Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Washington State

Discover Washington’s Hidden Treasures: A Road Less Travelled Adventure

Washington State is often synonymous with bustling cities, iconic peaks like Mount Rainier, and the majestic Olympic Peninsula. But for those who crave a deeper, more authentic connection with the Pacific Northwest, a quieter side of Washington awaits—off the crowded highways and beyond the usual tourist map. If you’re ready to trade the familiar for the extraordinary, here are five must-experience adventures on Washington’s road less travelled.

1. Stehekin: The Remote Gateway to North Cascades Wilderness

Tucked deep within North Cascades National Park, Stehekin is a place only accessible by boat or floatplane. This secluded 360-square-mile paradise feels like stepping into a living canvas of alpine peaks, glacial lakes, and ancient forests.

Why It’s Special: With no cars allowed, the only way to reach this hidden gem is via a 2.5-hour boat ride from Wenatchee. Once there, the hiking is legendary—trails like the Skyline and Cascade Loop offer jaw-dropping views, while Lake Chelan’s turquoise waters invite kayaking or picnics. Stay at the cozy Stehekin Resort, where lodging includes meals prepared from local ingredients.

Tip: Best visited May–October. Pack layers; the mountain climate can shift quickly.

2. Methow Valley: Wild Beauty and Cultural Gems

Nestled in the North Cascades, the Methow Valley is a playground for nature lovers and culture seekers alike. Often dubbed “One of America’s Last Frontiers,” this region blends dramatic scenery with a quirky, artsy vibe.

Why It’s Special: Drive Highway 2 through wildflower meadows and pine forests to towns like Winthrop and Twisp. Hike the iconic Hidden Lake Trail in North Cascades National Park, or horseback ride along the Methow River. Don’t miss the Methow Arts Trail, which connects galleries, studios, and local markets in towns like Trout Lake and Pateros.

Tip: Visit in late spring for wildflower blooms and in the fall for incredible fall foliage.

3. Palouse Region: A Sea of Scrolling Gold and Green

The Palouse—a region spanning southeast Washington and Idaho—is a surreal blend of rolling hills, historic prairie landscapes, and vibrant college towns. Known for its wheat fields and kaleidoscopic sunsets, this area feels like a step into a different world.

Why It’s Special: Follow the Palouse to Cascades Trail for scenic drives with panoramic views of the bluffs. Hunt for quirky “Cereal Box Art” dotting the hillsides, and explore the charming college town of Pullman, home to Washington State University. Don’t miss the Palouse High Prairie—a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve—and the nearby Tumwater Falls Park in Cle Elum.

Tip: Visit in the spring or fall for the most colourful landscapes.

4. Cispus Falls: A Secret Waterfall Oasis

For a true off-grid adventure, head to Cispus Road in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest. This 26-mile gravel road is a haven for those seeking seclusion, with lush evergreen forests, cascading waterfalls, and natural springs.

Why It’s Special: Park at the trailhead and walk to Cispus Falls, where icy water plunges into a perfect-pool swimming hole. Further down the road, discover Pine Creek Falls and hidden swimming spots. The area is a favourite among locals but remains largely undiscovered by tourists.

Tip: Prepare for rough terrain—four-wheel drive is recommended. Visit in summer for warmer water and hiking conditions.

5. San Juan Islands: Slow Life on Lopez Island

While the San Juan Islands are a popular stop for ferry rides, Lopez Island offers a serene alternative to the bustling Friday Harbour. This car-free island (except for a few local vehicles) invites you to slow down and savour the pace of island life.

Why It’s Special: Rent a bike or hike to Gold Beach, where you can kayak, birdwatch, or simply relax. Visit the American Museum of Wine in the quaint village of Lopezport, or join a farm-to-table tour at Lopez Island Creamery. Night owls will love stargazing—light pollution here is so low that the Milky Way seems to touch the ground.

Tip: Take the Washington State Ferries from Anacortes or Clinton.

Conclusion: Embrace the Road Less Travelled

Washington’s lesser-known corners offer more than just stunning landscapes—they tell stories of the state’s rich history, thriving ecosystems, and resilient communities. Whether you’re hiking through Stehekin’s alpine silence, biking the Palouse’s golden hills, or floating above Cispus Falls, these adventures promise moments of serenity and discovery. So, next time you’re planning a road trip, veer off the map and let the unexpected lead the way. The road less travelled is waiting to surprise you.

Final Tip: Always check local regulations and trail conditions before heading out. Share the trail, pack out trash, and respect the land—because these hidden gems are worth protecting for future travellers.

Where will your next detour take you?

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

Writing a book in 365 days – My Story

Time to move on – perhaps a sequel?

…

The Second Chapter: To Sequel or Not to Sequel?

Every writer dreams of publishing the book—the novel that captures hearts, lands on bestseller lists, and finally sees their name in print. But once the final page is turned and the final edit approved, a new question often creeps in, quiet but persistent: What about a sequel? Or a prequel?

For some, the journey doesn’t end with one book. For others, the idea of expanding their world feels unnecessary or even overwhelming. So where’s the line? Does every author have a second book in them? And more importantly, how do we know when a standalone story deserves to become a series?

Does Everyone Have a Second Book In Them?

In short—yes, but maybe not the same way.

Every storyteller has more tales to tell. Whether it’s within the same universe, through new characters, or a return to old favourites—there’s always more to explore. But here’s the truth: having a second story idea isn’t the same as having a necessary sequel.

