Category: Fiction

Short Story Writing: Don’t try this at home – Part 4

This is not meant to be a treatise on short story writing.  Far be it from me to advise anyone on the subject.  I prefer to say how it is that I do it so you can learn all of the pitfalls in one go.

…

I find inspiration in the most unlikely places.

Shopping malls are great; there are so many things going on, so many different types of people, and there’s often enough to fill a journal.

Driving on the roads, you get to see some of the most amazing stunt driving, and it’s not even being filmed; it’s just playing out before your very eyes.

Waiting in hospitals, waiting for doctors, accountants, dentists, friends, hanging around coffee shops, cafes, bistros, restaurants, the list is endless.

But the best source, newspapers, and the more obscure the headline, the better, and then just let your imagination run free, like:

Four deaths, four mysteries, all homeless.

This poses a few interesting scenarios, such as whether they were homeless or were made to look like they’re homeless.  Are they connected in any way?

The point is, far from the original story that simply covers four seemingly random murders, a writer can turn this into a thriller very easily.

It could follow a similar headline in another country, where three headlines could be found, say, in London, where a man is found dead in an abandoned building, a week after he died, with no obvious signs of how he died.

A woman is killed in what seems from the outset an accident involving two cars, where, after three days, the driver of the second vehicle simply disappears.

A man is reported missing after not reporting for work when he was supposed to return from a vacation in Germany.

Where an obscure piece says that a man was found at the bottom of a mountain, presumed to have fallen in a climbing accident.

It’s all in the joining of the dots.

 

What I learned about writing – Ursula K LeGuin writing workshops

The Craft of the Craft: Inside Ursula K. Le Guin’s Writing Workshops

For aspiring writers, the name Ursula K. Le Guin stands as a monolith of literary craft. Beyond her genre-defining novels like The Left Hand of Darkness and the Earthsea cycle, Le Guin was a dedicated mentor. She believed that writing was a skill to be honed, not just a talent to be waited upon.

If you’ve ever wondered what it was like to sit in a room (or engage in a digital exchange) with the master of speculative fiction, you are asking about more than just a class—you are asking about a philosophy of language.

In this post, we’ll explore the core themes, methodologies, and enduring legacy of Ursula K. Le Guin’s writing workshops.

1. The Primacy of “The Sentence”

Le Guin was famously obsessed with the mechanics of the English language. Her workshops were rarely about high-concept plot brainstorming; they were about the rhythm and music of the sentence.

She often taught that a paragraph is a piece of music. If a sentence didn’t flow, if the cadence was awkward, or if the words didn’t communicate the precise “weight” of the idea, she would push students to rewrite it. Her workshops taught writers that if you cannot control the sentence, you cannot control the story.

2. Reading as Research

One of the most distinct aspects of Le Guin’s pedagogical approach was her insistence that to be a writer, you must be a voracious reader.

Her workshops often featured “close reading” sessions. She would assign classic and contemporary texts, asking students not just to enjoy the story, but to dissect how the author achieved specific effects. She taught that writers are essentially “thieves” of technique—you must read widely to understand the toolbox you have at your disposal.

3. The “Steering” of Narrative Perspective

Le Guin was an expert at shifting perspectives, most notably in Always Coming Home. In her workshops, she challenged students to abandon the “default” narrative voice.

She encouraged participants to experiment with:

  • The unreliable narrator: How do we trust (or distrust) the voice on the page?
  • Non-human perspectives: How does one describe the world without using human-centric metaphors?
  • Voice and Tone: How the specific register of a character’s voice dictates their social standing, their history, and their internal world.

4. The Philosophy of “The Craft” over “The Market”

Unlike many modern MFA programs that focus on “getting published,” Le Guin’s workshops were notoriously indifferent to the commercial market. She viewed writing as a communal, humanistic endeavour.

She often warned students against writing for trends. Her workshops were safe spaces to fail, to experiment with “weird” ideas, and to focus on the integrity of the work rather than its potential for a book deal. She taught that if you focus on the quality of the work, the audience will eventually find its way to you.

