Category: Fiction

“The Things we do for Love”, the story behind the story

This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 71 this year.

Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.

Why, you might ask.

Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne

At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.

I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.

Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them

Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.

I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.

Damn!

So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years

I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.

It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey.  Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.

Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.

So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.

Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.

It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there.  She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.

And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions.  Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.

Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.

But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.

As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life

If only I’d come from such a background!

And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.

I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.

One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.

Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.

It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife.  Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.

An excerpt from “Sunday in New York”

Now available on Amazon at:  https://amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.

We met the Blaine’s at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaine’s frequently visited, and had recommended.

Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’.  It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.

It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over.  It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.

Aside from the half frown half-smile, Alison was looking stunning.  It was months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th anniversary that cost a month’s salary.  On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to.  She had adored it, and me, for a week or so after.

For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.

She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars got on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds silence, and many more gasps.

Even I had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room.  Once more I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me.  Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others ‘out there’ who were more appealing.

Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight.  She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.

More than once I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”

Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together.  It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement.  Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.

The battle lines were drawn.

Jimmy was looking fashionable, with the permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it.  Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.

The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out she had straightened it.  And took the moment to look deeply into my soul.  It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.

Then it was gone.

I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me.  A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.

When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.”  It was not a question, but a statement.

I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’ but I accepted it with good grace.  Sometimes Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand.  I guessed she was talking about the new job.  “It was supposed to be a secret.”

She smiled widely.  “There are no secrets between Al and I, are there Al?”

I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.

I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al.  I tried it once and was admonished.  But it was interesting her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not.  It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.

Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil.  As I understood it, the Blaine’s were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in.  I didn’t ask if the Blaine’s thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.

And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realized I was looking at both of them.  I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand.  And yet, apparently, Alison did.  I must have missed the memo.

“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”

No secrets.  Her look conveyed something else entirely.

The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us.  It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me.  We were going to need it.

Then, a toast.

To a new job and a new life.

“When did you decide?”  Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.

Alison had a strange expression on her face.  It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind.  Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.

Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realized it would be churlish, even silly if I made a scene.  I knew what I wanted to say.  I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine, or upsetting Alison.  This was not the time or the place.  Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.

Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing.  If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decide there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control.  “It’s the little things.  They all add up until one day …”  I shrugged.  “I guess that one day was today.”

I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real?  Or; I told you he’d come around.

I had no idea the two were so close.

“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me.  I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points.  It was all I could come up with at short notice.

“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted.  “Alison was off to get some study in with one of her friends.”

“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up, and immediately got the ‘shut up you fool’ look, that cut that line of conversation dead.  Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.

It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose.  Care to join me, Al?”

A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend.  “Yes.”

I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation.  I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.

I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.

There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show.  I was quite literally gob-smacked.

I drained my champagne glass gathering some courage and turned to him.  “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up.  You know Alison is doing her law degree.”

He looked startled when he realized I had spoken.  He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed.  Or perhaps it was deliberate.  She’d definitely had some enhancements done.

He dragged his eyes back to me.  “Yes.  Elaine said something or other about it.  But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week.  Perhaps I got it wrong.  I usually do.”

“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.”  I shrugged, as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again.  “This week or next, what does it matter?”

Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart.  It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; it was possible she was now telling me lies.  If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?

We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”

“Trouble, I suspect.  Definitely more money, but less time at home.”

“Oh,” raised eyebrows.  Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details.  “You sure you want to do that?”

At last the voice of reason.  “Me?  No.”

“Yet you accepted the job.”

I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him.  Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him.  “Jimmy, between you and me I haven’t as yet decided one way or another.  To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”

“Barclay?”

“My boss.”

“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay that recently moved in the tower a block down from us.  I thought I recognized the name.”

“How did Elaine get the job?”

“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”

“When?”

“A couple of months ago.  Why?”

I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker.  I felt sick, faint, and wanting to die all at the same moment.  “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time.  Too busy with work I expect.  I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”

I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted and I knew I had to keep it together.  I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down.  I sucked in some deep breaths, and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.

And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown.  Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”

Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth.  It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction.  It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.

When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and I.  I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, it didn’t matter.  If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact I took over the dining engagement did.  She knew well enough the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket.  She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.

But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points.  Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine.  She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.

Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly.  I chose to ignore her, and pretend nothing had happened, instead of telling her how much I was enjoying the evening.

She had her ‘secrets’.  I had mine.

At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me.  It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, Jimmy came looking for me.  I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse.  When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was but neither made any comment.

