Category: Creative Writing

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself.  Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived.  He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines.  She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied.  Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity.  And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain.  Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.  She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one.  Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner.  Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  He purposely didn’t look back.  In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six.  Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….”  She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so.  Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.”  Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over.  Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you.  You are most kind.”  The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.”  It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be.  There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying.  There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No.  That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?”  Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal.  All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up.  “Rest.  And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note.  No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel.  Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown.  And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame.  They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed.  In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up.  “Henshaw is too formal.  Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere.  It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself.  Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle.  “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought.  He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone.  Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses.  After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation.  “How did you arrive?  I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident.  I ran up the back of another car.  Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.”  His attempt at humour failed.  “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came.  Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling.  She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser.  I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well.  Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work.  I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you.  I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

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The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 12

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

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

Was I working for a ghost?

 

I sat in that room for an hour.

I had no doubt someone was on the other side of the mirrored wall, watching me, analysing my body language.  I hoped I hadn’t given any indication that Nobbin was a name that I recognised, or knew, but I was still new to this game, and as much as I tried to perfect it, I still didn’t think I had a poker face.

More than likely I had a ‘tell’.

There was something else I had to worry about, and that was what approach this Dobbin would take.  For instance, did he know that I had met up with the man in the alley, and stretching that big if, did he know who the man in the alley was, and was he one of ours.

Of course, that was another problem I had, and that was recognising who ‘ours’ were.  It seems the people I knew, were not the same people who were really running the place.

Or, paradoxically, were these people, interlopers, trying to get intel on the group I was supposedly working for.  But they hadn’t disavowed me, so I must be working for someone they approved or knew of.

An hour and a half, and I was beginning to think this might be another game by my previous interrogators.  I was glad not to be on the other side of the mirror, trying to work out what I was ‘telling;’ them.  Once, I’d got up and stared directly into the mirror, thinking I might be able to see who was behind it.  I also thought of tapping it to see if I could get a reaction.

And, in fact, I was about to do that very thing when Nobbin walked through the door and closed it behind him.

I saw him do a quick check of the room, from the floor to the roof, and stopping briefly at the mirror, before sitting down.

“We probably have an audience for this discussion,” I said, inclining my head towards the mirror.

“You might be right, but I did ask for a clean slate, and if anyone is considering recording or viewing this interview, there will be dire consequences.”  Looking at the mirror, he added, “I made that very clear at the highest level.”

He then looked back at me.  “Your name, I believe, is Sam Jackson?”

“Yes.”  My current working name, that is.  Once deployed to the field we started using aliases, and my first and current alias was Sam Jackson.  But how they made the passport look old and used for that legend was interesting, yet not a question anyone would answer.

“You were recently assigned to a surveillance team, for this man.”

He’d brought a folder with him and pulled out a photograph of the man I’d cornered in the alley.

“Is that him?”

Was there a right or wrong answer here?

“Yes.”

“Who was leading this operation?”

“A man named Severin.”

“Describe him.

I did.

It evoked no reaction.  Nobbin had a poker face.  In fact, I was beginning to think it was etched in stone.

“Do you know who he is?” I asked.

“No.  But we will find out.  Thank you for your time.”

He stood, gave me one last look, and left the room.

I waited a minute, and then followed him out, where a security officer was waiting to escort me out of the building.

On the steps outside, security pass returned, I wondered if that was then end of my tenure with that organisation.  Or whether I actually had any tenure in the first place.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovered his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little, Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

The cinema of my dreams – I’ve always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 68

Here’s the thing…

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

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

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again, there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

With Nadia seeking gold at the beach at The Grove

…

I was waiting to be picked up at the bus depot by Nadia, trying to keep out of the public eye, knowing very few people I knew would be there at that hour.

It was early for me, not long after getting home from the night shift, with just enough time to change and get something to eat at the diner a block from the depot.

Nadia didn’t understand my obsession with anonymity, but being seen with her was just going to raise questions, and, if either my mother or Boggs found out, that would be two very interesting conversations.

I just didn’t need the aggravation.

