouted.”
Write: “He slipped the sword back into its sheath, his hand shaking just enough to catch the edge of the blade.”

The choice is more telling than the gesture.

C. Use “Object‑Perspective” to Anchor Trivialities

Pick an object in the scene—say, a paperclip—and describe its interaction with characters. The paperclip might bend as a diplomat’s hand trembles, or get lost in a chaotic desk drawer, symbolising the fragile nature of negotiations.

D. Test for “Heroic Overkill”

After drafting, ask yourself:

Does the scene convey the character’s inner state through subtle actions?
Would the same emotional punch work if the hero were an ordinary person?
Am I relying on a single, flamboyant gesture to summarise the moment?

If you answer yes to any, tone it down.

5. Real‑World Case Studies

5.1. The Night Manager (TV Adaptation)

The series revolves around an international arms deal—high stakes, global politics. Yet the most gripping moments are tiny: a bartender polishing glasses while listening to a covert conversation, the rustle of a ticket stub that reveals an undercover operative’s identity. The “hero” is never a chest‑pounding soldier but a weary coffee‑shop clerk whose nervous glance does the storytelling.

5.2. The White Tiger (Aravind Adiga)

While the novel touches on India’s class struggle and economic upheaval, the reader’s hook is Balram’s observation of a cracked tile in his master’s bathroom. That mundane detail becomes a metaphor for the fissures in the social order. No grand speeches—just the felt reality of a cracked surface.

5.3. The Secret History (Donna Tartt)

A murder in an elite college becomes the focal point. The “heroic” act is a quiet, trembling hand placing a book back on a shelf; the trivial act of adjusting a cufflink reveals guilt. The story’s power lies in the micro-behaviours, not the headline‑making crime.

6. Frequently Asked Questions

Question	Short Answer
Can I still have a “heroic” moment?	Yes—just make it earned and subtle. A quiet decision that reflects growth is more powerful than a shouted declaration.
What if my story is a thriller?	Even thrillers need texture. A sniper’s routine of sharpening a blade, the sound of a ticking clock, the taste of stale coffee—these ground the adrenaline.
Is there a risk of “over‑trivializing” the plot?	Balance is key. Trivial details should serve the larger narrative, not distract. Use them as sprinkles, not the entire cake.
How many trivial details per chapter?	No hard rule. One or two well‑chosen details per scene can be enough. If you find yourself listing six unrelated facts, trim.
Do readers notice these tiny details consciously?	Often they don’t notice consciously, but the brain registers them, making the world feel real and immersive.

7. The Bottom Line

The next time you sit down to write a chapter set against the roar of political upheaval, pause. Look around the room where your characters live, work, and argue. What’s the coffee stain on the ledger, the leak from the ceiling, the whisper of a child’s lullaby? Write those. Let the storm be felt through the drip.

And when you feel the urge to have your protagonist chest‑pound and deliver a cinematic monologue, ask yourself: Will my readers remember the speech or the trembling hand that penned the treaty? If the answer leans toward the former, scale it back.

Great stories are built on the foundation of the ordinary; it’s the extraordinary that rises from it.

Quick Recap Checklist

Identify one trivial detail for each major scene.
Show character emotion through small actions, not grand gestures.
Replace at least one “heroic” moment with a subtle, authentic choice.
Read aloud to catch overly dramatic language.
Solicit feedback: Ask beta readers what they felt rather than what they heard.

Implement these, and you’ll find your readers hooked not by the headlines of world affairs, but by the heartbeat of the everyday lives that swirl around them.

Happy writing!

If you found this post useful, subscribe for more storytelling strategies, or drop a comment below about the most memorable trivial detail you’ve ever written.

References & Further Reading:

Daniel Kahneman, Thinking, Fast and Slow – Concreteness Effect.
Ellen G. White, The Art of Narrative – The Power of Small Details.
John Truby, The Anatomy of Story – Character as the Engine.

“Remember that time…” – A short story

I don’t remember 40th birthday parties being all that interesting.

It was going to be a momentous year as each of our friends celebrated theirs. We were of a group that had formed strong friendships at school, and they had lasted over the next 25 years, even when some had ventured further afield, and others had stayed at home.

I was one of those who had remained in place, as had my wife, and several of the neighbors. I never had dreams of venturing any further than the next state, and except for a couple of years on transfer for the company I worked for, I had lived all my life in the city I was born.

The same could not be said for Janine, my wife, who once had a vision for herself, a career in law in either New York or Washington, and had ventured there after graduating law school, stayed a year and then returned in circumstances that she had never talked about. She had accepted my proposal, we had married, and that was that.

