Category: Uncategorized

First Dig Two Graves – the editor’s second draft – Day 2

The second Zoe thriller.

…

Just when you think you’ve got a good start, it all comes crashing down.

Here’s the thing…

I’ve been planning the sequel for quite some time, and from time to time, I’ve been jotting down notes about how the story will go. I thought I had filed them all in the same place, and because I thought I had all of them, I missed a part.

This was confirmed when I found a synopsis, something I rarely make before writing a story, with details of several sections I obviously added when the thought came to me. Perhaps the idea of the synopsis was to consolidate all the ideas, at a time when I thought I was going to sit down and write the story.

Dated a month or so before covid came along, I suspect it all got set aside for the two or so year’s hiatus.

Now, the time has come, and today, I went n a detailed search of three computers, four phones, cloud storage, and the boxes that hold all the handwritten notes.

I have a reference to the section, and several chapters, but no writing. In the back of my mind, I have a feeling I’d written the chapters, but the evidence says otherwise.

Damn!

I’ll move on, and come back to it later. At the moment it doesn’t have relevance.

Oh, and Zoe has now become Mary-Anne. What is John going to think when he finally finds her.

First Dig Two Graves – the editor’s second draft – Day 2

The second Zoe thriller.

…

Just when you think you’ve got a good start, it all comes crashing down.

Here’s the thing…

I’ve been planning the sequel for quite some time, and from time to time, I’ve been jotting down notes about how the story will go. I thought I had filed them all in the same place, and because I thought I had all of them, I missed a part.

This was confirmed when I found a synopsis, something I rarely make before writing a story, with details of several sections I obviously added when the thought came to me. Perhaps the idea of the synopsis was to consolidate all the ideas, at a time when I thought I was going to sit down and write the story.

Dated a month or so before covid came along, I suspect it all got set aside for the two or so year’s hiatus.

Now, the time has come, and today, I went n a detailed search of three computers, four phones, cloud storage, and the boxes that hold all the handwritten notes.

I have a reference to the section, and several chapters, but no writing. In the back of my mind, I have a feeling I’d written the chapters, but the evidence says otherwise.

Damn!

I’ll move on, and come back to it later. At the moment it doesn’t have relevance.

Oh, and Zoe has now become Mary-Anne. What is John going to think when he finally finds her.

In a word: Brevity

Now, brevity is something that I have not been able to fully wrap my head around.

The dictionary explains Brevity as

‘concise and exact use of words in writing and speech’

So…

I remember working with a writer a long time ago who explained certain authors styles, and for James A Michener of Hawaii fame, he said Michener wrote sentences instead of words, paragraphs instead of sentences, pages instead of paragraphs and chapters instead of pages.

It was a little harsh considering I’d just read the book and had liked it, despite its length and the time it took.

But some time later I realized he was not criticizing Michener, but trying to tell me, in his, what I came to discover, interesting way, that I should strive to write more compactly.

I then came across a book by Brian Callison which was exactly that, the concise version, a story that fitted into about 200 pages.

That too was a good book and it took me a day to read it, and by his use of that economy of words, it read quickly.

Of course, I have tried over the years to emulate both styles, and to a certain degree, failing, because I think I have created my own style which is somewhere in between.

Still, when editing, it is always in the back of my mind that I should be

Using words instead of sentences

Using sentences instead of paragraphs

Using paragraphs instead of pages, and

Using pages instead of chapters.

The chapters, he said, with an air of amusement, will always take care of themselves.

 

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t.  It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…

She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room.  It was quite large and expensively furnished.  It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.

Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917.  At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.

There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.

She was here to meet with Vladimir.

She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.

All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring.  Not that she had blurted that out the first they met, or even the second.

That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.

It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years.  She had been there once, and still hadn’t met all the staff.

They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.

It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this was a fencing match.

They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity.  She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.

The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined.  After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.

Then, it went quiet for a month.  There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited.  She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.

A pleasant afternoon ensued.

And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.

By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends.  She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy.  Normally for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.

She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful.  In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.

After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit.  She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.

It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine.  She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.

A Russian friend.  That’s what she would call him.

And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue.  It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour.  It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.

So, it began.

It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country.  It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms.  When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.

Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report.  After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report.  She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.

It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen.  Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.

And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.

She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room.  She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.

Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.

There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit.  She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.

Later perhaps, after…

She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.

A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival.  It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality.  A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.