A sequel shouldn’t exist simply because the first book sold well. It must earn its place. It should deepen the themes, evolve the characters, or expand a world in a way that feels organic—not forced. A prequel, meanwhile, must offer something the original didn’t: untold motivations, hidden histories, or emotional context that reframes the entire narrative.

Not every book needs to be part of a trilogy. In fact, some of the most powerful stories are those that end with finality. Consider The Great Gatsby or To Kill a Mockingbird. These stories are complete, and their strength lies in closure. Adding a sequel wouldn’t enhance them—it might even dilute their impact.

When Do You Know a Story is Meant to Be More Than One?

The shift from standalone to series often starts unconsciously.

Maybe it’s a character whose arc feels unfinished. Perhaps it’s a world so richly imagined that the first book only scratched the surface. Or it could be a central conflict that can’t be fully resolved in one narrative arc.

Here are a few signs your book might be destined for more:

Your characters won’t let you go. They start speaking in your head again. They have unfinished business—even if they don’t realise it yet.
The world feels alive. Readers ask, “What happens next?” or “What was it like before?” That curiosity is a signal.
The stakes grow beyond the personal. If the first book dealt with individual survival, but the world itself is now at risk—congratulations, you’ve laid the foundation for a series.
You’ve left intentional threads. Foreshadowing a larger mythology, introducing mysterious factions, or dropping cryptic lore can all be clues you’re building for more.

Timing matters too. Some authors plan series from the start—George R.R. Martin mapped out A Song of Ice and Fire with multiple volumes in mind. Others, like J.K. Rowling, realised the story was bigger than expected only after Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone exploded in popularity.

But here’s the secret: you don’t have to know from page one. You can begin writing a standalone and let the story tell you where it wants to go. Trust the process. Listen to your instincts. And don’t rush to monetize your success with a sequel that isn’t ready.

How Long Before We Begin?

That depends on why you want to return.

If the story is still burning in you—go ahead. Start drafting ideas, notes, and character journals. But if you’re writing a sequel just because fans demand it or you feel obligated, take a breath. Step away.

Many authors benefit from a cooling-off period. A year. Two. Time to reflect, gain perspective, and return with fresh eyes. Think of it this way: your first book was a discovery. Your sequel should be deeper, wiser, and more intentional.

Some writers begin thinking about a sequel during the final edits of Book One. Others wait until they’ve written something entirely new. There’s no right timeline—only the right reason.

Final Thoughts: Is a Second Book Necessary?

No. But it can be meaningful.

A sequel or prequel shouldn’t be a cash grab or a filler. It should feel inevitable—like the story demanded continuation. Whether it’s one more chapter in an epic saga or a deep dive into a character’s past, the second book must stand on its own merit.

So ask yourself:

Does this story need more?
Am I returning for the right reasons?
Do I have something meaningful to add?

If the answer is yes—then welcome to the next chapter. Your audience is waiting. And who knows? Maybe your second book will be the one that changes everything.

Now, tell me—do you have a sequel in you?

PI Walthenson’s second case – A case of finding the ‘Flying Dutchman’.

Known only to a few, there is a legend that a ship named the ‘Flying Dutchman’ left Nazi Germany in the last weeks of the war and set sail for America, escorted by U-boats, under a different name. Aboard was a trove of treasure and gold worth a ‘king’s ransom’.

It was said that it had been sent to a group of American Nazis to create the Fourth Reich at an appropriate time. Over the years since many expeditions off the coast had searched, but found no trace of the vessel or the treasure.

In other words, it was just a legend created to boost tourism.

…

Fast forward to 2024. Our intrepid private detective, Harry Walthenson, overhears a conversation at Grand Central Station. It was the oddness of the message that caught his attention. An investigation turned up nothing out of the ordinary, and he thinks no more about it.

Then Harry is kidnapped, interrogated, and asked questions over and over about a date and a place, why he went there, and when he could not give satisfactory answers, he was beaten half to death and left for dead on a rubbish heap. He was lucky that it was a living space for homeless men; otherwise, he would have died.

In the aftermath, he once again gives it no more thought.

…

After resolving his first case successfully, there’s no rest. Harry’s angry mother comes to his office and demands that he find out where his father has gone. She believes he has run off with a mistress, not for the first time.

Perhaps it was not the wisest decision she has made, because Harry promises to investigate, and adds that she might not like what he finds.

He soon discovered he does not like what he finds, that his father’s friends, a cabal formed at University, have two who are his mother’s current lovers, and another, a criminal blackmailing his father.

Felicity, now his partner, working on a different case, and trying to get answers, uncovers a crime family involved in guarding a disused warehouse on the docks, where she believes Harry had been taken for interrogation, and subsequently dumped nearby to die.

Why are they up to? What is so important that the empty warehouse needs guarding? Who is employing them?

Harry, following up on the death of the blackmailer, traces his death back to an enforcer employed by his grandfather. His mother’s grandfather was a pre-war industrialist who made his fortune in war munitions and shipbuilding.

He was also a member of the American Nazi party.

When Harry also discovers a logbook belonging to a so-called wartime Liberty ship the “Paul Revere” in brackets ‘Freiheitskämpfer’, hidden by his father, and written in a code that is not readily identifiable.

It is no longer a matter of a father who has run off with his mistress; it is a very frightened man in fear of his life, running from a group who will stop at nothing to get the logbook back. And when Harry discovers a family connection to the group, it becomes a race against time to decode the log and find his father before his grandfather does.