Fifteen years on, there had always been that gap, that part of the story I’d never asked about and one I felt she would never talk about, and it was a small chink in what I wanted to believe was an almost perfect marriage.

But there was one small caveat she had requested; that she had no desire to have children, or to be a mother, something she said she would be terrible at. It didn’t bother me, one way or another, though as each of the others had children, there was a small part of me that was, for a while, envious.

Michael Urston was one of my close friends, who lived across town and was also a lawyer and a man of ambition. He’s taken his law degree to Washington and converted it into a path to public office and had attained the lofty position of Mayor for several years of our fair city, and then paradoxically didn’t run for re-election for reasons I never thought stood up.

But it had been his decision, part of the plan to retire at forty, and he’d achieved it. Ursula, his wife, was prickly at the best of times and had always considered herself above all of us. I guess being a prom queen had that effect on some people. She liked to be the centre of attention, and for some reason, she and Janine always managed to rub up against their respective wrong sides.

Something else I knew; he had a thing for Janine, as had several others in our group, and I could see, sometimes the looks that passed between them, and I was not sure how I felt about it. There was never any indication of either talking it further, but there was a bond between them that sometimes I envied, especially lately when it seemed, to me, that we were drifting apart.

But tonight, it was going to be Janine’s fortieth birthday party, and there were going to be a dozen friends coming. At the last minute, Janine had changed the venue to a restaurant rather than at our home, and that I suspected was because we lived in a magnificent house that all the others envied, and I was sure it was out of deference to them. Buying the house had been her idea, and down through the years, as we moved into larger residences, she had been trying to shed the memories of where she had come from.

Neither of us had been from a wealthy family, and I had no wealthy family connections. I was from generations of motor mechanics, which was my first occupation in the family business, and Janine’s family were farmers, something she had no intention of becoming, hence the desire to become a lawyer. And I didn’t think either of us had airs and graces despite what we owned or how we fitted into the local society.

Fred DeVilliers and Susan, his girlfriend of many years, who didn’t believe they needed a piece of paper to sanctify their relationship, were best friends also, though I knew Janine and Susan were not quite as friendly as it appeared. That I noticed some years ago when both were having a heated discussion, one they thought no one was around to hear. Their bone of contention had something to do with Michael, and I didn’t get to discover what it was.

As for the others, they joined in the conversation, ate the food, drank the wine, and then went home again. Like me, they were not interested in politics, religion, or miscreant children’s stories. Our get-together was children-free, and often about reminiscences of older and more carefree times.

Oh, and just to stir the pot a little, this day, I had tendered my resignation as CEO of the company. It was a matter of principle, the board had decided to downsize and shift a proportion of manufacturing offshore, a decision I knew I would have to implement if I stayed there. When I vehemently disagreed, I was given the option to leave on mutually agreeable terms. It was not something I could spring on Janine, but, equally, it was not something I was going to be able to hide from her. Not for very long anyway.

She was running late at her office, and I agreed to meet her at the restaurant a half-hour before the other guests were due to arrive. It was nothing unusual for one or other of us to be running late.

As it happened, I left the office, and the building, an hour after resigning. The company didn’t want me hanging around and granted me the two weeks I’d normally have to work off before leaving, for security reasons. I quit, therefore I had to leave, in case I had some desire to sabotage the company in some way. I wouldn’t but it was standard practice, and it didn’t go unnoticed that I was escorted by security to my office to clear the desk, and then to my car. They also gave me the car as a parting gesture.

After leaving the office I went home.

I took what amounted to over twenty-odd years of service in a cardboard box to my home office and dropped it in the corner. Not much to show for it, other than a decent salary, annual bonuses when we made a profit, and quite a few shares, not that they were worth much now because the board hesitated to embrace recent technologies.

About two hours later I heard a car pull up out the front on the driveway, and two doors closed. A look out the window that overlooked the driveway showed it was Janine and Michael, who as they approached the door were in animated conversation.

I thought about letting them know I was home, but then a voice inside my head asked how many men have come home during the day to surprise their wives and found her in bed with another man, or, in these rather liberated days, in bed with another woman?

And that thing between them, would it be now I would discover what it was?

It made me feel rather horrible to think I could suspect her of cheating, but it momentarily took away the sting of the resignation.

The door opened and they came inside. I could just see them from where I was standing, a spot where they would not see me, not unless they were looking. And my heart missed a beat, they were embracing very passionately, leaving me with no other conclusion than this was a middle-of-the-day tryst.

“Come,” she said, taking him by the hand. “I only have a couple of hours before I have to get back for a deposition.”

With that, they went up the stairs and disappeared into the bedroom, our room.

I sat down before I fell down, then having regained some composure, went over to the bar and poured myself a drink.

