There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?
A retired spy, well, not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.
But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.
And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.
Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest. Then, inexplicably, she disappears. That might have been the end of it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum: find her or come back to work.
Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!
A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father, who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.
When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.
Day 120 – How can a writer be compared to a magician
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The Art of the Illusion: Why Every Writer is a Magician
We’ve all had that experience: you open a book, and suddenly, the room around you vanishes. You aren’t looking at ink on paper or pixels on a screen anymore; you are inside a character’s mind, feeling their heartbeat, smelling the rain on a distant street, and racing toward a conclusion you didn’t see coming.
When a story works, it feels like magic. But as any professional magician will tell you, the more effortless a trick looks, the more gruelling the preparation behind the curtain was.
The legendary Toni Morrison once perfectly captured this tension:
“[Handle writing] so the reader is only aware of the rabbit that comes out of the hat, and doesn’t see the false bottom—that’s where the hard work is.”
As writers, we are the magicians of the page. Here is why writing is the ultimate sleight of hand, and why hiding the “false bottom” is the most important part of the craft.
The Rabbit: The Seamless Experience
In Morrison’s metaphor, the “rabbit” is the finished story. It’s the emotional payoff, the sharp dialogue, and the plot twist that leaves the reader breathless.
When a reader picks up a book, they don’t want to see the writer’s struggle. They don’t want to notice the clunky sentence that took four hours to fix or the structural gap that required a total rewrite of Chapter Three. They want the wonder. They want the rabbit to appear out of thin air, vibrant and alive.
If the reader starts thinking about the writer’s technique while they are reading, the spell is broken. The “rabbit” becomes just a prop, and the magic fades.
The False Bottom: The Mechanics of Craft
The “false bottom” is everything that happens before the reader ever turns page one. It is the invisible infrastructure of a story. This includes:
Structural Scaffolding: Building a plot that feels inevitable but not predictable.
The “Ugly” First Draft: Chasing ideas through a mess of bad metaphors and inconsistent pacing.
The Editing Grind: Removing every “very” and “suddenly,” killing your darlings, and refining the rhythm of a sentence until it sings.
Research: Knowing ten times more about a subject than what actually makes it into the book, just to ensure the world feels sturdy.
This is where the “hard work” Morrison mentions resides. It’s the sweat, the frustration, and the endless hours of refinement. It is the mechanical, often tedious labour required to create an object that looks like it was born, not made.
Why We Hide the Work
You might ask: If I worked so hard on this, why shouldn’t I let the reader see it?
In magic, if the audience sees the trapdoor, the wonder is replaced by logic. They stop feeling and start calculating. Writing is the same. To evoke a true emotional response, the mechanics must remain invisible.
We hide the “false bottom” because we want the reader to believe in the reality of the world we’ve built. We want them to believe the characters are making choices of their own free will, not because a writer is pulling their strings from behind a curtain.
Embracing the Invisible Labour
If you are a writer currently struggling with a difficult chapter or a plot hole that won’t close, remember Morrison’s words. The fact that it feels hard doesn’t mean you’re failing; it means you’re building the false bottom.
The goal isn’t to write something that is easy; it’s to write something that feels easy.
Next time you produce a piece of prose that flows so naturally it feels like it wrote itself, take a moment to look back at the “false bottom” you spent weeks constructing. The reader may never see it, but they will feel the magic it allows to happen.
After all, the best magic tricks aren’t about the rabbit—they’re about the secret the magician keeps to make the world feel a little more wondrous.
It’s still a battle of wits, but our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because the enemy if it is the enemy, doesn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Old friends, new tricks.
Genial tone, trying to win my confidence. I wasn’t going to ask, but wait for an explanation. Asking would be like leaving the door ajar.
He sat after pulling the chair closer to the table and put his clasped hands on the table.
“This is a secret military operation known only to very few, apart from the team that is in situ. Commander Breeman has been, against very specific direct orders, trying to find out what we are doing here.” He stopped.
I think this was the moment I was supposed to ask, what was going on here.
If it was secret, then I didn’t want to know, and he was not going to tell me anyway.
I just looked attentive.
“You have been caught up in a jurisdictional issue. It’s not hard to assume that you were sent here, with the pilot of that helicopter, to do an off the book search for this camp. That, in itself, would be impossible, but the flyover coincided with a provedore run. Just plain bad luck.”
For Joe, the pilot, it was. Or not, if he had been given specific verbal orders, making it out to be a training run. And the odds of me being on board at the same time, given my association with Breeman?
One coincidence too many.
And if it was as the man before had said, they knew everything, then Bamfield would know of my connection to her.
“You said you had no idea where you were when you were shot down?”
Time, I guess, to speak. “No, I didn’t. The desert looks all the same to me.”
