365 Days of writing, 2026 – 266

Day 266 – Letting go

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The Art of the Pivot: Why Walking Away from Your Manuscript Might Be the Best Thing You Can Do

Every writer knows the romanticized image of the craft: staring blankly at a glowing screen, wrestling with a stubborn sentence at 2:00 AM, fueled by caffeine and sheer willpower. We are told that real writers push through. We are fed mantras about discipline, grit, and hitting our daily word counts no matter what.

But what happens when grit turns into a grind, and the grind turns into a dead end?

If you’ve been staring at the same chapter for weeks, feeling like you’re trying to squeeze blood from a stone, I have a controversial prescription for you: Stop.

Letting go can be the hardest part of writing. But if you are having trouble finishing a manuscript, forcing yourself to stay in the chair out of sheer frustration is usually a recipe for burnout, not a finished book. Instead of staring at a blank page and producing nothing, maybe you should walk away and write something else.

Here is why stepping away is a strategic superpower, and how to overcome the hidden psychological hurdles that keep us chained to failing projects.

The Trap of the Sunk Cost Fallacy

Why is it so hard to abandon a manuscript, even temporarily? Blame human psychology.

The sunk cost fallacy is our tendency to continue investing in something because we’ve already sunk time, emotional energy, and identity into it. You’ve written 40,000 words. You’ve built a complex magic system. You’ve lived with these characters for a year. Throwing it away—or even setting it aside—feels like an admission of failure.

Reframing the narrative: Walking away is not quitting; it’s pivoting.

Writers are like sculptors. Sometimes, you spend hours carving a piece of marble, only to realize the stone has a structural flaw. You don’t keep hammering away until the whole thing shatters. You set it on a shelf, pick up a fresh block, and apply the techniques you just learned to something new.

When you pivot to a new project instead of facing daily writer’s block, you keep your creative muscles moving. You maintain your writing habit without the soul-crushing frustration of a blocked manuscript. And often, while your subconscious is busy drafting a short story or a quirky essay, it solves the plotting hole in your novel behind the scenes.

Beyond the Block: 4 Other Manuscript-Killing Problems to Overcome

While writer’s block gets all the press, a stalled manuscript is usually the symptom of deeper storytelling or psychological issues. If you want to eventually cross the finish line—whether with this project or the next—you need to recognize these four common roadblocks:

1. The “Middle-of-the-Book” Slump

Every writer knows the honeymoon phase: the exhilarating beginning where anything is possible. Then comes the messy middle, where the initial adrenaline wears off, the plot gets tangled, and the ending is still too far away to see.

The Fix: This is the classic signal to take a break. If you force your way through the middle without a compass, you’ll end up with a meandering narrative that requires a massive, painful rewrite later. Write a short story, outline a different novel, or journal for a week. Give your brain distance to regain perspective on the macro-story.

2. Loss of Emotional Connection

If writing feels like doing your taxes, your readers are going to feel that boredom too. Sometimes, we outline a plot years in advance, but by the time we actually write it, we’ve outgrown the premise. Your tastes have changed; your worldview has shifted; the characters no longer resonate.

The Fix: Don’t force enthusiasm. Authenticity bleeds onto the page. If the passion is gone, acknowledge it gracefully. Shelving a manuscript because you’ve evolved as a writer isn’t a failure—it’s proof of growth.

3. Perfectionism and Premature Editing

Many manuscripts die by a thousand paper cuts because the author tries to edit Chapter 1 while struggling to write Chapter 10. You cannot polish a draft that doesn’t exist yet. Perfectionism is just fear in a Sunday best suit—fear of being judged, fear of not being good enough.

The Fix: Lower the bar. Give yourself permission to write badly. As legendary author Shannon Hale put it: “I’m writing a first draft and reminding myself that I’m simply shoveling sand into a box so that later I can build castles.”

4. Lack of a Structural Blueprint

Sometimes the manuscript is stuck simply because you’ve written yourself into a corner. You didn’t plant the necessary seeds in Act I to harvest the climax in Act III, and now the plot logic has collapsed.

The Fix: This requires structural triage, not brute-force writing. If you’re a “pantser” (someone who writes by the seat of their pants), this might be the moment you need to pause, step back, and map out a basic outline to find where the tracks derailed.

How to Let Go (Without Giving Up)

Walking away from a manuscript requires emotional maturity. It means untangling your self-worth from your daily word count. Here is a practical roadmap for hitting pause without losing momentum:

Stage a Formal “Pause”: Don’t just ghost your manuscript out of guilt. Leave a detailed note in your document about where you got stuck and what ideas you were toying with. This makes returning to it later much easier.
Redirect the Energy: Take the exact same writing time you dedicated to the novel and channel it into something entirely different—poetry, flash fiction, blogging, or even free-writing. The goal is to keep the pipeline flowing without the pressure of the “Big Book.”
Trust the Subconscious: The human brain is a master problem-solver, but it can’t work on solutions while you are actively panicking over a blinking cursor. When you step away, you give your mind the freedom to connect disparate dots in the background.

The Bottom Line

Writing a book is a marathon of endurance, but it’s also a dance of intuition. If you are constantly dragging your manuscript across the finish line like a reluctant corpse, pause and ask yourself why.

Drop the guilt. Give yourself permission to walk away, clear your palate, and write something else for a while. You might just find that when you finally return to your manuscript, the fog has lifted, the path is clear, and the words are waiting for you again.

Have you ever abandoned a manuscript only to return to it later with fresh eyes? How did you break through the wall? Let’s talk about the messy reality of writing in the comments below!

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The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.

But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.

I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026. It even has a cover.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 54

This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Things are about to get complicated…

Before I left the building, I got Joanne to take me to the tech division, humorously comparing it the Q branch of James Bond fame, and getting a very stern response.

Also in the basement, it was a nerd in a white coat, in a small room, with shelves of boxes, and three computers on his desk. I think he was just the IT guy, trying to look like he was someone important.

But, he did have a device that could scan for bugs and trackers and made me sign a dozen forms before I could take it with me. A simple test discovered a tracker under the lapel of my jacket, almost invisible.

One of the departments, only used by the department, so it deepened the mystery.

Good to know that when I left the building no one could track me.

When I arrived at the Wimbledon building, Jennifer was waiting for me in the shadows, almost scaring the daylights out of me when she appeared. It gave her a moment of amusement.

“No need to ask if you were followed?”

“Second only to you in avoiding tails. I always thought you had a thing for me, such was your ability to follow me everywhere.”

“It was a passing thought, but we were told not to date fellow trainees. It is good advice, and served as a distraction. Luckily we were not distracted, or we’d be where our fellow classmates are now.”

She followed me into the building and up to the flat.

“Safe house?”

She recognised the hallmarks, the necessity of having another address. Small, off the main roads, but still readily accessible.