I was not sure what to wear so I dug out the clothes I wore to a farm that a friend of my mother’s owned and my mother had graciously offered my services.  It hadn’t been such a bad day, but it was hard work.

The clothes had the added advantage of making me almost invisible among the many seasonal workers currently in town.

I nearly missed her because I had been looking for her usual car, but when a large pickup truck pulled up at the curb where I was standing, it took a moment to recognise her behind the wheel.  A very unglamorous plain Jane, without make-up and her hair a mess, or so it looked to me.  I knew well enough not to make a comment.

The truck was battered and seen better days, but the engine sounded like that of a racing car.  A Cossatino’s getaway car.  Oddly, I could imagine her behind the wheel, waiting for a team of bank robbers, fuelled no doubt by the many old movies I’d seen in my younger days.

I climbed up into the cabin and she had driven off before the car door was closed

“Are we in a hurry?”

“No parking zone.  Don’t need the sheriff’s deputies giving us a hard time.”

No, indeed.

“Where’s your car?”

“Too recognisable.  Where we’re going, it’s better not to be recognised.”

That didn’t exactly fill me with confidence.  I knew it was going to be somewhere along the coastline, her idea to see if any more of the gold coins had fallen out of the treasure chests as they were being brought ashore.

The question was, was there any part of the coastline that hadn’t been surveyed?  That was when it occurred to me she might be headed for that stretch of coastline that belonged to The Grove, split by the coast road, either side of the road fenced off and signs telling people they would be shot on sight if caught trespassing.

There had been rumours of shootings, but nothing ever made it to the sheriff’s office.  I hoped she told someone where she was goin,g if that’s where she was taking me.

“You’re quiet this morning?”

“Just got off shift, and a little tired.”

“You should have said something.  I didn’t think…”

“It’s fine.  You’re currently the one ray of light on a very dark horizon.”

She looked sideways at me.  “That is a compliment.”

“I hope you take it that way.  With Boggs on some sort of crusade, my mother giving me dating tips, and Benderby hanging around, being with you breaks the gloom and doom.” 

I turned slightly to get a better look at her.  If it were anyone else, I could fall in love with her, but knowing a Cossatino was a dance with the devil, and dangerous for your health.

“Well, I’m glad I bring some light into someone’s life.  It seems I can’t do anything right at home.”

“Why did you come home.  It seems to me you were happier away from this place.”

“Reasons I now think were stupid.”  There was a finality in her tone that warned not to go any further with it.

Instead, we were passing the old mall, and I saw the transformation.  Fort Knox would be easier to get into.

“Do you know what’s going on at the old mall?”

“The Benderby’s are demolishing it, mainly because they have to, and do a lot of remediation, whatever that is, before they build the new marina and condos. They’re going to tap into the retirement market.”

That premise, according to a financial market magazine left on my desk, and which made interesting reading, was the next gold mine for those who had the foresight and the financial means.

Benderby had both, and in another article, which to me at the time seemed to be profiling Benderby, opining the fact some of the new rich had not all made their fortunes legitimately, harking back to the war days and profiteering.  Had Benderby’s father and his before him ploughed this path to success, and the son and grandson found other Illegitimate means like drugs and worse to perpetuate it?

Was it possible, in this day and age, to make a fortune without crossing the line somewhere?  No one could link Benderby to anything crooked, but rumours, there were plenty, including the mall, and the fact it was a huge insurance write-off.

Lenny seemed to think so, but cleverly, never quite put what he thought into words.

“Lucky them,” I muttered.

Several miles past the mall, she turned off the main road onto a track that had not been used for some time, heading towards the ocean

I could see now why we were in the truck.  A car would not be able to make it without getting bogged.  It was wet and muddy, with pools of water forming in ruts. 

When we hit a couple and got soundly shaken up, she slowed down.  Then, suddenly, the ocean came into view, and the track headed for the cliff, veering at the last minute, and going down the side of the hill until, at the bottom, we stopped outside a weather-beaten shack about the size of a large room.

She switched off the engine and let the silence surround us until I could just hear the sound of waves breaking on the rocky shoreline.

“Welcome to my castle.”

