Beyond the Fold: Is Speculative Fiction Just a Series of ‘What Ifs’ Gleaned from Today’s Headlines?
Ever read a news story – a groundbreaking scientific discovery, a chilling political development, a startling environmental report – and felt a tiny tremor in your imagination? That whisper of a thought: “What if this continued? What if this went wrong? What if this changed everything?”
If so, you’ve touched the very essence of speculative fiction.
The idea that speculative fiction – encompassing science fiction, fantasy, dystopia, and alternate history – is simply a series of “what-ifs” is compelling. And the notion that these “what-ifs” are often gleaned from the headlines of the papers over time is not just plausible; it’s often the very engine driving the genre.
Let’s unpack this fascinating relationship.
The “What If” Generator: Curiosity as a Catalyst
At its heart, speculative fiction is the ultimate thought experiment. It doesn’t merely invent worlds; it interrogates ours. Authors take a single variable – a technological leap, a societal shift, a historical divergence, a potential disaster – and push it to its logical (or terrifyingly illogical) conclusion.
The “what if” is the seed. What if humans could genetically engineer their children? What if artificial intelligence achieved sentience? What if a virus wiped out most of humanity? What if a forgotten magic re-emerged? What if a certain political leader never came to power?
These questions aren’t born in a vacuum.
Headlines as a Crucible of Inspiration
The news, whether the morning paper, the evening broadcast, or the relentless scroll of our digital feeds, is a rich and constantly evolving source of these “what-ifs.” It reflects humanity’s biggest fears, our grandest ambitions, our ethical dilemmas, and our scientific breakthroughs.
Consider these historical and ongoing examples:
Technological Advancements: The discovery of electricity led to tales of Frankenstein. Early computer science gave rise to cyberpunk visions of interconnected digital worlds. Today, headlines about AI development, CRISPR gene editing, quantum computing, and space tourism are actively feeding new narratives about our future and what it means to be human. Environmental Concerns: From Rachel Carson’s “Silent Spring” to modern reports on climate change, deforestation, and plastic pollution, environmental headlines have directly inspired dystopian futures where resources are scarce, and humanity battles the consequences of its own hubris. Societal and Political Upheaval: Totalitarian regimes, surveillance states, economic inequalities, and political polarisation are not new. 1984, Brave New World, and The Handmaid’s Tale are poignant examples of authors extrapolating from contemporary political anxieties and societal trends, pushing them to their extreme conclusions to serve as warnings. Epidemics and Public Health: Long before recent global events, authors explored fictional plagues and pandemics, drawing on real-world outbreaks throughout history to imagine scenarios of societal collapse, survival, and the ethical dilemmas of containment. Scientific Discoveries: From the discovery of new planets to breakthroughs in neuroscience, astrophysics, and biology, every scientific headline offers a potential portal to a new fictional reality. What if we found alien life? What if we unlocked the secrets of the brain? Speculative fiction doesn’t just copy the headlines; it amplifies them. It takes the disquieting whispers of today’s news and turns them into roaring narratives, exploring the deeper implications that headlines can only hint at.
Beyond the Event: The Human Element
But it’s crucial to remember that speculative fiction isn’t just about the event or the discovery. It’s about what those what-ifs do to people. How do individuals adapt, resist, thrive, or crumble under these altered circumstances? It explores human nature in a crucible of change, examining our ethics, our resilience, and our capacity for both cruelty and compassion.
The headlines provide the stage and the initial conflict, but the human drama unfurls within.
A Mirror and a Lantern
Ultimately, by taking these “what-ifs” gleaned from the continuous narrative of our world, speculative fiction serves a vital dual purpose:
It holds up a mirror: Reflecting our current anxieties, hopes, and moral quandaries back at us, often in exaggerated forms, forcing us to confront them.
It acts as a lantern: Illuminating potential futures, both utopian and dystopian, allowing us to consider the paths we might be heading down and perhaps, to choose a different course.
So, yes, speculative fiction is indeed largely a series of “what-ifs,” and the headlines of the papers – both today’s and yesterday’s – are its constant, fertile ground. It’s a testament to our enduring curiosity, our inherent need to understand consequences, and our powerful imagination to dream up not just what is, but what could be. And in doing so, it helps us better understand what we want our present to become.