“You will forgive me if I say I find that hard to believe. I know you are better than that, Alan. Who sent you out here?”
“I was along for the ride. Standard operating procedure. A helo goes up, someone like me has to be on board in case of trouble. More conventional trouble than rockets.”
“But you specifically?”
“I don’t make the rosters, I just go where they tell me.”
Bamfield frowned. I think he’d finally noticed I was not addressing him as ‘sir’. Until I knew what side he was on, I considered myself a prisoner of war.
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And, the story:
Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply fly away?
Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, I came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.
But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.
She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level that she, the youngest of the group, would get the position.
It was something that had been weighing her down for the last three months, and if she noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one; no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.
And then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact that she had to entertain more, and frankly, I felt like an embarrassment to her.
So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.
It was then that she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.
Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it was something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.
I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.
What surprised her was my reaction. None.
I simply asked who, where, and when.
A world-class newspaper in New York, and she had to be there in a week.
A week.
It was all the time I had left with her.
I remember just shrugging and asking if the planned weekend away was off.
She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.
Is that all you want to know?
I did, yes, but we had lost the intimacy we used to have, where she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker, but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.
There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.
Her immediate superior was instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position, he had not taken advantage of the situation like some might. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.
One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.
So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.
Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.
Yes, our relationship had a use-by date, and it was in the next few days.
I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me; you can make cabinets anywhere.
I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.
Then the only question left was, what do we do now?
Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.
Getting on the roller coaster is easy. At the beginning, it’s a slow, easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships; they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, followed by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.
What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.
Our roller coaster had just come out of the final turn, and we were braking so that it would stop at the station.
There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in the new job, the last thing she’d want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends, new life.
We packed her bags, threw out everything she didn’t want, a free trip to the op shop with stuff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.
Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming; that moment, the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.
So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning, there had been 6 different types of planes departing, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.
People coming, people going.
Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just to see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.
As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.
Alessandro had his hand on the door handle, the door open, and about to walk out.
“You have to be kidding?”
“I’m not. Their instructions are to drag you out of her with maximum exposure. I did inform several media outlets that there was likely to be a high-profile arrest at this hotel this morning, so it will hit the internet very soon after.”
“There are rules…”
“I don’t play by the rules when dealing with liars, Alessandro. Your last chance to get out of this with some dignity, otherwise it’s out of my control.”
Of course, the number one rule I’d broken was not to play bluff with men like Alessandro because if he called it, I’d be in so deep it would take a week to dig myself out of the shit pile Rodby would throw me in. This was exactly the rogue behaviour he hated.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if Alessandro did, it would get Rodby off my back.
He stepped back in and let the door close.
This was a man who couldn’t afford a shit storm. And whatever it was he couldn’t tell me must have severe consequences.
“Heidi called me the morning of the day she went to the opera and told me she saw me with Vittoria in a newspaper, and said she had information about her, that she needed to see me in person.”
“Before that call, what did you know of Vittoria?”
“Not a lot. She had presented herself, whether it was a deliberate act on her part, or by accident, to me at the casino at Monte Carlo some weeks ago, at a function. She used a different name and looked different then. She said she had seen me in the media talking about one of the charities the family donates to and wanted to know more about it. We met a few times over dinner, but nothing intimate. She once again accidentally ran into me in London, and we had drinks. I perceived her to be trouble.”
“Where were you when she called?”
“In Vienna. I got on the first plane to London and got her about 10pm. I got to the hotel just before she arrived back from the opera. She said she had not expected to see me until the morning. We went up to her room, and she told me basically what you just told me about this Vittoria. I did not know about the daughter of the Count, nor do I think Heidi does.”
“Then what happened?”
“We went down to the bar and had a few drinks, because that news was quite shattering, and I needed a few to steady the nerves. I had yet to arrange a room, which I did when Heidi called it a night and went to her room. She did say she might have to leave early the following morning, but we would meet again at the legal office. That was the last I saw her. And until your fellow officers came to interview me, I did not, and still don’t believe she is missing.”
“Have you seen Vittoria in the last day or so?”
“Once the following morning, and only as she was leaving, very hurriedly I might add.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“I didn’t ask, and by that time, I didn’t care. Do you know who this alleged daughter is?”
“Only that she has a daughter by the Count and had irrefutable proof. I would get your legal team prepared because it might become an issue because she might become the legal heir in the countess goes missing. After all the terms of the will state that the line of succession is wife, then children, with no specific codicil that the child be legitimate.”
“Which if you said is correct, and I will have it checked, that removes my motive.”
“Unless you are working with Vittoria and the child. You may not be, but appearances can be taken either way. I suggest that you make enquiries as to where the countess might be.”