“Got is while still in training, hoping I wouldn’t flunk out. You?”

“Didn’t see the need, but now…”

“You can use this if you like. I have a spare key.”

“Until I get my own.”

I got her the key.

Then, “Tonight, I’m going to see Severin. He called me and asked to meet. I suspect he knows about Maury, and if I was in his shoes, I would be worried I’d be next. It will be interesting to hear what he says.”

“And my job?”

“Make sure he doesn’t bring anyone with him, so it’ll be a check of the perimeter. I suspect he will bring along Jan.” I’d sent her a photo of her for identification. “There might also be another, Joanne, one of Monica’s people, but since I scrubbed the tracker, it’s unlikely.” I showed her a photo of Joanne too, taken back at the office when she wasn’t looking.

I also brought out the scanner and ran it over her.

“What’s that?”

“Checks for bugs and trackers.”

She didn’t seem fazed, and the device didn’t register any trackers or bugs, so she had to be clean. It was good that at least one of us was free to work without being instantly recognised. If Jan was there, she would be taken by surprise.

“And if I find either of those two?”

“Neutralise them.”

“In plain sight?”

“Training. You know how to improvise.”

I could see the wry expression on her face. The training we got for that particular aspect did not go according to plan, and two of the ‘targets’ got knocked out, the searchers getting too enthusiastic.

Both Jennifer and I had been ‘targets’ too, but we were not found.

I looked at my watch.

“Time to go.”

…

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

Available on Amazon Kindle here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

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By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.

The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.

I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.

I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.

From what I could see, there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.

She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.

Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.

She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.

I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.

Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.

It didn’t work.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.

Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind. If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.

I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.

Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.

About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.

Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.

Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was. In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.

And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.

It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.

I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.

Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.

Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.

I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.

I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerising. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.

Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”

I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.

“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”

Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.

Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.

Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.

“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.

The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”

It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.

“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.

I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”

“Zoe.”

“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”

She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”

“I might throw myself overboard?”

“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”

I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.

“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.

She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”

Of course. She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.

“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.

“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”

The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.

“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”

She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.

“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.

But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.

She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”

A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”

I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused. “Do I look like one?”

I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”

I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead, she astonished me.

“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”

I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.

“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.

“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”

OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.

She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.

I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.

She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”

“I saw it coming.”

“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”

OK, that was unexpected.

When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

She stood and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?

I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.

It just started to rain.

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 19

Well, that was a non-event

…

The view in the front of me, and everyone else, didn’t change. I didn’t expect it to. It was dark and sometimes eerie out in space, and like us, eventually, hurtling towards the unknown.

But, that was yesterday.

That all changed a little over an hour ago when we made the first contact with another race. Admittedly it was not the ideal way to start a new relationship, but it was a start.

I had no doubt the diplomatic team was hard at work coming up with ideas on how we were going to approach these new people.

But in the meantime, we were, quite literary, hurtling through space faster than any human’s had before.

The chief 3ngineer was right when he said the problems were fixed, and the main drive was online and ready to go.

At first, it seemed like nothing had happened when Mr. Saville pressed the button. Then, gradually, the speed indicator moved, from 3.5 to 5, then to 7, and finally, 9. Nearly three times faster than anyone before.

Which brought a new set of issues. We would be arriving at the two ships, apparently waiting for us, a lot quicker than the original estimate of 7 hours.

It was now down to about 45 minutes, and we were going to need a plan of action.

There was a platoon of special soldiers on board, an odd addition to what was supposed to be peaceful exploration, but their inclusion was non-negotiable. I knew the previous captain was not very happy with them being on board, and the one conversation between the captain and their leader was quite acrimonious.

I hoped to improve relations and stepped off the bridge to go visit the commander.

They had a separate section of the ship, where they had quarters, training, and planning facilities. The commander, Lieutenant Colonel Baxter, had an office, and his 2ic met me at the elevator and escorted me to it.

“Not the best was to become captain of a ship,” he said.

“If I had a preference, no. I assume the Admiral had spoken to you.”

The Admiral seemed to have spoken to everyone, perhaps to ensure that I would get the support I needed. Captains were generally a lot older than I was and commanded respect through years of service and experience.

Though I didn’t lack years of service, I did lack experience in running a ship like the one I was now on. But, I told myself, I would not have been made number one if I didn’t merit it.

“We’re going after the people who took the captain and one of our scientists, yes. I see we’re about a half-hour before we encounter two alleged sentry ships.”

“Possibly. But you will need to supply a four-man team in case we have to go off ship, for security purposes only.”

“And if diplomacy doesn’t work.”

His shoot first and ask questions later policy was not going to go down well, it certainly didn’t with the previous captain, and it wouldn’t with me either.

“I’m sure we all know what that will mean when the time comes. The official book on this vessel doesn’t mention anything about armaments, but if I know anything about the military, I’m sure there are defensive weapons installed. I know you told the captain that there were none to your knowledge but we both know this ship would have never left the dock without some form of defenses.”

I could read between the lines. I had a lot of spare time on those interminable cargo runs and read a great deal about the space program, and the hopes and aspirations of a lot of countries in exploring, but not with the means to do it on their own.

Where sport was once the means to unite the world, now it was space, and I had wanted to be a part of it.

In all that reading, it was the obscure references that told the real story. Nothing could get off the grounds without military cooperation, and to get that, some concessions had to be made.

Like Baxter and his men. And for the installation of a host of new weapons, specifically for space. A little further reading showed the advances made in adapting laser technology, and I suspect this ship had a few, as well as other weapons. I hadn’t seen any ray guns, but there were prototypes, and they’d been around for several years.

“I couldn’t say, even if I wanted to. You know how it is.”

“Well, let’s hope your desire for secrecy doesn’t imperil the mission because if it does, you’ll be the first visitor in the brig.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No. That’s just a fact. Now, once more, is there anything you need to tell me, that will be useful in any negotiation with the two ships we were about to encounter.”

He looked at me with what I would have guessed was contempt, but that was how he viewed everyone. There was no doubting his capability, his service record, or his loyalty. But space was different to anything else he’d encountered.

“If they give you any trouble, you let me know. That spare console on the bridge, it controls the ship’s defenses.”

I was smart enough not to ask what those defenses were. We’d all find out soon enough if it came to that.

“Then you’d better send someone up. We might need him.”

“Her actually. Gunnery Sargent Walker.”

Going back up in the elevator I looked at my hands and they were shaking. The first day out, and I was all but ready to go to war.

Not expected, not wanted, but sadly a fact.

When I stepped onto the bridge, the viewing screen showed the two ships, very close, and very detailed.

The second officer was saying, “We arrived early, and if I may ask, why didn’t we just go around them?”

“I’m curious about what they might have to say.”

“And if they shoot at us?”

“I’m sure Baxter will have something to say about that. Is the spare console manned?”

