The Symbiotic Cycle: Why Writing and Living Are Inseparable
“I shall live badly if I do not write, and I shall write badly if I do not live.” — Françoise Sagan
When the French novelist Françoise Sagan uttered these words, she wasn’t just talking about the craft of writing; she was defining the heartbeat of the creative process. For many, writing is a profession, a hobby, or a necessary outlet. But for the serious practitioner, writing is a metabolism. It is the process of converting life into art and art back into fuel for life.
But what does this delicate, circular balance actually mean for those of us who struggle to find time for both? Let’s break down the symbiotic relationship between lived experience and the written word.
Part I: “I shall live badly if I do not write”
For the dedicated writer, writing is not an extracurricular activity. It is a psychological hygiene practice. When we don’t write, the internal static—the observations, the frustrations, the fleeting moments of beauty—begins to clog our internal machinery.
Writing as Processing: Life is chaotic. We encounter grief, joy, and existential absurdity in rapid succession. Writing turns the abstract feelings of our day-to-day existence into something tangible. Without this outlet, we often “live badly” because we are carrying the weight of unexamined experiences.
The Clarity of Thought: Joan Didion famously said, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means.” When you fail to write, you lose your internal compass. Writing forces you to articulate your values, which in turn helps you live with greater intention.
Part II: “I shall write badly if I do not live”
The flip side of Sagan’s coin is equally dangerous. If you retreat into a hermetically sealed room to write, believing that “inspiration” will strike you in isolation, your work will eventually suffer. This is the “Ivory Tower” trap.
The Well Must Be Refilled: You cannot pour from an empty cup. If your life is devoid of risk, conversation, sunlight, failure, and connection, your writing will begin to taste like stale water. Great writing requires the raw material of reality—the sensory details of a subway ride, the awkwardness of a first date, or the frustration of a broken-down car.
Empathy Requires Experience: Fiction and non-fiction alike rely on the writer’s ability to understand the human condition. If you don’t engage with the world, your characters become flat and your philosophy becomes theoretical. To write with depth, you must allow yourself to be hurt, surprised, and changed by the world outside your desk.
Part III: Finding the Equilibrium
How do we balance the need for the solitude of the page with the need for the chaos of the street?
Immerse to Write: Give yourself periods of “active intake.” Read, travel, listen to podcasts, or volunteer. Make your life “messy” enough to give you something to analyse.
Withdraw to Create: Set non-negotiable windows of time where the world is locked out. Use this time to distil what you’ve gathered.
The Feedback Loop: Treat your life as research. When you are living, look for the “story”—what is the core emotion of this interaction? When you are writing, look for the “truth”—does this sentence reflect the way I truly feel, or is it just a cliché?
The Final Word
Françoise Sagan understood that a writer who stops living becomes a technician, and a person who stops writing becomes a passive observer of their own life.
To live well, you must synthesise your experience into meaning. To write well, you must be brave enough to step out into the world and get your boots dirty. So, go out and live a life worth writing about—then come home and put it on the page.
Are you struggling to balance your creative output with your daily life? Share your thoughts on how you keep your “well” full in the comments below.
I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense. Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.
I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.
It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.
The boy was Alan. He was about six or seven. The girl was Louise, and she was five years old. She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.
I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.
We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds. I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.
We were so happy then.
Before the tragedy.
When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell. Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.
It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children. They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.
Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.
Until one day she couldn’t.
Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand. She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it. The damage done to her was too severe.
The doctors were wrong.
She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants. It was enough to have them arrested. It was not enough to have them convicted.
Justice would have to be served by other means.
I was outside the Bannister’s home.
I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die. It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing. I had murder in mind. It was why I was holding an iron bar.
Skulking in the shadows. It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.
I waited till Archie came out. I knew he eventually would. The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go. I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.
I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.
“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me. He knew what it was, and what it was for.
It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes. He was alone.
“Justice.”
“For that slut of a sister of yours. I had nuffing to do with it.”
“She said otherwise, Archie.”
“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.” An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.
I held up the pipe. It had blood on it. Willy’s blood. “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up. He sang like a bird. That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”
“He dunnit, not me. Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.” Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.