…

Coming soon: Harry Walthenson’s new adventure – A case of finding the ‘Flying Dutchman’

In a word: Land

And, yes, the simple description for this word is that area of the earth that isn’t covered by water.

It could also describe that little patch that my house is built on, and is generally covered by the expression, house and land as a package.

After all, a piece of land is not much used to you unless there’s a dwelling on it, or, on rare occasions, under it. Does that mean then that land in this instance only as what you can see?

OK, now it’s getting confusing.

What if I wanted to live off the land. A small patch will not do, in this case, is need a large area, perhaps thousands if hectares.

It is said that the Australian aborigines have lived off the land for thousands of years, with a nomadic lifestyle.

No small patch of land for them.

Now, what if I come down out of the sky. Oddly enough this means I have to land, even if I come back to earth over later. It’s still a landing.

Now it’s getting interesting.

So what if you wanted to refer to where you live? That would be your homeland or motherland, and it describes a country.

So it’s my patch, my country, any area where there isn’t water. What about describing a country, say the land of the long white cloud, or the land of the rising sun?

And just to add to the confusion

I can land a fish

Make land, after being all at sea, and,

Best of all, land that much desired job.

Wow.

I’m beginning to think it’s another one of those ‘four-letter words’

Inspiration, Maybe – Volume 2

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:

And, the story:

Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?

Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.

But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.

She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.

It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.

And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.

So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.

It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.

Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.

I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.

What surprised her was my reaction. None.

I simply asked where who, and when.

A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.

A week.

It was all the time I had left with her.

I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.

She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.

Is that all you want to know?

I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.

There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.

Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.

One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.

So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.

Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.

Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.

I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me, you can make cabinets anywhere.

I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.

Then the only question left was, what do we do now?

Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.

Getting on the roller coaster is easy. On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.

What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.

Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.

There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends new life.

We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.

Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.

So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.

Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.

People coming, people going.

Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.

As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.

Perhaps it was.

Coming soon. Find the above story and 49 others like it in:

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 10

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 in 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…

…

We walked slowly towards the end of the passage, each time I passed a cell I had a look in, and noted if it had a prisoner or not. By the end of the passage, I counted six prisoners, and one was a woman.’

She just looked at me sullenly, and I guess if it was light enough, that look would be with pleading eyes. Sadly, I couldn’t save her, or the other five.

At the end of the corridor, we retraced our steps towards the hall, along the passage where I counted another three prisoners, then up the stairs to the ground level. We came out into a better-lit alcove with arches leading in three directions.

Straight ahead was the hall.

We turned to the left. Along another passage that seemed to run the length of the wall, what I thought was the stone battlement that made up one side of the castle, looking out over fields, with a village in the distance.

What I thought was the opposite side to the guard tower I’d been in earlier.

I tried to figure out if that’s where we were, and if my memory served me correctly, we were heading towards the wall that was built into the mountainside, in which case we’d go up another set of stairs, at the top of which would be an exit, or turning right, to a room that once served as the guards quarters, now used for kitchen supplies.

What else was here? My mind was blank.

Up the steps, so far I was right, ahead of a thick wooden door, locked, so we turned right and passed a small room. I’d forgotten it, but it was the radio room, wires leading out a small arrow slit window to the aerial. The man in front stumbled, then regained his gait.

I could hear the man behind me shaking his head.

“Halt,” the man behind me barked.

The man in front stopped dead, and I crashed into him. I felt rather than saw the fist come towards me; it was not for me, but the other guard, who, preoccupied with not falling, never saw it coming.

He went down like the proverbial ask of potatoes, no idea what happened.

My turn?

A hand landed on my shoulder, thrusting me towards the door to the storeroom. “Go, now. The door on the other side is open, head down to the creek and follow it. Someone will meet you.”

I half turned, “Who…”

“No time. Go. And shut the door behind you.” I felt him thrust a gun in my hand. “Hit me.”

I hesitated.

“Do it, or I’ll be shot.”

I shrugged and hit him. He slowly slid to the floor. A second glance, no, I didn’t know who he was, the headed for the back of the storeroom. The door was open. A cautious look before stepping out, I saw no one but heard breathing. Jack. How did the dog know I’d be here?

I closed the door behind me and heard the lock engage, then after a pat on Jack’s head, he led the way.

“Chance Encounter”, A short story

The afternoon rush hour jammed the exit roads, particularly those to the beach. Nearly everyone was heading for relief from the heat wave, now in its tenth consecutive day. What had started out a novelty was now just tiresome, with no forecast respite.

A light breeze tried to fan away the afternoon heat, but it had little impact. The temperature was still hovering in the high 30’s when Bill left the office at 6:30 that evening.

On the road it was little better, and hotter in the car than out. There was no point running the air conditioner in those conditions, as both he and many others had discovered. The stop-start traffic made it worse, and people who had already suffered enough were close to breaking point.

Once again, the traffic stopped, and tempers frayed to the point of blowing horns and yelling forlorn abuse at some unseen driver or cause. It was a no-win situation, and to Bill, a waste of time and energy. His time and energy, he thought, was best directed at analysis. Yet how different had the afternoon been to what was currently happening?

In charge of the Customer Service centre for the area’s electricity supplier, it had been difficult to say the least. That afternoon had seen the highest consumption of electricity since the heat wave began, since time immemorial for that matter, and had started to affect the functionality of the grid, with the first failures occurring.