“Yes. By a Gunnery Sargent, part of the military team on board.”

“Good. Now let’s see if we can strike up a conversation.”

…

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 1

We think of tropical Queensland having pristine white beaches and azure sparkling seas.

Not necessarily so.

This used to be a mangrove swamp.

Perhaps this is what happens when you mess with the natural environment, you’re left with something that’s not very nice.

There’s no beach, no sand, and sometimes not a very pleasant odor.

We can imagine what this might have looked like before man turned up to urbanize the area. In the background, there is an inlet and on either side lush vegetation.

It must have looked very inviting once upon a time. Now the shoreline is completely built on, the vegetation that was once there completely cleared, and the inlet leads to a marina.

Perhaps the story here might be about greedy destructive property developers who care not for anything but profits. But in their quest to destroy, there is always someone else aiding and abetting, someone in government.

But what if there was an even darker secret hiding just below the surface, and about to be uncovered. How far would someone go to preserve that secret?

What I learned about writing – How to manage social media

I’m back to writing, sitting at the desk, pad in front of me, pen in hand.

The only thing lacking is an idea.

It’s 9:03 am, too early to start on a six-pack.

I need a distraction.

Blogging, websites, Twitter, and Facebook, all of these social media problems are swirling around in my mind.

The more I read the more it bothers me that if I don’t have the right social media presence if I do not start to build an email list, all of my efforts in writing a book will come to naught.

Then I start trawling the internet for information on marketing and found a plethora of people offering any amount of advice for anything between a ‘small amount’ to a rather large amount that gives comprehensive coverage of most social media platforms for periods of a day, a week or a month. I don’t have a book so it’s a bit early to be worrying about that.

I move on to the people who offer advice for a cost on how to build a following, how to build a web presence, how to get a thousand Twitter followers, and how to get thousands of email followers before the launch.

The trouble is I’m writing a novel, not a nonfiction book, or have some marvellous 30 page ebook on how to do something, for free just to drive people to my site.

I’m a novelist, not a handyman so those ideas while good are not going to help me.

Yet another problem to wrestle with along with actually creating a product to sell in the first place.

Except I’m supposed to be writing for the love of it without the premeditated idea of writing for gain or getting rich quick.

What am I missing here?

So should l be writing short stories and offering them for free to drive people to my site? These would have to be genre-specific so it needs time and effort and fit into a convenient size story that will highlight or showcase my talent.

Or should I create a website for the novel and set up pages for the characters and get some interaction going that way?

It will be difficult without giving the whole plot away so if I do it will have to be carefully managed.

I don’t think I will have a good night’s sleep again with all of these social media problems I’m going to have.

Oh well, back to the book. It’s time to have a nightmare of a different sort!

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 265

Day 265 – Writing Exercise

…

I was in the middle of a dream, or at least I think I was, because my imagination had turned me into a knight in shining armour, just about to save the damsel in distress, when there was a strange sound.

I’m sure they did not have cell phones back in the Middle Ages.

I opened my eyes and turned to look at the clock. 8 AM. Then I saw the cell phone, screen lit up and vibrating. Normally I turned it off.

I picked it up.

Gran. My grandmother, the nice one whose bright and cheery manner never quite made it to my mother, was calling.

“Gran, what’s up?”

“Sam. You sound like you’re still asleep.”

“I am. What’s up? What’s my mother done now?”

Gran only called me when one of two things happened. Her daughter had disappointed her again, or she needed my help. I did say she could call me at any time.

“I’ve had a slight accident, and they took me to the hospital. It’s just for a few days, then I must go home. I called your mother, but she’s too busy. As usual. Can you…”

“Of course. Let me square things away with the Uni, and I’ll be on the next plane out.”

“I don’t want to drag you away from your studies.”

“You won’t be dragging me, or if you are, it’s because I want to be. The going is getting tough, but I don’t think I’m tough enough to get going, or whatever the saying is. It’s not a problem. I’ve been thinking of tossing it in; this will give me some thinking time. I’ll call you when I get to Idaho. OK”

“Very good. Thank you, Sam.”

“Not a problem. If I had chucked it in, I was going to come out anyway. I doubt whether I’d be welcome back home.”

“Probably not.” I heard voices in the background. Then, “Got to go, the doctors are here.”

I put the phone back on the table.

There was movement on the other side of the bed. “Who dares call you at this hour?”

Erica. The girl of my dreams, the damsel in distress.

Then I remembered. The scene in the bar. Trading punches, then being thrown out onto the street by two very big security staff members.

I didn’t start it, but Roger, a fellow student who had more money than sense, was treating his girlfriend, as it happens the very same girl I would like to have as a girlfriend, very badly.

And I got the impression she needed to be saved.

Silly me.

Except, a few minutes later the same security men threw her out too, though with slightly less vigour. By that time, I had managed to sit up.

In the gutter.

Not exactly where I could make a good impression, but the fact I had defended her when no one else did earned me a few brownie points.

Then reality hit. She stayed.

“My grandmother. She’s just been taken to hospital, and … oh, shit.”

I just managed to spark up a relationship with the girl of my dreams, and now, when I should be consolidating my good fortune, I was going to have to leave her.

By the time I got back, she would have forgotten me.

“You have to go. I’m guessing her daughter, your mother, is too busy to look after her. Or any of her other children. You’re the last port of call?”

“I am. But…”

“You want to stay here with me. First night, and all that. I can see your grandmother means a great deal to you.”

“So do you.”

“I can see that too, now.” She took my hand in hers. “Maybe I can come with you. I’m sure they’ll let me take some time off. My parents are too busy making my brother the focal point of our family to care what I do. And you won’t be there forever. Or maybe you will. So, we can both go. It’ll give Roger a chance to get over what he’s just lost and give me a chance to see who you really are.”

“Are you sure? It’s Idaho, nothing like Philly. Everyone knows everyone else and their business.”

“You can take me horse riding.”

That was an odd thing to say.

“If you want to. Not exactly what I envisioned as a second date.”

“Then I won’t tell you just yet what I have in mind for the third.”

….

When I finally got to look back, as one does when they get old enough to reflect on what most people called ‘the good old days’, I would get to say that morning was when I fell completely and utterly in love with Erica.

Not that I hadn’t before that, but up till that moment it was, I thought, unrequited.

It took another hour before we got out of bed, then another two to get tickets on the first plane out, and pack. We called at her lodging, where it took her 10 minutes to throw what she needed in a case.

By the time we got to the airport, we both had switched from on-campus to off-campus

At the airport, we discovered there were no direct flights from Philadelphia to Boise, and we had to go via Denver, where we would have a three-hour stopover. It meant we wouldn’t get to Boise before 6 pm. Interestingly, she would not let me pay for her ticket.

I had always assumed she came from the Philadelphia area, and it was a shock to be told, right after the airplane levelled out, that she came from Denver. The very airport we would be at for the layover.