“No, Archie. He didn’t. I’m coming for you. All of you Bannisters. And everyone who touched my sister.”
It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.
I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries. Those were the very worst few hours of my life.
She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late. If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.
If only I’d not been late…
When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood. The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.
At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told. He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.
I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy. There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.
He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone. It was a half mile walk, through a park. The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness. He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.
He didn’t.
It took an hour and a half to get the names. At first, when he saw me, he laughed. He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.
When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list. I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.
When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi. The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me. I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.
At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality. The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.
Archie could help but rub it in my face. He was invincible.
Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out. He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged. I didn’t care.
Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me. I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.
I revisited Willy in the hospital. He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come. Suffocation was too good for him.
David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters. His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful. Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered. A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.
He and I met in the pub. We got along like old friends. He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges. We shook hands and parted as friends.
Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared. I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me. He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.
When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes. I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it. He told me he was just a spectator.
I’d read the coroner’s report. They all had a turn. He was a liar.
He took nineteen bullets to die.
Then came Archie.
The same factory only this time there were four seats. Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities. She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.
Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.
A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.
Archie’s mother cursed me. I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.
Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily. The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family. I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.
He was a little more worried about his sister.
I told him it was confession time.
He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.
I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony. I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes. This time he did, it all poured out of him.
I went over to Emily. He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm. Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.
“Louise was my friend, Archie. My friend.”
Then she shot him. Six times.
To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this. May God have mercy on your soul.”
Now I was in jail. I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession. Without my sister, my life was nothing. I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.
They were not allowed to.
For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors. I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.
Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.
Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”
When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone. They ignored me. I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.
I was beginning to think I was going mad.
I ignored him.
“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that. You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”
Death sounded good. I told him to go away.
He didn’t. Persistent bugger.
I was handcuffed to the table. The prison officers thought I was dangerous. Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that. McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.
“Why’d you do it?”
“You know why.” Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.
“Your sister. By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”
“It was murder just the same. No difference between scum and proper people.”
“You like killing?”
“No-one does.”
“No, I dare say you’re right. But you’re different, Alan. As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen. We can use a man like you.”
“We?”
“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”
I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him. It looked like I didn’t have a choice.
Trained, cleared, and ready to go.
I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible. People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.
People like me.
In a mall, I became a shopper.
In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.
On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.
At the airport, I became a pilot. I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.
I had a passkey.
I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.
That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life. Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.
Two pilots and a steward. A team. On the plane early before the rest of the crew. A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.
Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.
Me.
Quick, clean, merciless. Done.
I was now an operational field agent.
I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides. It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.
I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.
It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.
Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.
Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.
I was Barry Gamble.
I was Lenny Buckman.
I was Jimmy Hosen.
I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.
That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision. If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.
Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.
God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness. Not that day. Not any day.
New York, New Years Eve.
I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag. They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.
This time I failed.
A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…
Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her. It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.
I was done.
I’d had enough.
I gave her the gun.
I begged her to kill me.
She didn’t.
Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.
How could she? No one could know what I’d been through.
I remembered her name after she had gone.
Amanda.
I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.
Someone else had the same imperfection.
I couldn’t remember who that was.
Not then.
I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it. After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.
The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.
It was late.
People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks. Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.
A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.
He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”
Two of his friends dragged him away. He shrugged them off, squared up.
I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground. I looked at his two friends. “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”
They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk. She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.
I looked around to see where her friends were. The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.
She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.
I sat beside her. “Where are your friends?”
“Dunno.”
“You need help?”
She looked up, and sideways at me. She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state. Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Nobody.” I was exactly how I felt.
“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care. Just leave me here to rot.”
She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.
Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.
“Where are your friends?” I asked again.
“Got none.”
“Perhaps I should take you home.”
“I have no home.”
“You don’t look like a homeless person. If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.” I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.
She lifted her head and looked at me again. “You a smart fucking arse are you?”
“I have my moments.”
“Have them somewhere else.”
She rested her head against my shoulder. We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.
“Take me home,” she said suddenly.
“Where is your place?”
“Don’t have one. Take me to your place.”
“You won’t like it.”