5. The Accessible Legacy: Steering the Craft

If you cannot attend a workshop taught by Le Guin herself, the next best thing is her seminal guidebook, Steering the Craft.

This book is essentially the curriculum of her workshops distilled into text. It provides:

  • Exercises in Sentence Structure: Moving beyond simple S-V-O (Subject-Verb-Object) sentences.
  • Exercises in Point of View: Learning to inhabit different narrative distances.
  • Exercises in Sound and Rhythm: Using assonance, consonance, and pacing to create mood.

What You Can Take Away Today

Whether you are a fantasy novelist or an essayist, you can adopt the “Le Guin Method” by implementing these three habits into your daily practice:

  1. Read Aloud: If a sentence trips you up when you read it aloud, it’s not ready. Rewrite it until it sounds like music.
  2. Limit Your Adjectives: Le Guin was famous for stripping away “filler” to let the strong verbs do the heavy lifting.
  3. Study the Masters: Pick a favorite author, transcribe a page of their work by hand, and try to understand exactly why they chose each word.

Final Thoughts

Ursula K. Le Guin’s workshops were never about “finding your voice” in a performative sense. They were about disciplining your voice. By treating writing as a craft—a trade similar to carpentry or weaving—she empowered thousands of writers to take their work seriously.

If you want to write better, stop looking for “inspiration” and start looking for the perfect word to end your next sentence.

Are you a fan of Ursula K. Le Guin’s writing advice? Have you read ‘Steering the Craft’? Share your favourite writing tip from her in the comments below!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 189

Day 189 – Jane Austen’s novels as examples to draw on

…

The Austen Blueprint: Mastering Structure, Dialogue, and Plot Through Jane Austen’s Novels

If you want to write a novel that stands the test of time, look no further than the 19th-century drawing rooms of Jane Austen. While the social landscape of Regency England may seem worlds away from the modern reader, Austen’s technical prowess remains the gold standard for novelists.

Whether you are writing contemporary romance, historical fiction, or a suspenseful thriller, Austen’s work offers a masterclass in narrative architecture. Here is how you can use Jane Austen’s novels as a blueprint for your own storytelling.

1. Structural Symmetry: The Art of the Controlled Narrative

Austen was the queen of “the perfect structure.” Her novels rely on a rhythmic pacing that keeps readers engaged without ever feeling rushed.

  • The Economy of Characters: Austen never included a character who didn’t serve a specific purpose. In your own work, audit your cast. If a character exists only for flavour, consider cutting them or merging their function with a protagonist to tighten your focus.
  • The “Small Village” Approach: Critics often joked that Austen wrote about “three or four families in a country village.” By limiting the scope of your setting, you create high-stakes intimacy. You don’t need a sprawling intergalactic empire to create tension; you just need a closed system where social consequences feel life-altering.

2. Dialogue as a Character Tool

Austen’s dialogue is legendary—sharp, witty, and deeply revealing. She rarely relied on “said-book” descriptors, preferring to let the weight of the words reveal the character’s soul.

  • Character Voice: Think of Mr. Collins’s sycophantic, flowery verbosity versus Mr. Darcy’s clipped, guarded brevity. When writing your dialogue, ask: Would my antagonist speak in long, rambling sentences, or short, punchy bursts? Give each character a distinct rhythmic signature.
  • Subtext is King: In an Austen novel, characters are often forbidden from saying exactly what they mean due to social decorum. This creates incredible tension. Try writing a scene where your characters are arguing about something trivial (like a letter or a walk) while the real conflict is something they are strictly prohibited from mentioning. The friction between what is said and what is felt is where the magic happens.

3. Plotting: The “Misunderstanding” Engine

Modern plotters often over-complicate their narratives. Austen’s plots are remarkably simple on the surface, usually revolving around money, marriage, or social reputation. But the engines of these plots are always character flaws.

  • The Internal-External Drive: Austen’s plots progress because of her characters’ internal biases. Elizabeth Bennet’s prejudice and Mr. Darcy’s pride aren’t just personality traits; they are the literal obstacles that prevent the plot from resolving early.
  • The Revelation Moment: A hallmark of the Austen plot is the “Anagnorisis”—the moment of discovery. Think of Darcy’s first letter to Elizabeth. It forces the protagonist to re-evaluate everything they thought they knew about the world. Identify the “prejudice” your protagonist holds and build your second act around a moment that forces them to burn that belief to the ground.