Or fortuitous. She had called her family while in the boarding lounge and tried to arrange a meeting, telling them she was travelling for business and had about an hour or so to meet up.

Judging by her expression at the end of the call, it wasn’t very successful.

Over coffee, she gave me the family story. She came from a large family; they had a farm, and it had been in the family for six generations, with the original family coming from England. It had been handed down to the eldest son, all of whom were given the same name, and the families in turn all had between eight and twelve children, and over time spread over the country, and some returning to England and others to Australia.

She had four older brothers and three older sisters. She was the baby. Jake was the eldest, and he was the one everyone fussed over. She had left home in disgust when they refused to buy her a car as they had for the other seven. She had secretly applied for a place at Penn and got it. They didn’t even seem to care when she walked out the front door with her suitcase, nor did they offer to take her to the railway station.

And there was a whole lot more to the story.

By the time we reached Denver, I hated her family as much as she did, and it surprised me that she had asked them to come and see her at the airport.

…

Harbouring fears that they would lose our luggage, and lamenting the fact that I should have just put what I needed in a carry-on, we went into the terminal and headed for a place to eat. The food on the plane was ordinary.

Halfway through what was supposed to be chicken and something in a sandwich, a voice behind us yelled out, “Erica?”

Half the terminal heard her, and when we turned, we were getting the same looks of disapproval she was getting from what was obviously her sister. They looked almost like twins.

“Rachael.”

She stood just in time to catch a very exuberant sister in a hug. A hug that told me she was missed by at least one person in her family.

“Where are the others?”

“Jake won a trophy for something, and there’s a celebration at home. A hundred freeloaders looking for free beer and lunch.”

“Of course, anything else is more important.”

When she let her sister go, she noticed me. I was trying to blend into the background. It didn’t work.

“Who’s this?”

“My boyfriend.”

“I thought that was some rich guy, Robery, or Jonus or something.”

“Yesterday’s news, Rachael.”

She looked at me. “I’m Rachael, Erica’s big sister. Cause her trouble, you will become my enemy, and you don’t want me as an enemy.”

Erica whacked her on the arm. “Shut up, Rachael. I don’t need you to fight my battles. Apologise.”

She just looked sullen. Then changed the subject. “You should have come home.”

“That isn’t home. Not anymore. I walked out that door, and no one, not even you, came after me.”

“They regretted it.”

“No. They regret having me. Or anyone else other than Jake the Magnificent. Bastard.”

She went back to her chicken sandwich, virtually snubbing her sister. Rachael came over to the chair next to me and sat.

“She hates us.” She said to no one in particular.

“After what she told me about the family, I’m not surprised.”

“What do you do?”

“Learn. I’m at the university where your sister studies.”

“You go to university?”

Erica looked at her. “I told you and them a dozen times, and no one listened.”

“Because you’re supposed to do the right thing. Mom had a nice boy picked out, and you would have been great together.”

“Richard? He was as dumb as dogshit, Rachael.”

“Can’t be that dumb if he inherited the Camford farm, and just about everything else in town.”

Erica just shook her head. “He told me if I went away to go to the university, we were done. I’m not going to be one of those dumb wives who dote on their husband, have kids, and wither away into oblivion. Look at Margaret. She’s an alcoholic, bored out of her brain. She can’t even look after one child, left alone with six. It’s just madness.”

“It’s not like that.”

Erica shrugged. “It is, and nothing will change. Who has Mom saddled you with?”

“No one yet. Maybe I’ll leave too and come and join you in Philadelphia.”

“Maybe you should.”

…

From there, the conversation veered into family territory, stuff I knew nothing about, and they only remembered I was there when the announcement was made for our connecting flight to Boise.

Rachael asked why she was going there, but Erica ignored her. She simply said to say ‘hi’ to the others and that they might make a better effort to come and see her on the way back.

Then, after a hug and a wave, we were heading to the plane.

The second leg was mostly in silence. I was not sure if it was the disappointment of only her sister coming to see her, or the fact that her brother had stolen all the limelight, or if she thought it was a mistake to even ask them to come.

I knew families were the biggest problems anyone had, because they just didn’t go away, and you couldn’t really escape them. Work, bad boyfriends, and just about anything else could be managed, one way or another. Mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters couldn’t.

I did say that maybe there would be a change of heart when she returned, but I doubt she wanted or needed to hear that.

…

Given the time difference between Philly and Idaho, we arrived in Boise after the sun had gone down, what little of it there was, and looking out the window of the plane, it looked bitter and miserable outside. Maybe snow was coming. We got our bags, collected the rental, a large SUV, and headed straight to the hospital.

We would see my grandmother first, then get to the hotel. The nurse on the floor gave us a short rundown: she had seen the doctor, got the diagnosis, a dislocation rather than a broken bone, and been patched up. It amused me when the nurse said she was feisty for an eighty-year-old, which told me she had a lot of fight left in her.

Last time my mother mentioned her, she had told me she was practically at death’s door, old and feeble, and should be in an old folks’ home. I knew what my grandmother’s views on that happening. None.

When we quietly entered the room, she looked as though she was asleep. The nurse had brought in another chair, and we sat. I took her hand in mine and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’m here, Gran.”

She opened her eyes and smiled. “With a friend, I see.”

She never missed anything, eyes and ears as sharp as ever.

Erica came over.

“Gran, this is Erica. She decided she wanted to see Idaho; why, I’ll never know, but I’m glad she came.”

“Mrs Macreadie. Sam has told me a great deal about you.”

“Hopefully all good. The bad, I’m sorry to say, landed in his mother, but let’s not dwell on that. You are very welcome.”

“Thank you.”

“How long is the prison sentence?” I asked her.

Gran had this way of categorising her hospital visits as prison sentences because it was almost like being locked up.

“They’re sending me home tomorrow. Bad sprain. Got to be more careful getting down the stairs.”

“I have an idea about that. We’ll talk about it later. I’m so pleased that you are not at death’s door; otherwise, I would have to contend with my mother.”

“You might have to, yet. She’s threatening to come and sort out my affairs. Apparently I can’t do anything myself. I rang to tell her not to worry, but I think that’s rallied her to the siblings’ cause, that I should not be on my own. I told her you were coming to look after me after I asked her to do just that, and she said she was too busy. What does that woman do all day that she is that busy?”

“Marshalling the neighbours, running her morning teas and lunches, and being the busybody in chief. And moulding my sisters in her image.” I shook my head.

“Well, hopefully she won’t come, and I won’t have to find your grandfather’s blunderbuss.”

That was a surprise. It would have to be an antique.

“Does he have one?”

“And an armoury down in the basement. You might what to have a poke around this visit. There are all sorts of stuff down there, and you might be able to start writing that family history you keep promising me.”