He still might know, but I was beginning to think he didn’t. Nor did I believe he was working with Vittoria. He made his feelings for her quite clear.
But Vittoria, where did she go?
“Thank you finally for your cooperation. Next time anyone asks you a question, just answer it. Other investigators won’t be as lenient with you.”
The most important item in the writer’s warehouse – the journal.
Quite often, the journal could be mistaken for a diary. A lot of people keep diaries; in fact, it’s a staple plot item in a lot of movies, that when a character needs to have their life fleshed out, a diary will be found, and read, giving a detailed view of the life and times.
A lot of people keep a diary to write down significant things that happen, sometimes who they met, and if something or someone had an influence on their life.
I know I used to keep one that detailed the stories I was writing, or hoped to write one day, with progress, characters, plot lines and generally how the day worked out.
When I found I did not have an hour to spare that day to write it up, it went by the wayside. I used to have a series of diaries for about ten years, back in the old days when time was not at a premium, but they seemed to have got lost in the moves from before to just after I got married, and yes, became a father and lost all sense of time and perspective.
But..
The journal.
Yes, I have about five or six, one for each project I’m currently working on, and they often receive an update at the end of the day. With children grown up and grandchildren almost past their teens, and in retirement, I have been able to go back to where I started 50 years ago.
If you want an opinion, start and maintain a journal. It helps.
Day 119 – The relevance of A Confederation of Dunces to downtrodden writers
…
The Patron Saint of the Misunderstood: Why A Confederation of Dunces Still Resonates with Downtrodden Writers
If you are a writer, you have undoubtedly wrestled with the feeling of belonging to a world that doesn’t quite fit your internal architecture. You have likely experienced the sting of rejection, the absurdity of the “literary establishment,” and the creeping suspicion that your work is being ignored by people who lack the intellectual rigour to appreciate it.
No character embodies this specific, agonising brand of isolation quite like Ignatius J. Reilly, the gargantuan protagonist of John Kennedy Toole’s posthumous masterpiece, A Confederation of Dunces.
For the downtrodden writer—the one working a soul-crushing day job while drafting a manuscript in a cramped apartment—Ignatius is both a cautionary tale and a dark, twisted mirror.
“I Mingle with My Peers or No One”
The defining line of Ignatius’s worldview is his famous declaration: “I mingle with my peers or no one, and since I have no peers, I mingle with no-one.”
On the surface, this is the ultimate expression of solipsistic arrogance. It is the peak of the “tortured genius” trope, where the ego becomes a barricade. However, for the writer who feels alienated, this sentiment hits differently. It speaks to the exhausting search for a creative community.
When you spend your life refining your voice and obsessing over the nuance of a sentence, the standard chatter of the world can feel like a profound waste of time. You don’t want to talk about the weather or the weekend; you want to talk about the collapse of modern morality, the structure of a perfect paragraph, or the decaying state of culture. When you can’t find that depth in others, the instinct is to retreat.
But there is a trap here. Ignatius uses this philosophy to justify his own inertia. He uses his “lack of peers” as a shield to avoid the vulnerability of being judged by the real world. For the rest of us, the lesson is clear: If you wait for your perfect peer group to emerge, you will be waiting forever.
The Tragedy of the Unfinished Manuscript
The irony of A Confederation of Dunces is that Ignatius is a writer—or, at least, he claims to be. He carries around his Big Chief writing tablet, filling it with philosophical rants and incoherent grievances against the “geometrical, theological, and geographical” decline of the twentieth century.
He is a writer who refuses to publish. He is a writer who spends more time correcting the perceived failures of others than completing his own work.
This is the great peril of the downtrodden writer. It is easy to become bitter, to develop a “Reilly-esque” disdain for the marketplace, and to convince yourself that your work is too “advanced” or “pure” for a public that prefers mindless pulp. We often use our high standards as a way to hide from the terrifying possibility that our work might be published and—far worse—dismissed.
Finding Solidarity in the Absurd
So, why read (or re-read) A Confederation of Dunces if you are currently feeling like a failure in the literary arts?
It’s a Reminder of the Danger of Ego: Toole’s novel is a comedy, not a biography, but it serves as a warning. Isolation is a creative desert. You need the grit of the real world—the very thing Ignatius scorns—to breathe life into your writing.
It Validates the Struggle: Toole himself struggled immensely to get his work published. His own tragic story adds a layer of poignancy to the book. He knew better than anyone what it felt like to be a genius without a seat at the table.
The Satire is Necessary: Sometimes, you have to laugh at the absurdity of it all. The world is full of “dunce” establishments, superficial trends, and people who will never understand the blood you pour into your pages. Acknowledging that and laughing at it, rather than letting it turn you into a recluse, is the only way to survive.