There was a whimsical expression on her face.

I opened the door and climbed out, in an instant, the temperature dropped 10 degrees, and the effect of the wind almost knocked me over.

She slammed the door shut and went to the door of the shack, unlocking it, then opening the door, then switching on a light, giving the inside a gloomy yellowish aura.  She motioned me to go in, then followed behind, closing the door, and immediately it was much quieter.

“Not much of a castle.”

“It is when you want to get away from the rest of the family.  It used to be a bathing shack, but the waters around here got too treacherous for swimming, and it fell into disrepair.  I had it fixed up, and this is where I come when I want to disappear.”

It didn’t look like it had been used in a while, a thin film of dust settled in everything, and smudged footprints on the floor showed recent signs of habitation.  Two metal detectors were sitting on the table.

“It’s like a different world to be in when you have the family I have.”

“They don’t know about this place?”

“They probably do, but it’s been a wreck for years, and no one ever comes here, not anymore.  I found it one day, wandering along the coastline, exploring the boundaries of The Grove.  This is the southernmost tip.  There’s one on the northernmost tip too, where the building is much larger and used for storage.”

Say no more, I thought.  The Cossatino’s were allegedly smugglers on top of everything else, and that’s probably where the smuggled goods were stored.  This part of the coastline was treacherous at best, with underwater reefs and craggy rocks along the cliff line.  There were some sandy stretches, but it was hard work to reach them, and at a guess, Nadia knew how to get there without slipping and falling.

Boats could only get within 50 years of the shoreline before the possibility of being dashed on the rocks, and for that reason, Boggs told me, that whole beachfront could not have been used by the pirate to bring his treasure ashore.

The little I’d seen from where the truck was parked verified that, at least for this section.

“But we’re here to check for gold coins, see if there is a possibility the treasure cane ashore somewhere along the Grove’s shoreline.  I know the consensus of opinion said it’s not possible, but from my explorations, I reckon there are at least a dozen spots where a longboat could land, especially if you came on the tide.”

That, I was guessing, was high tide, and it may have been a coincidence when the pirate arrived on this shore.

“The reefs would be submerged and even more dangerous.”

“There are ways.  I’ve been out there in a canoe once or twice with Vince, looking for passageways.  And, before you jump to any conclusions, I’m not a smuggler, and we may have been once, but an accident ten years ago put paid to that.  We lost four of the family, and six others in a hair-brained night landing in rough weather.”

I remembered a piece in the paper, the coastguard had been trailing a large yacht with suspected drugs aboard, waited until the Cossatino’s had transferred to the longboat that had gone out to meet the yacht, then chased it to the reef where a navigation mistake saw the longboat hit the reef, sink with all the evidence, and all but Vince had drowned in the heavy surf.

“Vince was lucky.”

“Vince was an idiot then and a bigger idiot now.  It made him believe he was invincible.  He’s not.  But let’s not talk about him, or the rest of them, we’re not exactly on speaking terms at the moment.”

She went to the table and picked up one of the metal detectors and held it out.  “Yours.”

I came over and took it, and it was heavier than I expected.

She picked up the other.  “Ready?”

For anything, I thought, then nodded.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2025

The 2am Rant: Sometimes it’s better to say that an expressed opinion is your own

It’s always a good thing to get that across, especially if you work for an organisation that could misinterpret what that opinion is, or generally have an opposing opinion.  Of course, by saying your opinions are your own, you’re covering yourself from becoming unemployed, but is this a futile act?

Perhaps it’s better to not say anything because everything you say and do eventually finds its way to those you most want not to hear about it; perhaps one of the big negatives of the internet and social media.

And…

It seems odd to me that you can’t have an opinion of your own, even if it is contrary to that of the organisation you work for, and especially if their opinion has changed over time.  An opposing opinion, not delivered in a derogatory manner, is expected to spark healthy debate, but it doesn’t always end up that way.

I’m sure there are others out there that will disagree and use the overused word, loyalty’.   Perhaps their mantra will be ‘keep your opinions to yourself’.

This, too, often crops up in personal relationships, and adds weight to the statement, ‘you can pick your friends but not your relatives’.