“I might just do that. Since you seem to be OK, I can stop panicking, and we can go to the hotel, get a bite to eat, and then come back. If that’s OK.”

“I’m just glad there’s one person in the family who thinks I’m important. That’s fine. Bring your friend back, and we’ll talk.”

…

By the time we got to the room and noticed we had an excellent view of a car park, I felt exhausted. Except for airport fast food and a sandwich on the plane, we hadn’t eaten much.

The hotel restaurant wasn’t accepting new diners, so the concierge sent us to a small Italian trattoria where he said to mention his name, and that the food was to die for.

It was.

But aside from the food, it was more about Erica, who had slowly morphed into someone completely different and made the whole experience, given the circumstances, beyond anything I could have expected or even hoped for. Her melancholy on the flight from Denver to Boise had gone the instant she saw my grandmother.

And over dinner, the conversation flowed, with the help of some very nice red wine.

We dodged the relationship question, or the instant decision to come with a total stranger to see an equally strange grandmother. In my mind I wondered if she had considered if I might be an axe murderer, because she had put a lot of trust in me having a good character.

I asked earlier if she wanted a separate room, but she reminded me there was no point being coy anymore. Last night and this morning were proof enough to her that I was, so far, trustworthy.

Over the three courses, she explained more about her family life, how she was the forgotten child, how her brother sucked all the energy out of every room he walked into, how he was going to save the world. It was a similar story, a bit like my own, only it was about following tradition, and I didn’t; therefore, I became the black sheep.

Time passed like an invisible enemy in the night, and it seemed everything was taking twice as long. Checking in, sorting out a problem with the room, finding somewhere to eat, and then the slow service at the restaurant. Any other time it wouldn’t matter, but today, it was difficult. It was just before the end of visiting hours when I got back, and they let me in only because I was family.

She was reading a book when we came in and put it down.

“I hope you got something to eat.”

“We did. Exquisite Italian. Not that I would know, after the family didn’t take me to Italy with them.”

Erica was surprised. There was a lot more that was shocking, but I wasn’t going to cast doubts in her mind over dodgy parents.

“They left you behind,” she asked.

“Have done so since I was thirteen. I always stay with Gran.”

“We make bets about what places they are going to post on Instagram. You’re better off not going to all the expensive and crowded tourist spots. You can do it later, and I’ll tell you where to go. Bob, your grandfather and I used to take a villa overlooking the Mediterranean for the summer and spoil our children. None of them appreciated anything.” She looked at Erica. “Does your family go on holidays?”

“Never left America, and rarely outside the state. I’m one of the few that had ventured further afield. We have a Christmas reunion, and Thanksgiving when everyone comes, all forty or so. It’s horrible. I’d love to travel, one day.”

“How long have you known this rascal?”

Erica looked at me, and I gave a little shrug, meant to convey, answer truthfully. Gran could see through the disingenuousness.

“Together like this, a day, but in wistful thinking time, about a year. He has always fascinated me.”

“How?” It was out before I could stop it. “Sorry, I don’t know where that came from. You don’t have to tell me or anyone anything.”

“I know, but I will anyway. You seem to put everyone else first before yourself, trying to help. One day it might get you hurt.”

“Roger was being a prat.”

“You didn’t have to try and punch his lights out.”

“I did.”

“Promise me you’ll think twice before you do it again.”

“Sorry, in defending your honour, I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

Erica sighed. “Of course you would.” She looked at Gran. “Is he always like this?”

“He will protect the people he cares about, an admirable quality he inherited from his grandfather. The only one of all the grandchildren I might add.”

My cell phone, sitting on the bedside table, started vibrating, and when I looked at it, the name “Mom” was displayed.

Gran saw it too.

“You’d better answer it. She’ll just keep ringing.”

I picked up, answered and put her on speaker so we could all hear.

“Hello, Mom. Isn’t it past your bedtime?” She never answered her phone when I rang after six, and she rarely called me at all, unless it was for something, though not so much since I moved to Philadelphia for University.

“Have you seen your grandmother yet?”

I hadn’t told her I was going, but she probably guessed Gran would call me.

“What makes you think I would be?”

“Sam, don’t be obtuse.”

“Hello, Gwendoline,” Gran said. “I thought you were too busy to be bothered about me.”

“That’s not what I said. I said I had a situation to deal with that could not be postponed. How are you?”

“Nothing but a sprain. I promised the doctors I’ll be more careful.”

“You should not be rattling around in that huge mausoleum on your own. Jack and I have been discussing what we think will be best for you. This accident had only reinforced what we were talking about a couple of months back.”

“Packing me off to an old folk’s home to die? Not going to happen.”

“Joan and William both agree.”

“They just want money to finance their extravagances, Gwen. You not so much, but I know your business is not faring well now. Don’t for a moment think I don’t know what your ulterior motives are.”

“We are very concerned.”

“Don’t be. Sam is here, and we are interviewing for a live-in nurse and housekeeper, and Sam and I are going to move my bedroom downstairs. I’ve been meaning to do it for a while. You do not need to worry about me.”

“Just the same, I’m coming out to stay for a few days, and we can talk about it.”

“You don’t have to, Mom; I’ve got everything under control.”

“You? You couldn’t organise getting yourself to high school. No. I’ll be there the day after tomorrow. What are you doing there? Aren’t you supposed to be at university?”

“Unlike you, some things are more important than others. And since you’re not paying the bill, it’s none of your business what I do. Now, it’s time for Gran to get her rest. We have a long drive tomorrow. Goodnight.”

I hung up.

“There’s something else,” Gran said. “Gwen would never waste her time coming out here just to have me thrown into palliative care.”

“You know?”

“I have a good idea, but you’re right. I need my rest. I’ll see both of you tomorrow; it will, as you say, be a long drive.”

…

I do not know why, but perhaps it was the driving, and the necessity to concentrate on the road, but my mind was not quite monitoring everything else. I knew in the back, both Erica and Gran were having a grand old time talking about anything and everything.

Perhaps if I had been more attentive, I would have listened in and learned a great deal about a girl I really didn’t know much about at all. Apart from her maybe thinking I was an axe murderer, perhaps she was one.

But not knowing was supposed to be one of those things that slowly unwound itself over the coming years as your love for each other grew. I like surprises as much as anyone, but there were some that were best left in the box.

Which is why I had to wonder why my thoughts at that moment focused on Gran’s sister, and as it happens, her identical twin. There was that story, known to all but never repeated, that both girls were working night shift at their local diner when a movie talent scout came in for coffee.

When Gran came out, she served him, and after a while he started asking questions. It seemed he thought she could become an actress, a star. I’d seen pictures of the two of them from back then, and they were both incredibly beautiful.

Gran said she would be interested. He went away, and she heard no more about it. She told her sister, and she thought it odd. They were not the sort of girl talent scouts usually looked for. Of course she would know, because she bought every movie magazine there was, and went to the movies every week.