Two losses in one day. A job, and a wife. I guess it wasn’t exactly a revelation. I knew something was amiss, and I conveniently ignored all the signs. I thought about going up and walking in on them, but that, to me, seemed like a childish act. After a few more drinks, I decided to wait, see if they both left and then decide what to do.

The front door closing, and the car departing, woke me out of a reverie. I got up and looked out, expecting to see an empty foyer, but instead saw Janine, in a dressing gown, still holding the front door handle, as if transfixed. A beautiful memory of what had just happened, or a tinge of regret, and another secret to be kept in a head, I knew now, that held so many others.

I decided to make myself known, now rather than later.

“Do you come home often during the day,” I said, standing in the doorway where she could see me.

She jumped, perhaps in fright, or in guilt, it didn’t really matter.

She turned. “Daniel. What are you doing here?”

“I resigned this morning. A difference in opinion on how the company should proceed. I was escorted out and decided to come home. I should have gone to a bar.”

She knew that I knew, so it would be interesting to see what she had to say. I could see her forming the words in her head, much the same as she did in a court of law.

“It was the first time, Daniel, an impulse. I’m not going to make an excuse. It’s on me. I wanted to find out what it would be like.”

And that made me feel so much better. Not!

“Well, it’s a hell of a fortieth birthday gift, Jan, and one I guess I couldn’t give you. I trust you didn’t grant that wish to any of the other men who may desire you?” OK, that wasn’t exactly what I meant to say, but the words didn’t exactly match what I was thinking.

“You mean do I sleep with every man I have a desire to?” A rather harsh tone, bordering on angry. She was angry with me.

“You tell me what I’m supposed to think.”

“I had sex with one other man, no one else since the day we were married. It was a mistake, and I’m sorry. If you hadn’t been here, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Washington,” I said, almost to myself, a light bulb lighting up in my head.

The memory of a distant conversation, on a holiday, when we visited Washington, Philadelphia and New York.

“What about Washington?” A change in her expression, was slight, but I could see it. She remembered it too.

“Remember that time, at one of those monuments, probably Jefferson’s, when you said something rather odd, and when I asked, you brushed it off as nothing important. You were looking out over the water and said it was one of your fondest memories after, and then stopped yourself. Michael had just married when he moved to Washington, and you were there too, for a year. I suspect now you and he had an affair, and it ended badly as affairs do and the woman has to leave. There’s always been that bond between you. Not the first time Jan. The affair never ended.”

“It did, Daniel. Like I said, this was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

I stepped out of the office and walked down the passage and came into the foyer. Two stories high, there had been a debate about whether to have a fountain in the space adjacent to the stairs or a statue. The statue won, and I lost.

Close up, I looked at the woman I’d loved from the moment I first saw her, and of the surprise when she agreed to marry me. I had no idea then I was her second choice.

“I’d say I’m on a roll. Lost my job, then lost my wife. Bad luck comes in threes, so I’m going to lose something else.” I looked around. “This house? I don’t think I could stay here, not now. It would just be a reminder of everything bad that’s happened to me today.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way. I told you it was a mistake. I made my choice twenty-odd years ago and it hasn’t changed.”

She took a step towards me, and I took one back. The thought of being close to her now, after what she had just done, didn’t feel right.

“Look, before you do something silly, let’s sit down and talk about it.”

“No. There’s nothing really to talk about. I’m sure you can come up with a very convincing argument that will justify everything you’ve done, and why I’m being a fool, but the truth is, there are no words that can justify what you just did. Yes, I could forgive you, and believe me, I want to, but there’d always be some resentment and the fact I could never trust you again, even if you promise not to. What’s done is done. Have a great birthday, and party, and make up some excuse for me not being there, but I’m going away for a while. You have got everything you ever wanted Jan. Be grateful for that.”

With that, I turned and headed for the door that led to the garage. I wasn’t going to leave by the front door. I expected her to say something, but she didn’t. I expected a reaction, but there was none. What choice did I have?

In the car, I found myself heading for the airport. I couldn’t go to my parents, they were dead. My sister lived on the other side of the country, and all I would get from her if I told her what happened would be an I told you so, so it was down to my brother, who had moved to the UK to get away from everyone. I called him, and when he answered, I simply said, “I’m coming to see you for a while.”

And he replied, “It was Washington, wasn’t it?”

He’d know who she was, and who Michael was when he saw them together all those years ago. And tried to warn me before I married her.

What was it with politicians and women?

—–

“Sunday in New York”, a romantic adventure that’s not a walk in the park!

“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.

When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.

From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.

There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.

Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?

Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?

Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?

As they say in the classics, read on!

Purchase:

http://tinyurl.com/Amazon-SundayInNewYork