Day 198 – Robert Heinlein’s five business habits for writers
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Master the Craft: 5 Business Habits of Robert A. Heinlein (And Why One is So Contested)
When people think of Robert A. Heinlein, they picture a grandmaster of science fiction. Alongside Isaac Asimov and Arthur C. Clarke, Heinlein was one of the “Big Three” writers who shaped the genre during its Golden Age, penning timeless classics like Starship Troopers, Stranger in Strange Land, and The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress.
However, Heinlein was more than just a visionary storyteller; he was a disciplined professional. Long before he became a household name, he treated writing not as a fragile artistic muse, but as a hard-nosed business.
In his famous essay “On the Writing of Speculative Fiction” (and later expanded in letters and his collection Grumbles from the Grave), Heinlein laid out five simple rules for writing success. They sound deceptively easy, but together, they form a rigorous boot camp for any aspiring author.
While four of these rules are widely accepted wisdom in the writing community, the third rule remains a fierce point of debate among authors, editors, and writing coaches to this day.
Let’s break down Heinlein’s five business rules, examine why they work, and dive into the controversy surrounding rule number three.
Heinlein’s 5 Rules for Writers
Heinlein stated these rules with trademark bluntness. If you want to make a living as a writer, he argued, you only need to follow these steps:
You must write.
You must finish what you start.
You must refrain from rewriting except to editorial order. (The Contested One)
You must put the work on the market.
You must keep the work on the market until it is sold.
At a glance, this looks like a blueprint for industrial-scale content production. Let’s look at each one to understand the philosophy behind the master’s machine.
Rule 1: You must write.
It sounds painfully obvious, but millions of aspiring writers fail at the very first hurdle. They talk about writing, they think about writing, and they outline for years. Heinlein’s point is that a writer writes. Ideas are worthless until they hit the page. You cannot call yourself a writer based on your potential; you are only a writer based on your output.
Rule 2: You must finish what you start.
Half-written manuscripts sitting in a digital graveyard earn zero dollars and tell zero stories. Heinlein argued that writers who constantly abandon projects to start “better” ideas train themselves in the habit of quitting. Finishing a flawed book teaches you infinitely more than abandoning a brilliant premise at Chapter Three.
Rule 3: You must refrain from rewriting except to editorial order.
Cue the record scratch.
This is where the collective groan of the modern writing community echoes across the internet.
In Heinlein’s view, endlessly tweaking, polishing, and revising your own work is a trap—a form of procrastination disguised as perfectionism. He believed that the longer a manuscript sat on your desk, the colder it got, and the more likely you were to tinker it to death. Furthermore, if you are revising endlessly before selling, you aren’t producing new work. Write it, get it as right as you can the first time, and move on. Revise only when a paying editor tells you what needs to be fixed.
Why is this rule so contestible today? Modern creative writing culture is built on the altar of the revision. Today’s authors are told that “writing is rewriting,” and that the real magic happens in drafts two, three, and four (and beyond). Writers work with critique partners, developmental editors, and beta readers to refine pacing, deepen character arcs, and fix plot holes before ever submitting a manuscript to a publisher or self-publishing platform.
Critics of Heinlein’s third rule argue that:
Writing standards have changed: Readers and publishers expect a higher level of polish in a first submission today than they did in the mid-20th-century pulp magazine era.
Heinlein was a genetic anomaly: Heinlein famously claimed that his first drafts required virtually no corrections. Not every writer possesses the preternatural internal editor that Heinlein had.
Self-publishing demands quality control: In the indie publishing boom, authors act as their own publishers. If you don’t revise your work heavily before hitting “publish,” the reviews will be merciless.
The Defense of Rule 3: To be fair to Heinlein, his rule is often misunderstood. He wasn’t saying “turn in sloppy first drafts.” He was saying, “Trust your initial creative instinct, finish the book, and get it out the door.” He wanted writers to avoid the endless loop of self-doubt where a manuscript is trapped in revision purgatory for five years. For high-output authors (especially in genres like sci-fi, fantasy, and romance), over-editing can indeed be a profit-killing waste of time.
Rule 4: You must put the work on the market.
A manuscript gathering dust in a drawer or a hidden folder on your desktop has a success rate of 0%. Heinlein was ruthless about this: a writer’s job doesn’t end when the typing stops. You have to submit the work to agents, publishers, or—in today’s landscape—platforms where readers can buy it. Fear of rejection keeps too many great stories locked away. Put the product on the shelf.