It had been predicted, but was not expected quite this early, and as parts of the city were beginning to feel the effect of temporary blackouts, his, and his staff’s work had begun to receive the full effect of the community’s contempt and hatred.

The traffic disaster was not a patch on the abuse both he and members of his staff had received that afternoon, and he instinctively knew it was not going to improve.

Normally he would stay on and help the incoming supervisor. This time, someone else could handle the problems. Doing the usual Friday afternoon desk clean up, he’d found the invitation to Wally’s stag party and as best man, he was obligated to go. One of the other and more compelling reasons was to see which of his colleagues would make a fool of themselves.

…

It didn’t take long to get home and change into what he considered proper party attire. He smiled at the thought of being an anachronism from a bygone age, and of what others thought of him. He was too old to change.

Before leaving, he lingered over several glasses of champagne, and strawberries, trying to get into the mood. At the same time, he surveyed the ravages of middle management pressures. Just a year in the job had aged him five, and a tinges of grey beginning to appear at the sides.

A wave of tiredness came over him. The thought of staying home and immersing himself in classical music and another bottle of champagne crossed his mind, but he said he would go. Wally was one of the few he could call a true friend. He would go, but not stay long.

…

As usual, he was late.

Groups had spilled out onto the front veranda, and the front lawn. He knew most of the partygoers by sight, if not by name. Acquaintances, not friends. Not the sort of people he usually mingled with. He exchanged greetings, accepted drinks, and tried to maintain appearances.

It didn’t take long to realise it was a mistake. The carnival atmosphere and good cheer all around him made him feel melancholier, as a wave of loneliness closed around him like the night air.

He knew only too well what the problem was but had no idea how to deal with it. Neither his upbringing nor experience was of any use. It would require outside help; the sort Wally had already offered. Just when would he do something about it, if at all? If the truth were known, Bill was too frightened of the consequences, of getting hurt. Perhaps a few more drinks…

Making his way through the crowded rooms towards the back of the house, he felt the deadening effect of the alcohol beginning to fight off the empty feeling within.

He made desultory conversation with a secretary he knew was high on the dating list for most junior executives, deriving some pleasure in the thought she talked to him, then to another young lady who worked his shift, whom he thought both intelligent and charming, and whose behaviour didn’t shatter his assumptions as some others had.

As the night wore on. it became evident few had noticed his arrival, even fewer his sudden disappearance to the back veranda, overlooking the ocean. He had seen Wally on one occasion when he was trying to drink about 10 gallons of beer in one attempt and thought it wise not to interrupt.

It was, he thought, all part of the game, to drink so much he would forget how it was when he was single, though Bill doubted he could do it in a single night. Bill could hardly wait till the wedding the next afternoon.

…

He looked back momentarily at the apparent abandon of the other guests, hearing the muted murmur of endless conversations, and loud music. Everyone was having a good time, as it should be.

The gentle, soothing, lapping of the tide on the beach beckoned him. He put his empty glass on a ledge and went quietly down the stairs onto the sand. A refreshing, cool breeze rolled in with the tide, immediately improving his mood.

At the water’s edge, he paused momentarily to soak in the calming atmosphere, then put his hands in his pockets and headed for the pier. A leisurely stroll there and back would be a sufficient break to enable him to endure the rest of the evening. Yes, he would stay, if only to see that Wally didn’t overindulge. After all, some duties did fall on the incumbent best man.

Occasionally he kicked the sand with the toe of his shoe, once for a thoroughly detestable human relations consultant, and another for a particularly annoying assistant. It scuffed the high polish, but he didn’t care. This was a time when near impeccable would be good enough.

He was alone, and in more ways than one but it was more by design than by accident. He had recently been involved in a relationship that was doomed before it began. Work had always pushed that side of his life into second place because he let it. Now, having thought about it rationally for the first time, he realised it was time to place less importance on work and more on giving any sort of relationship a chance.

Wally had offered to find him someone, but knowing Wally as he did, Bill had declined. Of course, to Wally ‘no’ really meant go ahead anyway. While at the party, he had surveyed those he thought Wally might have invited as potential matches, some voluptuous, some half-naked, some painted, some all three.

There was no doubting their intent, and he had seen the same in the singles bars when on the town with Wally when they had nothing better to do with a Friday night. Yet, none of those he’d seen, then or now, matched his criteria. Were his standards set too high? Wally never said it, but the fact he didn’t, said more than if he had said it out loud.

Bill sighed. Perhaps he was too set in his ways and unable to change.

…

Adjoining the pier was the old amusement centre, which burnt down several years before. It was the reason for the closing of the beach, and its recent exclusivity to those nearby backing onto it. All that remained was the scorched concrete floor and parts of the walls. It was these remains he had just gone under.

Beneath them, the sounds of the sea and the night were more pronounced, creating an eerie, sinister feeling. The smell of the burnt timber still hung in the air, despite the intervening years.

“Hi!” A feminine voice came out from the shadows, behind one of the pylons nearby.

He started violently, not expecting anyone else. It took a moment to collect his thoughts, then turn to see who she was.

“Oh,” was all he could say to the now visible girl’s outline etched against the distant city lights.

Both came out the other side together into the half-light, leaving the gloom behind. She began, “I hope I didn’t scare you back there?”

“Only half to death.” He brushed the non-existent wrinkles out of his dinner suit, more a reflex action, then put his hands back in his pockets, composure regained.

