Parisian Odyssey: Making Memories in 24 Hours at the Eiffel Tower Subtitle: How to Craft an Unforgettable Day in the City of Light
Paris—the city where every cobbled street hums with history, every café table holds a story, and every landmark feels plucked from a dream. But when time is your most coveted luxury (and you’re stuck with just 24 hours), where do you begin? While the Louvre, Notre-Dame, and Montmartre all clamour for attention, there’s one icon that transcends mere sightseeing: the Eiffel Tower. More than a landmark, it’s the heartbeat of Paris. Here’s how to make your brief stopover a day you’ll remember forever.
Morning: Conquer the Iron Lady
Start your day early at the Eiffel Tower to avoid crowds. A pre-booked ticket to the top is non-negotiable—trust us, skipping the queue will save precious minutes. Ascend the 125 meters to the second floor for a panoramic view of the city: the Seine slicing through neighbourhoods, the distant dome of Sacré-Cœur, and the green sprawl of the Bois de Boulogne. If you’re energetic, the 164 steps to the first level (1,710 total to the top) are free, though the lift is worth it for efficiency.
Pro Tip: Grab a pastis or croissant from one of the restaurants on the first floor. It’s breakfast with a view!
Midday: Stroll the Champs-Élysées Backdrop
The Eiffel Tower isn’t an island—it’s a focal point for some of Paris’s most iconic scenery. Walk west toward the Champs-Élysées, a 1.2-mile boulevard that’s the epitome of Parisian glamour. Stop at the Arc de Triomphe for a photo (and climb for an even more divine view), then cruise past luxury shops like Dior and Louis Vuitton. You don’t need to spend a cent—just bask in the je ne sais quoi of Parisian elegance.
Unexpected Detour: Veer south to Trocadéro Gardens, a sprawling park with fountains and shaded paths. It’s a peaceful respite and the perfect spot to picnic with a baguette and fromage from a nearby market.
Afternoon: Seine Secrets and Hidden Gems
By 3 PM, head to the Seine River. The Eiffel Tower is visible from nearly every bridge here, but two spots are must-sees:
Pont d’Iéna (military museum) for a photo-perfect view of the tower against the sunset.
Rive Gauche Promenade for a leisurely walk past Left Bank cafés and the Institut de France.
If time allows, hop on a 1-hour Seine River cruise. As the boat glides past bridges and monuments, the Eiffel Tower will loom like a guardian, its silhouette contrasting with Haussmann-era architecture.
Evening: Twilight Magic and Farewell Glows
As dusk falls, make your way to Port de la Conférence (just south of the Eiffel Tower) or Pont National. Here, you’ll witness the tower’s daily ritual: a sparkling display every hour, where over 20,000 bulbs twinkle for five minutes. It’s romantic, awe-inspiring, and utterly unique to Paris.
Culinary Finale: Dine at a Seine-side restaurant like Le Jules Verne (inside the Eiffel Tower, reservations essential) or Café de l’Escargot for a jazz-tinged bistro vibe. Either way, you’ll cap off your day with the tower as your backdrop.
Why the Eiffel Tower?
In a day, you can’t do everything in Paris. You can’t visit every museum, every bakery, or every cabaret. But with the Eiffel Tower as your anchor, you’ll experience the city’s soul:
Iconic Energy: It’s the symbol of Paris you’ll recognise in movies, music, and literature.
Versatile Vibe: From bustling tourist hub to tranquil riverside retreat, it adapts to your dream.
Time Efficiency: Its centrality lets you explore adjacent neighbourhoods without exhausting yourself.
A 24-hour stopover is fleeting, but a day spent weaving through the Eiffel Tower’s orbit? That’s an hourglass filled with light, history, and memories.
Final Thought: Paris isn’t just seen—it’s felt. Choose the Eiffel Tower, and let it sweep you off your feet. After all, you’re not just visiting a city. You’re stepping into a masterpiece.
To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.
But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.
I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026. It even has a cover.
The Power of Tropes: Why Cliffhangers, Third-Act Twists, and the Hero’s Quest Still Rule Storytelling
As writers, we all chase the holy grail of absolute originality. We want to craft something so entirely unprecedented that it leaves readers breathless, wondering, “How on earth did they think of that?”
However, in the pursuit of being unique, it’s easy to slip into the writing morass—that confusing, overly abstract swamp where narratives become so convoluted that they alienate the reader entirely.