I’m told I have an opinion on everything, a statement delivered in a manner that suggests sarcasm.  Whether it’s true or not, isn’t the essence of free speech, working within the parameters of not inciting hate, bigotry, racism, or sexism, a fundamental right of anyone in a democracy?

Seems not.

There’s always someone out there, higher up the food chain, with an opinion of their own, obviously the right one, and who will not hesitate to silence yours.  But, isn’t it strange that to silence you, they have to use leverage, like your job, to get theirs across.

Well, my opinions are in my writing, and whether or not you agree with them or not, I’m sure you will let me know.  In a robust but respectful manner.

Unlike some, my door is always open.

What I learned about writing – The influence of a writer’s memory

The Hidden Muse: How a Writer’s Memories Shape Their Stories

Have you ever wondered where a writer’s ideas come from? While imagination often takes centre stage, the quiet, unsung hero of storytelling is memory. A writer’s recollections—of joy, heartbreak, childhood summers, or quiet moments—act as a wellspring of authenticity, emotion, and cultural depth. Whether conscious or unconscious, memories weave themselves into narratives, transforming personal history into universal art. Let’s explore how memories influence the craft of storytelling and why they’re indispensable to a writer’s voice.

1. Personal Experiences: The Raw Material of Stories

Every life is a tapestry of moments, and for writers, these experiences become raw material. A hike through a forest, a tense argument, or the scent of rain on old pavement can evolve into a pivotal scene or atmosphere in a story. For instance, J.K. Rowling’s childhood fascination with folklore and her own struggles with depression subtly seep into the emotional landscapes of her Harry Potter characters.

Memories act as a “treasure chest” of sensory details—textures, sounds, and smells—that bring fictional worlds to life. A writer might rework a family vacation into a fantastical quest or recast a schoolyard rivalry as a fictional feud. The result? Stories grounded in realism, even when the plot is pure fiction.

Exercise for Writers: Keep a memory journal. Note fleeting recollections, no matter how small. Years later, you’ll discover how these fragments can be reshaped into compelling narrative fuel.

2. Emotional Authenticity: Memory as a Resonance Chamber

Memories are steeped in emotion, and emotions are the lifeblood of storytelling. When a writer draws from their past, their words gain a visceral truth that readers can’t help but feel. A breakup you lived through will carry nuances—lingering anger, bittersweet nostalgia—that you can’t fully invent without personal experience.

Maya Angelou once said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” By channelling their memories, writers give voice to their innermost truths, creating characters and conflicts that resonate on a deeply human level. Think of a mother’s recollection of a child’s first steps becoming the poignant backstory of a character’s protective instincts or a survivor’s trauma morphing into a symbol of resilience.

3. Cultural and Familial Narratives: The Stories We Inherit

Our memories aren’t just individual; they’re shaped by the stories we inherit. Family legends, cultural traditions, and historical contexts form a collective memory that writers often mine for themes. A grandmother’s tales of immigration, a holiday ritual, or a national tragedy becomes part of a writer’s lens, enriching their work with cultural specificity and depth.

For example, Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude is steeped in the myths and history of his Colombian upbringing, while Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Americanah explores the duality of identity through her own experiences as a Nigerian in the West. These stories don’t just entertain—they preserve heritage and spark cross-cultural understanding.

4. Transforming Pain into Art: The Alchemy of Memory

Not all memories are easy to confront, but they often yield the most powerful stories. Writers frequently rework pain—grief, injustice, or personal failure—into fiction, offering both catharsis and connection. Consider how Colson Whitehead reimagined his family’s history of slavery in The Nickel Boys, or how Sylvia Plath’s confessional poetry transformed private anguish into poetry that speaks to millions.

This process isn’t about reliving trauma but about distilling it into something universal. By fictionalising painful memories, writers can explore complex emotions with nuance, giving readers a safe space to reflect on their own struggles.

5. The Creative Process: Mining Memory for Detail

Memory is a writer’s secret tool in the creative process. When crafting dialogue, setting, or character motivations, recollections provide a blueprint. A childhood friend’s lisp, a grandparent’s philosophical musings, or the ache of a long-gone summer home can become the DNA of a fictional character or location.

