Category: Creative Writing

Writing a book in 365 days – 332

Day 332

From First Draft to Focused Masterpiece: How to Narrow Your Writing Target

Introduction: The Freedom of the First Draft
Crossing the finish line of your first draft is a triumph. The blank page is no more, and your ideas are finally spilling out. Yet, beneath that satisfaction often lingers an unspoken truth: the work isn’t done. Now comes the equally critical (and often underrated) task: narrowing the target. This phase transforms an amorphous draft into a sharp, impactful piece that resonates deeply with its audience. Think of it as sculpting the raw marble of your thoughts into a statue with purpose. Let’s explore how to do this with intention and clarity.

The Power of the First Draft

Before diving into refinement, it’s important to honour the messy beauty of your first draft. It’s a “get it out” stage—where creativity flows unfiltered, and every idea, no matter how half-baked, is welcomed. But here’s the thing: first drafts are not meant to be final products. They’re blueprints, prototypes, or even “vessels of possibility.” The magic happens next, when you take a step back and ask, “What is this really trying to say?”

Step 1: Identify Your Core Message

The first step in narrowing your target is distilling your work down to its essence. Ask yourself:

  • What is the single most important takeaway?
  • What changes do I want the reader to experience?

Write this down in a single sentence. If your draft aims to persuade, what’s the one action you want your reader to take? If it’s a story, what’s the central theme or emotion you want to evoke? This core message becomes your compass during the editing phase.

Example:

  • Vague: “Climate change is a problem that affects us all, and we need to do something about it.”
  • Narrowed: “Rising ocean temperatures are accelerating coastal erosion—here’s how you can advocate for immediate policy change in your community.”

The narrowed version focuses on a specific cause (ocean temperatures), effect (coastal erosion), and a clear call to action (advocacy and policy).

Step 2: Cut What Doesn’t Serve the Core

Once you have clarity on your message, ruthlessly edit out anything that doesn’t amplify it. This includes:

  • Tangential anecdotes: A personal story might have been fun to write, but if it doesn’t tie back to your point, it’s a detour.
  • Jargon or fluff: Replace vague phrases like “a lot of people” with specific data or terms.
  • Redundant sections: Are two paragraphs exploring the same idea? Consolidate.

Pro Tip: Use the “kill your darlings” mantra, but with a twist. If a line makes you cringe but still feels essential, it might belong. The goal isn’t to erase creativity—it’s to eliminate clutter.

Step 3: Refine Your Audience Focus

Know your reader’s face. The more specific you are about your audience’s needs, the sharper your focus. Ask:

  • Who is most likely to engage with this?
  • What do they need to know, feel, or do?

If your draft is for a niche audience (e.g., organic farmers, tech startups, grieving parents), tailor your language, examples, and structure to speak directly to them. Narrowing your audience isn’t about exclusion—it’s about connection.

Example:
A post about healthy eating for adolescent athletes versus busy working parents will require fundamentally different angles, even if the topic is the same.

Step 4: Use Feedback to Sharpen the Edge

Once you’ve narrowed your draft, seek feedback. Ask your beta readers or editors:

  • “Is the main point clear?”
  • “Did anything feel off-topic or confusing?”
  • “Where did I lose you?”

Their honest responses will highlight where your focus is strong and areas that need tightening.

Conclusion: From Broad to Bold

Narrowing your target isn’t about stifling creativity—it’s about amplifying it. By focusing on one core message, one audience, and one action, you create writing that’s not just heard but felt. So, after your first draft, give yourself permission to dig deeper. Prune, polish, and focus until your work becomes a beacon of clarity.

Your Turn: Grab a pen and write your core message in one sentence. If you can’t sum up your draft in a tweet, keep refining.

Final Thought: A narrow target may seem limiting, but it’s the very thing that turns a sea of words into a sea change.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Corsica

Corsica, known as the “Isle of Beauty,” has many stunning areas that are often overlooked by the crowds heading to the main coastal resorts.

