“Trouble in Store” – Short stories my way: Character refinement

I have reworked the first part of the story with a few new elements about the characters and changed a few of the details of how the characters finish up in the shop before the policewoman makes her entrance.

This is part of the new first section is the one that involves Annalisa, and her boyfriend, Simmo:

Annalisa looked at the two men facing her.

Simmo, the boy on the floor, had told her that the shopkeeper would be a pushover, he was an old man who’d just hand over the drugs, rather than cause trouble for himself.

Where Simmo had discovered what the shopkeeper’s true vocation, dispensing drugs to the neighborhood addicts, she didn’t know, but it was not the first place like this they had visited.

She had always known Simmo had a problem, but he had assured her he had it under control. Until a month ago, when he had tried something new.

It had changed him.

The breaking point came earlier that day when, seeing how sick he was, she threatened to leave. It brought out the monster within him, and he threatened to kill her. Not long after he had changed into a whimpering child pleading with her to stay, that he hadn’t meant anything he’d said before.

All he needed was one more ‘score’ to get his ‘shit’ together, and he would do as she asked, and find help.

She believed him.

He said he knew a place not far from the apartment, a small shop where what he needed was available, and said he had the money.

That should have been the first sign he was not telling the truth because she had been funding his habit until her parents cut off the money supply. She suspected her father had put a private detective on to find her, had, and reported back, and rather than make a scene, just cut her off so she would have to come home or starve. Her father was no better than Simmo.

And, as soon as they stepped into the shop, Simmo pulled out the gun,

Instead of the shopkeeper cowered like Simmo said he would, he had laughed at them and told them to get out. Simmo started ranting and waving the gun around, then all of a sudden collapsed.

There was a race for the gun which spilled out of Simmo’s hand, and she won.

That was just before the customer burst into the shop.

It had been shortly before closing time. Simmo had said there would be no one else around.

Wrong again.

Now she had another problem to deal with, a man who was clearly as scared shitless as she was.

This was worse than any bad hair day, or getting out of the wrong side of bed day, this was, she was convinced, the last day of her life.

She heard a strange sound come from beside her and looked down. There was a trickle of blood coming out of his mouth and Simmo was making strange sounds like he was choking.

Any other time she might have been concerned, but the hard reality of it was, Simmo was never going to change. She was only surprised at the fact it took so long for her to realize it.

As for the man standing in front of her, she was safe from the shopkeeper with him around, so he would have to stay.

“No. Stay.”

Another glance at the shopkeeper told her she had made the right decision, his expression said it all. Gun or no gun, the moment she was alone with him, he would kill her.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 71

Day 71 – Luck

…

Writing Is a Blend of Drafts, Practice, Patience… and (Yes) Luck
How much does luck really matter, and can you manufacture your own?

1. The Four Pillars of the Writing Process

Pillar	What It Looks Like in Practice	Why It Matters
Draft	A messy, imperfect first version that never sees the light of day.	Gets ideas out of your head and onto paper before they evaporate.
Practice	Writing daily, experimenting with genre, studying the craft.	Turns raw talent into reliable skill; the more you write, the better you become at spotting what works.
Patience	Allowing stories to simmer, waiting for feedback, revising until the narrative sings.	Prevents rushed, half‑baked work and gives you the space to notice subtle improvements.
Luck	The right eyes on the right piece at the right time.	Bridges the gap between “good enough” and “published, celebrated, paid.”

Most writers feel comfortable dissecting the first three. They’re concrete, measurable, and—most importantly—controllable. Luck, on the other hand, feels ethereal, like a gust of wind you can’t predict or direct. Yet, it’s a factor that many successful authors (and their agents, editors, and readers) cite as a turning point in their careers.

2. Luck: Myth, Mystery, or Measurable Influence?

a. The “Right Person” Phenomenon

The story you’ll hear a thousand times: “I sent my manuscript to 50 agents, and the 51st said yes.”

Statistical reality: If an agent receives 200 submissions a week and picks one, the odds are 0.5 % per submission. That’s a very real, quantifiable element of luck.
Why it matters: Even a superb manuscript can sit in the abyss of an overburdened inbox forever without that serendipitous glance.

b. Timing is Everything

A dystopian novel released in 2024 lands in a saturated market; a similar story in 2008 rides the wave of post‑9/11 anxiety and becomes a bestseller.

External factors: Cultural mood, current events, emerging trends, even algorithm changes on platforms like Amazon or TikTok.
The luck factor: Being in sync with the zeitgeist often feels like luck, but it’s also a product of awareness and timing.

c. Network Effects

A friend shares your article on LinkedIn, it goes viral, and a publishing house reaches out.