The truth? Tropes aren’t the enemy of creativity; they are its foundation. Tropes are the shared language between storyteller and audience. When used skillfully, time-tested devices like cliffhangers, third-act twists, and the hero’s quest act as narrative anchor points. They keep readers turning pages while giving you a sturdy framework to inject your own voice and subvert expectations.
Let’s break down three of the most powerful storytelling tropes, exploring the distinct advantages and disadvantages of each, and how you can use them without falling into clichés.
1. The Cliffhanger: The Ultimate Page-Turner
Think of the classic serialised novels of the 19th century or modern prestige television: just as the tension reaches a fever pitch, bam—fade to black. A cliffhanger abruptly halts the narrative at a moment of high suspense, leaving the ultimate fate of the characters hanging in the balance.
The Advantages:
Instant Engagement: Cliffhangers hijack our psychological need for closure (known as the Zeigarnik effect). Readers remember uncompleted tasks and unresolved plots much better than finished ones, making it nearly impossible to put the book down.
Momentum: They bridge the gap between chapters, episodes, or books. In serialised fiction or indie publishing, a well-placed cliffhanger is your best tool for securing immediate pre-orders for the sequel.
The Disadvantages:
Reader Frustration: If overused or deployed cheaply, cliffhangers can feel manipulative. When every single chapter ends with a manufactured crisis that is immediately resolved in the next sentence, readers lose trust in the narrative stakes.
The “Cheap Trick” Trap: Relying solely on cliffhangers can mask lazy plotting. If the core narrative arc isn’t compelling on its own, a cliffhanger is just a Band-Aid slapped over a boring story.
Pro Tip: Use cliffhangers sparingly and ensure they emerge naturally from the plot. A true cliffhanger should answer one major question while brilliantly spawning two more.
2. The Third-Act Twist: The Perspective Shifter
Positioned just as the story hurtles toward its climax, the third-act twist turns everything the reader thought they knew completely upside down. Think of The Sixth Sense, Gone Girl, or Shutter Island. Suddenly, clues that were hiding in plain sight take on a terrifying or triumphant new meaning.
The Advantages:
High Re-readability: A masterfully executed twist rewards the reader. Once the secret is out, looking back at the narrative jigsaw puzzle and seeing how the pieces fit together is one of the most deeply satisfying experiences a reader can have.
Emotional Resonance: A great twist doesn’t just shock; it changes the stakes. It forces the protagonist (and the audience) to re-evaluate their journey, often elevating a standard plot into a profound thematic statement.
The Disadvantages:
The “Come Out of Nowhere” Problem: If a twist has no foreshadowing, it stops being clever and starts looking like cheating. Readers hate feeling tricked by information the author withheld just to pull a fast one.
Predictability: Conversely, because third-act twists are so ubiquitous, seasoned readers can often spot them a mile away. If your twist relies on an amnesiac narrator, a secret twin, or “it was all a dream,” genre-savvy readers will guess it by page fifty.
Pro Tip: Play fair. Hide your clues in moments of high action so the reader’s attention is divided. When the twist drops, the reader should slap their forehead and say, “Of course! It was right there the whole time!”
3. The Hero’s Quest: The Blueprint of Human Myth
From The Odyssey and The Lord of the Rings to Star Wars and The Hunger Games, the hero’s quest (often mapped out as Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey) is the undisputed heavyweight champion of storytelling structures. A protagonist is called to adventure, crosses a threshold, faces trials, undergoes a profound transformation, and returns home forever changed.
The Advantages:
Universal Resonance: The hero’s quest mirrors the human condition. We are all striving to grow, overcome obstacles, and find our place in the world. Because of this, the quest structure speaks directly to our primal emotional wiring.
Built-in Character Arcs: The structure forces your protagonist to change. By putting them through a gauntlet of external trials that reflect their internal flaws, you guarantee a deeply satisfying character arc.
The Disadvantages:
Formulaic Fatigue: Because it is so ubiquitous, the quest can easily feel paint-by-numbers. If you hit every single milestone of the Hero’s Journey without subverting any expectations, your story risks feeling like a generic clone of a thousand other books.
Scope Creep: Quests are naturally sprawling. It is very easy to get bogged down in world-building, lore, and “fetch quests” that stall the narrative momentum and exhaust the reader.