Here are five of the next best places or activities to do on a less-travelled road in Corsica:

1. The Désert des Agriates

  • Why it’s “less travelled”: This vast, uninhabited area in the north-west is a protected coastal wilderness with no main roads. The beaches are often only accessible by boat, a long hike, or a rough, dusty 4×4 track.
  • The Experience: Explore the wild, fragrant maquis (scrubland) and find pristine white-sand beaches like Plage de Saleccia and Plage du Lodu. You can hire a boat-taxi from Saint-Florent for a day trip, or rent a 4×4 to experience the rugged interior track.

2. The Castagniccia Region (Chestnut Country)

  • Why it’s “less travelled”: Located in the mountainous north-east, this region is a maze of winding, narrow roads that discourage fast travel. Its villages were once wealthy but have been slowly abandoned, giving it an atmosphere of beautiful, forgotten history.
  • The Experience: Drive through deep chestnut forests (castagna is the Corsican word for chestnut) and discover ancient, isolated stone villages like Piedicroce or La Porta, which features a magnificent baroque church and bell tower. This area is perfect for feeling truly lost in time.

3. Hiking the Western Side of Cap Corse’s Sentier des Douaniers

  • Why it’s “less travelled”: While the Cap Corse loop road is popular, most tourists stick to the drive and the villages. The full coastal path (Sentier des Douaniers) is long, but the section on the wilder, rockier west coast sees fewer walkers than the northern tip.
  • The Experience: Start near a village like Centuri or Tollare and walk south along the “customs officers’ path,” an ancient route used to patrol the coast. You’ll be rewarded with dramatic sea views, Genoese watchtowers, and a silence that contrasts with the busy eastern coast.

4. The Alta Rocca Region and the Solenzara Natural Pools

  • Why it’s “less travelled”: Located in the mountainous south, the focus here is inland scenery, far from the coastal bustle of Porto-Vecchio and Propriano. The villages like Zicavo and Quenza offer an authentic glimpse of mountain life.
  • The Experience: Go for a freshwater swim in the natural rock pools (piscines naturelles) carved by rivers like the Solenzara, or head toward the spectacular Aiguilles de Bavella (Bavella Needles) for jaw-dropping mountain views and hiking trails.

5. The Niolo Valley and the Col de Vergio

  • Why it’s “less travelled”: This high-altitude valley is deep in the heart of the Corsican mountains, accessible via a dramatic, narrow road that climbs up to the Col de Vergio (the island’s highest road pass).
  • The Experience: Enjoy the dramatic scenery and cooler air. From the Col de Vergio, you are close to the famous GR20 hiking trail. A short hike to the Lac de Nino is a popular but quieter option. The valley is also known for its traditional Corsican products and its semi-wild roaming pigs and cows.

What I learned about writing – Your reality is … your reality

I started out by saying I didn’t want to be a lone voice in the wilderness.

Apparently, I am, still.

Well, that might be a little harsh in the circumstances, but the monkey on my shoulder is telling me I should start writing something that someone might want to read.

I guess the trials and tribulations of a writer who basically is a lone voice in the wilderness is as boring as everyday life.

I mean, who wants to read about someone’s miserable, or, on rare occasions, good, day.

Yet, if I were to pick up any book written in the 18th and 19th centuries, all it seems to be about is everyday life, but what makes it interesting is the fact we never lived it, nor realized how hard it was for some, and how good it could be for others.

Best not to be born poor.

So, I was wondering, in 200 years when someone sits down to read about the vicissitudes of my life, will it be interesting to know what it was like back in the ‘old days’ that is really today for me?

Interesting how a change in time frame makes something interesting, and ‘classic’ literature.

But one difference between then and now is the fact we, today, can write about science fiction, spies and all manner of events that come out of recent inventions.  Odd too, that people are still the same, those who tell the truth, those who are pure of heart, those who are as evil as the devil himself.

Some things never change.

Just the when, where, and how.

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first.  I have come, basically to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us with an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that.  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Santorini

That is a fantastic shift! Santorini is world-famous for the caldera view, but if you venture away from the main settlements of Fira and Oia, you’ll find the authentic, Cycladic heart of the island.