“I’m drunk. What’s not to like until tomorrow.”
I helped her to her feet. “You have a name?”
“Charlotte.”
The wedding was in a small church. We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot. Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.
On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.
I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.
Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.
And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age. She arrived late and left early.
Aunt Agatha.
She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look. “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.
“Likewise I’m sure,” I said. It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte. It was clear she feared this woman.
“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.
“You know why.”
Agatha looked at me. “I like you. Take care of my granddaughter. You do not want me for an enemy.”
OK, now she officially scared me.
She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.
“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.
“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”
Charlotte never mentioned her again.
Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.
Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us. Her husband was not with her this time.
Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother. She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.
We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends. For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.
I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother. It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.
Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.
Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close. I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness. We were never close.
But…
This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head. It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.
And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction. “You seem distracted,” she said.
“I was just remembering my mother. Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”
“Why now?” I think she had a look of concern on her face.
“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.
Another look and I was wrong. She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.
I was crying, tears streaming down my face.
I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.
It was like coming up for air.
It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life. I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.
And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”
I could not speak, but I think I smiled. It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye. Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be 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…
…
Rolf Mayer had only ever wanted to design and build rockets for the exploration of space.
Somewhere between the germination of that desire, and where he was right now, in the back of a black Mercedes SS staff car heading south towards Nuremberg something had gone horribly wrong.
Back at Nordhausen, he may have been terrified most of the time from the demands of the Reich, and the horrors of how the Reich was achieving its goals, but he was, at least, safe.
Now he was a traitor, with stolen plans, with two Britisher spies, heading for Italy and from there to, well it hadn’t quite been specified where he might end up, but he assumed it would be England.
As yet they had not asked him whether he had the answer to stop this new weapon, and, if he really thought about it, there wasn’t an answer. Perhaps, with a sense of irony, he could say that in kidnapping him, they might not fix the gyro guidance system which caused a lot of the rockets to go off course and miss their intended targets, but still, a large number would still reach their destination with devasting effect.
As for stopping it, he doubted it could be done. They were fired from mobile positions, and there were no static launching sites so the enemy couldn’t bomb those sites, nor could they stop their production of them because it was underground. A lot of lessons had been learned since Pennemunde.
And that brought another thought to mind. Who was the enemy now, if he was willing to go with these spies? He was German, and he loved his country, but seeing what he had seen, it was hard to balance that patriotism with the means to achieve their goals. Perhaps the blame lay with the Fuhrer, but no one ever spoke of what they really thought, only of their undying allegiance to the mother country and its heroic leader.
No doubt, when he reached his final destination he was going to hear a lot of things that may or may not be true about Reich and its leadership.
Mayer noticed the Standartenfuhrer had a map and at various times they would stop the car and consult the map, an older touring map that predated the war.
Listening to their conversations he had learned that the car had a 50-litre tank that was full at the start of their journey. From Nordhausen to Weimar had been 120 kilometres and had used about 18 litres of petrol. From that, he deduced that the car would go about 300 kilometres per tankful. This means they would need more petrol before they reached Nurnberg.
It was one thing to say they were going to take care of the details but getting one of the most heavily rationed commodities in Germany, or anywhere within the sphere of the Reich was nigh on impossible. He knew this simply because his superiors at the Nordhausen site couldn’t get any petrol for their vehicles.
At this stage of the war, a war they were continually told they were winning, there seemed precious little of anything still available or not rationed, especially food. Because they were SS they fared reasonably well, but the others not so much, making him feel guilty that he was not going hungry like everyone else.
In fact, he was feeling hungry now, and he didn’t remember seeing any food in the car.
Some distances from Bayreuth, after passing through another checkpoint, they stopped a further 10 kilometres up the road, in a layby that sheltered them from any other traffic, not that there had been anything other than army convoys. Several times there had been aeroplanes overhead, either coming or going in small groups, perhaps training runs, so perhaps there was a Luftwaffe station nearby
Outside there was another consultation of the map and then the driver headed towards the rear of the car and opened the trunk. The Standartenfuhrer opened the door. “You can get out and stretch your legs.”
Mayer climbed out and found just how stiff and sore he was, and it hadn’t been a very long drive, but the roads were not as good as they once were, before the war.