The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir.  It was her worst nightmare.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 38

This is one of those images that could be anywhere.

So, here’s the problem:

Ethan was reluctant to agree to go to the stag night, knowing firstly, that the others going were a bit too unruly when they had too many drinks, secondly, that they had to agree to not know where they were being taken by the bus, and thirdly, anything they saw or did had to remain completely confidential.

That was particularly the case when it came to the ‘stag’.

In that case, Ethan knew exactly what this night was going to be, hours of unrelenting debauchery.

And, since Ethan was the stag’s brother, and he was the best man, there was no way he could wriggle his way out of this one.

On top of that, Ethan had to promise the bride to be that he would not let her husband to be go too far. That statement, of course, was like a box full of hand grenades. He didn’t ask for a definition of too far.

So, seven sober, respectable, hard-working junior executives in suits that were worth more than Ethan’s annual salary boarded the bus.

What happened from that moment the bus drove off, until Ethan’s brother’s body was found floating face down in the river behind the resort, handcuffed to a naked girl in a rubber dinghy, barely alive from an overdose, was anyone’s guess, and Ethan’s worst nightmare.

Especially when he was the last one to see his brother, and the girl, alive.

And, no, this is not based on a real-life experience, though in recurring nightmares I’m the one floating fase down in the river.

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 59

As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.

Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.

For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1

These are the memories of our time together…

20160921_071443

This is Chester.  He’s gone AWOL.

I know he’s somewhere in the house, and hasn’t escaped.  He’s done this before, particularly when he has to go visit the vet for his three monthly checkup.

This time I suspect it is a major case of the sulks.

We had to change his scratching post as the previous one has been shredded.  It was made out of some old carpet and had a box in the form of a house at the top.

He liked to use my lounge chair as a launching pad to get into the house.  I’ve watched him do that death-defying act a number of times, and it explains the claw marks on my chair.

So, rather than admonish him again, I bought a new scratching post, with a new house that’s not so high up,, and moved it to a different position so he could not use my chair.

First day, he ignored it.

Second day, he went over and sniffed it, then walked off with a snooty expression.

Third day, he didn’t go in the room.

Fourth day, I took him down there and put him in the house.  You’d think I had tried to lock him up in jail.

This is the fifth day, and he’s disappeared.

But…

He doesn’t know I’ve got a secret weapon.

Some old friends we haven’t seen for a while are coming to visit, and he likes them and makes a special effort to come and see them.

They arrive, and after a few minutes, out he comes, trotting down the passage and straight to them.

I glare at him.  You can run, but you can’t hide.

And you will use that scratching post.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job? – Episode 8

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

An interrogation and a revelation.

 

Debriefings were like interrogations, only friendlier.  We were trained to withstand interrogation, so it would be interesting to see how I reacted.   I had no doubt what some of the questions would be.

While I had a few minutes to myself, sitting down behind a bare metal table on a hard plastic and uncomfortable chair, with a warm cup of station house coffee, to consider the briefing.

Target, male, 6 foot 3 inches, 200 pounds, Caucasian, thought to be from either Russia or Bulgaria, but nothing to define his as such.  I had wondered, at the time, what that meant.  When I saw him in the alley I knew, then, what was meant, he looked the same as you or me.

No explanation for why he was under surveillance, but we did get a warning that he might be dangerous if he suspected he was being observed.  Right about that, given team casualties.

Main objective, who he met, talked to, and where he went, every place, every detail to be noted.  The unpredictable explosion threw the whole operation into chaos.

The door opened and a woman, middle-aged, conservatively dressed, walked in, closing it behind her.  She sat in the other chair opposite me.  She brought a file, thin, and put it in front of her on the table.

“Your name is Sam Jackson?”

“Yes.”

No introductions, nothing, just a start on the questions.  No nonsense, but I could see she was very, very angry.  With me, or those who had run a failed operation?

“How long have you been with us?”

“Eight months.”

She opened the file and glanced at the piece of paper on top.  A minute passed before she closed the file again.  “Closer to nine,” she said.

I said nothing.  I wasn’t counting the days.

“How many operations have you been on?”

“Six, including this one.”

“Who assigned you to this specific operation?”

“Couldn’t say.  I got the usual request via text message to attend a briefing at the midtown office.”

“What was the designated operation name?”

“Chancellery.”

For a brief second, there was a quizzical expression on her face, then it was gone.

“Who was running this operation?”

“Director Severin.”