Here are five next best places or activities to explore on the road less travelled in Santorini:

1. Pyrgos Kallistis Village

  • What it is: The highest village on Santorini, offering 360-degree views of the entire island. It was the former capital until 1800.
  • Why it’s less travelled: While tour buses stop here, they rarely spend the evening, meaning it’s wonderfully quiet outside of midday. Its labyrinthine, uphill streets were built to confuse pirates, and its architecture is a beautiful mix of Cycladic and Venetian styles, culminating in a Venetian castle (Kasteli) at the peak.
  • Activity: Wander the quiet alleyways in the late afternoon, climb to the top of the Kasteli, and have dinner at a traditional taverna as the sun sets, without the shoulder-to-shoulder crowds of Oia.

2. Akrotiri Lighthouse

  • What it is: Located on the southernmost tip of the island, this is one of the oldest lighthouses in Greece, built in 1892.
  • Why it’s less travelled: It requires a dedicated drive, and most tourists stop short at the famous Akrotiri archeological site or Red Beach. This spot offers a stunning, completely different perspective on the caldera and the Aegean Sea.
  • Activity: Pack a small picnic and head here for a truly quiet and spectacular sunset view. You’ll be watching the sun sink into the sea from a peaceful, historic spot, rather than looking at it over the main villages.

3. Vlychada Beach and its Volcanic Cliffs

  • What it is: A beach on the south side of the island famous for its towering, sculpted white cliffs composed of volcanic ash, which have been eroded by wind and sea into incredible, moon-like shapes.
  • Why it’s less travelled: It’s far from the main villages and has a wilder, more remote feel than the popular black sand beaches (Perissa/Perivolos).
  • Activity: Take a long walk along the unique shoreline, where the “moonscape” cliffs provide a naturally shaded, artistic backdrop. The beach itself is a mix of black sand and pebbles, offering a dramatic setting for relaxation and photography.

4. Hiking to Ancient Thera

  • What it is: The ruins of an ancient city built on the steep, rocky Mesa Vouno mountain, which separates the beaches of Perissa and Kamari.
  • Why it’s less travelled: It requires a rigorous 30-45 minute uphill hike (or a drive up a steep, winding road) to reach, which deters most casual tourists.
  • Activity: Climb up in the morning before the heat hits, and explore the remains of Hellenistic temples, Roman baths, and Byzantine walls. You’ll be rewarded with incredible panoramic views over the black sand beaches on one side and the eastern coast on the other.

5. Wine Tasting in Mesa Gonia (Ghost Village)

  • What it is: A collection of traditional wineries located in the inland vineyards, away from the caldera, in a village often referred to as a “ghost village” because many inhabitants left after the 1956 earthquake.
  • Why it’s less travelled: The island’s wine culture (using the unique kouloura basket-pruning technique) is often overlooked in favour of beach time. The village itself is authentic and unrenovated.
  • Activity: Visit a local winery like Gavalas or Koutsoyannopoulos Wine Museum (which is underground) to taste the local Assyrtiko, Nykteri, and Vinsanto wines. This gives you a true appreciation for the island’s unique volcanic soil and agricultural traditions.

Writing a book in 365 days – 332

Day 332

From First Draft to Focused Masterpiece: How to Narrow Your Writing Target

Introduction: The Freedom of the First Draft
Crossing the finish line of your first draft is a triumph. The blank page is no more, and your ideas are finally spilling out. Yet, beneath that satisfaction often lingers an unspoken truth: the work isn’t done. Now comes the equally critical (and often underrated) task: narrowing the target. This phase transforms an amorphous draft into a sharp, impactful piece that resonates deeply with its audience. Think of it as sculpting the raw marble of your thoughts into a statue with purpose. Let’s explore how to do this with intention and clarity.

The Power of the First Draft

Before diving into refinement, it’s important to honour the messy beauty of your first draft. It’s a “get it out” stage—where creativity flows unfiltered, and every idea, no matter how half-baked, is welcomed. But here’s the thing: first drafts are not meant to be final products. They’re blueprints, prototypes, or even “vessels of possibility.” The magic happens next, when you take a step back and ask, “What is this really trying to say?”

Step 1: Identify Your Core Message

The first step in narrowing your target is distilling your work down to its essence. Ask yourself:

  • What is the single most important takeaway?
  • What changes do I want the reader to experience?