Then he noticed the driver lugging a large can to the petrol cap, opened it, put a funnel in and with some assistance, started refilling the tank. When he walked towards the rear of the car he saw six such cans in the trunk. They had come prepared, and given the nature of how they had collected him, he realized that he had been targeted, which meant someone inside the Nordhausen complex was an agent working for British Intelligence.
They emptied two of the tanks into the car, and replaced the cans back in the trunk.
The Standartenfuhrer called him over to show him the map.
It had a line roughly drawn from Nordhausen down to Florence, and notes on the side in red, the most pertinent being the distance by road, if they could take the direct route, which now he knew the circumstances, they could not, was about 1,150 kilometres.
Even in the best of circumstances that would take about three days, maybe more. And there was certainly not enough fuel in the rear truck to go the whole distance.
The Standartenfuhrer ran his finger down the line, “This is the intended route we decided on, though not exactly sticking to the main roads. We do not anticipate problems in Germany, but once we cross into Austria and onto Innsbruck there might be a few problems. We’re not quite sure what to expect at the border.”
“There is no border, not as far as the Reich and the Fuehrer is concerned.”
“Let’s hope you’re right. But I think it’s about time we had a talk about what happened if anything happens to the two of us. We’re not planning to get captured, or killed if it’s possible but there’s a lot of risks involved in an operation like this.”
“You expect me to go on alone?”
“Yes. With the plans and drawings. You have to get to a town called Gaiole in Chianti which is about 70 kilometres south of Florence. There you will need to find a man named Luigi Fosini, who will take care of the rest of your journey. There is a code you will need to give him, but we’ll talk about that later. All you need, for now, is the destination.”
Discussion over, they got back in the car and continued on their way.
Then he realized he’d forgotten to ask about food, but judging by the dark expressions they wore, he decided to wait a little longer.
David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.
Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.
They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?
When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.
When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.
Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
I didn’t get to go wandering into the next ward to see Boggs, if he was there, because the head of ER had decided I was well enough to be discharged. It seems they had kept me there just in case there might be problems with concussion after being whacked on the head.
I still had a dull ache in my head, but they gave me a few days supply of pain killers and sent me on my way. After I signed some papers to that said anything happened to me outside the hospital was my fault, and that I’d been duly warned about the possible consequences of concussion.
That list of consequences always ended in death, but that could happen by being run over by an ambulance arriving outside the ER just as I was leaving.
I don’t know why, but I’d expected someone to be there, though I was not sure who.
It was a short walk to the main entrance to the hospital, and then a bit of a puzzle to be solved in trying to find the appropriate person who could tell me where Boggs was.
Twenty minutes later I came to an abrupt woman in a hospital uniform with a clipboard in her hand, and a solemn look on her face. If the brick wall could be personified, this was it.
Nurse Jamieson. No first name. No sense of humour.
She looked up at me with utter disgust that someone would dare interrupt what she was doing, something I had not worked out yet unless staring at a screen saver on her computer could be said doing something.
“Can you tell me where Wiliam Boggs is, please,” I said it nicely, and politely.
“Are you a relative?”
“No, I’m his best friend.”
“That’s not what I asked. You can hear properly can you?”
“Yes.”
Then, what did I ask you, just before?”
“Was I a relative?”
“And the answer?” followed by what I thought she said, “not that we don’t already know the answer to that one.”
“No.”
“The go away. Close relatives only.”
“Then if I can’t see him, can you tell me how he is?”
Too late. Nurse Jamieson had gone back to the mesmerising screen saver. Perhaps it was being used by some intergalactic alien to brainwash her.
I shook my head and headed back towards the main entrance.
“Excuse me?”
I heard a voice from behind, approaching quickly but quietly. Another nurse, a different coloured uniform. Bad nurse, good nurse, was this the latter?
I turned as she reached me. “Yes?”
“I heard you were looking for Boggs.”
Last name, only used by friends, not that he had many, and none who were female unless he’d been holding out on me. No, he didn’t know any girls.
“Yes. He’s my best friend. Do you know him?”
“A friend of his cousin, Annabelle. I can take you to him, but you won’t be able to stay very long.”