“I’m awfully sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

He was a little angry, and turning to her, said quietly, “Then what was….” He stopped suddenly, surprised at what he saw. Tall, well-proportioned, dressed in expensive eveningwear, much the same as he was. He instantly realised she could almost pass as an exact replica of Venus except for the untidy, waist-length hair.

“I don’t know. I guess I wanted to talk to someone, you were handy, so I just said ‘hi’.” Her tone was apprehensive, with a slight tremor in it.

She smiled nervously, yet in a way, he noticed it totally changed her appearance, and his heart missed a beat.

“Oh,” he said again, subconsciously feeling she had put him in his place. He shook his head and looked again, disbelieving what he saw.

“I hope you don’t mind?”

“Don’t mind what?” He’d lost track of the conversation and realised he was quickly moving towards looking and sounding like a gibbering idiot. It was, he realised, just like every other time when faced with a beautiful woman.

“Me talking to you.”

He took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. He could feel a runnel of sweat slide down the side of his face, “No. Not really. It’s just the diversion I need”. He looked at the sand, the sea, then her. “I have a feeling I’ve seen you before.”

He moved on, and so did she, both in unison.

“Staring at you from the pages of magazines?”

“I guess so. What did you do? Rob a bank? Divorce a Prince or millionaire?”

“As if. Nothing quite as exotic, or exciting, I’m afraid. Just draped in clothes or plastered in make-up. Boring huh?”

“No. Not really.”

“You’re a bit hard up for new lines?”

He shrugged. It was difficult talking to this woman, and, lacking in confidence, he was starting to feel a little embarrassed.

She changed the subject. “Do you live here?”

“No….”

“Don’t say it, not really!” she interrupted.

He sighed, trying to regain composure. “OK. I was at a party.”

“Aha. Now we’re getting somewhere.” Then she gave him a curious look. “Was?” Then, after he didn’t answer, “How come you’re not with the others, having a good time?”

“Perhaps I’m not cut out to ‘have a good time’. Actually, I thought I’d take a time out from the frenetic pace and get some fresh air.”

“And now the fresh air had lost its appeal?”

“I didn’t say that.” Did that come out sounding flustered? It was how he felt inside. He was going to have to try harder if he was to keep her interest. “It’s beginning to get interesting. And I still can’t place where I’ve seen you before.” He shook his head. “No matter. What brings you here?”

“Someone told me about this place a long time ago. I thought I’d come and check it out.”

He turned and headed back, deciding the diversion had exceeded the time limit he’d set, and it had now become an elongated absence. She did the same.

“And what do you think?” he asked.

“About what?”

This conversation would sound very strange if anyone else was nearby listening to them. Luckily, there wasn’t. “This place.”

“Very peaceful, secluded, interesting, as you said.”

“Interesting in what way?” Damn, had he asked that already?

“Well …” She shrugged, then asked, “Do you always walk around with your hands in your pockets?”

Simple answer, yes. “Can’t think of where else to put them.”

What did it have to do with her anyway? And, in that instant, he realised that it was he who was the problem here, not her.

“What if you were to hold a girl’s hand?”

“I don’t know of any who would want me to.”

“Would you like to hold mine?”

“Why? Is it going to run away?”

She smiled. “More than likely.”

He stopped. She stopped. He surveyed her with a critical eye.

“Aha. The eye that asks, ‘Who is the disreputable and outrageous person who dares to ask such a thing?’

He smiled and took her hand in his. It was soft and warm and sent a slight tingle up his spine.

“I talk too much. Don’t I?” she asked suddenly after they started walking again.

“No.”

She sighed. “Here we go again.”

…

On the other side of the pier, there was an old car park, no longer used. Along the beachfront was a long, low stone wall, and they headed towards it. Once there, they sat down to watch darkness finally settle in, the last of the sun’s rays melting in a glorious display of reds, oranges, and yellows.

Without speaking, they were content to listen to the waves, feel the cooling breeze, and watch the sea glisten in the moonlight.

Nothing happened for an indeterminable length of time, during which he nearly forgot she was there. He suddenly snapped out of it when he heard a match rasping.

He turned to see her trying to light a cigarette, but her hand was shaking so much, the match went out. She tried again, but the same thing happened. She savagely threw the cigarette away and pounded her hand on the cement as though it was something she hated.

He took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his coat pocket and offered her one.

“No. It’s reason enough to try to give it up,” she said quietly.

He returned the items to his pocket and took her hand in his, looked carefully at it, then kissed it. “Trying to dent cement is not wise unless you are Superman or Supergirl. I know. I tried once and broke three fingers. Fortunately, nothing is broken.”

She moved closer. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Making me feel silly.”

“But … I didn’t mean to … I mean …”

She leaned towards him and kissed his lips. “Hush.”

He held her hand up and looked at it, rather than her, trying to get a grip on his emotions, and saying, a good dead steadier than he felt, “I need a third hand. Do you think I could have it?”

“With pleasure. It’s apparently no good to me anymore.”

“Why?”

“Shakes too much.”

“Perhaps I could use it to massage my face.” He gently moved her hand down the side of his face and again felt a tingle up his spine. Again, he kissed it gently where she had hit it, not knowing why, just that it seemed like the right thing to do.

“Perhaps not. Seems to me you have a case of bad nerves. These are familiar symptoms. You need a rest, perhaps a holiday, and complete relaxation. That will be a five-dollar consultation fee.”

She smiled. “Will you stop it.”