Write this down in a single sentence. If your draft aims to persuade, what’s the one action you want your reader to take? If it’s a story, what’s the central theme or emotion you want to evoke? This core message becomes your compass during the editing phase.

Example:

  • Vague: “Climate change is a problem that affects us all, and we need to do something about it.”
  • Narrowed: “Rising ocean temperatures are accelerating coastal erosion—here’s how you can advocate for immediate policy change in your community.”

The narrowed version focuses on a specific cause (ocean temperatures), effect (coastal erosion), and a clear call to action (advocacy and policy).

Step 2: Cut What Doesn’t Serve the Core

Once you have clarity on your message, ruthlessly edit out anything that doesn’t amplify it. This includes:

  • Tangential anecdotes: A personal story might have been fun to write, but if it doesn’t tie back to your point, it’s a detour.
  • Jargon or fluff: Replace vague phrases like “a lot of people” with specific data or terms.
  • Redundant sections: Are two paragraphs exploring the same idea? Consolidate.

Pro Tip: Use the “kill your darlings” mantra, but with a twist. If a line makes you cringe but still feels essential, it might belong. The goal isn’t to erase creativity—it’s to eliminate clutter.

Step 3: Refine Your Audience Focus

Know your reader’s face. The more specific you are about your audience’s needs, the sharper your focus. Ask:

  • Who is most likely to engage with this?
  • What do they need to know, feel, or do?

If your draft is for a niche audience (e.g., organic farmers, tech startups, grieving parents), tailor your language, examples, and structure to speak directly to them. Narrowing your audience isn’t about exclusion—it’s about connection.

Example:
A post about healthy eating for adolescent athletes versus busy working parents will require fundamentally different angles, even if the topic is the same.

Step 4: Use Feedback to Sharpen the Edge

Once you’ve narrowed your draft, seek feedback. Ask your beta readers or editors:

  • “Is the main point clear?”
  • “Did anything feel off-topic or confusing?”
  • “Where did I lose you?”

Their honest responses will highlight where your focus is strong and areas that need tightening.

Conclusion: From Broad to Bold

Narrowing your target isn’t about stifling creativity—it’s about amplifying it. By focusing on one core message, one audience, and one action, you create writing that’s not just heard but felt. So, after your first draft, give yourself permission to dig deeper. Prune, polish, and focus until your work becomes a beacon of clarity.

Your Turn: Grab a pen and write your core message in one sentence. If you can’t sum up your draft in a tweet, keep refining.

Final Thought: A narrow target may seem limiting, but it’s the very thing that turns a sea of words into a sea change.

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

In a word: Bill

Yes, it is a name, short for William, though I’m not sure how Bill was derived from William.

But…

As you know, like many words this one has a number of other meanings, like,

A bird has a bill, particularly those birds with webbed feet

A bill is something you are sent to pay for goods or services, and often turn up when least expected, or when money is tight

And, sadly, they are neverending.

Then there’s fit the bill, which means it is suitable.

It could also be a list of people who appear in a programme.

It is used to describe banknotes, such as a twenty dollar bill.

It could be a waybill, used for the consignment of goods.

It could also be a piece of legislation introduced into parliament.

In some places in the world, it could be the peak of a cap

But the most obscure use of the word bill goes to:  the point of an anchor fluke.

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2024

Third son of a Duke – The research behind the story – 14

All stories require some form of research, quite often to place a character in a place at a particular time, especially if it is in a historical context. This series will take you through what it was like in 1914 through 1916.

…

The camps of the British Army in Egypt during 1915 were sprawling, temporary cities carved out of the desert, defined by immense logistical activity, culture shock, and preparations for the Gallipoli campaign.