It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which to a large degree it was for the other three.  But I had achieved what I set out to do, and that was to play them at their own game, watching the deception, once I knew there was a deception, as warily as a cat watches its prey.

I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree.  It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.

We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaine’s back to the Upper West Side.  But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer.  She showed concern for my health, asked me what was wrong.  It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.

She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it.  Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.

And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.

It left me confused and lost.

I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.

And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

Sunday In New York

Writing a book in 365 days – My Story 40

Letting others see your work and…

…

When Reality Bites: Navigating Overly Critical Beta Reviews

You pour your heart, soul, and countless hours into your manuscript. You polish it, you fret over it, you dream of the day it shines. Then, with a mixture of excitement and trepidation, you send it off to your beta readers, anticipating encouraging words, a few minor suggestions, and perhaps a high-five for a job well done.

Then the reviews come in. And they’re not what you expected.

Suddenly, those minor suggestions are major critiques. The encouraging words are overshadowed by lists of plot holes, character inconsistencies, and pacing issues. It’s a gut punch, isn’t it? That initial sting of disappointment, perhaps even defensiveness, confusion, and a creeping sense of “What just happened?”

If you’ve just received a batch of overly critical beta reviews that blindsided you, you are far from alone. This is a common and often painful rite of passage for creators of all kinds.

The Gut Punch: When Expectation Meets Harsh Reality

The most challenging part of these reviews isn’t just the criticism itself, but the massive chasm between what we hoped for and what we actually received. We expected validation, a pat on the back, and perhaps a few tweaks. What we got was a stark reminder that our vision, however clear to us, might not be translating as effectively as we thought.

This disconnect can be intensely disheartening. It makes you question your abilities, your story, and even your decision to share your work in the first place.

What to Do When the Feedback Feels Overwhelming

So, you’re reeling. What now? Here’s a practical, empathetic guide to help you move from disappointment to constructive action:

  1. Step Away. Seriously. Your first reaction will likely be emotional. You might feel defensive, angry, or utterly defeated. This is not the headspace for objective analysis. Close the reviews. Go for a walk. Meditate. Vent to a trusted friend (not about the specifics of the reviews, but about how you feel). Give yourself at least 24-48 hours before you even think about looking at them again. Your emotional brain needs to cool down.
  2. Shift Your Perspective: They’re Not Attacking YOU, They’re Helping Your WORK. This is perhaps the hardest mental shift. Beta readers are not paid critics; they’re volunteers who have invested their time to help you. Even if their feedback feels harsh or poorly worded, their intention (mostly) is to assist you in making your project better. They are your first line of defense against a wider, potentially harsher, public. They’re finding the flaws now, so you don’t have to later.
  3. Read with an Editor’s Eye, Not an Author’s Heart. Once you’ve cooled down, go through the reviews again. This time, try to detach. Pretend you’re reading feedback for someone else’s work.
    • Look for Patterns: Where do multiple readers flag the same issue? These are your “golden nuggets” – the areas that definitively need attention. If three different people say the pacing drags in Chapter 5, that’s not subjective opinion; it’s a verifiable problem.
    • Distinguish Constructive vs. Unhelpful:
      • Constructive: “I got confused by Character X’s motivations here,” or “The tension dropped in the middle,” or “I didn’t understand the world-building rules.” These offer a problem you can solve.
      • Unhelpful: “I just didn’t like it,” or “This isn’t my kind of story,” or “You should change the ending entirely to what I would do.” These are often personal preferences or lack the specificity you need to act.
    • Prioritize: Make a list of the recurring, actionable issues.
  4. Acknowledge the Gap, Then Bridge It. The unexpected nature of these reviews highlights the gap between your intent and the reader’s experience. This gap isn’t a failure; it’s an opportunity. It means you have clearer targets for revision.
    • Instead of thinking, “They didn’t get it,” ask, “How can I make it impossible to not get it?”
    • Instead of, “They’re wrong,” ask, “What in my work led them to this conclusion, and how can I guide them differently?”
  5. Don’t Feel Obligated to Implement Everything. Your work is ultimately yours. You are the captain of your ship. Take the valuable feedback, discard the unhelpful, and politely consider (but don’t necessarily act on) the subjective preferences that don’t align with your core vision. If one reader hates your protagonist and everyone else loves them, that’s likely an outlier opinion.