Pro Tip: Subvert the milestones. Maybe your hero refuses the call and stays home, changing their small corner of the world instead. Or perhaps the mentor figure turns out to be the ultimate antagonist. Give the familiar skeleton some entirely new skin.
Conclusion: Embrace the Tropes, Find Your Voice
Tropes are not a cage; they are tools. Cliffhangers keep the pages turning, third-act twists blow the reader’s mind, and the hero’s quest provides a resonant emotional backbone.
Don’t be afraid to lean into these time-tested traditions. Readers want the comfort of the familiar, provided you deliver it with a fresh voice, sharp prose, and genuine emotional stakes. Use these tropes as your foundation, and let your unique perspective be the architecture that brings the house down.
What is your favorite trope to write or read? Do you love a good plot twist, or do you prefer a classic epic journey? Let us know in the comments below!
By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.
The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.
I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.
I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.
From what I could see, there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.
She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.
Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.
She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.
I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.
Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.
It didn’t work.
I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?
I usually blamed it on my upbringing.
I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.
Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind. If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.
I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.
Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.
About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.
Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.
Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was. In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.
And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.
It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.
I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.
Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.
Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.
Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.
I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.
I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.
I had to wrench my attention away from her.
A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.
I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerising. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.
Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”
I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.
“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”
Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.
Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.
Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.
“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.
The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”
It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.
“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.
I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”
“Zoe.”
“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”
She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”
“I might throw myself overboard?”
“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”
Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”
I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.
“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.
She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”
Of course. She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.
“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.
“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”
The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.
“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”
She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.
“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.
But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.
She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”
A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”
I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused. “Do I look like one?”
I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”
I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead, she astonished me.
“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”
I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.
“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”
“She’s not here?”
“No.”
“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.
“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”
OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.
She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.
I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.
She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”
“I saw it coming.”
“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”
OK, that was unexpected.
When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”
She stood and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?
I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.
I’m back home, and this story has been sitting on the back burner for a few months, waiting for more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.
But here we are, a few minutes opened up, and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Chasing leads, maybe
…
Alone in the room, Herman returned. I hadn’t seen him leave, but he was a cat, and cats were adept at slinking around, quietly stalking their quarry. On the edge of that threshold between passage and living room, he was sitting, watching me.
“So, Herman. The stories you could tell, eh?”
It elicited a meow and a deadpan expression. No point in trying to read his mind, I’d probably finish up with a headache.
“Don’t suppose you could tell me where O’Connell’s secret hideout is?”
Another meow.
If he could talk no doubt he was saying that he wouldn’t tell me even if I tried to bribe him. I thought about it, but instead went over to the door and opened it about six inches.
“You can go now. It’s not safe, for man, woman or cat.”
Nothing this time.
“You’d better go before I change my mind.”
We were having a staring match.
Was that a nod? He stood and started walking towards the door. Perhaps he sensed I might close it just before he made it there. Then, in a flash, he was gone.
I shrugged, and followed him out, closing the door behind me.
He was fast. He was nowhere in sight. Places to go no doubt.
Like me.
Only I wasn’t quite sure where it was. I pulled out the piece of paper that was for a flat for sale, with several part words on it, ‘oak’ and underneath it, ‘Brom’.
It had to be part of the street name and a suburb. The ‘Brom was obviously Bromley, the other a part of the street address.
I needed to find an internet café and do some research. I also needed a new cell phone, but that could wait. The main problem was finding an internet café, once just about on every corner, but now, with everyone owning a smartphone, there were very few to be found.
It took an hour before I found one in a back street in an area where there were several low-cost hotels, the sort that backpackers stayed in.
Armed with coffee and a sandwich, I began the search, starting with the realtor, and found the listing was no longer available, that is, not on their internet site. It told me that the flat was taken up, possibly by O’Connell.
Next, I brought up a map application and put in the address, for information on both pieces of paper and ended up with Oakwood Avenue of Bromley Road, nearer to Beckenham than Bromley.
I had the flat number, now all I had to do was check it out.
Another search on the computer gave me the relative times, and a map to follow, by bus, train, and car. I would have to get my car, which would take about half an hour, then drive out to the address which would take a further half-hour.
The flat was on the ground floor, and the realtor’s brochure had the layout of the block, and where the flat was located. That it was on the ground floor and on a corner would make it easier to gain access without causing any trouble.
