This is something you don’t see every day of the week, or once in a lifetime, perhaps.
We arrived at the Hilton Auckland hotel somewhere between one and two in the morning after arriving from Australia by plane around midnight.
Sometimes there is a benefit in arriving late, and, of course, being a very high tier HHonors guest, where the room you book is upgraded.
This stay we got one hell of a surprise.
We got to spend the night in the Presidential Suite.
The lounge and extra bathroom.
Looking towards the private bathroom.
A bathroom fit for a King and a Queen
And the royal bed
There was a note to say that we should keep the blinds closed for privacy and that a ship would be arriving in the port, but I did not expect it to be literally fifty feet from our balcony.
It started with a phone call, and then a visit by two police officers. It was about my parents, but the news could not be imparted over the phone, only in person. That statement alone told me it was very bad news, so I assumed the worst.
The two police officers, standing at the front door, with grim expressions on their faces, completed the picture. The news, my parents were dead, killed in a freak car accident.
At first, it didn’t sink in. They were on their way back from another of their extensive holidays, one of many since my father had retired. I’d seen them probably six months out of the last five years, and the only reason they were returning this time was that my mother needed an operation.
They hadn’t told me why, not that they ever told me very much any time since the day I’d been born, but that was who they were. I thought them eccentric, being older when I’d come along, and others thought them, well, eccentric.
And being an only child, they packed me off to boarding school, then university, and then found me a job in London, and set me up so that I would only see them weekends if they were home.
I had once wondered if they ever cared about me, keeping me at arm’s length, but my mother some time ago had taken me aside and explained why. It was my father’s family tradition. The only part I’d missed was a nanny.
It most likely explained why I didn’t feel their passing as much as I should.
A week later, after a strange funeral where a great many people I’d never met before, and oddly who knew about me, I found myself sitting in the sunroom, a glass of scotch in one hand, and an envelope with my name on it, in the other.
The solicitor, a man I’d never met before, had given it to me at the funeral. We had, as far as I knew an elderly fellow, one of my father’s old school friends, as the family solicitor, but he hadn’t shown at the funeral and wasn’t at home when I called in on my way home.
It was all very odd.
I refilled the glass and took another look at the envelope. It was not new, in fact, it had the yellow tinge of age, with discolouration where the flap was. The writing was almost a scrawl, but identifiable as my father’s handwriting, perhaps an early version as it was now definitely an illegible scrawl.
I’d compared it with the note he’d left me before they had embarked on their last adventure, everything I had to do while caretaking their house. The last paragraph was the most interesting, instructing me to be present when the cleaning lady came, he’d all but accused her of stealing the candlesticks.
To be honest, I hadn’t realized there were candlesticks to steal, but there they were, on the mantlepiece over the fire in the dining room. The whole house was almost like being in an adventure park, with stairs going up to an array of rooms, mostly no longer used, and a staircase to the attic, and then another going down to the cellar. The attic was locked and had been for as long as I could remember, and the cellar was dank and draughty.
Much like the whole house, but not surprisingly, it was over 200 years old.
And perhaps it was now mine. The solicitor, a man by the name of Sir Percival Algernon Bridgewater, had intimated that it might be the last will and testament and had asked me to tell him if it was. I was surprised that Sir Percival didn’t have the document in question.
And equally. so that the man I knew as his solicitor, Lawerence Wellingham, didn’t have a copy of my father’s last will and testament either.
I finished the drink, picked up the envelope, and opened it.
It contained two sheets of paper, the will, and a letter. A very short letter.
“If you are reading this I have died before my time. You will need to find Albert Stritching, and ask him to help you find the murderer.”
Even the tenor of that letter didn’t faze me as it should have, because at this point nothing would surprise me. In fact, as I unfolded the document that proclaimed it was the will, I was ready for it to say that the whole of his estate and belongings were to be left to some charity, and I would get an annual stipend of a thousand pounds.
In fact, it didn’t. The whole of his estate was left to my mother should she outlive him, or in the event of her prior decease, to me.
I had to put all of those surprises on hold to answer a knock on the door.
Lawerence Wellingham.
I stood to one side, let him pass, closed the door, and followed him into the front room, the one my mother called the ‘drawing room’ though I never knew why.
He sat in one of the large, comfortable lounge chairs. I sat in the other.
I showed him the will. I kept the other back, not knowing what to make of it.
“No surprise there,” Wellingham said.
“Did you have any idea what my father used to do, beyond being, as he put it, a freelance diplomat?”