As much as would have it, the talent scout returned, but this time it was Guinevere, Gran’s twin on service, and because he couldn’t tell the difference, offered her the chance. Guinevere told no one, packed her bag and left the next day

Gran never forgave her. Or at least I believed she never had, because she never mentioned her, and we never saw our great aunt.

Not unless it was in the headlines, the social pages or in a B-grade movie. She just didn’t quite have the talent to match the beauty, but she had done very well out of it. Daughter of a car salesman makes good.

Gran, of course, met the son of the car salesman who was also a car salesman, one who had a very large company with car yards all over three states. Until my uncle Ben took over. The less said about that, the better.

But it must have been how the sunlight shone on Gran’s profile that in that instant made her look just like her sister, and how they both had looked in their younger days. It was a subject I dared not ask about, but I was intensely interested in the cars, the people, and life, particularly during and just after the war.

But then there was Guinevere. Why did my mind switch to her? I had met her once, at my grandfather’s funeral. She had come in what she thought was a disguise, but I could see through it in an instant. She was skulking in the distance, watching on, afraid to be seen. It was where I learned about the ongoing feud between the sisters, and the reason why no one ever mentioned her.

It was not the fact that she had taken the opportunity; Gran was the sensible one who would not have seen the purpose or practicality of it. She would have discovered just how hit-and-miss acting could be, and how hard it would have been.

Gran was practical, another trait that didn’t reach her children, and if anything, all of them were more like their great aunt.

And as much as I hated to admit it, I liked her.

It was a fleeting moment, a fond memory, and it took another half hour off the two-hour drive to Fairfield, and eventually, the mausoleum my mother couldn’t wait to escape.

…

About five minutes away from finally getting home, Gran shivered. I could see her expression change, and it was like something medical had happened.

Erica saw it. “Are you alright?”

She sighed, then gave a wan smile. “Yes. It was one of those moments, like you walk over someone’s grave. I had it once before, when my twin sister was brutally attacked, many, many years ago. Since I haven’t seen her for so long, I could not imagine anything happening to her. She should have died, but just came back, bigger and better. As she always did.”

There was no malice in her tone, which was surprising. Some things could never be laid to rest, not even after all these years.

I couldn’t explain the expression on Erica’s face, but I suspect learning Gran had a twin was just another revelation on top of a hundred others. Perhaps she was starting to wonder what she had got herself in for.

Then, just before turning into the property, we all saw it—a 1935 Rolls-Royce 20/25 Grand Tourer.

Gran said it first. “No wonder I’m shuddering. It’s Guinevere. That’s the car our father bought her as a wedding present.”

“Guinevere? Why would she come here, of all places? Last I read, she was languishing in a celebrity home for old actors, or something like that,” I said.

“Guinevere never languishes, Sam. She commands. Damn her.”

I stopped beside the Rolls Royce and switched off the engine. After a long and tiring drive, I took a moment before getting out, envisioning the spectacle we were about to be afforded.

By the time we reached the front door, the sight that met us was as if a mirror had been placed there. Identical twins, right down to the hairstyle and expression. There were a hundred questions, or statements, I would have delivered before the one Gran delivered.

“So that bad feeling I just got wasn’t you dying a quick and simple death?”

“Nice to see you, sis. No, it was me that had the bad feeling yesterday, and it scared the living hell out of me. Thank God it was only a small sprain.”

“Why are you here?”

“This thing we have has gone on long enough. I had apologised a thousand times; you would not have taken the opportunity. I did and made the mess of my life you would have it if you’d gone.”

“I would not have accepted.”

“You don’t know that. Walter Benson had embarrassed you, and as I recall, you wanted to be anywhere but home. You would not have survived.”

“And you could?”

“You know just how mean and ornery I could be, and it felt good punching Walter”

I knew I got that from somewhere. My Great Aunt. From what I read, Walter was not the first person she hit. And it was somewhat surreal seeing the two of them toe to toe, one inside, one outside, each with the same heated expression.

“You done telling me what to do?”

“I was first, you know, therefore your elder. It’s my job. That and protect you.”

“I don’t need protection, especially from you.”

“You do. Your Gwendoline will be here tomorrow, and you need to be ready for her.”

They stared at each other across the threshold, seemingly oblivious to Erica or me.

“I can handle her.”

“No, not this time. I made a mistake. I gave an interview, having been flattered by a well-known but scheming journalist. I didn’t tell her, but she knew about the trust.”

A complete change of expression and manner. “How?”

“I thought I’d been careful. Apparently not careful enough. Anyone with a little knowledge could have uncovered it, but it would take extra knowledge to link it to us. Apparently, Gwen was only too happy to oblige. It’s called chequebook journalism.”

Gran sighed. “Alright, stop blocking the door, and let me get settled. Then you can tell me how you screwed up. Again.”

…

In my experience, secrets never remain secret for very long. My sister was a case in point. She swore on a stack of Bibles she could keep a secret. I trusted her, and then she blabbed. After that, I never trusted anyone fully again.

Our house had a plethora of secrets: the affairs my father had, the girls my older brother got pregnant, the relationship my sister had with her teacher, and don’t get me started on my mother. I made a promise to myself on my thirteenth birthday that I would never tell anyone anything I learned or was trusted with as a secret.

It didn’t earn me any respect, and it certainly made me an outcast in my own family. It was why I escaped to go to the university in Pennsylvania. It was just far enough away from my parents that they wouldn’t land on my doorstep, and I need not worry about my siblings; they care only about themselves.

As for Erica, this whole trip was unwinding like a bad family movie that had everything, with more twists and turns than a best-selling novel. All we needed was a murder to turn it into fodder for a Hallmark Mystery.

“Your family is far more interesting than mine. Just having a living, breathing B-grade Hollywood actress who went through the golden years is just mind-blowing.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t all sex, drugs, and alcohol. She did have to perform.” And then, after saying it, realised what could be misconstrued.

That story came after a few revelations that I didn’t know about, and which Gran had hidden very well from everyone. She was not the lonely, tired, old lady one step from a retirement home. She was very wealthy, if not reclusive, and an active philanthropist. Or, if her sister was telling the truth, they both were custodians of a trust set up by their father to look after his legacy. It was not about spending his fortune frivolously but keeping up the good work he started and finding the next generation to keep it going. That, apparently, wasn’t going to be Gran’s children, or Guinevere’s children. They were alternately branded as parasites and pathetic excuses for human beings.

It pained me to hear the demolition of my parents and their children, thankfully excluding me, and the children, all ten of them, and her ex-husbands.

And the jewel in the crown of everything they owned, houses, apartments, shopping malls, was the motor vehicle museum in Pasadena, with about a hundred vintage vehicles dating from 1924, built up by grandfather and his father before him. Cars that were rented for special events, cars that were used in historical movies. They even had the car, or one exactly like it, that Bogart used in The Maltese Falcon.

