How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.
In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.
I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.
Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.
There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.
Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.
It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.
For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.
It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!
Have you ever heard of someone rabbiting on, you know, endlessly rattling on about nothing?
That’s just one use of the word rabbit.
The most obvious is the animal, a rabbit. You know, that burrowing, plant-eating, long-eared, short-tailed animal that goes by the name of Bugs Bunny, maybe.
Nearly every child has a stuffed, cuddly one.
Of course, it’s of some significance at the moment because it’s Easter, and there are countless chocolate versions of the so-called Easter bunny.
Then there is that 6-foot-high invisible rabbit called Harvey, or not necessarily a rabbit, but a pookah.
We use the expression rabbit ears to describe those old interior television antennas.
There’s rabbit stew, rabbit pie, and white rabbit beer.
But my favorite is when the magician pulls the proverbial rabbit out of a hat. It’s an expression we also use for someone who pulls off an impossible task.
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 always had a dream to travel to other planets, and when he heard that the government was putting together a team of scientists with the express intention of building rockets, he gathered up his few belongings and traveled to Pennemunde to join the group being led by Werner von Braun.
At first, he had been turned away, but a chance meeting with von Braun changed his fortune.
But, when Adolf Hitler came to power, it seemed that quest to reach the other planets became a quest to build a military weapon that would devastate an enemy city. He had expressed his opposition to the project, but that was silenced when some Nazi party officials came from Berlin to give those scientists with reservations an ‘attitude readjustment’.
From then on all of the scientists knew when their allegiances lay and that there would be no time for traveling to the stars, even though, secretly, he drew on the experience and knowledge of the rockets they were building and testing to design his own rocket. One day.
Then, as if only weeks had passed, the war had been declared, and the scientists had to work harder on creating a weapon which, in its first instance became known as the V1 flying bomb. V, of course, stood for vengeance.
Later, when the enemy had bombed Pennemunde out of existence they moved to Nordhausen. This place was different, underground where it could not be bombed, but there was something rather sinister about it. Slave labor, prisoners from a local concentration camp were forced to work there, and the souls that he saw were not fit for work, or for anything else.
At Nordhausen, they worked on the V2 rockets, rockets in the true sense of the word, and it was abhorrent to him that they should be used for wholesale murder rather than their true purpose. A promotion to Haupsturnfuhere in the SS and making him responsible for the horrific crimes being committed against humanity was the last straw.
He had enough information to create his own rocket based on the success of the V2, and it was time to leave, get away from this place before it killed him too. There was only one problem, the real SS was watching, everyone and everything. They trusted no-one, not even their own fellow officers.
Mayer was one of the scientists lucky enough to get a billet to the town nearby. It was quiet enough, but he believed everyone living there knew what was going on, and worse, they knew about the concentration camp and the evil that went on inside. Worse still, he knew everyone was watching everyone else, and reporting back to the SS anything out of the ordinary, including newcomers.
One such man came into the town, dressed as Obersturnfurer with one other SS officer in a car. Everyone knew how impossible it was to get fuel, or if you had a car, a permit to use it except for essential services, or if it was requisitioned.
They were SS, so no one questioned why they were there. But that didn’t mean that whispers of their presence didn’t filter around the town. Just the very mention of the SS gave most people cold shivers.
Mayer heard about the two mysterious visitors when he arrived downstairs where he was lodging.
“They were asking about the people staying here and wanted to see their papers. I think they’re looking for someone, someone from the factory.”
“Nonsense. They’re probably here to see some of their friends up at the camp.”
With that, he dismissed the visitors from his mind and went up to his room. He unlocked the door and went in. A moment later he realized his room had been thoroughly searched, and the mess left as a warning. Had someone told the SS of his discontent. He hadn’t said as much, but attitude and body language would have told a different story.
Then the door closed behind him with a bang, and the moment a hand touched his shoulder he jumped in fright.
There’s been a man behind the door.
“I suggest you do not speak or do anything that might bring attention to us. Am I clear?”
Mayer nodded.
“Good.”
Another man, dressed in the uniform of a SS Standartenfuhrer, stepped out of the shadows in front of him holding a folder, the folder that contained his drawings and specifications for a more advanced V2 rocket,
Condemning evidence of him being a traitor to the Reich unless he could put a different spin on it. He waited to see what the Standartenfuher had to say.
“This is damning evidence of your traitorous behavior. We received information that you were stealing secrets from the Reich? For whom, Mayer? The British or the Americans?”
“I did not steal anything. I work on the plans here in my spare time, away from that place.” He realized the moment he said it, it might not be the best idea to be critical of anything, because it was always taken as a criticism of the Reich itself.