Moving Forward with Resilience

Receiving critical beta reviews is tough. It can feel like a setback, a betrayal of your hopes. But it’s also an invaluable part of the creative process. It builds resilience, hones your critical eye, and ultimately makes your work stronger.

Remember, the goal of beta readers isn’t to tell you your work is perfect – it’s to help you make it perfect (or as close to it as possible). Embrace the sting, learn from the feedback, and let it fuel your next round of revisions. Your best work is often forged in the fires of honest critique.

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

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!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

“Trouble in Store” – Short Stories My Way:  The re-write – Part 5

Now that I’ve gone through the story and made quite a few changes, it’s time to look at the story

…

Alphonse, the shopkeeper, had stayed too long missing his opportunity to sell up and retire.

By the time he had been ready to call it a day, his wife had got sick with cancer, and it had taken all their retirement funds to keep her alive for another six months, when despite the doctor’s best efforts, she died.

There was nothing left, and unable to find a buyer for the business he could not just close the door and leave.

There were complications.

Like right now.

The sideline he’d basically forced his way into was always going to come back and bite him.  Selling a little weed on the side to the upper classes forced them to downsize after the global meltdown had turned into a range of products, the worst of which was ice, the result of taking too much very evident by the boy on the floor.

It was only a matter of time when one of the more edgy clients came in and started making demands with threats.  He was asked to sell low to get the customers hooked then forced to raise the price and stop supplying those who couldn’t pay.

It might be a good plan from their perspective but from his, at the coalface, it meant nothing but trouble.

Which is why he was now looking down the barrel of a gun.

This wasn’t the shopkeeper’s first hold-up.  In fact, over the years there had been a dozen.  But only one got reported to the police, and that was only because the robber was shot and killed.

He’d taken a bullet that night, too, which, from the police point of view, made him a concerned citizen simply defending himself.

The rest had been scared off by the double-barrel shotgun he kept under the counter for just such emergencies.

The young punk who came into the shop with his girlfriend had pulled out the pistol and told him if he reached for the shotgun he’d shoot him.  The kid looked unstable, and he’d backed away.

When the kid collapsed, he should have gone for the shotgun, but instead, he thought he could get to the gun before the girl realised what had happened.  She wasn’t an addict and clearly looked like she was only along for the ride.  Her look when the kid pulled out the gun told him she’d known nothing about her partner’s true intentions.

But, he wasn’t fast enough, and she had the gun pointing at him before he’d got past the counter.

From one pair of unpredictable hands to another.

Like the girl, he was just as surprised when the customer burst in the door, just before closing time.

The situation might have been salvageable before the customer came in the door, getting the girl to go along with the robbery being about money, but there was no denying what the kid on the floor’s problem was.

Damn.

He had to try and salvage the situation simply because there was a lot of money involved, and other people depending on him.  He looked at the boy, on the floor, then the girl.

“Listen to me, young lady, you would be well advised to let this man go as he suggests.  And, please put the gun down before someone gets hurt.  Your friend needs medical help, and I can call an ambulance.”

The girl switched her attention back to him.  “No one’s going anywhere, so just shut the hell up and let me think.”

The storekeeper glanced over at the customer.

He’d seen him come into the shop once or twice, probably lived in the neighbourhood, the sort who’d make a reliable witness, either a lawyer or an accountant.  Not like most of the residents just beyond the fringe of respectability.

If only he hadn’t burst into the shop when he did.

…

© Charles Heath 2016-2024

Writing about writing a book – Day 5 continues – Those annoying people called characters

Whilst it is always an idea to sit down and write and keep going, not worrying too much about the narrative, there’s always the problem of ideas about characters, and relationships that come back and need to be addressed.

I have issues with Jennifer in that we will need to know something about her, and need a little backstory.

Jennifer is the second most important character in this novel and one that has more talents than what my main character, or anyone else for that matter, thinks she has.  Of course, that is deliberate on her part for a number of reasons that will be introduced at the appropriate time.

But, at the start, all we will have to work with, is the introduction provided by the narrator.

It may go something like this:

…

Jennifer Pennington Smythe was, as you might expect, very English, very reserved, and very private.  She was the definitive ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’, and I was guilty, at first, of suspecting she had once been a schoolmistress due to the severity of dress, demeanour, and expression.

HR had sent her to me when I’d requested an IT Specialist, though of what particular discipline it was never divulged, neither by HR nor by her.  She arrived one morning, told me she was to ‘help resolve our technical difficulties’, moved into an office that had been used as a storeroom, and worked hard to prove her worthiness in the role.