The roulette wheel: Who you know, where you post, which forum you frequent—these are chance encounters that can catapult a piece from obscurity to spotlight.

Bottom line: Luck isn’t a mystical force; it’s the intersection of your work with unpredictable external variables. And that intersection is not completely out of your control.

3. Engineering Your Own Luck

If luck is a probability, you can raise the odds. Below are proven tactics that writers use to manufacture their own good fortune.

Show Up Consistently (The Visibility Engine)

Why it works: The more you publish—whether it’s blog posts, flash fiction, or LinkedIn threads—the higher the chance one piece lands in the right feed at the right moment.
Action step: Commit to a minimum output (e.g., 500 words a day or one medium‑length article per week). Use a content calendar to keep yourself accountable.

Target the Right Gatekeepers

Research before you pitch: Identify agents, editors, or influencers whose recent purchases align with your genre or theme.
Personalise: Mention a specific piece they’ve championed and explain why your manuscript complements it.
Result: You’re no longer sending a blind shot in the dark; you’re aiming at a moving target you’ve studied.

Leverage “Micro‑Virality” Platforms

Twitter, TikTok, Substack, Medium: These ecosystems reward shareable, bite‑sized content. A well‑crafted hook can earn thousands of impressions overnight.
Tip: Repurpose a chapter excerpt into a 280‑character “teaser” or a 30‑second video reading. Cross‑post to maximise reach.

Build a Community First

Why it matters: A loyal readership will champion your work, give honest feedback, and amplify your voice.
How: Host virtual writing circles, participate in genre‑specific Discord servers, or run a monthly newsletter with exclusive drafts.
Outcome: When you finally release a book, you already have a built‑in launch squad.

Collect Data, Iterate, and Scale

Track metrics: Open rates, click‑throughs, submission response rates.
A/B test subject lines, cover designs, query letters.
Refine: Treat each launch as an experiment; the data reveals which “luck‑generating” tactics actually work for you.

Stay Informed About Industry Shifts

Subscribe to trade newsletters (Publishers Weekly, The Bookseller, etc.).
Attend virtual conferences and note emerging trends (e.g., the rise of interactive fiction or AI‑assisted storytelling).
Result: You can anticipate the next wave and position your manuscript to ride it—turning what looks like luck into strategic timing.

4. A Real‑World Example: From “Luck” to “Preparedness + Opportunity”

Case Study – Maya Patel, debut sci‑fi author

Draft & Practice: Wrote three full manuscripts over four years, revising each based on beta‑reader feedback.

Patience: Held back on publishing, waiting for the right moment to submit to agents specialized in climate‑fiction.

Manufactured Luck:

Joined a niche Discord for “eco‑thrillers.”

Shared a 1,000‑word excerpt, which was retweeted by a popular environmental activist.

The tweet caught the eye of an agent who listed “eco‑drama” as a current interest.

Within two weeks, Maya’s manuscript was under contract.

Maya’s story illustrates that the “lucky” agent discovery was the result of deliberate community building and strategic exposure.

5. The Mindset Shift: From “I’m Unlucky” to “I’m Luck-Optimising.”

Fixed‑Luck Thought	Luck‑Optimizing Reframe
“I never get noticed; it’s just bad luck.”	“I need more visibility points where luck can happen.”
“If I’m not published by 30, it’s fate.”	“I’ll create multiple launch pathways—self‑publish, serialized web‑novel, audiobooks.”
“Publishers are gatekeepers I can’t influence.”	“I can build relationships with them through consistent, high‑quality content.”

By treating luck as a resource you can attract rather than a random wind you must endure, you shift from passive resignation to active agency.

6. Quick‑Start Checklist: Crafting Your Own Luck

	Action
1	Set a daily word‑count goal and log it for 30 days.
2	Compile a list of 10 agents/editors who have sold books similar to yours.
3	Publish a 500‑word excerpt on two social platforms this week.
4	Join one writing community (Discord/Reddit/Slack) and contribute weekly.
5	Track the performance of each post (views, shares, comments).
6	Review data every two weeks; tweak headlines, posting times, or formats.
7	Pitch one query letter per week, using the personalized research you did.
8	Celebrate every small win—an extra comment, a retweet, a beta‑reader endorsement.

Consistently checking off these items builds “luck capital” that compounds over time.