4. The “Slow Burn” Pacing

In today’s market, many writers feel pressured to start with a massive explosion. Austen teaches us the value of the slow burn. She builds tension through small, incremental shifts in relationship dynamics.

  • Use Micro-Events: Instead of a car crash, use a dance, an unwanted dinner invitation, or a shared secret. When the stakes are emotional, the smallest gesture—a held hand or a cold glance—carries the weight of an explosion.

Putting it into Practice

To apply this “Austen Blueprint” to your next draft, try this exercise:

  1. Strip it down: Take your current manuscript and identify the three most crucial relationships. Cut any character who doesn’t directly influence these dynamics.
  2. Audit the Dialogue: Go through a scene and delete all the dialogue tags (he said/she said). If you can’t tell who is speaking based on their word choice alone, rewrite the lines to be more distinct.
  3. Define the “Pride”: Write down the one lie your protagonist believes about the world. Does your current plot actually force them to face that lie, or are you just throwing external obstacles in their way?

Final Thoughts

Jane Austen’s brilliance wasn’t in grand, sweeping spectacles; it was in the profound understanding of human behaviour. By focusing on tight structures, character-driven dialogue, and the internal growth of your protagonist, you can craft a story that—like Pride and Prejudice—will be read and reread for generations.

Are you currently working on a manuscript? What lessons have you drawn from the classics to improve your writing? Share your thoughts below!

…

In a word: Stick

Everyone knows what a stick is, it’s a lump of wood that you throw out in front of you, and if your dog is inclined to, he will run out and fetch it back.

Of course, there’s the obstinate ones who just lie down on the ground and look at you like you’re foolishly throwing away something useful.

For instance, that stick, and a few others that would be very useful to light a campfire, or just a woodfire in the house, during winter.

Or it can be a stick of wood needed for something else, like a building project, of those highly secret affairs that go on in the locked shed at the bottom of the garden.

I’m sure the dog who refuses to fetch sticks knows exactly what is going on there but is disinclined to say.

But..

If you are looking at the gooey sense of the word, there is an old saying, if you throw enough mud, some of it sticks’.

Yes, you can stick stuff to stuff, such as words cut out of various newspapers to make up a ransom or warning note.

Too many mystery movies, I know.

Paint will stick to timber or any surface, really.

Mud sticks to the bottom of shoes or boots and becomes analysable evidence.

I can stick to you like glue, which means that where you go, I go. This is quite handy if you are trying to stop an opposition player from scoring in a game.

I can use a walking stick, beat someone with a stick, use a stick to fly a plane, or use a gear stick to move a car.

I’m sure, if you think about it, you can come up with a dozen more ways to use it.

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet them or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except, of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact that, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street who look like someone we knew and make the mistake of approaching them like a long-lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away from what they perceive as a stalker, or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then, according to the circumstances and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me, one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognise was murder. The photo of the man on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated by what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer, the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room. I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realise what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low-profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, had no children, and, according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company; I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably, more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with several other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with several other delegates at the pre-conference get-together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bulletproof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me? I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain-killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes and took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I would still be considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try to explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in and out of consciousness. A nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told me what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have another visitor. He is from the British Embassy, I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realised then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit, the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old, which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome, and he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently, for them, it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact that you were shot had made it an all-around embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologising?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted on speaking with you first.  I have come, basically, to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document, which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter that could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush-hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that?  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible, so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man, Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri or Sorrento, if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, who had announced herself as the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it: “The patient has recovered excellently, and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed, so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long, wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful, though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him. She checked the door and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then that I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have several witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed-circuit TV, we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her notebook back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti, and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologise for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you, it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest, one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger-happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realised if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry, but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest, he escaped. Once we realised we had made a mistake and reviewed the closed-circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough, no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officers’ weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you, Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrongdoing?”