Rule 5: You must keep the work on the market until it is sold.
If magazine A rejects your short story, send it to magazine B. If publisher X passes on your novel, submit it to publisher Y (or self-publish it). Heinlein understood the statistics of the business. Rejection is rarely a definitive judgment of a story’s quality; often, it’s just a mismatch of taste, timing, or market trends. A professional writer keeps the inventory circulating until it finds a home.
How to Apply Heinlein’s Wisdom Today
You don’t have to agree with 100% of Heinlein’s advice to benefit from his core philosophy. Here is how you can synthesize his business habits for the modern writing era:
Treat writing like a job: Show up consistently. Word counts matter.
Embrace completion: Fight the urge to abandon projects when the initial dopamine rush fades. Push through the messy middle and type “The End.”
Find a balance on revisions: Respect modern standards of quality, but beware of “perfectionism paralysis.” Set a deadline for your edits, and once the book is strong, let it go into the world.
Detach your ego from rejection: Rejections aren’t personal failures; they are simply shipping expenses on the road to publication.
Final Thoughts
Robert A. Heinlein’s five rules remind us that writing is both an art and a business. While his third rule—avoiding major rewrites unless requested by an editor—remains a hot-button debate in writers’ circles, the underlying mindset is bulletproof: produce, finish, submit, and repeat.
What do you think? Can modern authors survive by following Heinlein’s strict “no rewriting” policy, or is rule number three a relic of a bygone era? Let us know your thoughts in the comments below!
McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.
He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.
There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.
This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.
I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.
In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.
The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.
With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.
A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.
“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.
He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.
“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.
While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.
“What’s the current situation?”
“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”
He looked in my direction.
“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.
“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”
McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.
“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”
It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.
The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.
In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.
I was hoping for the latter.
I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.
“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.
“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”
I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”
He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”
Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.
Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.
A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.
Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.
It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.
The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.
It was nerves more than the cold.
I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.
It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.
It added to the tension.
My plan was still to enter by the back door.
We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.
The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.
He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.
A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”
She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.
“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.
Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.
The fear factor increased exponentially.
I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?
Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.
At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.
To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.
We needed a distraction.
As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.
They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.
By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.
I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.
I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.
But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.
It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.
I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.
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.
Day 198 – Robert Heinlein’s five business habits for writers
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Master the Craft: 5 Business Habits of Robert A. Heinlein (And Why One is So Contested)
When people think of Robert A. Heinlein, they picture a grandmaster of science fiction. Alongside Isaac Asimov and Arthur C. Clarke, Heinlein was one of the “Big Three” writers who shaped the genre during its Golden Age, penning timeless classics like Starship Troopers, Stranger in Strange Land, and The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress.
However, Heinlein was more than just a visionary storyteller; he was a disciplined professional. Long before he became a household name, he treated writing not as a fragile artistic muse, but as a hard-nosed business.
In his famous essay “On the Writing of Speculative Fiction” (and later expanded in letters and his collection Grumbles from the Grave), Heinlein laid out five simple rules for writing success. They sound deceptively easy, but together, they form a rigorous boot camp for any aspiring author.
While four of these rules are widely accepted wisdom in the writing community, the third rule remains a fierce point of debate among authors, editors, and writing coaches to this day.
Let’s break down Heinlein’s five business rules, examine why they work, and dive into the controversy surrounding rule number three.
Heinlein’s 5 Rules for Writers
Heinlein stated these rules with trademark bluntness. If you want to make a living as a writer, he argued, you only need to follow these steps:
You must write.
You must finish what you start.
You must refrain from rewriting except to editorial order. (The Contested One)
You must put the work on the market.
You must keep the work on the market until it is sold.
At a glance, this looks like a blueprint for industrial-scale content production. Let’s look at each one to understand the philosophy behind the master’s machine.
Rule 1: You must write.
It sounds painfully obvious, but millions of aspiring writers fail at the very first hurdle. They talk about writing, they think about writing, and they outline for years. Heinlein’s point is that a writer writes. Ideas are worthless until they hit the page. You cannot call yourself a writer based on your potential; you are only a writer based on your output.
Rule 2: You must finish what you start.