Location and Appearance of the Camps

The primary military staging grounds were concentrated around Cairo and the Suez Canal, serving different functions:

  1. Mena Camp (Cairo): This was the most famous and largest training facility, accommodating approximately 25,000 soldiers at its peak.1 It was chosen for its vast space, situated about 16 kilometres (10 miles) from central Cairo, with the Giza Pyramids and the Sphinx forming a striking backdrop.2 In the earliest days (late 1914), space and facilities were rudimentary; some troops slept in bivouacs until sufficient tents arrived two weeks after their initial landing.3 The site, divided into large training areas, was quickly filled with the “hum, bustle, the dust, smell, sounds and lights of a busy city”.4
  2. Moascar and Canal Camps: Other areas included Moascar, near Ismailia and the Suez Canal, which also served as a training area.5 For forces tasked with canal defence, like Indian and Territorial troops, their presence was defined by military works along the waterway. Troops were “under canvas” and lived within defensive redoubts constructed of sandbags and barbed wire.6 Other facilities, like the Egyptian Army Barracks at The Citadel, Cairo, and Artillery training grounds at Zahariah Camp, Alexandria, were also utilised.5

The Daily Expectation: Training and Climate

The soldiers, particularly the ANZAC Corps, which was the main training contingent in early 1915, faced demanding conditions that directly contrasted with the trench environment of the Western Front:

  • Rigorous Training: Training was held six days a week.3 It primarily consisted of marching maneuvers across the deserts and sand dunes in full marching order.2 This physical exposure was deliberate preparation for operations in the Middle Eastern theatre, like Gallipoli, requiring specific skills for arid conditions.3
  • Climate Extremes: The climate was a constant challenge. The Egyptian winter brought bitterly cold nights, followed by blistering hot days.3 The heat could be intense, regularly topping 30°C (90°F) in the summer. Sergeant S. F. Hatton recalled temperaments becoming “very ragged” during a khamsin, a hot blast of wind from the Sahara that could send temperatures soaring over 50°C (120°F) for days. Men commonly suffered from heat stroke and pneumonia during their training.3
  • Canal Defence Duties: Troops guarding the Suez Canal were engaged in constant defensive and logistical work. This included patrolling the banks at night and continually extending infrastructure like light railways and communication cables.6 They often found brief reprieve by using the nearby sea or canal facilities for swimming.6

Down Time and Culture Shock

For many soldiers, especially those from the Dominions and UK Territorial Forces who had never travelled abroad, Egypt presented an overwhelming cultural shock.

  • Boredom and Cairo: Once the initial novelty of being in a foreign country faded, boredom became widespread among the ranks who had been training for months.3 Many troops would travel into Cairo, which was notorious for its bazaars, cafés, and places of vice.1
  • Guidebooks and Friction: The perceived difference in culture and the sense among soldiers that locals were trying to extort them led to tension and sometimes physical confrontation.1 To manage this, guides like What to Know in Egypt: A Guide for Australian Soldiers were published, which advised against “familiarity with native women,” explained common sicknesses, and even provided Arabic phrases like “go away”.1

Medical Infrastructure and Casualty Planning

Egypt was crucial not only as a training ground but also as the primary receiving station for casualties from the Gallipoli campaign, requiring extensive medical infrastructure:

  • General Hospitals: The large size and location of the staging base meant extensive hospitals were necessary. The palatial Heliopolis Palace Hotel in a Cairo suburb was quickly requisitioned to become the 1st Australian General Hospital (1 AGH), opening for patients on January 24, 1915. Other key facilities included the 2nd Australian General Hospital (2 AGH), established at the Mena House hotel near the Pyramids.5
  • British and Indian Hospitals: British hospitals were also established, such as the No. 19 British General Hospital at Alexandria, through which thousands of soldiers passed during the Gallipoli campaign. Additional facilities included Indian General Hospitals at Alexandria and the Citadel Bijou Palace, and the conversion of the Egyptian Government Primary School (Nasrieh School) into a 584-bed British Military Hospital.
  • Evacuation Chain: The medical planning included more forward units like Casualty Clearing Stations (CCS). The 1st Australian Casualty Clearing Station (1 ACCS) was initially based in Egypt (Port Said in February 1915) before landing at Anzac Cove on the first day of the Gallipoli campaign (April 25, 1915) to provide emergency surgery and treat and evacuate the overwhelming number of wounded. Soldiers deemed unfit during training were also sent to hospitals like the Egyptian Army Hospital at Abassia.3