I thought it a rather odd description but it was better than one he once proffered, ‘I do odd jobs for the government’.
“I didn’t ask. Knowledge can be dangerous, particularly when associated with your father. Most of us prefer not to know, but one thing I can tell you. If anyone tries to tell you what happened to your parents was not an accident, ignore them. Go live your life, and keep those memories you have of them in the past, and don’t look back. They were good people, Ken, remember them as such.”
We reminisced for the next hour, making a dent in the scotch, one of my father’s favourite, and he left.
Alone again, the thoughts went back to the second note from my father. That’s when the house phone rang.
Before I could answer it, a voice said, “My name is Stritching. Your father might have mentioned me? We need to talk.”
It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you?
John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.
So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?
That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.
What should have been solace after disappointment turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realises his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.
The story paints the characters, cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times, taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice, where, in those back streets, I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.
All in all, a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.
Sunday lunch could be the best of times or the worst of times. Any family gathering at my parents’ house was a trial, one that eventually drove me away.
I had stopped turning up at the family residence for the weekly gatherings simply because the ritual cross-examination of why I was not like my brothers and sisters, married with three point two children, got too exhausting.
It meant that I rarely, if ever, got to see my nieces and nephews or my brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, and well-meaning but over-the-top parents.
Moving to the other side of the country had a lot to do with it. The rest of my family had stayed put, making their lives in the one place they all professed they could never leave.
Only one other sibling had attempted an escape, my younger sister Eileen, but two months after she left, she came home. I knew something bad had happened, but she never said anything and never left again, except for the odd trip to the state capital for work.
But like all good things that came to an end, it was approaching that time when I would have to go back, if only once, because it was time.
…
I might have returned home earlier had it not been for an entirely unforeseen event.
I never had any intention of looking for, or becoming involved with, any other person, not to the extent that it would require explanation of my rather odd, to me anyway, circumstances.
Yes, I harboured the same hopes and dreams of meeting ‘the one’ as everyone else had, but the idea of subjecting them to the rigours of the family third degree was the single limiting factor. I could not say I was an orphan, but then I didn’t think it would be a selling point that I was the second youngest of fourteen children, with twelve of the thirteen others married, with a collective thirty-six nephews and nieces.
What was probably the worst aspect, this group turned up every Sunday for lunch, all sixty-four of them, unless a major calamity prevented their attendance. As you can see, with odds of sixty-four to one, the Spanish Inquisition would have been a kindergarten outing by comparison.
But to say I missed them may have been the case, but that they missed me more was becoming very hard to ignore or put off.
Perhaps they had missed making my life hell, because over the past three years, there had been many phone calls and messages and one visit by my eldest brother, the self-elected spokesman, he said, the peacemaker, who had come to take me home.
It was the last time we spoke. Civilly, anyway.
That was a year ago.
Things had changed during that year, though I was not sure whether for the better. I had met someone, yes, a woman named Catherine, Katerina if I wanted to call her by her Russian name, which I didn’t, one who was perhaps as skittish as I was at the whole dating and sharing your life thing.
Our first meeting was fascinating because her Russian accent was intoxicating, and I told her at the end of the night that she could read me War and Peace, and I would listen to it all night. I think that I realised she used her Russian heritage to put off potential suitors. I told her it wouldn’t work with me.
We both started out playing the orphan card, and as the dates piled up and the little pieces of our sad lives leaked out, it became apparent we both had suffered the small-town, large family, endless expectations things. She had been expected to marry her high school sweetheart until she found out he was secretly cheating on her.
When she told her parents, and they confronted him, he denied it and made her look like she was just spiteful because she didn’t want to marry him. The other girl could have him, and she left on the next bus out. It was no surprise to learn the other girl hadn’t married him, nor had any other.
From there, with cards on the table, we just clicked.
But like all good things, it, too, should have ended because I was one of those people who never finished what they started.
…
A Saturday morning, not generally a workday and the day we set aside for everything that couldn’t get done on a weekday, came after an extended evening in the pub.
We rarely stayed beyond a drink or two, but others we knew, just back from a long holiday, dropped in on the off chance we would be there, and it turned into dinner and more drinks.
It never affected Katerina. I was guessing it was something to do with her Russian heritage and vodka, and the explanation I missed when I had to go to the bathroom. I was not so lucky.
She was up and about, and I heard the buzzer, usually someone trying to get in after they forgot to take their key, and I thought no more about it.