“Are you displeased with your working environment. No one else has raised such issues.”
“No, no,” he added hastily, “it was not what I meant. It’s just difficult to think clearly on problems when we’re under so much pressure.”
The Standartenfuhrer shook his head. “Enough Mayer. You are coming with us to explain yourself.”
“You need to clear this….”
“We don’t need anyone’s permission, Mayer. We walk out of here, into the car, and not a word to anyone. Any trouble I will not hesitate to shoot you. Understand?”
Mayer nodded.
This wasn’t good. Arrested by the SS. There could be only one outcome. It wouldn’t matter what he said, it would be the cells and then the firing squad. He’d heard the rumors.
The other SS officer went first, the Mayer, then the Standartenfuhrer, down the stairs and past the owner of the boarding house. The Standartenfuhrer stopped, and said, “This man’s papers, now.”
The owner stepped back into a room and came out a minute later and handed the Standartenfuhrer the document.
“No one is to be told what happened here. Not unless you want us to come back and arrest your family.”
“Yes sir,” the owner said, very scared.
The proceeded to the car, got in, Mayer in the back with the Standartenfuhrer, and they drove off. Only two people saw the whole event, and because it was by the SS, they were not going to tell anyone.
“Where are we going?” Mayer asked.
“Headquarters. You will be wise to sit, be quiet and say nothing under any circumstances.”
Headquarters was in Berlin, at least that’s where he went to be made an officer of the SS, as a Hauptsturmfuhrer to give him the necessary authority to take charge of certain aspects of the production process of the V2 rockets.
And that included work on improving the guidance system.
But, he noticed they were not going north, but south.
Latanzio had given up the notion he was going to go free and escape with Angelina. Amy had made it very clear that her father, Benito, wanted him dead, and because he had nowhere to go, least of all with Angelina, and even less likely with Gabrielle, it might force him into a corner, or unlikely as it appeared, he might make a mistake.
He hadn’t denied the fact he’d tried to kill me or seem concerned that Amy had referred to me as a very dangerous character. Latanzio didn’t get where he was in the crime business by being scared. He was going to be all bluster, until he worked out what was really going on, and then he would become dangerous.
But, when given a choice between the two women in his life, the fact he chose Gabrielle over Angelina said a lot. She had been circumspect from the beginning when Amy took her into ‘protective custody’. She was smarter than Angelina, she had to be, given what Angelina’s father would do to her if he found out.
It was time for him to be taken to Gabrielle and explain what was happening. Amy had implied, in her discussion with Gabrielle, that his facilitated escape and subsequent survival was not assured, hinting that her employers were not happy with him over his most recent mistake in killing a witness.
I was back in front of the monitors, this time to see Fabio with Gabrielle. Amy had joined me in the control room and sat in the chair next to me.
“Ready to see some sparks fly,” she asked.
“How so?”
“We sat her down and laid the whole scenario out on the table, Fabio’s marriage, his role in the death of a rival, the planned attack on you, and the fact your people are actively seeking vengeance, and that we can’t hold you for longer than 24 hours before we have to hand him over, a time that expires in about an hour. She also knows, in no uncertain terms, that Benito wants him dead, and that most likely will include her.”
“So not to put any pressure on him, then?”
“His options are extremely limited, and he knows it. He can go to jail or Benito will get him. He can go on the run, but Angelina won’t go with him. If truth be told, she’ll probably kill him before he gets out of here. And as for what he’s going to do about Gabrielle, that we’re about to find out.”
We watched him be escorted down the narrow passage. A door at the end of the passage opened, and he was thrust in. On a second monitor, in the room, we saw him stagger in and the door closed behind him.
Gabrielle was not pleased to see him, but, unlike Angelina, she was a little more reserved in her responses, thinking, or knowing, they were at the very least wired for sound.
It seemed to me he was more in tune with Gabrielle than with Angelina. Perhaps Gabrielle came without baggage.
Gabrielle was the first to speak. “That bitch in charge doesn’t like you, but then neither does your wife’s father. Not a man to be crossed, Fabio, and yet you were dumb enough to do so.”
“She means nothing to me. The old man always treated me like I was dirt.”
“And this man you killed?”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
She frowned at him. “You don’t lie to me, remember. I know you have for some time now, but this thing, I need to know. You kill him or not?”
I looked sideways at Amy. “You ask her to ask him?”
“I did, but she told me in no uncertain terms what to do with myself. But it seems it sowed some doubt, she’s curious herself now.”