My first attempt at conversation was rebuffed, and the second met with a very cold stare.  Everyone, including me, learned very quickly any other topic of conversation than work would be ignored.  At the time, it suited me; there was trouble in paradise, and I didn’t want anything more on my plate to deal with.

 …

So, what is this trouble?

There are three distinct stages of this relationship between the two most important characters, and it is the actions of one of the protagonists that bring them together.  This particular protagonist, of course, is the main character’s wife, a woman who is on the periphery for the period the novel covers, but a little background will be needed at some point before we reach this part of the narrative.

This now means that I will have to put together a backstory for Bill and his ex-wife, Ellen, not too much yet, but enough to explain the next part of the evolving relationship between Bill and Jennifer.

…

I’m sure this topic is going to raise its head again and again…

…

 

 

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 5

It a ‘Houston, we have a problem’ moment

Our hero has survived the crash, now he’s stuck in enemy territory.

…

This was supposed to be a milk run.  There had been no reported activity in our zone and the pilot had decided to go up just the log some more air time.

He was hoping after reaching a 1,000 hours so he might be able to move to fixed wing aircraft and then move on to becoming an airline pilot.  Unfortunately, he was not going become anything now.

That didn’t explain why we encountered a convoy out in the desert, especially one with a rocket launcher and English speaking soldier types.

Did we stumble across another outfit running a secret operation and mistook us for the enemy?  It didn’t seem the case, our helicopter was distinctively marked just so we wouldn’t be mistaken, and then there was the fact the man knew my name.

How could that happen?  It would need someone back at the base to tell someone of the fact the helicopter was going up and who was in it, and there weren’t too many people who knew that information.

And only one who knew exactly when and where we would be.  Unless, of course, the pilot had strayed into a no-fly zone.  There was only one that I knew of and it was nowhere near our flight path.  Of course, it wouldn’t take much to bamboozle me in the air because I had no sense of direction.

Unless the pilot had another agenda.  I could hardly tell where we were because desert all looked the same to me, and navigation wasn’t my strongest point.

After the first few miles of very bumpy road, I managed to get into a sitting position and look in the direction we were heading.

More desert.

Ten minutes later I could see an encampment in the distance, literally an oasis in the middle of nowhere.  A secret base camp or something else?

As we got closer I could see it was mostly covered by camouflage so it couldn’t be seen from above. Clever.  Chances were we had no idea this place was in the desert.

Who or what is waiting for him?

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

Writing a book in 365 days – 269

Day 269

Don’t just read – study

…

Forget the Muse: Why the Best Way to Learn Writing is to Read Your Heroes

We romanticize the writer. We picture them staring out of a rainy window, waiting for the lightning bolt of inspiration, or frantically scribbling a masterpiece born fully formed from the ether. This myth—the belief that great writing flows purely from divine inspiration—is seductive, yet profoundly misleading.

It’s true that writing often requires inspiration (“the must”), that sudden, urgent drive to put words to paper. But the truth known by every professional who has ever met a deadline is that the must is unreliable.

The reality of the craft is far less glamorous and far more dependable: Writing is labor. It is a skilled trade, an architecture built not on fleeting inspiration, but on solid, hard-won mechanics.

And if writing is a trade, then the best way to master it is through apprenticeship.

The Labour of Mechanics

What exactly are the “mechanics” of writing? They are the hundreds of micro-decisions an author makes on every page that keep the reader hooked, informed, and immersed.

The mechanics are the invisible scaffolding of the story:

  • How does the author handle a shift in viewpoint without jarring the reader?
  • What is the secret cadence that makes this particular piece of dialogue feel authentic, rather than clipped and performative?
  • How do they handle exposition—the necessary information dump—so gracefully that we barely notice we are being taught?
  • What is the rule they follow, or beautifully break, regarding sentence length variation and pacing?

These are not skills granted by the muse; they are techniques learned through repetition, practice, and, most importantly, deep observation.

If you want to build a sturdy door, you don’t just observe the carpenter’s inspiration; you observe the exact angles of the cut, the measurement of the joints, and the type of wood they chose. Writers must do the same.

The Apprenticeship of the Page

How can an aspiring writer access the specialised knowledge of the masters? They don’t have time to attend every workshop or enrol in every MFA program (though those are valuable paths).

The greatest literary classroom available is the shelf of books you already own—specifically, the shelf containing the authors you already love.

The best way to learn to write is to read your favourite writers.