Five minutes passed, and then Katerina was standing in the doorway, her half-hostile, annoyed expression glaring at me. It was one of those expressions you could feel.
“Some silly girl at the door says she is your sister.”
“I don’t have a sister.”
“I say this, and she says, ‘Go tell that annoying bastard Eileen is here’. So, annoying bastard, who is this Eileen?”
“One of the thirteen other siblings I try very hard not to admit I have. They’re like debt collectors. You can never really escape them.”
I climbed out of bed and went out. She stayed back at the door but was still visible from the front.
I opened the door, and there was Eileen, my youngest sister, the last born and the most spoiled. Given the age differences between my other siblings and me, she was the only one I could relate to.
“What the hell, Robert?”
“What the hell, yourself? Didn’t I make it clear to Prince Walter that I had disappeared through a portal to another dimension?”
It was an attempt at a joke that he couldn’t and wouldn’t understand. He had no sense of humour at all.
“That dumb shit doesn’t work on me. Are you going to leave me standing in the passage?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Oh, for fucks sake, Robert,” then brushed past inside.
Katerina was watching with a bemused expression. Perhaps this was her family, too.
I could see Eileen giving her the traditional family female death stare. “Who is she?”
“She is standing right here, and I can hear and see you. A warning word, my other job is a bouncer at a nightclub, and you may, depending on what you say next, find out how I treat recalcitrant customers.”
That notion of not wanting to meet her in a dark alley was right. Katarina was a gym freak.
It was amusing to see Eileen think before she spoke next.
Then, with a glance over my shoulder at Katarina, she said, “As I said at the door, I’m his sister, Eileen. I’m surprised he didn’t mention me.”
Katerina looked her up and down. “He mentioned all of you, but I think his description may have been a little harsh. You only seem a little bit bitch from hell. I am Katarina. Bigger bitch from Siberia.”
I smiled. She could be a fascinating companion, more so after a bottle of vodka, and especially when she related tales of being in the Russian army. I could never tell if they were true and never dared to ask.
Eileen didn’t know what to do or say at that point. She was a hugger, and for the first time, I saw her hesitate.
Instead, she said, “Wow. The others are going to shit their pants when they meet Katarina.”
“And you know that’s never going to happen. That unappreciative, condescending collection of hypocrites doesn’t deserve anything from me and nothing from Katerina.”
She switched her death stare back to me.
“Dad’s dying. Earlier in the week, the final diagnosis gave him four to six months, if he’s lucky. We don’t believe he’s lucky. He must go to the hospital next week, and I honestly believe he won’t be coming out, Robert. We gave him a wish, the one thing he wanted most of all, no matter what it was, and we would grant it. He wants to see you one more time before he dies.”
That was saying something. When I left, he told me I could die in purgatory, after hell froze over, before he wanted to see me again.
“You were there when I left? He was the one who drove me away. Along with everyone else, including mother, who, I might add, spent every last breath making you the spoilt brat you are.”
“You need to get over it and yourself. I was not spoiled. When I left, I made a fool of myself and was raped. It was the worst experience of my life, and my mother nearly fought a losing battle when I tried to kill myself. I thought I knew everything, but I knew nothing. Perhaps I should have told you, and you wouldn’t have left.”
Well, if nothing else, it was typical of how my family handled trouble. My brother could have explained everything when he came, but he chose not to. He was the same man as my father, uncompromising and a hard task master. I was sure that if my father, and in turn my eldest brother, could whip us for our sins, he would have.
I shook my head and looked at Katerina. She went up to Eileen and hugged her.
“It is a terrible thing, what men can do to women. We go find this lowlife and teach lesson, no?”
“Too late. God has a way of sorting out these problems. He was killed in a crash, chased by the cops while kidnapping an underage girl he had got pregnant. Leopards and spots, my father says.”
That would be him. A saying for everything, not a solution.
“There is no God, just karma. But the story doesn’t change people, as you say, like leopards and spots. Nor does death. They are still the same people as in life. You need more compelling reasons. I have the same family, which is why I left Russia.”
Eileen glared at me. “Who is this woman?”
Katerina put her angry face on again. “When you live my life, you can dare ask. You have delivered a message.” She went to the door and opened it. “We will discuss; let you know.”
“Robert?”
“Where are you staying?”
“The hotel up the road, not far from here.”
“Good. I’ll call you. I assume your cell number hasn’t changed?”
Her annoyance changed to surprise. I was not sure what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the open door.