I would time my arrival for after dark so that I would go relatively unnoticed.
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.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
Two captives
…
Inside the mall looked totally different, they had cleaned out the whole inside and all that was left was the pylons holding the roof, and the floor above, up. It was clear from the front to the back or would be if there was enough daylight.
There were explosives tied to each of the pylons, and wires running along the roof everywhere, resembling a spider’s Web.
They were going to bring the whole mall down inone go. I’d seen similar demolitions on TV, but this one would be more manageable, being only two floors, at most.
“The demolition was stopped only an hour before they were going to push the button. The control panel is still in place, ready to be detonated remotely. All it needs is power.”
Nadia seemed to know a lot about it.
“We’re not here for nostalgia are we?”
“Could be. I’d tell you my most predominant memory of this place but it would probably make you mad, so I won’t. It’s probably the one thing I’d like to forget, but as a first, you tend not to. What about you?”
“In this place, nothing. It was just a mall, and not the best I’d been to. Boggs and I used to come here and sit by the pool, and drink beer out of Thermos flasks. It’s about the worst we could do.”
“You probably thought that was being badass at the time.”
We did, but we were young and stupid. Others were more daring but always seemed to get caught by the mall cops, who had a fearsome reputation when handing out punishment.
We crossed the floor to the centerfountain, and then took the stairs down to the carpark, then headed towards the ocean end, stopping at a wire fence that separated the customer park from the staff carpark.
There was a lock on the gate, and I thought it was odd, given the rest of the building had all the walls removed. The chain and lock were new, so it had been put there by the demolition team. A minute later 8 could see the reason, they still had demolition equipment stored there, along with poles of recovered materials they were obviously going to take away.
Behind that was a shipping container which was obviously where more valuable stuff was stored. She also had a key to the lock, removed it, and swung the door open.
I pointed the flashlight inside and when it reached the end I could see two people tied up and lying on the floor.
If I was to guess…
“I told Alex to run. Obviously, he didn’t listen.”
“He didn’t.”
She didn’t deny the identity of one, and I think I could guess who the other person was. Vince.
“You think this is a wise course of action, considering who the parents are?”
“Don’t care, Sam. I told my father what he did, and he told me I should have minded my own business. I said there would be consequences and he laughed.”
I suspect he didn’t realize just how annoyed his daughter was at being treated like she was irrelevant. I felt the same, but I couldn’t take it to the level she had.
“What do you intend to do with them?”
“Nothing. I have some questions, maybe we’ll get some answers, but when we’re done, we’re leaving. If the demolition people get here in time, they’ll be rescued. If they don’t, they’ll have plenty of time to reflect on what they did. I’m not going to harm them in any way, Sam. Once, I might have, but I want to be better than that.”
One of the forms moved, groaned, and then began to struggle, suddenly realizing they were tied up. It didn’t last long, once he realized trying to escape was futile.
The other form also woke, did the same then stopped soon after.
Nadia went in and leaned over each one, ripping off their gags.
It took a moment before both realized who was in the container with them.
Vince spoke first, “What the hell are you doing, Nadia. Untie us now and we might just let you walk away. There’ll be hell to pay if father finds out what you’ve done “
She walked back a few steps, collected a chair, went back, and sat down, just out of reach. They were not only restrained but also tied to the wall.
How did she manage to do it, and did she have help? Not the time to ask.
“You tied me up and left me for dead, Vince. I nearly died; Sam nearly died “
“It’s a shame you didn’t. You went against a direct order.”
“That’s on you, Vince.”
“I don’t have to explain anything to you, because you’re nobody.”
“And yet here you are, trussed up like a Thanksgiving Turkey with your newest best friend forever, and both looking at a very bleak future.”
“Don’t be an ass, Nadia. When father finds out what you’ve done, you’ll wish you had died in that cave.”
“He won’t. You will have just disappeared like you do from time to time, only this time you won’t be coming back. And when this place comes down, there’s not going to be much left to identify you.”
Alex had been lying quietly on the ground listening to the exchange between brother and sister. As an outsider, he must have felt the discussion was going in the wrong direction.
“How much do you want, Nadia.”
“What makes you think I want anything?”
“Look at this realistically. Between the two of us, you could walk away with a couple of million dollars. You’ve had your revenge, we both get it, we didn’t think it through when we left you there, but it doesn’t have to end this way.”