But memory isn’t just about fact—it’s about mood. A forgotten alleyway lit by sunset or the taste of your first love’s coffee might never happen in real life again, but in a story, they become immortal.

Conclusion: Your Memories Are Your Superpower

Next time you pick up a pen—or a laptop—remind yourself that your past is a universe waiting to be explored. Memories are not just relics of the past; they’re the tools that make stories real. They allow writers to breathe life into characters, build worlds with texture, and speak truths that transcend time.

So, ask yourself: What hidden gems lie in your own memories? What stories are begging to be reborn? The next great novel, poem, or script might be hiding in the quiet corners of your past.

Final Challenge: Pull out an old photo, a birthday card, or a childhood diary entry. Let the memories spark a scene, a character, or a theme. You never know where it might lead.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 222

Day 222 – From a wish to ambition

…

The Birth of a Writer: At What Age Does the Inherent Desire to Write Actually Begin?

Every author has an origin story. Long before the book deals, the midnight editing sessions, and the sacred mug of cold coffee on the desk, there was a spark. A quiet, persistent urge that whispered, Put pen to paper. Tell a story.

But when does that inherent desire to write actually begin?

Is it during the wide-eyed pre-teen years, when the magic of chapter books first captures your imagination? Does it ignite in the turbulent, emotionally charged teenage years, fueled by first loves and heartbreak? Or does it wait patiently until adulthood, when real-world experience, careers, and hardships finally grant you the insight to understand the human condition?

The truth is, the writing bug doesn’t have a single birthday. It visits us at different stages of life, transforming us in unique ways depending on when it decides to strike. Let’s explore the three distinct phases where the desire to write commonly takes root, and how each shapes the writer you become.

1. The Pre-Teen Wonder: When Magic Becomes a Blueprint

For many writers, the journey begins in childhood. Think back to the days of flashlight-under-the-covers reading, when the world of Narnia, Hogwarts, or Camp Half-Blood felt more real than your actual backyard.

During the pre-teen years, books are pure magic. But for future writers, reading is never just a passive activity. It’s an invitation.

  • The Inspiration: You finish a beloved book, close the back cover, and feel a sharp pang of grief because the story is over. Then comes the realisation: I can make my own world.
  • The Output: These early efforts are often messy, heavily derivative fan-fictions or tales of magical kingdoms featuring pets as protagonists, written in spiral-bound notebooks with gel pens.
  • The Impact: Starting young instils a sense of play and boundless imagination. Pre-teen writers learn early on that the page is a limitless sandbox. They write for the sheer joy of creation, long before the inner critic learns how to speak.

2. The Teenage Storm: When Emotion Demands an Outlet

If childhood writing is driven by imagination, teenage writing is driven by gasoline and matches.

The teen years are a whirlwind of firsts: first love, crushing rejection, identity crises, and a sudden, overwhelming awareness of the world outside oneself. For many, the inherent desire to write doesn’t come from a love of plotting; it comes from an urgent need to survive the emotional turbulence of growing up.

  • The Inspiration: Raw emotion. Whether it’s the dizzying high of a mutual crush or the devastating isolation of feeling misunderstood, life feels cinematic and high-stakes.
  • The Output: Poetry scrawled in the margins of algebra notebooks, angsty journal entries, and deeply emotional coming-of-age stories where the protagonists experience the exact emotional spectrum the author is currently navigating.
  • The Impact: Teenage writing teaches emotional honesty. It forces the writer to confront vulnerability and translate abstract feelings into concrete words. While these pieces might make you cringe a decade later, they build the vital muscle of emotional resonance.

3. The Adult Awakening: When Lived Experience Demands to Be Told

Not everyone catches the writing bug early. For many, the desire to write arrives much later in life—after years in the workforce, raising a family, navigating loss, or simply watching the world turn.

You might be sitting at a corporate desk, standing in your kitchen, or travelling the world when a sudden realisation hits: I have something to say.