“Is that it?”
“Like the rest, your expectation is that I would just fall into line. You could have called me.”
“You wouldn’t answer.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. But I will call you.”
“We can talk now.”
“No. You can’t just turn up on my doorstep and expect me to drop everything. I now have a life, one I like, free of all that obligation and expectation. I don’t have to meet anyone’s standards other than my own and of Katarina, as it should be.”
“He’ll be very disappointed if you don’t. Everyone will be.”
“And there’s the emotional blackmail. Go now before I simply refuse, and you will have wasted your time and money.”
She looked at me with anger and just a little of what my brother had in his eyes the last time I saw him. Hatred.
“I don’t understand why you hate us so much.”
“You should be asking them, not me.”
A final shake of the head, and she left. It was not what I wanted, but it was the right thing to do. Something I had learned while away from home was that decisions were not mine alone when there were others involved, something my father never practised. It had always been his way or no way.
I leaned against the door and sighed.
“You think her story is true? She is quite manipulative, as you said.”
“Maybe. My father taught them well, her especially.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Go back to bed and pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Shopping or bed, I know which I prefer, but it doesn’t resolve the problem.”
“Then I make a call to a friend who will know what’s really going on. Then bed, then we talk, then we take her to dinner and send her back with the good or bad news. It’s up to you, too.”
“It is, after all, your family.”
“And yours for better or worse, if or when we decide to make this permanent.”
“Does that mean we have to go to Siberia to see mine? It is not something I would ask of you.”
“I’d love to see Siberia.”
She laughed. “You are funny, boy Robert. No one loves to go to Siberia, especially Siberians. Make the call, and then I will make you forget Siberia exists.”
Speed vs. Patience in Novel Writing: Why “Fast” Doesn’t Have to Mean “Shallow”
Writing fast can be a strength when it’s backed by a solid plan, disciplined habits, and a system for keeping track of details.
Rushing without preparation usually ends in thin characters, plot holes, and endless rewrites.
Earl Stanley Gardner’s 3 × 5‑card system shows how a writer can sprint the first draft while still maintaining “detail‑level” control.
In the world of fiction, the “fast‑track” versus “slow‑burn” debate is as old as the first typewriter. Some of the most beloved classics were laboured over for years; others erupted onto the scene in a burst of creative momentum. So, is finishing a novel quickly a badge of honour or a recipe for mediocrity? Let’s unpack the myth, look at the data, and see what a master of the craft—Earl Stanley Gardner—can teach us about marrying speed with substance.
1. The Myth of the “Quick‑Write” Novel
Common Pro‑Speed Belief
Reality Check
“If I write fast, the story stays fresh.”
Freshness can be preserved if you capture the core idea quickly, but the nuance (voice, subtext, world‑building) still requires time.
“The first draft should be a sprint.”
A sprint works when you have a map; otherwise you risk getting lost and having to backtrack.
“Fast writers are more productive, period.”
Productivity = output ÷ time. A fast first draft can be productive, but quality revisions are the true productivity multiplier.
The romantic image of the author hunched over a typewriter, words spilling out like a torrent, is compelling. Yet the industry’s “publish‑or‑perish” pressure has turned speed into a badge of professionalism—sometimes at the cost of depth.
Why the Fear of “Too‑Slow” Persists
Market pressure – Publishers want marketable manuscripts, and a lengthy gestation can look risky.
Personal doubt – Writers equate time spent with laziness, ignoring the fact that thoughtful revision is work, not procrastination.
Social media – Flash‑fiction challenges and “write‑a‑novel‑in‑30‑days” hashtags glorify speed.
But speed alone is not a metric of quality. It’s the process behind that speed that makes the difference.
2. The Counter‑Argument: “Take Your Time, Get the Detail Right”
Many celebrated authors have taken years—sometimes decades—to perfect a single novel:
Author
Time to First Draft
Notable Detail
Marcel Proust
13 years ( À la recherche du temps perdu )
Intricate memory structures, sensory detail
J.K. Rowling
5 years ( Harry Potter series)
World‑building, magical system rules
Haruki Murakami
4–6 years per novel
Atmosphere, recurring motifs
These writers demonstrate that deliberate, layered craftsmanship often requires a slower pace. Yet notice the pattern: they didn’t just sit and think; they produced drafts, rewrote, and refined—a disciplined cadence, not a languid drift.
What “Taking Your Time” Looks Like in Practice
Daily word‑count goals (e.g., 500–1,000 words) that respect a realistic schedule.