7. The Bottom Line

Writing success is rarely a straight line from draft → practice → patience → publication. Luck—those unpredictable moments when the right person sees the right piece—plays a genuine role. But luck is not a cosmic lottery ticket you either draw or don’t. It’s a probability that you can raise dramatically by:

Increasing the number of opportunities (more drafts, more posts, more pitches).
Targeting the right people (research, personalisation).
Timing your releases (stay current, watch industry trends).
Cultivating a community that will champion your work.

When you combine solid craft with a systematic “luck‑building” strategy, you turn the nebulous element of fortune into a replicable part of your writing business.

Remember: “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.”—Seneca (or at least a modern writer’s version of it).
So keep drafting, keep practicing, keep being patient, and then engineer the circumstances where luck can finally knock on your door.

Ready to boost your luck? Drop a comment below with the first step you’ll take today, and let’s hold each other accountable. Happy writing!

Searching for locations: An old country homestead, Canungra, Australia

Or to be more precise, the homestead at what is now O’Reilly’s vineyard, where there is a pleasant lawn out back running down to the river for picnics, an alpaca farm next door, and the homestead plays host to functions and wine tastings

My interest was that we had assumed there was a restaurant, and we were going to have lunch. There might be one, but not the day we visited, it was just cafe food or a picnic available.

I was more interested in the old homestead because it was a fine example of the homesteads built in the ‘outback’.

…

Today we are having lunch in the Platypus room, in the O’Reilly’s vineyard farmhouse, which, if you close your eyes and let your imagination run free, could see it as the master bedroom of a homestead.

Certainly, the building is old, made completely of timber, inside and out, with the traditional high ceilings to keep the heat at bay.

At one end, a large bay window, which would be ideal to sit and view the outside, past the sweeping verandah. There is a small lawn and a rotunda, but beyond that what might have been extended gardens, is the vineyard.

The homestead is in an ideal position midway between the main road and the river, has the traditional surrounding verandah, and shows signs of being extended on almost all sides.

On the other side of the wide corridor that leads you to the bar, and, coincidentally, down the centre of the house, is a smaller bedroom, also used as a dining room, and ubiquitously named the library.

It may be small but it does have a fireplace, which the assumed master bedroom does not, but now I’m thinking that room might have been the morning room.

Behind the room, we’re in is another bedroom, or perhaps this might be the master because it does have a fireplace and is quite large. And a name, the Ambassador room. Now it serves as the pickup place for picnic baskets.

There is another room on the opposite side of the corridor called the Drawing Room but is not open to the public. But, going into the room with the fireplace adjacent to it, you can sell the aroma of pizzas, so it’s probably an extension of the kitchen, and, walking around the outside that side of the house proves it to be the case.

After all, they do catering for weddings and need a very large food preparation area which I discovered runs down the whole of that side of the house.

At the end of the corridor I’d the bar and spare space, and running off that and behind that is where there is a large dining area, perhaps prior to COVID, the restaurant.

It’s not hard to imagine that area as a very large entertaining area, either for very large dinner parties, or dancing.

As for the food, it’s either a picnic basket or pizzas. We chose the latter, not realising the bases were not homemade, but bought in.

The toppings however were both plentiful and tasty. It could have been hotter, because it was a cold day, and it was cold in the room.

As for something to do other than taste the wine, and buy a few bottles, you can get up close to the vines, which, at this time of the year gave been pruned back and look quite dead, look at or walk an alpaca, even feed it, or all of them, or go down to the river and see if you can spot a Platypus.

Perhaps next time we’ll have a picnic down by the river.

What I learned about writing – Writing is the supreme solace.

Perhaps it can be.

I remember when my mother died. It was the closest I had ever been in the presence of death.

I got a phone call to tell me I should come to the hospital; she was not going to last much longer. I was on the way out the door when the call said she had passed.

That was followed by going to the hospital, where I stayed for an hour, trying to assemble my thoughts.

In that moment when I first saw her, I felt numb. And much as I hate to say it, she was not much of a mother to me or any of us, for that matter, and I never really understood why.

Our grandmother, her mother, had been more caring and considerate.

For a few days after, I guess I went through a period where I tried to think of all the good things about her, but the bad still intruded. Those thoughts included my father, who was still alive, and had we been on speaking terms, perhaps it might have helped.

Instead, I was left with mixed emotions.

A few days later, I started putting words on paper, deciding that I would try to put together a eulogy of sorts, in case it was called for.

Writing about it was a form of solace, a period where I could address what it was that I felt, and at the end of it, I felt better.

Only later, much later, when I started digging into the family genealogy, did a lot of stuff start making sense.