“I have apologised. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank you for your time and cooperation, Mr Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 189

Day 189 – Jane Austen’s novels as examples to draw on

…

The Austen Blueprint: Mastering Structure, Dialogue, and Plot Through Jane Austen’s Novels

If you want to write a novel that stands the test of time, look no further than the 19th-century drawing rooms of Jane Austen. While the social landscape of Regency England may seem worlds away from the modern reader, Austen’s technical prowess remains the gold standard for novelists.

Whether you are writing contemporary romance, historical fiction, or a suspenseful thriller, Austen’s work offers a masterclass in narrative architecture. Here is how you can use Jane Austen’s novels as a blueprint for your own storytelling.

1. Structural Symmetry: The Art of the Controlled Narrative

Austen was the queen of “the perfect structure.” Her novels rely on a rhythmic pacing that keeps readers engaged without ever feeling rushed.

  • The Economy of Characters: Austen never included a character who didn’t serve a specific purpose. In your own work, audit your cast. If a character exists only for flavour, consider cutting them or merging their function with a protagonist to tighten your focus.
  • The “Small Village” Approach: Critics often joked that Austen wrote about “three or four families in a country village.” By limiting the scope of your setting, you create high-stakes intimacy. You don’t need a sprawling intergalactic empire to create tension; you just need a closed system where social consequences feel life-altering.

2. Dialogue as a Character Tool

Austen’s dialogue is legendary—sharp, witty, and deeply revealing. She rarely relied on “said-book” descriptors, preferring to let the weight of the words reveal the character’s soul.

  • Character Voice: Think of Mr. Collins’s sycophantic, flowery verbosity versus Mr. Darcy’s clipped, guarded brevity. When writing your dialogue, ask: Would my antagonist speak in long, rambling sentences, or short, punchy bursts? Give each character a distinct rhythmic signature.
  • Subtext is King: In an Austen novel, characters are often forbidden from saying exactly what they mean due to social decorum. This creates incredible tension. Try writing a scene where your characters are arguing about something trivial (like a letter or a walk) while the real conflict is something they are strictly prohibited from mentioning. The friction between what is said and what is felt is where the magic happens.

3. Plotting: The “Misunderstanding” Engine

Modern plotters often over-complicate their narratives. Austen’s plots are remarkably simple on the surface, usually revolving around money, marriage, or social reputation. But the engines of these plots are always character flaws.

  • The Internal-External Drive: Austen’s plots progress because of her characters’ internal biases. Elizabeth Bennet’s prejudice and Mr. Darcy’s pride aren’t just personality traits; they are the literal obstacles that prevent the plot from resolving early.
  • The Revelation Moment: A hallmark of the Austen plot is the “Anagnorisis”—the moment of discovery. Think of Darcy’s first letter to Elizabeth. It forces the protagonist to re-evaluate everything they thought they knew about the world. Identify the “prejudice” your protagonist holds and build your second act around a moment that forces them to burn that belief to the ground.

4. The “Slow Burn” Pacing

In today’s market, many writers feel pressured to start with a massive explosion. Austen teaches us the value of the slow burn. She builds tension through small, incremental shifts in relationship dynamics.

  • Use Micro-Events: Instead of a car crash, use a dance, an unwanted dinner invitation, or a shared secret. When the stakes are emotional, the smallest gesture—a held hand or a cold glance—carries the weight of an explosion.

Putting it into Practice

To apply this “Austen Blueprint” to your next draft, try this exercise:

  1. Strip it down: Take your current manuscript and identify the three most crucial relationships. Cut any character who doesn’t directly influence these dynamics.
  2. Audit the Dialogue: Go through a scene and delete all the dialogue tags (he said/she said). If you can’t tell who is speaking based on their word choice alone, rewrite the lines to be more distinct.
  3. Define the “Pride”: Write down the one lie your protagonist believes about the world. Does your current plot actually force them to face that lie, or are you just throwing external obstacles in their way?

Final Thoughts

Jane Austen’s brilliance wasn’t in grand, sweeping spectacles; it was in the profound understanding of human behaviour. By focusing on tight structures, character-driven dialogue, and the internal growth of your protagonist, you can craft a story that—like Pride and Prejudice—will be read and reread for generations.