My mother knew about some investments. She knew Gran could not live the way she did in the house that had been in the family for a long, long time. She did not know about the rest until the publication of the article last week.

But that was the least of the revelations. The biggest: that my mother had been calling Guinevere and tried to make use of the funds by asking Guinevere for a loan, a loan she said would be repaid ten times over. When Guinevere asked her why she hadn’t asked her mother, she simply said all her mother had was the house, and she had apparently had it appraised, and it wasn’t worth much. She said she was putting up a few million towards a sure thing Jasper had learned about from his friend at school. He was a computer whiz and had created an app that played the stock market, and the testing had been fantastic. Returns in two weeks, double in two months, and over time, a small fortune.

It was a bestseller. They went to market to a large Fortune 500 company but wanted to buy it outright for peanuts, so they decided to market it themselves. They just needed the seed money. This was a year ago. Ten million. Chump change, Jasper called it.

Guinevere said she would go fifty-fifty; Mom had to put in five. I knew they didn’t have it, and so did Guinevere. She had risked a second mortgage on the family home. Times were tough; sales were slow. The app made money, but nothing like the returns that were promised, and now the company was filing for Chapter 11, and the sure thing was no longer a sure thing.

Had they asked me, I would have said no. I’m sure Dad would have too. Now it made sense why she was coming home to see Gran. In any other circumstances, my mother would never visit other than for Christmas and Thanksgiving.

“Money changes people, Erica,” I said. “My parents have always traded on appearances, which is why I don’t fit the mould.”

“And yet here we are. Are you sure you didn’t know any of this?”

“As I sit here, and if you get me a bible, I’ll swear on it. You said you knew me. I am that person. I tell the truth. Gran would punish me if I didn’t. The last thing I want is their money, because it makes you responsible for something, and it adds all the worry of looking after it. I figure if you have nothing, then no one can take it away from you.”

‘We’ve never had money. I worked long and hard, earning enough to get me to university, and still worked to get by. I figure if I get a good job, I might be able to travel for a year or so and then worry about the rest of my life.”

“Boyfriends?”

She smiled. “I have one now.” She took my hand. “I don’t regret coming, and I certainly don’t regret being with you. I’ve been treated better in the last two days than all the time I was with Roger. He had money, a lot of it, and it changed him. I can see now he thought he was better than everyone else, an attitude handed to him by his parents.”

“Well, when you see mine tomorrow, you might change your mind.”

“We’ll worry about that tomorrow. Why did Guinevere put us in separate rooms?”

That was a question I didn’t have an answer for, but perhaps it was not so strange that they were interconnecting rooms.

…

When I woke up two mornings ago and answered the phone, there was no way I could have known that my whole life was about to undergo a radical change. Not that I knew it two days later when, for the third morning in a row, I woke up next to the most amazing woman, the one.

The moment I woke up that morning, I knew.

I didn’t know exactly how she felt, but the fact she had not packed her bag and left told me there was room for hope.

That morning was given over to a leisurely breakfast/lunch where everything was on the table for conversation, where stories were told, some true, some not so true, but it didn’t matter; what did was the fractured relationship between two sisters who clearly loved each other more than anything but had not the courage to be the first to let go of a silly feud.

They were as one. They finished each other’s sentences; they had the same taste in food and clothes, but not men. Only their father could tell them apart, and they used to torment their mother mercilessly.

Listening to it all, I believed I had found the reason for my discontentment at university. I was not cut out to be an accountant, a dreary CPA like my father and brothers. I wanted to be a journalist, a writer, someone who wrote down or wrote about the travails of my great-aunt’s life. It was a mesmerising story, and as the time neared for my mother’s arrival, Guinevere asked, “You should be doing a course in literature, journalism, or writing, because I can see you’d make a great writer. In fact, how would you like to write my biography? Just think about it. We’ll talk more before I go.”

Then the transformation began, and Guinevere became Gran, and when my mother knocked on the door, it was like watching a Hollywood movie, starting at the door, and ending when my mother walked into the lounge room and saw Gran sitting in her chair.

It was, as Guinevere said it would be, a fait accompli.

…

Two years later, we were all at the launch of “Larger than Life”, a biography of Guinevere Macreadie. It had just been released, and it was an instant best seller.

I was not surprised. I wrote it, with a lot of help. Guinevere was right. I was a writer, and as it happened, a good one. Or so the editor said, and who was I to argue?

My wife was standing beside me in the most amazing gown, something Guinevere had an old friend, a Hollywood dressmaker from the golden years, ‘run up’. She had just been given the news; we were having twins. Girls. No problems with the names; they would inherit their great-grandmother and her twin sister’s names.

Of course, true to our family ‘tradition ’, no event could ever run quite to script.

Erica’s brother Jasper staggered into the room, drunk, and told everyone that his sister was ruining his wedding. It was the first time she had heard about it.

I just heard her mutter, “Family!”

…

If I only had one day to stop over in – Belgrade – what would I do?

One‑Day Stopover in Belgrade? Spend It at Kalemegdan – the City’s Heartbeat

You’ve just landed in Belgrade, the vibrant capital of Serbia, with only a handful of hours before your next flight. Where can you soak up the city’s spirit, history, and panoramic beauty in a single, unforgettable stop? The answer is simple: Kalemegdan Fortress and Park.

Why Kalemegdan Is the Only Stop You Need

Feature	What It Gives You	Why It Matters
Strategic Location	Perches at the confluence of the Danube and Sava rivers.	Offers sweeping, photograph‑worthy vistas of two major waterways and the city skyline.
Layers of History	Roman ruins, Ottoman bastions, Austro‑Hungarian fortifications, and a Yugoslav‑era military museum.	A compact timeline you can walk through in under two hours.
Green Oasis	30‑hectare park with olive groves, pine‑lined paths, and charming cafés.	Perfect for a brief escape from the hustle of the airport and a chance to people‑watch.
Cultural Pulse	Adjacent to Knez Mihailova pedestrian street, Skadarlija’s bohemian quarter, and the buzzing Beton Hala riverfront.	You can easily slip into a quick bite or drink without leaving the vicinity.

All of this fits within a 3‑hour window, leaving you time for a quick lunch, a coffee, and a scenic stroll back to the airport.

A 3‑Hour Mini‑Itinerary

1. From Nikola Tesla Airport to Kalemegdan (≈30 min)

Option	How It Works	Cost	Tips
Taxi / Ride‑Hailing	Direct drop‑off at the fortress gate (Bulevar Kralja Aleksandra).	€15‑€20	Ask for a meter‑based ride; traffic in the city centre is generally light during early morning/late afternoon.
Public Bus 72	Stops at “Kalemegdan” (the park entrance).	€1.30 (single ticket)	Grab a ticket from the vending machine or via the “BusPlus” app. Buses run every 15‑20 min.
Airport Shuttle + Metro	Shuttle to “Banjica” → Metro line 1 to “Karađorđev Park”.	€2‑€3	Best if you love a little local transit experience.