Like most people, she was as complicated as the day was long.

She had an older sister whom I believe she was very jealous of; she had a boyfriend who was a local boy, since she was sixteen, writing continually during the war after he signed up, and writing about the life they would have together.

She had an explosive temper and managed at one time or another to alienate or get on the wrong side of everybody she cared about, and girlfriends in particular. That tempered extended, eventually to her boyfriend, now home from the war, and I believe they were looking forward to getting married.

A row put an end to it. He didn’t answer her letters of apology and ignored a telegram she sent, an indication of how badly she had fractured their relationship.

It’s 1946, and she’s working in Melbourne.

My father had gone overseas, why, we’ll never know, and ended up with his own matrimonial disaster, and having a wedding planned called off, he returned home disappointed and alone, going back to his old job of projectionist that he had before he enlisted.

It’s 1947, and he’s in the Snowy Mountain district as a roving projectionist.

I could only imagine how she and her family managed her disappointment situation, and her sister, who herself had married and had her own life, might account for my mother’s feelings towards her.

With that failed relationship in the past, her matrimonial prospects are now in the hands of a woman who is charged with finding a suitable husband.

That man was my father.

He gets the introduction, goes to see her, and she has gone home for the weekend to her parents’ house. It’s not surprising she had had another row with her girlfriends, and she faces time alone in her room.

He writes, not in the same romantic flowery prose of her last boyfriend, but of how domestic his life is, and how much he needs a wife to do those chores.

The thing is, he is a returned serviceman and used to fending for himself. This is not going to be a match made in heaven. He has his own anger management issues and battles with his own family, and it’s no surprise to learn there were ultimatums and threats to call off the wedding.

And yet, in 1950, it finally went ahead. There may have been compelling reasons, but one thing that was assured, neither of them advertised the fact that they had families, and we, as children, rarely, if ever, saw our aunts and uncles, only on rare occasions our grandparents.

Does snake me feel any better writing this down?

No. It does, however, provide a deeper understanding of the two people who were my parents and sadness at the loss of never knowing my aunts, uncles and grandparents, and goes a long way towards explaining why I am the way I am.

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the type of clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’ but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

The was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him was not the concierge, and instead brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position and then made a clunk when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the life lobby, only in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over the the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

Searching for locations – Port Macquarie – Day 5 – Part 4

Timber town – The Steam Train

The station

It was almost an anticlimax waiting for the train to arrive, and, heralded by several whistles, it did not disappoint.

Whilst not as large as the real commuter railway engines, it didn’t matter. It arrived with three colourful carriages, and everyone was waiting to jump on board.

Just for show, the driver reversed the train through the station, then brought it back slowly so everyone could get a photo moment of the train arriving at the station.

Then, everyone was aboard, and we were off. It was a large circular track that went around the outskirts of the whole Timbertown site.

It was slow in places. The engine was pulling quite a load, and at least once it felt like it was going to stop.

But, no, we made it. Towards the end there was a large trestle bridge.

The train travels over 595 mm tracks for 2.4 km. It also travels over the longest 595 mm gauge trestle bridge in the southern hemisphere.

The locomotive, number 12271, built by John Fowler and Co, a company that found a niche building narrow gauge equipment for the cane fields, was built in 1910 and recently had its 125th birthday.

The locomotive, also known as the Green Hornet, worked most of its life at the Macknade Sugar Mill near Ingham in northern Queensland, before being sold to Timbertown.

It was restored to working order in March 2022.

“Sunday in New York”, a romantic adventure that’s not a walk in the park!

“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.

When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.

From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.

There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.

Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?

Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?

Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?

As they say in the classics, read on!

Purchase:

http://tinyurl.com/Amazon-SundayInNewYork

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 71

Day 71 – Luck

…

Writing Is a Blend of Drafts, Practice, Patience… and (Yes) Luck
How much does luck really matter, and can you manufacture your own?

1. The Four Pillars of the Writing Process

Pillar	What It Looks Like in Practice	Why It Matters
Draft	A messy, imperfect first version that never sees the light of day.	Gets ideas out of your head and onto paper before they evaporate.
Practice	Writing daily, experimenting with genre, studying the craft.	Turns raw talent into reliable skill; the more you write, the better you become at spotting what works.
Patience	Allowing stories to simmer, waiting for feedback, revising until the narrative sings.	Prevents rushed, half‑baked work and gives you the space to notice subtle improvements.
Luck	The right eyes on the right piece at the right time.	Bridges the gap between “good enough” and “published, celebrated, paid.”