Are you currently working on a manuscript? What lessons have you drawn from the classics to improve your writing? Share your thoughts below!

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 33

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…

…

Neither of us knew what to expect, and I had tried to steel myself for the worst. It was war, and I’d seen some awful things, but when it had happened to people you knew, and to a certain extent civilians that were nothing to do with the war, it was all that much harder to both understand why, and see.

There were dead, I counted at least ten, villagers who were innocent of any crime other than the fact they didn’t like Leonardo. They had no chance, shot and left to die in almost the same positions I’d seen them when I’d left earlier.

But, after checking everywhere, I could not find Martina.

Then Jack appeared. He came up to me and tugged on my trouser leg. “So this is where you got to?” I said. Why had he come back, though?

He headed back further into the cavern near where we had been earlier, a doorway I had not seen. It was ajar. Jack simply stood still, looking at it.

I pulled out my service pistol, not wanting to be caught unaware, and moved quietly towards the door, then slowly pulled it open.

At first, I saw nothing, then, looking down, I saw a figure on the floor. I knelt down to see who it was. The boy, Enrico. I’d seen his parents earlier, both dead. He must have escaped and hidden in the room, and, luckily, no one had followed him.

Except for Jack. Or had Jack come back, having sensed something awful had happened?

I checked him but there didn’t seem to be any wounds, and, when I shook his shoulder, he jolted, and jumped up ready to attack me, until he saw who it was, then grabbed hold of me. He was shaking, and suddenly sobbing. He had seen what had happened, and it was not something he was going to forget.

And he was going to want to exact revenge.

He was not the only one.

It took ten minutes before he had calmed, and managed to sit, leaning back against the wall. The room was where empty bottles were stored on wooden boxes, and he must have hidden among the crates. Anyone searching quickly wouldn’t venture much past the doorway.

It had saved his life.

Then, when I asked, he related what happened.

It was over very quickly. There had been a pounding on the door, and Martina had assumed it was Chiara returning. Chiara, he said, had said she had a small errand to run before locking herself in with the others.

When Martina opened the door, Leonardo was there, and they captured her, then set about killing everyone else. Enrico had been in the rear of the cavern looking for extra places for the others to camp when he heard the shots being fired.

Instead of going back to see what was happening, he hid in the bottle room, afraid for his life. Afraid for his parents and the others, but he had quickly realized there was nothing he could do. Leonardo had used the act of surprise.

One of Leonardo’s men had come back to where he was hiding, and just as he put his head in the door, Leonardo had called him back. They had to leave before Carlo and I returned. One of his men suggested they remain and capture us when we came back, but Leonardo said we’d come to him as soon as we saw what had happened.

He was right.

Carlo had made up a list of the dead and found that not only Martina was missing, so was Giuseppe and Francesco.

I told him Chiara was still alive, but barely, that Leonardo and his men had almost killed her, extracting the other’s whereabouts.

Martina and the others were most likely receiving the same punishment Chiara had received, up at the castle in one of the dungeons.

We were going to have to rescue them if they were still alive.

In fact, now that Thompson had sent reinforcements, the fight was going to be a little more in our favor with six of us, instead of two. Perhaps seven, if I could not persuade Enrico not to come, but that was going to be difficult. In his place, I would feel exactly the same.

When Enrico was ready, we went back out to the main cavern where Carlo was sitting, head in hands. It was probably the only time he would get to mourn his fellow villagers/

Jack was seeking forgiveness for deserting me, but I was not mad at him. That he was able to give some form of companionship to Enrico probably saved him from making a mistake thinking he could exact revenge on his own.

I told him Leonardo would pay for this, and, predictably, he told me that he would be coming with us. I promised myself that I would find some way of keeping him safe.