Annabelle? I don’t remember him telling me anything about a cousin called Annabelle, but he did say there were family members he still hadn’t met, but that was because of longstanding feuds.
“Is he alright?”
“Nothing a little rest won’t cure. He looks worse than he is.”
I followed her back along a passage off the main foyer to an elevator, and then up to the sixth floor.
A sign on one of the ways pointed to what was called ‘Recovery’. We walked halfway down that passage then stopped at a room.
“He’s in there.”
The door was open, but there was a screen pulled across the entrance blotting out those who walked past from looking it. I pushed the screen back a short distance and saw the end of the bed.
When I stepped in and reclosed the screen, I realized the bed was empty, though someone had been in it. I stepped further into the room, and around the corner, sitting in a chair, was Nadia.
The Writer’s Quest: Not Preaching, But Discovering Truth
Milan Kundera, the literary titan behind “The Unbearable Lightness of Being,” posited a profound idea about the writer’s role: “To be a writer does not mean to preach the truth, it means to discover the truth.” This statement, seemingly simple, carries immense weight. It shifts our perception of literature from a didactic tool, a podium from which to dispense wisdom, to a more intricate, exploratory, and frankly, more human endeavour.
Think about the writers we truly admire. Are they the ones who confidently declare absolutes, who arrive with ready-made answers to life’s complex questions? Or are they the ones who delve into the murky depths of human experience, who ask the uncomfortable questions, who present us with characters grappling with dilemmas, whose narratives leave us with more to ponder than to accept? Kundera’s assertion points squarely to the latter.
The Perils of Preaching:
When a writer aims to “preach the truth,” they often fall into the trap of pronouncements and dogma. This can lead to a literature that feels rigid, self-righteous, and ultimately, less engaging. The reader, instead of being invited into a shared exploration, is positioned as a passive recipient, expected to nod in agreement. This approach can alienate, rather than connect, because it presumes a singular, universally applicable truth, which, as any honest observer of life knows, is a rare commodity.
Furthermore, the act of preaching implies certainty. But life, in its most compelling and resonant forms, is rarely certain. It’s a tapestry woven with doubt, ambiguity, and the constant negotiation between conflicting desires and circumstances. A writer who preaches a singular truth risks flattening this rich complexity, presenting a sanitised and incomplete version of reality.
The Power of Discovery:
Kundera’s alternative, “to discover the truth,” is an invitation to a journey. It acknowledges that truth is not a static object to be unearthed and displayed, but a fluid, multifaceted entity that can be approached from myriad angles. The writer, in this paradigm, becomes an explorer, venturing into the uncharted territories of the human psyche, societal structures, and the very fabric of existence.
This discovery process is inherently collaborative. The writer offers a map, a collection of observations, a series of carefully crafted questions, and the reader embarks alongside them. Through the act of reading, we engage with the writer’s discoveries, testing them against our own experiences, questioning them, and in doing so, forming our own understanding, our own truths.
What This Discovery Looks Like in Practice:
Embracing Ambiguity: Great literature often thrives on ambiguity. Characters are rarely all good or all bad. Situations are rarely clear-cut. The writer, through their art, allows these shades of gray to exist, inviting us to grapple with the moral and emotional complexities they represent. Think of the moral quandaries faced by characters in Dostoevsky or the existential struggles in Camus.
Asking Profound Questions: Instead of providing answers, the writer poses questions that resonate deeply. They might explore the nature of love, the weight of memory, the impact of power, or the search for meaning. These questions, presented through narrative and character, become prompts for our own introspection.
Illuminating the Human Condition: By focusing on the often-mundane yet profound experiences of individuals, writers can illuminate universal truths about what it means to be human. The act of observing and articulating these experiences, with honesty and nuance, is a form of discovery.
Challenging Assumptions: Effective writers don’t just reflect the world; they interrogate it. They use their stories to challenge our preconceived notions, to reveal hidden biases, and to offer fresh perspectives that might otherwise remain unseen.