The Verdict
Ignatius J. Reilly’s tragedy is that he chose “no one” over the messiness of human connection. He chose the safety of his own mind over the risk of being misunderstood by the masses.
As a writer, your greatest work won’t come from sitting in a room alone, sneering at the world for not being up to your standards. It will come from acknowledging that while you may never find the “perfect” peer who understands every shade of your intent, there is a community of other writers just as broken, just as confused, and just as hopeful as you are.
Don’t be the person who mingles with “no one.” Find your fellow dunces. Share your stories. And for heaven’s sake, finish the manuscript.
It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you?
John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.
So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?
That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.
What should have been solace after disappointment turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realises his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.
The story paints the characters, cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times, taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice, where, in those back streets, I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.
All in all, a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.
Day 119 – The relevance of A Confederation of Dunces to downtrodden writers
…
The Patron Saint of the Misunderstood: Why A Confederation of Dunces Still Resonates with Downtrodden Writers
If you are a writer, you have undoubtedly wrestled with the feeling of belonging to a world that doesn’t quite fit your internal architecture. You have likely experienced the sting of rejection, the absurdity of the “literary establishment,” and the creeping suspicion that your work is being ignored by people who lack the intellectual rigour to appreciate it.
No character embodies this specific, agonising brand of isolation quite like Ignatius J. Reilly, the gargantuan protagonist of John Kennedy Toole’s posthumous masterpiece, A Confederation of Dunces.
For the downtrodden writer—the one working a soul-crushing day job while drafting a manuscript in a cramped apartment—Ignatius is both a cautionary tale and a dark, twisted mirror.
“I Mingle with My Peers or No One”
The defining line of Ignatius’s worldview is his famous declaration: “I mingle with my peers or no one, and since I have no peers, I mingle with no-one.”
On the surface, this is the ultimate expression of solipsistic arrogance. It is the peak of the “tortured genius” trope, where the ego becomes a barricade. However, for the writer who feels alienated, this sentiment hits differently. It speaks to the exhausting search for a creative community.
When you spend your life refining your voice and obsessing over the nuance of a sentence, the standard chatter of the world can feel like a profound waste of time. You don’t want to talk about the weather or the weekend; you want to talk about the collapse of modern morality, the structure of a perfect paragraph, or the decaying state of culture. When you can’t find that depth in others, the instinct is to retreat.
But there is a trap here. Ignatius uses this philosophy to justify his own inertia. He uses his “lack of peers” as a shield to avoid the vulnerability of being judged by the real world. For the rest of us, the lesson is clear: If you wait for your perfect peer group to emerge, you will be waiting forever.
The Tragedy of the Unfinished Manuscript
The irony of A Confederation of Dunces is that Ignatius is a writer—or, at least, he claims to be. He carries around his Big Chief writing tablet, filling it with philosophical rants and incoherent grievances against the “geometrical, theological, and geographical” decline of the twentieth century.
He is a writer who refuses to publish. He is a writer who spends more time correcting the perceived failures of others than completing his own work.
This is the great peril of the downtrodden writer. It is easy to become bitter, to develop a “Reilly-esque” disdain for the marketplace, and to convince yourself that your work is too “advanced” or “pure” for a public that prefers mindless pulp. We often use our high standards as a way to hide from the terrifying possibility that our work might be published and—far worse—dismissed.
Finding Solidarity in the Absurd
So, why read (or re-read) A Confederation of Dunces if you are currently feeling like a failure in the literary arts?
It’s a Reminder of the Danger of Ego: Toole’s novel is a comedy, not a biography, but it serves as a warning. Isolation is a creative desert. You need the grit of the real world—the very thing Ignatius scorns—to breathe life into your writing.
It Validates the Struggle: Toole himself struggled immensely to get his work published. His own tragic story adds a layer of poignancy to the book. He knew better than anyone what it felt like to be a genius without a seat at the table.
The Satire is Necessary: Sometimes, you have to laugh at the absurdity of it all. The world is full of “dunce” establishments, superficial trends, and people who will never understand the blood you pour into your pages. Acknowledging that and laughing at it, rather than letting it turn you into a recluse, is the only way to survive.
The Verdict
Ignatius J. Reilly’s tragedy is that he chose “no one” over the messiness of human connection. He chose the safety of his own mind over the risk of being misunderstood by the masses.
As a writer, your greatest work won’t come from sitting in a room alone, sneering at the world for not being up to your standards. It will come from acknowledging that while you may never find the “perfect” peer who understands every shade of your intent, there is a community of other writers just as broken, just as confused, and just as hopeful as you are.
Don’t be the person who mingles with “no one.” Find your fellow dunces. Share your stories. And for heaven’s sake, finish the manuscript.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 