  • The Inspiration: Perspective. Years of observing human behaviour, professional triumphs and failures, relationships that bloomed and withered, and the quiet resilience it takes to simply be an adult. You’ve seen how the world actually works, beyond the idealism of youth.
  • The Output: Rich, nuanced fiction with morally grey characters, reflective memoirs, deep non-fiction, or stories that explore the complexities of mid-life, grief, and reinvention.
  • The Impact: Adult-bloomed writers bring depth, pacing, and psychological realism to their work. They may lack the unbridled innocence of the pre-teen or the raw urgency of the teen, but they compensate with wisdom, patience, and a profound understanding of human motivation.

So, When Does It Truly Begin?

The beauty of the creative spirit is that it has no expiration date—and no single starting line.

  • If your journey started at age 10, your superpower is imagination.
  • If it started at age 15, your superpower is emotion.
  • If it started at age 40 (or 60, or 80), your superpower is perspective.

Ultimately, the inherent desire to write doesn’t belong to a specific age bracket. It belongs to the moment you decide that a story inside you deserves to exist outside of your head.

Whether you are dusting off a childhood dream, channelling current heartbreaks, or drawing from decades of life experience, the best time to start writing was yesterday. The second best time is right now.

When did the desire to write first strike you? Was it a childhood book, a teenage diary, or a later-in-life epiphany? Let us know in the comments below!

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Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Cairo

Beyond the Pyramids: 5 Hidden Gems in Cairo for the Discerning Traveller

Cairo, the bustling capital of Egypt, is synonymous with ancient wonders and crowded tourist hotspots. Most visitors flock to the iconic Pyramids of Giza, the Egyptian Museum, and bustling Khan El Khalili Bazaar—and for good reason. But beyond the well-trodden paths lies a quieter, more intimate Cairo, rich in history, art, and authenticity. For travellers seeking unique experiences without the crowds, here are the top five lesser-known visitor attractions in Cairo that offer distinctive charm and unforgettable moments.

1. The Coptic Cairo (Old Cairo)

Why it stands out: A peaceful enclave of early Christian heritage tucked behind the Roman fortress of Babylon.

While many tourists pass through en route to other sites, Coptic Cairo remains surprisingly uncrowded, despite housing some of Egypt’s most ancient churches and religious artifacts. Wander through narrow cobblestone streets and visit the Hanging Church (Al-Muallaqa), built atop Roman fortress gates, or step into the Church of St. Sergius and Bacchus, believed to be a resting place for the Holy Family during their flight into Egypt.

Don’t miss the Coptic Museum, a serene treasure trove of early Christian art, manuscripts, and textiles that tell the story of Egypt’s Christian roots. The quiet ambience, combined with centuries-old spirituality, makes this area a contemplative retreat in the heart of the city.

Pro tip: Visit early in the morning to enjoy the golden light filtering through the ancient arches and minimal foot traffic.

2. Manial Palace (Al-Manial Palace)

Why it stands out: A stunning blend of Ottoman, Persian, Moorish, and European architectural styles, set in a lush garden oasis.

Overlooked by most tour itineraries, Manial Palace is a 20th-century marvel built by Prince Muhammad Ali Tewfik. Located on the banks of the Nile in the suburb of Manial, the palace feels like a fairy-tale retreat. Its opulent interiors—complete with hand-painted ceilings, intricate mosaics, and royal artifacts—offer a glimpse into royal life during Egypt’s final days as a monarchy.

The surrounding gardens, with fountains, pavilions, and botanical displays, make it a perfect picnic spot or quiet escape from the urban rush.

Why it’s special: Unlike the crowded museums downtown, Manial Palace sees few visitors, allowing you to explore at your own pace, without guides or tour groups crowding your view.

3. Al-Azhar Park

Why it stands out: A 74-acre urban paradise offering panoramic views, Ottoman-era restoration, and a breath of fresh air.

Built on a former garbage dump, Al-Azhar Park is one of Cairo’s greatest urban renewal success stories. Opened in 2005, this beautifully landscaped park offers walking paths, man-made lakes, and shaded gardens. It’s a favourite spot for local families on weekends, but during weekdays, it’s peaceful and nearly empty—ideal for quiet reflection or photography.