Half-written manuscripts sitting in a digital graveyard earn zero dollars and tell zero stories. Heinlein argued that writers who constantly abandon projects to start “better” ideas train themselves in the habit of quitting. Finishing a flawed book teaches you infinitely more than abandoning a brilliant premise at Chapter Three.
Rule 3: You must refrain from rewriting except to editorial order.
Cue the record scratch.
This is where the collective groan of the modern writing community echoes across the internet.
In Heinlein’s view, endlessly tweaking, polishing, and revising your own work is a trap—a form of procrastination disguised as perfectionism. He believed that the longer a manuscript sat on your desk, the colder it got, and the more likely you were to tinker it to death. Furthermore, if you are revising endlessly before selling, you aren’t producing new work. Write it, get it as right as you can the first time, and move on. Revise only when a paying editor tells you what needs to be fixed.
Why is this rule so contestible today? Modern creative writing culture is built on the altar of the revision. Today’s authors are told that “writing is rewriting,” and that the real magic happens in drafts two, three, and four (and beyond). Writers work with critique partners, developmental editors, and beta readers to refine pacing, deepen character arcs, and fix plot holes before ever submitting a manuscript to a publisher or self-publishing platform.
Critics of Heinlein’s third rule argue that:
Writing standards have changed: Readers and publishers expect a higher level of polish in a first submission today than they did in the mid-20th-century pulp magazine era.
Heinlein was a genetic anomaly: Heinlein famously claimed that his first drafts required virtually no corrections. Not every writer possesses the preternatural internal editor that Heinlein had.
Self-publishing demands quality control: In the indie publishing boom, authors act as their own publishers. If you don’t revise your work heavily before hitting “publish,” the reviews will be merciless.
The Defense of Rule 3: To be fair to Heinlein, his rule is often misunderstood. He wasn’t saying “turn in sloppy first drafts.” He was saying, “Trust your initial creative instinct, finish the book, and get it out the door.” He wanted writers to avoid the endless loop of self-doubt where a manuscript is trapped in revision purgatory for five years. For high-output authors (especially in genres like sci-fi, fantasy, and romance), over-editing can indeed be a profit-killing waste of time.
Rule 4: You must put the work on the market.
A manuscript gathering dust in a drawer or a hidden folder on your desktop has a success rate of 0%. Heinlein was ruthless about this: a writer’s job doesn’t end when the typing stops. You have to submit the work to agents, publishers, or—in today’s landscape—platforms where readers can buy it. Fear of rejection keeps too many great stories locked away. Put the product on the shelf.
Rule 5: You must keep the work on the market until it is sold.
If magazine A rejects your short story, send it to magazine B. If publisher X passes on your novel, submit it to publisher Y (or self-publish it). Heinlein understood the statistics of the business. Rejection is rarely a definitive judgment of a story’s quality; often, it’s just a mismatch of taste, timing, or market trends. A professional writer keeps the inventory circulating until it finds a home.
How to Apply Heinlein’s Wisdom Today
You don’t have to agree with 100% of Heinlein’s advice to benefit from his core philosophy. Here is how you can synthesize his business habits for the modern writing era:
Treat writing like a job: Show up consistently. Word counts matter.
Embrace completion: Fight the urge to abandon projects when the initial dopamine rush fades. Push through the messy middle and type “The End.”
Find a balance on revisions: Respect modern standards of quality, but beware of “perfectionism paralysis.” Set a deadline for your edits, and once the book is strong, let it go into the world.
Detach your ego from rejection: Rejections aren’t personal failures; they are simply shipping expenses on the road to publication.
Final Thoughts
Robert A. Heinlein’s five rules remind us that writing is both an art and a business. While his third rule—avoiding major rewrites unless requested by an editor—remains a hot-button debate in writers’ circles, the underlying mindset is bulletproof: produce, finish, submit, and repeat.
What do you think? Can modern authors survive by following Heinlein’s strict “no rewriting” policy, or is rule number three a relic of a bygone era? Let us know your thoughts in the comments below!
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.
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
——
The Standartenfuhrer checked his gun and settled his nerves for an onslaught. If they were going to die, then he was going to kill as many of them as he could.
He threw his hand pistol to Mayer. “Shoot anything that comes in the door.”
Mayer fumbled the weapon, dropping it on the floor, then finding it hard, with cold hands, to pick it up. Perhaps his life wasn’t sufficiently in danger to be more proactive.