2. Enter the Fortress (15 min)

Cross the iconic Zeleno Brdo (Green Hill) entrance. Take a moment to inhale the crisp river air—this is your first postcard moment.

3. Walk the Historical Trail (45 min)

Roman Well & Gate of Charles VI – Remnants of the 14th‑century Ottoman fortress.
St. Michael’s Cathedral – A baroque gem tucked into the rock.
Victor’s Tower – Climb for a 360° panorama of Belgrade’s old town (Stari Grad) and the river confluence.
Military Museum – If you love arms and armour, a quick peek at the Yugoslav collection is worth it (admission €2).

Pro tip: Download the free “Kalemegdan Explorer” app for an audio guide that runs in both Serbian and English.

4. Refresh at a Café (30 min)

Café “Kalemegdan” (right inside the park) serves a traditional Serbian coffee and a slice of pita (cheese or meat).
Café “Mala Fabrika” on the nearby Knez Mihailova street offers a stronger espresso and a quick view of the bustling pedestrian zone.

5. Stroll to the Riverfront (20 min)

Walk down Knez Mihailova (Belgrade’s main shopping promenade) and cross the historic Brankova Bridge. The riverbanks are lined with Beton Hala—a modern promenade where you can glimpse sailing boats and locals enjoying a lazy afternoon.

6. Quick Bite (30 min)

If you’re famished, pop into “Šešir” in Skadarlija (the bohemian quarter just a 10‑minute walk from the fortress). Order the national dish ćevapi with fresh flatbread, onions, and kajmak—a tasty, fast, and authentic Serbian experience.

7. Return to the Airport (≈30 min)

Head back the same way you arrived. If you used public transport, the bus 72 runs every 15 minutes, ensuring you won’t miss your connecting flight.

What to Pack for a Rapid Visit

Item	Reason
Comfortable walking shoes	The fortress’s cobblestones can be uneven.
Light jacket	The Danube breezes can be cool, even in summer evenings.
Travel‑size power bank	Plenty of photo ops mean you’ll be using your phone a lot.
Local currency (RSD)	Small cafés may not accept cards; a few 100‑RSD notes are handy.

The Bottom Line: Why Kalemegdan Beats All Other Options

Efficiency: Everything you need—history, scenery, food, and a taste of local life—is within a 10‑minute walking radius.
Memorability: The fortress’s position over two rivers gives a unique “two‑worlds” vista you won’t find elsewhere in Europe.
Flexibility: Whether you have 2 hours or 5, you can scale your visit up or down without feeling rushed.

If you only have one day (or less) in Belgrade, Kalemegdan Fortress and Park is the single, must‑see destination that will turn a fleeting layover into a lasting memory.

Ready to make the most of your stopover?

Bookmark this guide, set a reminder for your taxi, and bring your camera. Belgrade’s heart beats at Kalemegdan—let it beat for you, too.

Happy travels!

In a word: Anonymous

Which is how I feel sometimes.

It can be a paradox in that an ordinary man may strive to be recognised, that is, to rise above his inherent anonymity simply because he feels he has something more to offer mankind than just making up the numbers.

But sadly, that desire will often be met with staunch resistance, not because there’s an active campaign against him, it’s just the way of the world.

The fact is, most of us will always be anonymous to the rest of the world, but in being so in that respect it’s that anonymity we can live with. However, it’s far more significant if we become anonymous to those around us. And, sadly, it can happen.

It’s when we take someone for granted.

At the other end of the scale, there is the celebrity, who has finally found fame, discovers that fame is not all it’s cracked up to be. You find that meteoric rise from obscurity an adrenaline rush, and you’re no longer anonymous.

But all that changes when you are constantly bailed up in the street by well-meaning but annoying fans when you are being chased by the paparazzi and magazine reporters who thrive not on the fact that you are famous but watching and waiting for you to stumble.

Some often forget that there’s always a camera on them, or there’s a reporter lurking in the shadows, looking for the next scoop, capturing that awkward inexplicable moment when the celebrity is seen with someone who’s not their spouse, or worse, if it could be that, they get drunk and make a fool of themselves.

Do I really want to lose that anonymity that I have?

Not really. It seems to me like it might be the lesser of two evils.

Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance

One writer's experiences, and battles with words

Category: Creative Writing

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 266

The Trap of the Sunk Cost Fallacy

Beyond the Block: 4 Other Manuscript-Killing Problems to Overcome

1. The “Middle-of-the-Book” Slump

2. Loss of Emotional Connection

3. Perfectionism and Premature Editing

4. Lack of a Structural Blueprint

How to Let Go (Without Giving Up)

The Bottom Line

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 54

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 19

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 1

What I learned about writing – How to manage social media

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 265

If I only had one day to stop over in – Belgrade – what would I do?

Why Kalemegdan Is the Only Stop You Need

A 3‑Hour Mini‑Itinerary

1. From Nikola Tesla Airport to Kalemegdan (≈30 min)

2. Enter the Fortress (15 min)

3. Walk the Historical Trail (45 min)

4. Refresh at a Café (30 min)

5. Stroll to the Riverfront (20 min)

6. Quick Bite (30 min)

7. Return to the Airport (≈30 min)

What to Pack for a Rapid Visit

The Bottom Line: Why Kalemegdan Beats All Other Options

Ready to make the most of your stopover?

In a word: Anonymous

Menu

One writer's experiences, and battles with words

The Trap of the Sunk Cost Fallacy

Beyond the Block: 4 Other Manuscript-Killing Problems to Overcome

1. The “Middle-of-the-Book” Slump

2. Loss of Emotional Connection

3. Perfectionism and Premature Editing

4. Lack of a Structural Blueprint

How to Let Go (Without Giving Up)

The Bottom Line

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Why Kalemegdan Is the Only Stop You Need

A 3‑Hour Mini‑Itinerary

1. From Nikola Tesla Airport to Kalemegdan (≈30 min)

2. Enter the Fortress (15 min)

3. Walk the Historical Trail (45 min)

4. Refresh at a Café (30 min)

5. Stroll to the Riverfront (20 min)

6. Quick Bite (30 min)

7. Return to the Airport (≈30 min)

What to Pack for a Rapid Visit

The Bottom Line: Why Kalemegdan Beats All Other Options

Ready to make the most of your stopover?

Share this:

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Menu

1. From Nikola Tesla Airport to Kalemegdan (≈30 min)

2. Enter the Fortress (15 min)

3. Walk the Historical Trail (45 min)

4. Refresh at a Café (30 min)

5. Stroll to the Riverfront (20 min)

6. Quick Bite (30 min)

7. Return to the Airport (≈30 min)