Research blocks are scheduled before or during the draft, not after.
Iterative outline revisions as the story evolves.
Scheduled “detail‑days” where you focus solely on specific aspects: dialogue, setting, character back‑story.
In other words, time is a resource—you can spend it wisely or waste it. The key is structure.
3. Planning: The Bridge Between Speed and Substance
Speed without a plan is like driving a sports car without a road map: you’ll get somewhere, but likely not where you intended. A robust plan lets you:
Flag high‑stakes details (character motivations, world rules) for later refinement.
Allocate “sprint” vs. “sprint‑pause” phases, ensuring stamina.
Types of Planning Systems
System
Core Idea
Ideal For
Full‑blown outline (e.g., Snowflake Method)
Start with a single sentence, expand to chapters.
Writers who love a macro view before micro work.
Scene‑by‑scene index cards
Cards for each scene, shuffled as needed.
Visual thinkers, flexible plots.
Mind‑map
Non‑linear, branching ideas.
Complex worlds, multiple POVs.
3 × 5‑card system (Earl Stanley Gardner)
Details captured on index cards, organized into “files.”
Plot‑driven writers, mystery/suspense authors.
All of these share a common thread: externalise the story. When you move ideas off the page (or screen) you free mental bandwidth for creative flow.
4. Case Study: Earl Stanley Gardner and the 3 × 5‑Card System
Who Was Earl Stanley Gardner?
Creator of the Perry Mason series (1933–1973) – over 80 novels, many adapted for TV.
Prodigious output: Averaged a novel every two months, some weeks.
Master of plot precision: Known for intricate puzzles that never left loose ends.
The Card System Explained
Step
What You Do
Why It Helps
1. Capture every idea
Write each plot point, character trait, clue, or setting on a 3 × 5 index card.
Prevents “aha!” moments from evaporating.
2. Categorize into “files.”
Group cards into logical bins: Characters, Motives, Clues, Red Herrings, Scenes.
Gives you a searchable “database” of story elements.
3. Sequence the narrative
Lay out the scene cards in order, shuffle, test alternate orders.
Enables rapid restructuring without rewriting.
4. Draft from the cards
Use the sequence as a road map for a fast, first‑draft sprint.
Keeps you moving forward; you already have the details.
5. Review & tighten
After the draft, return to the cards to spot missing connections or over‑complicated twists.
Guarantees that the detail‑level (the “fair‑play” of mystery) stays intact.
Why It Works
External Memory: The cards become a “second brain,” freeing the author to write rather than juggle facts.
Modular Flexibility: If a scene feels flat, you pull a different card, replace it, and keep writing.
Speed with Safety Net: Gardener could sprint the first draft because the “detail police” lived on his card table.
Takeaways for Any Writer
Adopt a capture tool – physical index cards, a digital Kanban board (Trello, Notion), or even a simple spreadsheet.
Commit to a “card‑first” mindset – no idea is too small to be carded.
Use the cards as a reversible outline – rearrange, add, delete, then write.
5. Practical Blueprint: Write a Novel Fast Without Losing Depth
Below is a step‑by‑step workflow that blends Gardner’s method with modern tools.
Phase 1 – Ideation (1–2 weeks)
Action
Tool
Output
Brain‑dump plot seeds
Scrivener, Google Docs, or a stack of 3 × 5 cards
20–30 raw ideas
Turn each seed into a card
Physical cards or Trello card
“Idea Cards”
Assign tags (Character, Setting, Twist)
Card color/label
Organized library
Phase 2 – Structure (2–3 weeks)
Action
Tool
Output
Draft a one‑sentence logline
Notepad
Core hook
Expand to a paragraph synopsis
Word processor
Story arc
Break synopsis into scene cards
Trello board columns (Act I, II, III)
30–50 scene cards
Verify each scene supports one major plot goal and one character arc beat
Checklist
Cohesive structure
Phase 3 – Sprint Draft (4–6 weeks)
Daily Routine
Goal
Morning (30 min): Review the next 2‑3 scene cards, add any missing details.
Keep the mental map fresh.
Writing block (2 hr): Write the scenes in order without editing.
Capture raw narrative.
Afternoon (15 min): Update card status (Done, Needs Revision).
Track progress.
Evening (10 min): Quick “detail‑audit” – do any clues or character motives feel incomplete? Add new cards if needed.
Prevent blind spots.
Result: A first draft in 30–45 days, with most major plot holes already flagged.