This is not a passive activity. You are not reading for enjoyment alone. You are reading like a detective, a clockmaker, or an apprentice carpenter standing at the master’s elbow. You are reverse-engineering the engine of storytelling.

Your favorite writers—the ones whose prose sings to you, whose pacing grips you, and whose endings feel inevitable and perfect—are the masters who have already solved the most complex mechanical problems of their craft.

Reading Like a Writer: How to Deconstruct Genius

To apprentice yourself to the greats, you must move beyond simply appreciating the story. You must become a forensic critic of the structure.

Here is how you turn passive enjoyment into active, invaluable learning:

1. Identify the “Problem Area”

Instead of reading straight through, pick up a book by your hero and focus specifically on the element of writing you find most challenging.

  • Struggling with beginnings? Read ten of their opening chapters. Note where the first action occurs, how much time is spent setting the scene, and which sentence serves as the true hook.
  • Dialogue weak? Read several conversations, ignoring the narrative tags. Focus only on the flow of the speech. How does the author ensure we know who is talking without overuse of “he said/she said?” (Often, the dialogue itself implies the speaker.)
  • Pacing dragging? Track where your author uses short, declarative sentences, and where they allow themselves long, winding, atmospheric paragraphs. Note the ratio.

2. Type It Out (The Most Painful Exercise)

This is the literary equivalent of taking notes by hand. Choose a paragraph, a page, or even an entire short story written by your master and type it verbatim.

Typing forces you to slow down. You can’t skim. You are physically registering the punctuation, the word choice, the rhythm, and the transition phrases. You internalize the writer’s rhythm in a way that mere reading can never achieve. You are literally copying the blueprint.

3. Track the Point of View Shifts

If your favourite writer moves deftly between viewpoints (or stays strictly within one), track every shift. Mark the exact line where the viewpoint changes. Does the author use a section break, or do they transition within a paragraph? How long does the new viewpoint last? This deconstruction reveals the hidden rules the writer uses to manage reader perspective.

4. Note the Economy of Language

Writers who capture our attention often do so because they know precisely which details to include and which to strip away. Find a description of a character or a scene that feels powerfully effective. Count the words. You will often find the power comes from extreme conciseness, proving that mechanics often involves subtraction rather than addition.

From Imitation to Innovation

It is essential to recognise that this initial stage of apprenticeship—this deep study and occasional imitation of the masters—is a necessary pathway to finding your own voice.

You are not learning to be a literary copycat; you are learning the underlying physics of your chosen art form. Once you understand the engine well enough, you can begin to tinker, adjust, and eventually build a machine entirely unique to your vision.

The labour of mechanics is not a creative limitation; it is the freedom to create structures that last. So turn off the music, ignore the pressure to wait for the muse, and stop staring at the blank page. The greatest lesson in writing is waiting for you, already bound and printed, on your bookshelf.

Go read. Go learn. Go build.

What I learned about writing – Have a deadline, you need a plan

Unfortunately, I’m not one of those people who work well with timelines, so the very thought of using something like Microsoft Project to get my writing into some sort of timeframe, with deadlines, seemed, to me, to be a bit extreme.

Say for instance the major deadlines for a writing project are

  1.  Write an outline, with as much detail as possible, with an overarching plot, characters, and key points in the novel, and scout for locations
  2. Writing.  This could be broken down into chapters, but more practicable would be sectioned, each consisting of a number of chapters.
  3. Editing, planning for one, two or three, or more edits
  4. Proofreading
  5. Send to editor

Clearly if I was going to take this approach, then I would have to allocate hours of the day specifically for writing and doing all those other writer chores in less time, and with fewer distractions.

And, it might work for a more dedicated author.

But…

I did make a new years resolution that I would try and do things differently this year.

Except…

I set a goal to restart editing my next novel on 1st Feb. I thought, setting it so far into the year would be easy.

It would give me the time to clear up all the outstanding, get in the way, distractions, and be free to finally finish it.

But there’s always something else to do, other than what we’re supposed to be doing.

For me it used to be going away, spending long, sleepless hours flying from one side of the world to the other had fuelled my imagination more than I expected and where this used to be the impetus to write more stories that had not happened yet this year.

I have other stories of course, all in various stages of writing, but if only I could focus on one story at a time.

So…

I’ve tried to set some new, more realistic goals to finish playing with these other stories as soon as I can, so come the first of April, I can resume work on the next book to be published.

Or not.

“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!

Now only $0.99 at https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

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’.

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