Fabio sat down on the side of the bed and looked over at the boy lying facing the wall on a camp stretcher. He’d looked when Fabio entered the room, but then went back to his book.
Fabio shrugged. “It was an accident. The fool drew a gun on me and in the wrestle, it went off and he died. I swear that wasn’t my intention to kill him, just make him see sense.”
There could be a shred of truth in that statement, if they had wrestled for the gun, but they didn’t. One of Fabio’s goons had disarmed him, then when he stepped away, Fabio shot him. The goon had been horrified. It was not what was expected of him.
She shook her head. “That better be the truth of it, Fabio, or I’ll kill you myself. What was the deal with the witness?”
“It has to be a fabrication, a ruse to try and convict me, but there was no witness. I asked the boys to find this character to have a talk, but they discovered he was being held in a secret location, one they could find out about. Now there’s suddenly all this nonsense they’re using as an excuse to hunt me down.”
“But you wanted to find him. Why? For him to tell the police your version of the truth?”
He was like a man bailing out a sinking ship, and not making any progress as it sank lower and lower in the water. Gabrielle was the alligator in the water, circling, waiting.
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“Actually, it does. I’m told he survived, and he’s now looking for you. And that means if he’s coming after you, and I’m with you, he’s also coming after me and my son. So, here’s the deal. You want to leave here with me, you need to square away the witness, sort out the bitch from hell, and get Benito’s contract off your head. Think you can do that?”
Tall order, with odds ranging from impossible all the way up to needing a miracle.
“Perhaps we should just take him to Benito’s house and drop him off,” Amy said.
Her attitude towards Fabio had changed from the moment Fabio had sent in a hit team. Once she might have seen matters from a goodness and light perspective, but now, I don’t think Fabio was her list of best friends. Not after trying to kill us, and succeeding with other members of her team.
“Or give me five minutes in a locked room with him. I’m sure I could drum some sense into him,” I said.
She looked sideways at me, then shook her head. “That’s not how we do things.”
I shrugged. “It could be. You’ve broken more rules and laws today that you’ve probably done in a lifetime. What were you expecting to get out of this?”
I waved my hand at the screens. What she was doing, it didn’t really make much sense. Fabio wasn’t going to confess, and with Benito on his case, all he could do was run. Or try to make peace with him, and give up the mistress.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
An interrogation and a revelation.
Debriefings were like interrogations, only friendlier. We were trained to withstand interrogation, so it would be interesting to see how I reacted. I had no doubt what some of the questions would be.
While I had a few minutes to myself, sitting down behind a bare metal table on a hard plastic and uncomfortable chair, with a warm cup of station house coffee, to consider the briefing.
Target, male, 6 foot 3 inches, 200 pounds, Caucasian, thought to be from either Russia or Bulgaria, but nothing to define his as such. I had wondered, at the time, what that meant. When I saw him in the alley I knew, then, what was meant, he looked the same as you or me.
No explanation for why he was under surveillance, but we did get a warning that he might be dangerous if he suspected he was being observed. Right about that, given team casualties.
Main objective, who he met, talked to, and where he went, every place, every detail to be noted. The unpredictable explosion threw the whole operation into chaos.
The door opened and a woman, middle-aged, conservatively dressed, walked in, closing it behind her. She sat in the other chair opposite me. She brought a file, thin, and put it in front of her on the table.
“Your name is Sam Jackson?”
“Yes.”
No introductions, nothing, just a start on the questions. No nonsense, but I could see she was very, very angry. With me, or those who had run a failed operation?
“How long have you been with us?”
“Eight months.”
She opened the file and glanced at the piece of paper on top. A minute passed before she closed the file again. “Closer to nine,” she said.
I said nothing. I wasn’t counting the days.
“How many operations have you been on?”
“Six, including this one.”
“Who assigned you to this specific operation?”
“Couldn’t say. I got the usual request via text message to attend a briefing at the midtown office.”
“What was the designated operation name?”
“Chancellery.”
For a brief second, there was a quizzical expression on her face, then it was gone.
“Who was running this operation?”
“Director Severin.”
A full three minutes of silence passed. I thought she was looking at me, the sort of stare that would break a lesser man, but in the end, I think she was looking right through me. I could not read her thoughts, but if I was to guess, they would be rather dark right now.
Then she spoke.
“You should know that there was no Chancellery on the books, and we certainly do not have a Director named Severin.”