“Why? It makes you smile.”

“Your right, of course. I need a rest. The last six months have been horrible, working day and night, and a failed relationship on top of it.” She sighed. “I feel sleepy.” She leaned against him, putting her arms around him for balance.

“Hey, no. You can’t do that.” He fended her off gently. “I’ve got a party to get back to, and by now I think I should be missed. God knows what Wally will think.”

He stood and she rolled sideways. “Oh, come on.” He looked up towards the sky. “Why did you make some women like this,” he muttered. Then he put his arms around her and lifted her to her feet. She leaned back against him and he could feel how warm and soft she was. It was a battle just to make sure he kept his hands in the right places, and she wasn’t making it easy for him.

He held her up then moved around to the front and caught her just as she began to fall forward. It was exasperating, and yet amusing. He let her go and she began to fall down, so he caught her again.

She was smiling.

“Beware the smile on the face of the tiger,” he muttered. His face was level with hers and just then an idea came to him. He kissed her forehead, nose, chin, then finally her lips, and she came to life.

It was just what she was hoping would happen. Instead of surprising her, she surprised him by responding in kind; leaving him with a feeling he’d never experienced before. And a heart rate that was off the chart.

“Now, if only you’d tried that earlier,” she said.

He looked her straight in the eye. “Just who are you?”

“Me.”

“Does ‘me’ have a name?”

“Do you want ‘me’ to have a name?”

“Yes.”

“Claire.”

“Then you may call me Bill. Do you often pick up strange lonely men on secluded beaches?”

“No.”

“Infuse life into otherwise dead souls?”

“No.”

“Just happened to be the one thing I needed right now?”

She smiled; a smile that made his heart do double somersaults.

“Perhaps a yes.”

“Can I see you again? I have to see you again.”

“Have to?”

“Like to, then.”

“Perhaps.”

“When?”

“Soon, perhaps sooner than you think. Do you have to go back?”

“Yes. If I don’t, Wally will be mad at me.” He pulled out a notebook and pencil he always carried with him. “Where do you live?”

She told him.

“If I come by Sunday may I take you out, a drive, somewhere up the coast? Fresh sea air, total relaxation.”

“Part of the therapy I’m paying five dollars for?”

He brushed a few strands of hair out of her eyes, feeling her warm soft skin under his hand, then kissed her. “Indeed. Until the next time.”

She smiled again. “Until the next time.”

He turned and headed back to the party, not looking back.

…

No one noticed his absence; despite the fact over an hour had lapsed. He resumed his place on the veranda, new drink in hand looking vacantly towards the pier, wondering if he would see her again, if she were just a figment of his imagination. It was just too good to be true.

“Ah, Bill. I thought I would find you here. Thinking about a walk. No, I see you’ve already been.” Wally sounded sober and looked it. Perhaps this was all just a dream.

He looked down. His shoes still had sand on them. He looked at Wally and smiled. “Fresh air. Contemplating the human condition. You know what I’m like at parties.”

“Better than you think. What did you think of her?”

“Her?”

“The so-called blind date. I didn’t think a formal introduction would work.”

Bill shrugged. “Very nice, but a little…”

Wally smiled the same unique smile of hers.

“Your sister?”

Wally nodded. “Take exceptionally good care of her my friend. She’s very vulnerable at the moment, and I couldn’t think of anyone better to look after her.” He held up his glass. “Cheers.”

…

The 2am Rant: There’s more time for TV

Being confined to home because despite the conquering of COVID, it’s still out there and we have to live with it – something in my condition I can’t take too many risks with – not only gives me, and a lot of others more time to write, it also enables us to explore a few more leisure options to fill in the time.

After all, we can hardly just keep writing endlessly.

Well, perhaps some of us could.

At first, I decided I would do some virtual travelling, you know, go to places I would never go in person, like South Africa, Kenya, Egypt, South America, you know the sort of places I mean, the ones where you can’t get travel insurance cover, or not without mortgaging your home.

That lasted about a day. Seeing the pyramids online was not the same as being there, getting the sand blown in your face, or the tour bus being hijacked, and you spend the next three months in a dark, hot, hell hole while the kidnappers negotiate with governments that refuse to negotiate with terrorists.

So far, I’m not filling in my time very well.

There are weeds to be pulled, lawns to be cut, shrubs and trees to be pruned, painting to be done, you know, all of those chores that you put off until tomorrow, knowing tomorrow will never come.

Don’t ask me to explain that.

So, we’re left with television.

Firstly there was a series called Yellowstone, a western in a modern setting, three series worth. Yes, we watched all of them, no, didn’t like the swearing, or Beth Dutton, Rip was channelling the Duke (John Wayne), and Kevin Costner, well, his stint in Dances with Wolves stood him in good stead.

Geez though, how much trouble can one ranch attract? Indians, speculators, developers, and an international airport? To be honest, at times it spiralled out of control, but for sheer entertainment value, it was slightly better than I thought it might be. As for Jamie, how could one person be so complicated?

Then there was another series, Away. OK, this was about as far-fetched as a premise could get, and the characters, as diverse, and sometimes as obtuse as any I’ve seen thrown together for over eight months. Thank god we didn’t have to suffer eight months of it.

It was good, I guess, with people being the way they are, and I’d expected in the confines of that small space for so long, they might have killed each other off one at a time, like in Lord of the Flies, but no such luck.