The Standartenfuhrer shook his head. Boffins were all the same. The slightest threat and they went weak at the knees. And Mayer was no exception.
Mayer managed to get the gun into his hand.
“Don’t forget to turn off the safety.”
Mayer looked at the gun, and found the switch.
At the same time, another burst of gunfire ricocheted off the walls of the hut. It was followed by a harsh order to stop firing, and save the ammunition for the enemy. There was also a mutter about alerting the enemy, but that ship had sailed.
The soldiers seemed content to shoot randomly at the cabin, rather than check to see if anyone was inside, and soon the sounds of men, guns, and dogs were gone. The dogs had not picked up their scent, and the Standartenfuhrer had managed to cover their tracks sufficiently to keep them at bay.
Relief, but not enough to rest. The Standartenfuhrer knew they had to keep moving.
In the background, both could hear a stream locomotive at slow speed passing. In the circuitous route they’d taken to escape, they must have circled back towards the railway line which must be on the other side of the forest.
That proximity of the railway line would work in their favor because the next phase of the journey was going to be on a train.
Just not one full of soldiers, if possible.
After a half-hour, just to ensure the soldiers didn’t return, the Standartenfuhrer dragged himself up off the ground.
“We’d better move. They’re likely to come back, or had a second sweep when they don’t find us.”
“Surely we can have a rest.”
“If you want to get caught. I don’t have to tell you what they’ll do to you if they capture you.”
“Probably send me back to that hell hole.”
“Hitler is not that forgiving. The odds are you’ll be handed over to the SS and I’m sure you’ve seen what those people are capable of.”
He had, especially with the forced labor from the Jewish camps and POW camps. At times it beggared belief.
Mayer dragged himself up off the floor.
The Standartenfuhrer checked his weapon, then looked out through the crack in the door. It was dark and snowing, not too heavy, but enough to hide their movement. It was a shame their coats were dark, they would stand out against the white background, but it couldn’t be helped. That was a problem for daylight, still some hours away.
“Keep your weapon handy. You may need it.”
Mayer was worried his hands would be too cold and stiff, and instead of having it in his hand, slipped it into his pocket. He didn’t think too many people would be about at this hour.
“Once outside, head straight for the trees, as fast as you can.”
The Standartenfuhrer was in the doorway one second, gone the next, and Mayer followed. He could just see the dark figure in front of him, then almost ran into him when he stopped just past the first line of trees.
He could see lights intermittently through the trees, a train or houses along the railway line perhaps.
It was much darker in the forest, and they had to go slower, picking their way through the trees, running into low branches, and getting a face full of wet snow, often trickling down the back of their necks.
It was cold, wet, and very uncomfortable.
The Standartenfuhrer stopped. The trees had thinned and the lights became more pronounced. They could now definitely hear a locomotive close by, and a train well lit up stopped. The windows were fogged from condensation on the inside, but it was clear enough to see heads.
It was a passenger train, waiting.
A piercing whistle shattered the relative quiet, and another train coming in the other direction at speed flashed passed very loudly, the wheels of the carriages clanking on the track joints. An empty freight train with many flat cars, going back to Germany.
Then suddenly shouting, a whistle, and gunfire.
A man was running towards them,, and several soldiers were in pursuit, randomly shooting in his direction, and into the forest. A shot hit the running person and they fell.
Mayer heard a thud and a groan, then realized that the Standartenfuhrer had been hit. By the time he turned the Standartenfuhrer over, he was dead.
Mayer ducked out of sight just before torchlight shone on the spot he was crouching.
There was another shout, and the soldiers started heading towards him.
What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.
…
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.
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 installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
For a thug like Alex to actually have something that resembled a good idea, perhaps it was more the people he surrounded himself with that made him look clever.
Boggs had not mentioned anything about the people who owned the land before the Naval yard had been constructed. Perhaps he had maps dating back to then, or maybe he didn’t. Boggs didn’t exactly confide in me everything he knew.
Maybe he didn’t trust me.
But there was a new lead now, courtesy of Alex, and it was one that I was going to chase down and bring it to Boggs at the appropriate time.
I need to find information about the Ormiston family, and whether or not there were any descendants in the area. But first, I would have to go to the library and talk to the ‘old biddy’, Gwendoline Frobisher, Gwen to her friends. Fortunately, I knew her well from the days of studying in the library.