How to Ensure That Writing Daily Is Actually Writing Daily: A Guide to Building a Sustainable Habit
If you’ve ever set a goal to write every day only to falter by day three, you’re not alone. Consistency in writing can feel like a mountain to climb—especially when motivation wanes, life gets busy, or the blank page feels more intimidating than a challenge. The good news? You don’t need superhuman discipline to write daily. You just need strategy, structure, and a plan that works for you. Let’s break it down.
1. Define “Writing Daily” According to Your Needs
The phrase “write daily” can mean different things to different people:
Creative writing (a novel, poems, short stories).
Journaling (personal reflections or gratitude entries).
Content creation (blog posts, emails, social media captions).
Freewriting (stream-of-consciousness to clear your mind).
Start by clarifying your purpose. Are you building discipline, working toward a project, or simply expressing yourself? Define what “counted” as a writing day for you. For example:
Write 500 words every day.
Spend 15 minutes freewriting.
Draft one paragraph of a larger project.
Clarity removes ambiguity and makes the habit feel achievable.
2. Schedule It Like a Priority
Procrastination thrives in uncertainty. To beat it, treat writing like a non-negotiable appointment.
Block time in your calendar (e.g., 7–8 a.m. daily) and protect it as you would a doctor’s appointment.
Use the “Two-Minute Rule”: If you think you’ll write for 15 minutes but never feel “ready,” commit to writing for just two minutes. Often, those two minutes turn into 15.
Set reminders (phone alarms, sticky notes, voice-to-text prompts).
Pro tip: Writing at the same time and place daily (your favourite coffee spot, a corner of your desk) builds a neural connection: “This is when/where I write.”
3. Overcome the “Wait for Inspiration” Trap
Inspiration is overrated when it comes to consistency. Most of us wait for the “perfect moment” to write, but daily writing becomes its own kind of inspiration.
Start with a prompt. Use apps like 750words, The Daily Post by Automattic, or even a random object (e.g., “Describe the chair you’re sitting in”).
Freewrite without judgment. If you’re stuck, write the first thing that comes to mind—even if it’s “I don’t know what to write.” Often, the act of writing leads you to ideas.
Embrace “done is better than perfect.” Aim for progress, not brilliance. You can revise tomorrow.
4. Simplify Your Process
Overcomplicated write-then-edit cycles can kill momentum. For daily writing:
Use a low-stakes tool. A voice recorder, a napkin, your phone’s Notes app—anything that gets words down without friction.
Batch-edit later. Save revisions for the next day or week. Right now, focus on moving.
Track progress visually. Apps like Habitica, Streaks, or even a simple calendar can create a sense of accomplishment with each checkmark.
5. Make It Accountable
Accountability is the secret sauce for habit formation.
Share your goal publicly. Tell a friend, post on social media, or join a writing challenge (like NaNoWriMo’s NanoWrimo Daily Prompt).
Join a community. Online groups or local writing circles can keep you motivated.
Find a writing buddy. Check in weekly to share progress and encourage each other.
6. Be Kind to Yourself—But Stay Curious
Missed a day? Don’t quit. Here’s how to navigate setback:
Reflect without judgment. Ask, “What got in the way?” Was it a busy week, burnout, or unclear expectations? Adjust accordingly.
Reframe the pause. A single missed day doesn’t erase your progress. Just pick up where you left off.
Celebrate small wins. Finished 200 words? That’s still a win.
7. Reconnect to Why You’re Doing This
Why does writing matter to you? Keep that vision alive by:
Writing a purpose statement (e.g., “I write to stay grounded, grow, or share my voice”).
Revisiting early work to see how far you’ve come.
Allowing writing to evolve with you—your habits might shift, but the core practice remains.
Final Thoughts: Daily Writing Is a Practice, Not a Performance
The goal isn’t to mimic perfection but to build a habit that sticks. Over time, daily writing becomes a muscle you can flex even when it’s hard. It’s not about writing every day—it’s about writing daily enough to notice the difference.
So start small. Let go of the pressure. One day at a time, your daily writing habit will grow—and so will you.
Set yourself a reading list, and don’t limit yourself to the sort of genre of books that you wish to write. But, I have to admit I’m guilty of not necessarily reading everything because there are genres that I do not like.
But, for the purposes of this exercise, what you are looking for are:
Descriptions of locations, the methods by which the author conveys the setting, whether dark, light, eerie, scary, dripping with menace, or inspiring fear. A dark room can be just a dark room, but it can be so much more.
Descriptions of people. If anyone who witnessed a crime was asked to describe the guilty, ten different people would give ten different descriptions, and unless there was a distinguishing factor like he only had one arm, it might describe a quarter to half the population. Your job is to see how others do it and refine it for your characterisations.