My favourite? The Russian. He might have been blind but he was interesting. Just would have liked a few subtitles for us non-Ghana, Chinese, Russian, and Indian people.

As for White House Farm, I’m still trying to work out who killed them all, because it definitely wasn’t the daughter. It had to be the indifferent son, or at his behest. Full marks to the dogged detective, who, the last time I saw him, he was a rather improbable Hercules. Funny how your impression of a performance goes back to one you’ve seen him before.

Which is another of our viewing interests, watching a show and trying to work out where we’ve seen the actors before. Some are familiar and seem to be in everything, others rarely seen, or remembered. I hope this is not a sign of their acting talent, or more to the point, lack of it.

At the moment we are in the middle of Young Wallender. Those who may have seen Branagh in the Wallender series would remember this as being the most stultifying of series, filmed bleakly in a bleak country with bleak characters, and bleak crimes.

Fortunately, the Young Wallender series is not as bleak, but it has dark undertones. Some might call this gritty. There are four more to go so it can only get better.

Like jumping off a ten-storey building, it’s so far so good…

Writing a book in 365 days – 353

Day 353

Introduction: Why Your Choice of Software Matters

Writing isn’t just about putting words on a page; it’s a craft that demands focus, organisation, and the right set of tools to bring ideas to life. The software you choose can:

Boost productivity – by cutting down on manual formatting and navigation.
Protect your creative flow – by offering distraction‑free modes and version control.
Scale with your project – from a single‑page article to a 500‑page novel or a multi‑chapter research thesis.

With a flood of options on the market, two camps dominate the conversation:

Dedicated writing software (think Scrivener, Ulysses, yWriter).
Run‑of‑the‑mill word processors (Microsoft Word, Google Docs, Apple Pages).

Let’s dive deep into the strengths, weaknesses, and ideal use‑cases for each, so you can make an informed decision that aligns with your workflow.

1. Dedicated Writing Software – The Specialist’s Toolkit

1.1 What Makes a “Dedicated” App Different?

Dedicated writing apps are built from the ground up for long‑form, project‑based writing. They go beyond the classic “type‑and‑print” paradigm and provide:

Feature	Why It Matters
Project‑level organization (folders, corkboards, outline view)	Keeps chapters, scenes, research, and notes in one place without endless scrolling.
Distraction‑free modes	Full‑screen or “typewriter” view clears the screen of UI clutter, helping you stay in the zone.
Version control & snapshots	Capture a “snapshot” of a chapter at any point and revert without losing later edits.
Export versatility	Export to ePub, Kindle, PDF, Word, plain text, and even manuscript‑ready formats with a single click.
Metadata & tagging	Attach custom fields (e.g., POV, status, word count) for advanced sorting and filtering.

1.2 Scrivener – The Industry Standard

“If you write a novel, a screenplay, or a dissertation, Scrivener is the Swiss Army knife you never knew you needed.” — John H., bestselling author

Pros

	Scrivener Highlights
Robust Binder	Drag‑and‑drop chapters, scenes, and research PDFs into a hierarchical tree.
Corkboard & Outliner	Visualize story arcs with index cards; rearrange with a mouse swipe.
Split‑Screen Editing	View two documents side‑by‑side (e.g., manuscript + notes).
Built‑in Templates	Pre‑made templates for novels, scripts, non‑fiction, and academic papers.
Cross‑Platform	macOS, Windows, iOS (sync via Dropbox).

Cons

	Potential Drawbacks
Learning Curve	The sheer number of features can overwhelm newcomers.
Price	$49 (Mac/Windows) + $29 (iOS) – a one‑time purchase, but higher than a free Google account.
Collaboration	Not designed for real‑time co‑authoring (though you can share exported files).

1.3 Other Notable Dedicated Apps

App	Ideal For	Standout Feature
Ulysses (macOS/iOS)	Bloggers, journalists, Apple‑centric writers	Seamless iCloud sync + Markdown simplicity
yWriter (Windows)	Screenwriters & novelists on a budget	Free, robust scene‑based organization
Storyist (macOS/iOS)	Fiction & script writers	Integrated storyboard & script formatting

2. Run‑of‑the‑Mill Word Processors – The Everyday Workhorse

2.1 Microsoft Word – The Classic Giant

Word has been the default for decades, and its capabilities have expanded far beyond a simple text editor.

Pros

	Word Strengths
Universal Compatibility	Almost every publisher, editor, and academic institution expects a .docx file.
Advanced Formatting	Styles, footnotes, cross‑references, tables of contents – all built‑in.
Track Changes & Comments	Ideal for collaborative editing with editors or co‑authors.
Add‑ins & Macros	Customize with VBA scripts for repetitive tasks.
Desktop & Online Versions	Use the full‑featured desktop app or the cloud‑based Word Online.

Cons

	Word Weaknesses
Project Management Lacks	No native folder‑like binder; you’ll need to open multiple files or use a master document (which can be unstable).
Distraction‑Heavy UI	Ribbon, sidebars, and toolbars can pull focus away from writing.
Limited Export Options	Not as straightforward to output to ePub or Kindle format without third‑party plugins.

2.2 Google Docs – The Cloud‑Centric Contender

Google Docs is the go‑to for real‑time collaboration, especially in remote teams or classrooms.

Pros

	Google Docs Benefits
Real‑Time Collaboration	Multiple users can edit simultaneously with live cursors.
Automatic Cloud Saves	No risk of losing work due to hardware failure.
Add‑Ons Marketplace	Extend functionality (e.g., citation managers, grammar checkers).
Access Anywhere	Browser‑based; works on any OS with internet.
Free Tier	Generous storage via Google Drive.