A full three minutes of silence passed.  I thought she was looking at me, the sort of stare that would break a lesser man, but in the end, I think she was looking right through me.  I could not read her thoughts, but if I was to guess, they would be rather dark right now.

Then she spoke.

“You should know that there was no Chancellery on the books, and we certainly do not have a Director named Severin.”

 

© Charles Heath 2019

First Dig Two Graves – the editor’s second draft – Day 3

This book has finally come back from the Editor, so this month it is going to get a second revision, a second draft for the editor, and beta readers.

…

OK. So the story is about Alistair’s mother seeking revenge on Zoe for killing her son.

She’s not the only one.

Zoe is or was an assassin. She had a substantial number of kills to her credit, she doesn’t share numbers so we won’t find out exactly how many, and there are others who seek revenge too.

One is co-incidentally, the head of the intelligence service John’s friend Sebastian works for, a man by the name of Worthington, who had a twin brother whom she killed by mistake.

He has been using his position in intelligence to track the woman who executed his brother for some time, and being in Venice at the time of the Alistair affair, catches sight of Zoe recovering in a hospital after requesting to meet Sebastian’s newest recruit.

Of course, Sebastian is playing fast and loose with the truth, as always, but the damage is done.

Zoe aka Mary Anne aka Chantal is not being hunted by three different people and has just had a bounty put on her head guaranteeing even more people searching for her.

All while heading to a meeting in Marseilles about a freelance hit.

Searching for locations: The Pagoda Forest, near Zhengzhou City, Henan Province, China

The pagoda forest

After another exhausting walk, by now the heat was beginning to take its toll on everyone, we arrived at the pagoda forest.

A little history first:

The pagoda forest is located west of the Shaolin Temple and the foot of a hill.  As the largest pagoda forest in China, it covers approximately 20,000 square meters and has about 230 pagodas build from the Tang Dynasty (618-907) to the Qing Dynasty (1644-1911).

Each pagoda is the tomb of an eminent monk from the Shaolin Temple.  Graceful and exquisite, they belong to different eras and constructed in different styles.  The first pagoda was thought to be built in 791.

It is now a world heritage site.

No, it’s not a forest with trees it’s a collection of over 200 pagodas, each a tribute to a head monk at the temple and it goes back a long time.  The tribute can have one, three, five, or a maximum of seven layers.  The ashes of the individual are buried under the base of the pagoda.

The size, height, and story of the pagoda indicate its accomplishments, prestige, merits, and virtues. Each pagoda was carved with the exact date of construction and brief inscriptions and has its own style with various shapes such as a polygonal, cylindrical, vase, conical and monolithic.

This is one of the more recently constructed pagodas

There are pagodas for eminent foreign monks also in the forest.

From there we get a ride back on the back of a large electric wagon

to the front entrance courtyard where drinks and ice creams can be bought, and a visit to the all-important happy place.

Then it’s back to the hotel.

Is there a reason to get out of bed?

I sometimes wonder if there is.

Is that depression speaking, or am I just tired from all the late nights?

Unlike most writers, authors and bloggers I don’t have a day job.  You could say it’s one of the benefits of getting old, this retirement thing, but after a while, not having a reason to get out of bed starts working on your subconscious.

The idea of having a job, and going to work, is a good reason to drag yourself out of bed every morning.  And because of this, the idea of sleeping in takes on a whole new meaning.

You know, I’ll just lie here for a few more minutes, and then I’ll get up.  Having turned off the alarm, the eyelids flutter, and before you know it, half an hour had passed, and you wake up in fright, knowing you’re going to be late.

In retirement, that doesn’t happen.  There is no alarm, there is no guilty pleasure in spending those extra minutes in bed.

Of course, this tardiness, or lack of desire could be because I find I do my best writing in the dead of night, often not getting to bed before 2 a.m.   Last night it was a little later because of a story I’m working on came to life with a new idea.

It had been stagnating because it’s part two and whilst I had an idea about where it was going to go, in the end, we’re off in a different direction, and the words flowed.  You just don’t stop writing when you hit a vein.

But this isn’t always the case.  This morning I have an excuse to stay in bed, but most others I don’t.

Perhaps I should find something else to do, something that will give me that same reason I used to have to get up every morning.

Or maybe I should be more organized in my retirement life, you know, set a schedule and do things according to a timetable.  I was never one for being organized, but perhaps it’s time to start.

Just let me lie here for a few more minutes and think about that.