Conversation. We all have conversations, but when it comes to writing them down and making them sound plausible, that’s another story. Conversation is the hardest part of this writing thing, or at least I think so.
Writing style. You will eventually get your own, but to begin with, it might be a little strange. Reading many similar-themed or genre books will give you some idea of what the publisher’s editors are looking for.
You will have to read quite a few. I have a library with about 3,000 books, having accumulated them over 50 years. And I think I have learned a great deal from many of them, particularly in how to write the genre of books I prefer.
John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
How to Ensure That Writing Daily Is Actually Writing Daily: A Guide to Building a Sustainable Habit
If you’ve ever set a goal to write every day only to falter by day three, you’re not alone. Consistency in writing can feel like a mountain to climb—especially when motivation wanes, life gets busy, or the blank page feels more intimidating than a challenge. The good news? You don’t need superhuman discipline to write daily. You just need strategy, structure, and a plan that works for you. Let’s break it down.
1. Define “Writing Daily” According to Your Needs
The phrase “write daily” can mean different things to different people:
Creative writing (a novel, poems, short stories).
Journaling (personal reflections or gratitude entries).
Content creation (blog posts, emails, social media captions).
Freewriting (stream-of-consciousness to clear your mind).
Start by clarifying your purpose. Are you building discipline, working toward a project, or simply expressing yourself? Define what “counted” as a writing day for you. For example:
Write 500 words every day.
Spend 15 minutes freewriting.
Draft one paragraph of a larger project.
Clarity removes ambiguity and makes the habit feel achievable.
2. Schedule It Like a Priority
Procrastination thrives in uncertainty. To beat it, treat writing like a non-negotiable appointment.
Block time in your calendar (e.g., 7–8 a.m. daily) and protect it as you would a doctor’s appointment.
Use the “Two-Minute Rule”: If you think you’ll write for 15 minutes but never feel “ready,” commit to writing for just two minutes. Often, those two minutes turn into 15.
Set reminders (phone alarms, sticky notes, voice-to-text prompts).
Pro tip: Writing at the same time and place daily (your favourite coffee spot, a corner of your desk) builds a neural connection: “This is when/where I write.”
3. Overcome the “Wait for Inspiration” Trap
Inspiration is overrated when it comes to consistency. Most of us wait for the “perfect moment” to write, but daily writing becomes its own kind of inspiration.
Start with a prompt. Use apps like 750words, The Daily Post by Automattic, or even a random object (e.g., “Describe the chair you’re sitting in”).
Freewrite without judgment. If you’re stuck, write the first thing that comes to mind—even if it’s “I don’t know what to write.” Often, the act of writing leads you to ideas.
Embrace “done is better than perfect.” Aim for progress, not brilliance. You can revise tomorrow.
4. Simplify Your Process
Overcomplicated write-then-edit cycles can kill momentum. For daily writing:
Use a low-stakes tool. A voice recorder, a napkin, your phone’s Notes app—anything that gets words down without friction.
Batch-edit later. Save revisions for the next day or week. Right now, focus on moving.
Track progress visually. Apps like Habitica, Streaks, or even a simple calendar can create a sense of accomplishment with each checkmark.
5. Make It Accountable
Accountability is the secret sauce for habit formation.
Share your goal publicly. Tell a friend, post on social media, or join a writing challenge (like NaNoWriMo’s NanoWrimo Daily Prompt).
Join a community. Online groups or local writing circles can keep you motivated.
Find a writing buddy. Check in weekly to share progress and encourage each other.
6. Be Kind to Yourself—But Stay Curious
Missed a day? Don’t quit. Here’s how to navigate setback:
Reflect without judgment. Ask, “What got in the way?” Was it a busy week, burnout, or unclear expectations? Adjust accordingly.
Reframe the pause. A single missed day doesn’t erase your progress. Just pick up where you left off.
Celebrate small wins. Finished 200 words? That’s still a win.
7. Reconnect to Why You’re Doing This
Why does writing matter to you? Keep that vision alive by:
Writing a purpose statement (e.g., “I write to stay grounded, grow, or share my voice”).
Revisiting early work to see how far you’ve come.
Allowing writing to evolve with you—your habits might shift, but the core practice remains.
Final Thoughts: Daily Writing Is a Practice, Not a Performance
The goal isn’t to mimic perfection but to build a habit that sticks. Over time, daily writing becomes a muscle you can flex even when it’s hard. It’s not about writing every day—it’s about writing daily enough to notice the difference.
So start small. Let go of the pressure. One day at a time, your daily writing habit will grow—and so will you.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 