Cons

	Google Docs Limitations
Limited Formatting & Styles	Complex manuscript formatting (e.g., long TOCs) can be clunky.
No Built‑In Project View	You’ll need to manage individual files manually in Drive.
Offline Mode	Works, but requires setup; performance can be slower offline.
Export Formats	Primarily PDF, Word, plain text; no native ePub/KDP export.

2.3 When Word Processors Shine

Scenario	Recommended Tool
Academic Papers (APA/MLA/Chicago)	Word (styles, citations, footnotes)
Team Reports or Shared Docs	Google Docs (real‑time editing)
Short‑Form Content (blog posts, newsletters)	Either – choose based on collaboration needs
Final Manuscript Formatting for Publishers	Word (industry standard)

3. Decision Matrix – Matching Tool to Writer Type

Writer Profile	Primary Needs	Best Fit
Novelist (300‑500+ pages, heavy outlining)	Project organization, scene tracking, flexible export	Scrivener (or Ulysses for Mac/iOS)
Screenwriter	Script formatting, beat boards, quick revisions	Final Draft (industry) or Scrivener (script template)
Academic Researcher	Citation management, footnotes, large reference library	Word (with EndNote/Zotero) or Google Docs + add‑on
Freelance Blogger	Fast drafting, SEO collaboration, easy publishing	Google Docs (collab) or Word (if you prefer offline)
Non‑fiction Author (multiple chapters, interviews, PDFs)	Mixed media integration, flexible export, version snapshots	Scrivener
Team of Editors	Real‑time comments, change tracking, simultaneous editing	Google Docs (or Word Online)

4. Practical Tips to Get the Most Out of Your Chosen Software

Start with a Template – Most dedicated apps ship with ready‑made templates that handle margins, headers, and chapter styles. Save time by customising once and reusing.
Leverage Cloud Sync – Even if you love Scrivener, store your project folder in Dropbox or OneDrive to protect against hardware loss.
Combine Tools – Write first drafts in a distraction‑free environment (Scrivener, Ulysses, or even a plain‑text editor), then import into Word for final formatting and submission.
Use Keyboard Shortcuts – Learn the top 10 shortcuts for your platform; they shave seconds off every page.
Backup Regularly – Set up an automatic backup schedule (e.g., weekly zip of your project folder) regardless of cloud storage.

5. Bottom Line: There Is No One‑Size‑Fits‑All Answer

If your writing is project‑heavy, non‑linear, and you need robust organisation, dedicated software like Scrivener (or its Mac‑centric cousins) is the clear winner.
If you work primarily in teams, need instant collaboration, or are delivering polished documents to publishers or academia, Microsoft Word or Google Docs will serve you better.

My personal recommendation? Use a hybrid workflow: draft and outline in Scrivener for its unrivalled project management, then export your manuscript to Word for final polishing, formatting, and sharing. For collaborative pieces, switch to Google Docs during the editing phase, then bring the clean version back into Word.

Bonus: Quick Comparison Chart

Feature	Scrivener	Ulysses	Microsoft Word	Google Docs
Project Binder
Distraction‑Free Mode
Real‑Time Collaboration			(online)
Advanced Export (ePub, Kindle)			(needs add‑on)
Citation Management	Limited	Limited	(via add‑ins)	(via add‑ons)
Price (as of 2026)	$49 (one‑time)	$49.99/yr	$149.99 (Microsoft 365)	Free (Google Workspace)
Learning Curve	Moderate	Low	Low	Low

Take Action Today

Identify your primary writing goal (novel, article, thesis, team report).
Match the goal to the software using the matrix above.
Download a free trial (Scrivener offers a 30‑day trial; Word has a 60‑day Microsoft 365 trial).
Test a small project—write a single chapter or a 1,000‑word article. Observe how the tool fits your workflow.
Commit to the software that feels like an extension of your creative mind, not a barrier.

Happy writing!

One writer's experiences, and battles with words

1. Stehekin: The Remote Gateway to North Cascades Wilderness

2. Methow Valley: Wild Beauty and Cultural Gems

3. Palouse Region: A Sea of Scrolling Gold and Green

4. Cispus Falls: A Secret Waterfall Oasis

5. San Juan Islands: Slow Life on Lopez Island

Conclusion: Embrace the Road Less Travelled

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Does Everyone Have a Second Book In Them?

When Do You Know a Story is Meant to Be More Than One?

How Long Before We Begin?

Final Thoughts: Is a Second Book Necessary?

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Introduction: Why Your Choice of Software Matters

1. Dedicated Writing Software – The Specialist’s Toolkit

1.1 What Makes a “Dedicated” App Different?

1.2 Scrivener – The Industry Standard

Pros

Cons

1.3 Other Notable Dedicated Apps

2. Run‑of‑the‑Mill Word Processors – The Everyday Workhorse

2.1 Microsoft Word – The Classic Giant

Pros

Cons

2.2 Google Docs – The Cloud‑Centric Contender

Pros

Cons

2.3 When Word Processors Shine

3. Decision Matrix – Matching Tool to Writer Type

4. Practical Tips to Get the Most Out of Your Chosen Software

5. Bottom Line: There Is No One‑Size‑Fits‑All Answer

Bonus: Quick Comparison Chart

Take Action Today

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