He sounded very reasonable, and if I was a reasonable person, I might have believed him. I’m sure he could be very persuasive when he wanted to be.
“You sound almost sincere, Alex. What do you think Sam.”
“A couple of million dollars is a powerful argument, Nadia. Worth considering.”
They hadn’t realized I was there, not till she spoke to me. I wondered if she wanted me to be the voice of reason.
“It is, isn’t it. We’re going to need money where we’re going.”
“I can make it happen,” Alex said. “All you have to do is let us go, and I’ll transfer the funds the moment I get to the bank. I promise.”
And there was the catch. We had to let him go. The moment he got away, the bank was the last place he’d go.
“You really do think girls are stupid, don’t you Alex?”
“No. And not you, Nadia. I made you a promise, and I keep my promises.”
“So do I Alex, and I promised Sam that I would make the pair of you suffer the consequences if we got free. We did, and now it’s time to make good on it. I don’t need your money Alex, not that you have any, so I’m not sure how you were going to pay me. No. Sam and I will be going away, and not coming back. I’m not sure if I’ll remember to tell anyone where you are, but maybe Sam will remind me.”
“Or maybe he won’t,” I said. “There’s a lot of years of school torment for you to atone for Alex.”
Vince had been watching and listening to the back-and-forth banter, but I don’t think he believed Alex could bargain their way out. Perhaps he understood the grit Nadia showed, and perhaps, again, that might be a Cossatino trait
Whatever he was thinking, it was clear that they were not going to be set free, his sister was madder than he’ll with him, and Alex was only making a bad situation worse.
“You don’t want to do this Nadia. You’ve had your revenge, and now it’s time to end this charade. We both know you’re not going to kill me. That’s not who you are. You’ve always been soft on what needed to be done, and for once I’m glad that’s the case. Go away, by all means, take Sam with you, but never show your face here again. If you do, you know what will happen.”
At last, some truth. Of course, Vince would not honor any promises made under duress, but what it told me, more than anything else, was that it wasn’t his idea to abandon us in the cave. Neither Vince or Alex for that matter were leaders or thinkers. Just blunt instruments, doing what they were told to do.
That meant Vince could make all the promises in the world because it was not him who decided our fate.
“I do,” she said. “So, here’s the deal. We’re going now. I’ll wait until we’re out of the country and then I’ll tell our father where you are. At least that way, you’ll know how we felt being left to die. Think yourself lucky Vince I’m not the hardnosed batch I was supposed to be.”
“I’d make it sooner rather than later Nadia.”
“Sure.”
She stepped back, and closed the doors, leaving them in the dark.
“You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?” I said after we headed back to the ground level and the exit.
I wanted to write a bit about how my day was going, and then I got angry. It was a slow fuse because most of what I was angry about I’d been reading this morning.
And, yes, it’s about political leaders, those in power and those in opposition, and how inept they are in a crisis.
Listening to our opposition leader, briefly before I turned him off to watch a rerun of McHale’s Navy, it annoyed me that he had no answers to offer, only criticism.
Unfortunately, he’s not alone in the world.
Political leaders tended to blame everyone else for problems of their own making, whether it was when they were once in power, which happens a lot, or once they’re in opposition, conveniently forgetting they, too, hoped that by ignoring the problem, it might go away.
Or that the long-suffering public will have forgotten. That’s why we have pugnacious journalists who remember for us.
The incompetence of the people who are supposedly in charge beggars belief.
Oh, God, I’m back on my soapbox.
Forgive me.
I’ll shut up about it now.
I’m trying to imagine what it’s like in the cold because it’s the height of summer here. It’s not helping my imagination, so let’s try…
It’s cold today, about 14 degrees Celsius, when it’s usually 27 degrees Celsius. The sun is letting us down, and I suppose I should be grateful that we are not suffering from an ice age.
To be honest, I was seriously considering lighting the log fire. Instead, we have reverse cycle air-conditioning, which is probably, in the long run, cheaper.
Have you seen how much it costs to buy wood?
But…
That could have made it difficult to write.
Not to come up with inspiration, but literally write, because my office is colder than a chiller room. My beer in storage out here is colder than it is in the fridge. Well, that sounded better in my head than on paper, but you get what I mean.
So, instead of writing, I sat down and binge-watched Sweet Magnolias, a light-hearted series from Netflix, which is of the same vein as Chesapeake Shores, etc, and more the sort of program I’d expect from Hallmark.