And on some of my free days, helped her out with cataloging and returning books to their shelf positions. She only had one helper then, and she was older the Gwen, and not a lot of help putting books back on the higher shelves.
The rest of my shift was uneventful, and I closed and locked the door at precisely 11 pm. On the way to where I left my bicycle, my cell phone rang. Boggs? He knew when I finished, and how punctual I was when leaving.
I looked at the screen. Private Number.
I was going to ignore it, but, in the end, curiosity got the better of me.
“Yes?”
“Smidge?”
Nadia. What was she calling me for at this hour of the night?
“I told you not to call me Smidge.”
“Sorry, a force of habit. It sort of suits you though.”
“Then I’m hanging up.”
I went to press the disconnect button, but I could hear her saying, ‘don’t do that, I have some news.”
I waited a few seconds before I answered, “What news.”
“Not the sort you talk of over the phone.”
But it is the sort of hook someone would use to lure you to a place where Vince could beat you up. She had done it before.
“Not if it’s a trap. Sorry, but too many bad memories of your treachery, Nadia.”
“It’s not like that, now. You know what I think of Vince these days.”
“I know how you’d like me to think you think of Vince, but that could be all show. You are, after all, a Cossatino, and you can’t change those spots.”
“I can, and I have. Promise. Meet me at the hotel.”
“Now?”
“It’s not as if anyone’s going to notice, and, if they do, you can guess what they’ll be thinking.”
I sighed. It was giving me a headache. “Half an hour,” I said, and disconnected the call.
Half of me was saying not to go, the other half was intrigued, not so much for the news, but visiting Nadia in the middle of the night. Many years ago, I used have dreams about Nadia, not ones that were spoken of out loud. Now I had the chance to fulfill one; not so sure.
Near to midnight, everyone should be in bed, everyone except those staying at the hotel. Lights we on in several of the rooms, and a customer was in the office.
I parked the bike near the office and walked quickly to her room, knocked on the door lightly, and braced myself for the ‘surprise’, Vince waiting for me.
She opened the door and I looked over her shoulder. It looked empty but there was a lot of space I couldn’t see from that position.
“There’s no one here.” She grabbed me by the shoulder and dragged me in, looked up and down the corridor, then closed the door.
I quickly checked the bathroom. Clothes hanging from the shower rail, a very messy room. My impression of her was shattered.
“You see anything interesting in there?”
I assumed she was referring to the underwear. There might have been a momentary stray thought, but it was not one I’d admit to.
And in her dressing gown, it was hard to suppress the shive down my spine.
I sat on the end of the unmade bed. An odd thought, didn’t she let the housemaids in to tidy up, or, had she spent all day in bed? Scrub those thoughts.
“What is this news?”
“What were you doing at the mall?”
Was that Nadia in the yellow? I glanced around her room and then my eyes rested for a second on a yellow jacked tossed in a corner on the floor. Damn.
“What mall? I tried to sound convincingly surprised.
“You know what mall. You were with Boggs. What were you two up to?”
“I thought you had news for me?”
“I have. Stay away from that place. Otherwise, you might get buried there. That’s the Benderby’s torture chamber, and where they bury the evidence of their crimes.”
“Those are only rumors.”
“Not according to Vince. He reckons he’s seen a body there.”
“Perhaps he was mistaking it for a dressed mannequin. Even I’ve seen that.”
“You’re a fool. Don’t keep following that Boggs around like his little lap dog. He’s eventually going to get you into a mess you can’t get out of. There’s a lot of his father in him. Doesn’t know when to let it go.”
“This coming from Vince or you, because it sure sounds like Vince trying to put us of the scent.”
“What do you think happened to that archaeologist they found on Rico’s boat?”
“Well, my first thought was the Benderby’s did for him. As far as I can tell, the Benderby’s got him to verify the provenance of the gold coins they found on the ocean bed.”
“You mean the two surfers?”
“The Benderby’s bought them off them.”
“You mean the Benderby’s paid them, then two days later they turn up in a dive hotel having overdosed on heroin and not a cent to their names? That event was not widely known because Benderby bought off the reporter for the local paper.
“If you know about it, why did the Cossatino’s make some noise?”
“Because it was their heroin.”
This was terrifying, to be caught between a turf war with either side willing to stitch up the other, for points, or for their silence. Boggs and I were two small fish in a very smelly pond, with no chance at outwitting these two.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 