In essence, Kundera’s statement liberates the writer. It frees them from the burden of certainty and empowers them to embrace the messy, beautiful, and often bewildering process of understanding. It reminds us that the true magic of literature lies not in being told what to believe, but in being guided to discover it for ourselves, thread by intricate thread, word by evocative word. And in that shared act of discovery, we find a deeper, more authentic connection to the stories we read and to each other.
The Burden of “Unpaid Favours”: How Writers Can Protect Their Time and Sanity
If you are a writer, you have undoubtedly felt the sting of “The Ask.”
It starts with a ping in your inbox or a DM on social media: “I love your work! Would you mind just taking a quick look at my manuscript?” or “Could you write a quick blurb?” or “Can I pick your brain for an hour over coffee about how to break into the industry?”
The legendary literary critic Edmund Wilson famously lamented these demands, referring to them as “unpaid favours.” For the recipient, these requests represent a genuine dilemma: you want to be generous and supportive of your community, but your time is your professional capital. If you said “yes” to everyone, you would never write another word of your own.
So, how do you manage the flood of requests without burning bridges—or burning out? Here is a guide to navigating the delicate art of saying “no.”
1. The “Gatekeeper” Strategy: Use a FAQ Page
Prevention is the best medicine. If you have a professional website, create a dedicated “Contact” or “FAQ” page. Clearly outline your current capacity.
Pro-tip: Add a section titled “Mentorship and Inquiries.” State politely but firmly: “Due to my current writing schedule, I am unable to accept requests for manuscript reviews, informational interviews, or unpaid consulting.”
When someone sends a request, you don’t have to draft a long explanation. You can simply link to your policy. It removes the personal nature of the refusal.
2. Master the “Template of Kindness”
You don’t need to be rude to be firm. A “template of kindness” allows you to send a polite refusal in under 30 seconds.
Try this script:
“Hi [Name], thanks so much for reaching out and for your kind words about my work. I’m currently deep in a deadline and have had to step back from all outside projects and consultations to protect my writing time. I’m afraid I can’t help with this request, but I wish you the very best of luck with your [manuscript/project]!”
By keeping it brief, you prevent the “back-and-forth” that often results when you leave the door slightly ajar.
3. Redirect, Don’t Reject
Sometimes, the person asking genuinely needs help but doesn’t know where to turn. Instead of providing the labour yourself, provide a roadmap.
If someone asks for advice on how to get published, direct them to three reliable resources: a specific book on craft, a reputable industry organisation (like Poets & Writers or AWP), or a craft-focused newsletter.
Why this works: You are still being helpful, but you are shifting the burden from your labour to your curation.
4. Set “Consultation Hours”
If you truly want to give back but are overwhelmed, carve out a small, manageable block of time. Perhaps you offer one 30-minute coffee chat per quarter, or you answer one email question a month.
When that slot is full, it’s full. You can then honestly tell people: “My mentorship slots for the year are currently filled, but please check back in January.”
5. Recognize the “Unpaid Favor” Trap
Many writers feel guilty saying no because they fear being labelled “unapproachable” or “stuck up.” It is important to reframe the request: When someone asks for your labour for free, they are asking you to prioritise their career over your own.
You are not obligated to provide free consulting, editing, or networking. Protecting your time is not an act of arrogance; it is an act of professional sustainability. If you don’t save your creative energy for your own work, your work will eventually stop existing—and then you won’t have anything to offer anyone.
The Bottom Line
Edmund Wilson was right: requests for “unpaid favours” are an occupational hazard for any successful writer. But you are the CEO of your own creative practice. You get to decide how your time is spent.
Be polite, be concise, and stay focused on your work. The best way to support the writing community is to keep writing, keep publishing, and keep showing the world that writing is a profession deserving of boundaries.
Are you a writer struggling with boundary-setting? Share how you handle “unpaid favours” in the comments below!
To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.
But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.
I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026. It even has a cover.
By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.
The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.
I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.
I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.
From what I could see, there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.
She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.
Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.
She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.
I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.
Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.
It didn’t work.
I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?
I usually blamed it on my upbringing.
I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.
Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind. If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.
I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.
Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.
About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.
Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.
Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was. In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.
And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.
It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.
I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.
Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.
Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.
Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.
I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.
I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.
I had to wrench my attention away from her.