…
© Charles Heath 2020-2023

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the Past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The Birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus, the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all rewrites, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally, it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Year’s, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening, we were out late and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow; it was cold and wet, and apartment buildings were shimmering in the street light, and I thought, “This is the place where my main character will live”.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went, so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller Centre is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy man with few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

…

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

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The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 34

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

When I woke the next morning, it was to the sound of voices in the front of the house.  One of the voices was my mothers.  The other I had trouble placing, and I initially thought it was Benderby, calling in on the way to work.

When I threw on some clothes and came out, still a little bleary-eyed, I found it was the Sherriff.  It seemed, all of a sudden, my mother had become the most popular girl in town.

The thing is, I knew little of the history of what went on in my mother’s time in a city where she had been born, raised, and remained.  Married and divorced her high school sweetheart, there was talk of her being one of the popular girls at school, coincidentally the same school I went to, and there was evidence everywhere of her there.

I had not lived up to the family name.

Not that she expected me too, nor did she acknowledge those wild and hazy days where she had not been weighed down by a useless drunken husband, and struggle to pay the bills, hold onto the house, and both work and be a mother.  Life had not gone the way she had expected.

But curiously those times were also those of Sherriff Johnson, in the same grade, along with Benderby, a few years ahead, and both Boggs’ mother and father who were contemporaries along with others including Nadia and Vince’s mother.  They had been friends once until she married Cossatino and she ‘changed’.

Now they were an ocean apart on the social or any scale.

“Ah, Sam.  How are you now?”

“Better.  I’ll be more careful next time.  Got any leads on who it was?”

“Ghosts.  We have a few.  Some of them are Cossatino’s, the others Benderby.  Pity no one is willing to name names.”

“I didn’t see them, Sherriff.  They wore masks.”

“Of course.”

“Is there anything more about the Frobisher case?”

“You seem very interested in police matters Sam.”

“He was an antique dealer, according to the papers, and there’s a lot of talk going around about the infamous treasure maps and you can’t help but put two and two together.  Especially when Rico is related to Boggs whose father was the one responsible for creating those treasure maps.  You think Rico was trying to get some answers out of him?”

“Hardly the sort of thing that any sane man would kill for, don’t you think?”

I doubted he would tell me if he knew anything, but he had taken more interest in what I was saying.  It was stuff he’d know, or at least should know, since he had been the one to investigate Boggs’ father’s disappearance.

“Who said Rico was sane.  He was a terrifying sort of guy when he lost his temper which I’ve seen him do in front of Boggs.  But you have to agree, Rico had to know about Boggs’ father’s role in creating the maps for the Cossatino’s.”

The sheriff shook his head.

“Those are not the sort of rumors you want to be spreading around town, not unless you want an army of Cossatino’s layers on your doorstep.  They are just that, rumors.  Nothing was ever proven, and there was no evidence that the Cossatino’s had anything to do with Boggs’ father’s disappearance.”

“And Rico?”

“Rico is a harmless fool who talks big and that’s all.  He did his time for running a map scam that he claims was run by Boggs senior.  No one could prove it so he copped it sweet.  Now, he should know better.  But I will say this, Frobisher was not here to see Rico, but Benderby.  Benderby apparently had some old coins he’s scooped up off the ocean floor on a dive and thought they might be worth something.  Frobisher took them to be assessed and valued but got no further than Rico’s boat.  And the coins are now missing.”

“Sounds to me like there’s going to be another treasure hunt.”

There’d been another some years before fuelled by news an authentic treasure map had been found, showing the location of Captain Markaby’s plunder stashed away for another day somewhere on our shores.

It all ended with Boggs senior’s disappearance.

“It might, but we can only hope what happened to the father in the last one, doesn’t happen to the son in this one.  It’s why I called in.  Your mother tells me you have some influence on young Boggs.  Please tell him to stop stirring the pot with this notion he has the real map.  He doesn’t.  No one does.  The plain truth is, there isn’t one.  Someone needs to get through to him before something really bad happens to him.  He’s already had one close shave.  I’ll deal with the Cossatino’s and the Benderby’s.  I expect you to deal with Boggs.  Am I clear?”

Put to me in that authoritarian voice, it was very clear.  But to Boggs, it was going to be like a red rag to a bull.

I nodded and went back to my room.

How did I manage to get in the middle of this mess?

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2020