Phase 4 – Revision (4–8 weeks)
Revision Pass
Focus
Pass 1 – Macro: Compare draft to scene cards, ensure every card is represented appropriately.
Structural fidelity.
Pass 2 – Character Depth: Cross‑check each character’s “Motivation Card” against their actions.
Emotional authenticity.
Pass 3 – Detail Polish: Use “Setting” and “Clue” cards to enrich prose, add sensory layer.
Texture and atmosphere.
Pass 4 – Line‑Edit: Grammar, style, pacing.
Clean copy.
The beauty of this system is that the heavy lifting (detail tracking) is already done; revisions become a matter of refinement, not reconstruction.
6. When Speed Can Backfire (And How to Avoid It)
Pitfall
Symptoms
Fix
“Speed‑first, plan‑later”
Frequently hitting dead‑ends, large plot holes, endless rewrites.
Insert at least a 10‑page outline before the first draft.
“All‑out sprint, no rest”
Burnout, loss of enthusiasm, sloppy prose.
Build in micro‑breaks (e.g., 10‑minute walk after each 2‑hour block).
“Details after the fact”
Inconsistencies in character back‑story, world logic errors.
Use cards or a spreadsheet to log every new fact as you write.
“Relying on memory”
Forgetting early clues, contradictory timelines.
Keep a master timeline (Google Sheet, Excel) updated daily.
7. Bottom Line: Speed Is a Tool, Not a Philosophy
If you have a plan, a fast first draft can be a productive sprint that leaves you plenty of time for deep revision.
If you lack a plan, speed often leads to a quick mess that takes longer to clean up than a slower, more deliberate approach.
Gardner’s 3 × 5‑card system proves that you can have both: a rapid output engine powered by meticulous, externalised detail tracking.
In short: Write fast when you’ve wired the details into a system you trust. Write slowly when you’re still figuring out what the story even is. The sweet spot lies somewhere in the middle—structured speed backed by disciplined organisation.
8. Quick‑Start Checklist (Print‑Friendly)
Capture every narrative idea on a card (physical or digital).
Tag each card (Character, Plot, Setting, Clue).
Arrange cards into a three‑act scene sequence.
Set a daily word‑count goal (1,000–2,000 words).
Write the first draft without editing – use the cards as a roadmap.
Mark cards that need extra detail during the draft.
Revise using the four‑pass method (macro → character → detail → line).
Print this list, stick it on your desk, and let it guide you from “I have a story” to “I have a polished novel—fast.”
Further Reading
Earl Stanley Gardner – The Case of the Counterfeit Coin (intro to his planning method).
Steven King – On Writing (chapter on “The Importance of a Plan”).
K.M. Weiland – Structuring Your Novel (Snowflake Method).
James Clear – Atomic Habits (building daily writing habits).
Ready to sprint your next novel while keeping the details tight? Grab a stack of 3 × 5 cards, map out your world, and let the words flow. Speed and depth are not mutually exclusive—they’re just waiting for the right system to meet.
Happy writing!
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This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.
Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.
Why, you might ask.
Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne
At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.
I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.
Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them
Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.
I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.
Damn!
So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years
I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.
It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey. Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.
Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.
So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.
Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.
It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there. She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.
And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions. Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.
Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.
But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.
As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life
If only I’d come from such a background!
And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.
I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.
One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.
Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.
It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife. Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.
Now, over the cat and his wake-up tactics, food issues, and then walking off with a snooty expression, it might not be, but I’m going with that, it’s time to get to work.
But before that, I’m going to take the time to go over the plan, and taking into account the few sidebars that I made a few notes on to come back to, I realise there was a little loss of continuity.
Unfortunately, I’m going to have to rechart the plan in Excel, so later, when the same thing happens, I can quickly move the ’tiles’ around, and this takes a few hours.
Chester drops by to give me a surly look and wanders off.
Now having sorted the ’tiles’ into order, and added side notes, I’m ready to start again.
Of course, then there’s a problem. I’m writing away, and instead of sticking to the plan, I’m going off on a tangent. That’s the way the story is leading me, pantser style, but it’s only one possibility, so I put that writing aside and go back to the plan.
Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.
We met the Blaines at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaines frequently visited and had recommended.
Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’. It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.
It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over. It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.
Aside from the half-frown, half-smile, Alison was looking stunning. It had been months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th anniversary that cost a month’s salary. On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to. She had adored it and me, for a week or so after.
For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.
She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars get on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds of silence, and many more gasps.