A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.
I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerising. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.
Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”
I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.
“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”
Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.
Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.
Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.
“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.
The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”
It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.
“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.
I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”
“Zoe.”
“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”
She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”
“I might throw myself overboard?”
“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”
Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”
I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.
“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.
She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”
Of course. She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.
“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.
“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”
The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.
“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”
She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.
“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.
But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.
She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”
A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”
I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused. “Do I look like one?”
I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”
I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead, she astonished me.
“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”
I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.
“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”
“She’s not here?”
“No.”
“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.
“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”
OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.
She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.
I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.
She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”
“I saw it coming.”
“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”
OK, that was unexpected.
When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”
She stood and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?
I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.
The Burden of “Unpaid Favours”: How Writers Can Protect Their Time and Sanity
If you are a writer, you have undoubtedly felt the sting of “The Ask.”
It starts with a ping in your inbox or a DM on social media: “I love your work! Would you mind just taking a quick look at my manuscript?” or “Could you write a quick blurb?” or “Can I pick your brain for an hour over coffee about how to break into the industry?”
The legendary literary critic Edmund Wilson famously lamented these demands, referring to them as “unpaid favours.” For the recipient, these requests represent a genuine dilemma: you want to be generous and supportive of your community, but your time is your professional capital. If you said “yes” to everyone, you would never write another word of your own.
So, how do you manage the flood of requests without burning bridges—or burning out? Here is a guide to navigating the delicate art of saying “no.”
1. The “Gatekeeper” Strategy: Use a FAQ Page
Prevention is the best medicine. If you have a professional website, create a dedicated “Contact” or “FAQ” page. Clearly outline your current capacity.
Pro-tip: Add a section titled “Mentorship and Inquiries.” State politely but firmly: “Due to my current writing schedule, I am unable to accept requests for manuscript reviews, informational interviews, or unpaid consulting.”
When someone sends a request, you don’t have to draft a long explanation. You can simply link to your policy. It removes the personal nature of the refusal.
2. Master the “Template of Kindness”
You don’t need to be rude to be firm. A “template of kindness” allows you to send a polite refusal in under 30 seconds.
Try this script:
“Hi [Name], thanks so much for reaching out and for your kind words about my work. I’m currently deep in a deadline and have had to step back from all outside projects and consultations to protect my writing time. I’m afraid I can’t help with this request, but I wish you the very best of luck with your [manuscript/project]!”
By keeping it brief, you prevent the “back-and-forth” that often results when you leave the door slightly ajar.
3. Redirect, Don’t Reject
Sometimes, the person asking genuinely needs help but doesn’t know where to turn. Instead of providing the labour yourself, provide a roadmap.
If someone asks for advice on how to get published, direct them to three reliable resources: a specific book on craft, a reputable industry organisation (like Poets & Writers or AWP), or a craft-focused newsletter.
Why this works: You are still being helpful, but you are shifting the burden from your labour to your curation.
4. Set “Consultation Hours”
If you truly want to give back but are overwhelmed, carve out a small, manageable block of time. Perhaps you offer one 30-minute coffee chat per quarter, or you answer one email question a month.
When that slot is full, it’s full. You can then honestly tell people: “My mentorship slots for the year are currently filled, but please check back in January.”
5. Recognize the “Unpaid Favor” Trap
Many writers feel guilty saying no because they fear being labelled “unapproachable” or “stuck up.” It is important to reframe the request: When someone asks for your labour for free, they are asking you to prioritise their career over your own.
You are not obligated to provide free consulting, editing, or networking. Protecting your time is not an act of arrogance; it is an act of professional sustainability. If you don’t save your creative energy for your own work, your work will eventually stop existing—and then you won’t have anything to offer anyone.
The Bottom Line
Edmund Wilson was right: requests for “unpaid favours” are an occupational hazard for any successful writer. But you are the CEO of your own creative practice. You get to decide how your time is spent.
Be polite, be concise, and stay focused on your work. The best way to support the writing community is to keep writing, keep publishing, and keep showing the world that writing is a profession deserving of boundaries.
Are you a writer struggling with boundary-setting? Share how you handle “unpaid favours” in the comments below!