From the elevated terraces, you get a stunning bird’s-eye view of Islamic Cairo, including the minarets of historic mosques like Al-Rifa’i and Sultan Hassan. The park also houses Restaurant @ the Tower, offering fine dining with a view, and the Aga Khan Museum, which explores Islamic art and culture.

Bonus: The park supports community initiatives, making your visit both enjoyable and socially responsible.

4. The Museum of Islamic Art

Why it stands out: One of the world’s most comprehensive collections of Islamic artifacts, housed in a striking 19th-century building.

Despite its global significance, the Museum of Islamic Art reopened in 2017 after years of restoration and still remains off the radar for many tourists. Inside, you’ll find over 100,000 artifacts spanning over 1,300 years—ranging from intricately designed metalwork, Qur’ans, textiles, ceramics, and astrolabes.

The building itself—a former 1881 school—exudes old-world elegance, and the spacious galleries allow you to explore without the usual museum crowds. Highlights include the Mamluk-era brass trays, Ottoman calligraphy, and rare wooden minbars (pulpits) from Cairo’s historic mosques.

Insider fact: The museum’s renovation was a joint effort between Egypt and international institutions, preserving not just artifacts, but architectural heritage.

5. The Graeco-Roman Museum (in Cairo – Misr University for Science and Technology)

Why it stands out: Though the original Alexandria branch is better known, this satellite museum in 6th of October City offers a rare focus on Greco-Roman Egypt.

Located just outside central Cairo, this modern museum presents a fascinating chapter of Egypt’s history when Greek and Roman influences merged with ancient Egyptian traditions. The exhibits include statues of Cleopatra, Roman busts, funerary practices, and everyday objects that illustrate cultural fusion.

The location on a university campus ensures low visitor numbers, making it a peaceful place to explore. The museum also features interactive displays and educational installations, appealing to both history buffs and casual visitors.

Why go? It’s a chance to see another side of Egypt—one shaped by Mediterranean empires yet deeply rooted in Pharaonic traditions.

Final Thoughts: Rediscovering Cairo’s Quiet Soul

Cairo is more than crowds and commotion. These five under-the-radar attractions reveal the city’s layered identity—spiritual, artistic, and historically rich—without the overwhelm of mass tourism. Whether you’re wandering through Coptic alleyways, strolling palace gardens, or marvelling at Islamic masterpieces, these hidden gems offer something truly distinctive.

Next time you’re in Cairo, skip the line and venture off the beaten path. The city’s quieter corners are waiting to whisper their stories.

Traveller’s Checklist:

  • Visit early in the day to avoid even small crowds.
  • Carry water and sun protection—Cairo heats up quickly.
  • Respect local customs, especially in religious sites.
  • Consider hiring a local guide for deeper insight, even at quieter spots.

Let Cairo surprise you. Sometimes, the most memorable moments come not from the loudest landmarks, but from the quiet ones that time forgot.

In a word: Joe

Aside from being the short form of the name Joseph, ie a man’s name, there is also a derivative for women, Jo.

The name Joe is said to be used from the mid-1800s.

My favourite Joe name is Joe Bloggs, and he features in some of my stories.

It’s anonymous enough for someone to use as a cover when booking into a sleazy motel and is a little more refined than Smith or Jones, names that more than likely already feature in the register.

Jo could be a short form for Josephine, a name I’m sure some women would prefer not to be called.

But…

Did you know it’s also a name given to a cup of coffee?

Well, that didn’t make much of a splash.  I don’t think anyone these days refers to coffee as Joe because there are so many different variations with names I couldn’t pronounce let alone spell, I think it’s been lost in the mists of time because there was only one type of coffee.

It was called coffee.  Funny about that.

However…

There is another definition, and that is for the ‘average Joe’, an ordinary fellow who works for a living.

Odd, because I thought that was what most of us did, but perhaps it refers to tradespeople, or blue collar workers, not the white collar brigade.

Hang on, isn’t there a GI Joe, a universal description of the average soldier?

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

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What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

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It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.