I even had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room. Once more, I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me. Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others out there who were more appealing.
Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight. She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.
More than once, I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”
Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together. It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement. Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.
The battle lines were drawn.
Jimmy was looking fashionable, with a permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and a designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it. Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.
The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out, she had straightened it. And took the moment to look deeply into my soul. It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.
Then it was gone.
I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me. A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.
When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.” It was not a question, but a statement.
I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’, but I accepted it with good grace. Sometimes, Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand. I guessed she was talking about the new job. “It was supposed to be a secret.”
She smiled widely. “There are no secrets between Al and me, are there, Al?”
I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.
I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al. I tried it once and was admonished. But it was interesting that her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not. It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.
Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil. As I understood it, the Blaines were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in. I didn’t ask if the Blaines thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.
And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realised I was looking at both of them. I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand. And yet, apparently, Alison did. I must have missed the memo.
“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”
No secrets. Her look conveyed something else entirely.
The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us. It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me. We were going to need it.
Then, a toast.
To a new job and a new life.
“When did you decide?” Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.
Alison had a strange expression on her face. It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind. Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.
Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realised it would be churlish, even silly, if I made a scene. I knew what I wanted to say. I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine or upsetting Alison. This was not the time or the place. Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.
Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing. If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decided there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control. “It’s the little things. They all add up until one day …” I shrugged. “I guess that one day was today.”
I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real? Or, I told you he’d come around.
I had no idea the two were so close.
“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me. I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points. It was all I could come up with at short notice.
“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted. “Alison was off to get some studying in with one of her friends.”
“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up and immediately got the ‘shut up, you fool’ look that cut that line of conversation dead. Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.
It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose. Care to join me, Al?”
A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend. “Yes.”
I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation. I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.
I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.
There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show. I was quite literally gob-smacked.
I drained my champagne glass, gathering some courage and turned to him. “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up. You know Alison is doing her law degree.”
He looked startled when he realised I had spoken. He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed. Or perhaps it was deliberate. She’d definitely had some enhancements done.
He dragged his eyes back to me. “Yes. Elaine said something or other about it. But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week. Perhaps I got it wrong. I usually do.”
“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.” I shrugged as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again. “This week or next, what does it matter?”
Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart. It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; she might have been telling me lies. If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?
We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”
“Trouble, I suspect. Definitely more money, but less time at home.”
“Oh,” raised eyebrows. Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details. “You sure you want to do that?”
At last, the voice of reason. “Me? No.”
“Yet you accepted the job.”
I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him. Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him. “Jimmy, between you and me, I haven’t as yet decided one way or another. To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”
“Barclay?”
“My boss.”
“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay who recently moved into the tower a block down from us. I thought I recognised the name.”
“How did Elaine get the job?”
“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”
“When?”
“A couple of months ago. Why?”
I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker. I felt sick, faint, and wanted to die all at the same moment. “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time. Too busy with work, I expect. I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”
I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted, and I knew I had to keep it together. I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down. I sucked in some deep breaths and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.
And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown. Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”
Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth. It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction. It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.
When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and me. I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, but it didn’t matter. If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact that I took over the dining engagement did. She knew well enough that the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket. She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.
But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points. Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine. She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.
Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly. I chose to ignore her and pretend nothing had happened, rather than tell her how much I was enjoying the evening.
She had her ‘secrets’. I had mine.
At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent-up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me. It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, that Jimmy came looking for me. I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse. When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was, but neither made any comment.
It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which, to a large degree, it was for the other three. But I had achieved what I set out to do: to play them at their own game, watching the deception once I knew there was one, as warily as a cat watches its prey.
I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree. It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.
We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaines back to the Upper West Side. But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer. She showed concern for my health and asked me what was wrong. It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.
She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it. Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.
And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.
It left me confused and lost.
I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.
And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.
A similar-looking man to the last appeared. We were only just beginning to grapple with successful cloning, and I wondered if those who were driving the projects were visitors from this galaxy.
If they were on our world, wouldn’t they be trying to use their knowledge, if not for avarice, but to help, or worse, to eradicate us as a threat?
It was too much for me to concern myself, that was for the high council to discuss and take action.
“Captain, I represent Krulaxl, the traditional home world of Princess Adwenana, and formally request her release into our protection.”
“Captain. For what reason?”
“That is not within my preview to discuss. You can be assured that no harm will come to her.”
“Everybody keeps telling me no harm will come to her, and yet they refuse to tell me about the purpose behind their request. I have discussed the Foroi’s intentions, and I will discuss yours with or without the real reason, but I suspect her response will be the same, she’d rather be recruited as a crew member of my ship that to leave it. Care to explain why that is so?”
“I cannot. Perhaps she is still traumatised from years of incarceration at the hands of the Foroi.”
“And yet there were no signs of ill-treatment.”
“They are very skilled at hiding their methods of torture which I assure you they visit upon all their prisoners.”
“Good to know. I shall speak to you again after I put your request to her.”
The comms officer ended the transmission.
Burke, one of the science officers said, “Captain, the new vessel has been scanning our ship, and tried several times to take the Princess.”
Of course, they had. Engage in a distraction while executing their true purpose.
“All divisions on alert for intruders,” I said, adding, “Let’s lift the threat level to blue.” There were only two after that: red, battle stations, an attack imminent, and black, we had been boarded and potential loss of control of the ship.
Our simulations of a black alert always seemed to end in a shambles, so I hoped it didn’t get to that.
“Number One, take charge. No more communications until I return.”
I’m sure by now the Princess was tired of seeing me. Certainly, when I arrived on her doorstep, it was surprising to see a wry smile rather than deep concern.
“If you keep visiting me like this, the crew are going to suspect we are having a clandestine affair.”
“That would only be the case if you were spoken for.”
She looked puzzled
“You already had a partner. We also call it cheating because we like the idea of monogamy.”
“We’re not that old-fashioned, but some still insist on the old ways. But no, I am not spoken for as you suggest.”
“And I have no other intentions or motives other than to protect you.”
It was odd to be having this type of discussion while five enemy ships with questionable intentions were nearby. I was sure the General and his team were in their element formulating attack plans, the first military operation in outer space.
It was the stuff of legends and names for high schools.
“The new arrivals have made their intentions clear. They want to take you to their version of safety. They claim you are a Princess from Krulaxl.”
“They would be correct. But that planet and people have been crushed and annexed by the Foroi, so they are pretending to be something they are not “
“Not a chance they are the resistance if the original citizens of Krulaxl could fight back?”
“It would be highly unlikely. At the time of the invasion, we were much like the equivalent of the Stone Age man on your planet versus your people in the 20th century.”
I had a hard time visualising her in a Stone Age dress. Or perhaps that was unwise. Like others from this galaxy, she had a very persuasive manner and was someone who was used to getting what she wanted.
“Have you considered my suggestion?”
“To join the crew?”
“Or I could be so much more for you.”
It took a moment to read between the lines, and it was disconcerting. Was this also a trait of these people?
“If I have given you any reason to think that my intentions were anything other than honourable, I apologise. It simply isn’t the case.”
“You don’t like me?”
“It’s not a matter of whether I like you or not; it is a matter of propriety, and as Captain, I have to set an example. That might not happen on your planet, but it does on mine.”
“Then I am sorry. I meant no disrespect. It’s just a more preferable option than leaving this ship.”
“Staying here might cause a great many deaths to my people, and I have to weigh that up against what may or may not be best for you.”
“If I go with either of them, more of my people will die, one way or another.”
The very definition of being between a rock and a hard place.
“Then how do we resolve this problem? If I agree to let you stay on this ship, you have to prove to me you have a purpose.”
“Perhaps I could mediate a truce between the peoples of our worlds. It’s clear to me that if the Krulaxl need me, if that’s why they’re here, then their uprising needs a figurehead, a reason to continue. And if the Foroi are here, they know the battle is slipping. It may present an opportunity to increase your profile and that of your planet.”
“You do realise the moment you leave this room, they will take you off the ship.”
Oops, been watching Romancing the Stone again, and that catchy line caught my attention. Perhaps I can use it somewhere, one day.
But…
The project is proceeding on course, adhering more to the outline than less, and it’s looking good.
I know just in saying that the ship is about to founder on a reef, so I’ll brace myself.
Today’s quota of words is done early, so I can sit down soon and do the crossword over a cup of coffee while waiting for dinner to cook in the oven.
Perhaps we might have a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc with dinner. What I’ve noticed with these is that they are not all the same; some actually taste terrible, and some are quite exquisite. I suspect it might be where they grow the grapes, even if it is in the same region.
And, later, I’ll take another look at the sidebar I decided to add and flesh it out a little more. In view of what is happening, it is rather fortuitous that it came out of left field because it will serve as a reminder that being home doesn’t mean they’re safe.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 