It was good. It hooked me.
Three sets of lives intertwined in a large town in middle America perhaps. I heard Charleston mentioned so perhaps it was in South Carolina.
The good thing about it? Not one mention of political stupidity.
Just good old-fashioned heartache and trials and tribulations of trying to live your life, bumping up against the obstacles life throws up at you.
The town was called Serenity, so there’s a pun in there somewhere.
What are the essentials for writing an X (formerly Twitter) biography
…
The X (formerly Twitter) bio is your digital elevator pitch. It has a strict limit of 160 characters, so every word and symbol must count.
The most essential elements for an effective X biography focus on telling visitors who you are, what you offer, and what they should do next.
Here are the key essentials:
1. The Core Information (Who & What)
Your Value Proposition: Immediately state what you do, what you tweet about, or the benefit people get from following you. Don’t just list your job title, but explain the impact.
Bad: Digital Marketing Specialist
Good: Helping small businesses decode SEO and grow their online presence.
Keywords: Use terms related to your industry or niche (e.g., #FinTech, Data Science, Fantasy Author) to make your profile searchable.
2. Personality and Trust
Show Your Personality: Inject your unique voice, whether it’s professional, witty, humorous, or inspiring. This makes you memorable.
Example: “I write books about dragons 🐉 and argue with people about coffee ☕.”
Social Proof (Humble Brag): Briefly mention a notable achievement to build credibility.
Examples: TEDx Speaker, 10K+ Followers, Host of Top 10 Podcast, Featured in Forbes.
3. The Call-to-Action (CTA)
Direct the Next Step: Every great bio should tell the visitor what to do. Use a simple, direct instruction. This is often paired with the single clickable Link in Bio.
Examples: Get my free guide ⬇️ | DM for collabs | New video every Fri!
Use Emojis: Emojis are essential because they save characters, add visual flair, and break up text. Use them as bullet points or to replace words.
Be Concise: Eliminate filler words and be ruthless with your editing.
Use Line Breaks: Separate different ideas (e.g., Who I Am, What I Do, CTA) onto new lines for easy scanning.
Utilize Other Fields: Remember that your Name (50 characters), Location, and Website Link are separate fields and do not count against the 160-character bio limit. Use them all!
The Sweet Sound of Appreciation: Why the Indie Writer’s Toughest Battle is Visibility
“There’s nothing like an appreciative word from a satisfied reader.” — Peter Mayle
For anyone who has ever poured their heart, soul, and countless sleepless nights into writing a book, Peter Mayle’s words hit home with piercing accuracy.
There is a unique, almost magical high that comes from hearing someone say, “I couldn’t put your book down,” or “Your characters stayed with me for days after I finished.” That single review, email, or social media comment makes every deleted chapter, every plot hole, and every moment of self-doubt entirely worth it. It’s the fuel that keeps the indie engine running.
Yet, for independent authors, there is a massive, often exhausting caveat to this joy.
As Mayle so eloquently noted, the appreciation is the reward. But the hard part—the mountain that every indie writer must scale—is simply getting that book out into the world so someone can actually read it in the first place.
Let’s talk about the invisible half of the indie publishing journey: the battle for visibility.
The Myth of “If You Build It, They Will Come”
In the traditional publishing model, authors often hand off their manuscript and let massive marketing machines, established distribution networks, and bookstore shelf-space do the heavy lifting.
In the indie world, you are the marketing machine.
When you hit “Publish” on Amazon KDP, IngramSpark, or Draft2Digital, a wave of profound relief washes over you. You did it! The book is live. You share the link on Facebook, tweet about it on X (formerly Twitter), and wait for the deluge of sales.
And then… crickets.
This is the harsh reality check every self-published author faces. The internet is a vast, deafeningly loud ocean, and a newly published indie book is a single drop of water. Without a traditional publishing house’s budget or pre-existing retail partnerships, the book won’t sell itself.
Suddenly, the writer has to pivot from being a creative artist to wearing a dozen unfamiliar hats:
The Social Media Manager: Building a brand, posting aesthetic reels, and engaging with a community.
The Media Buyer: Figuring out the labyrinthine worlds of Amazon Ads and Facebook Ads without burning a hole in their wallet.
The Publicist: Pitching book bloggers, podcast hosts, and reviewers who are already drowning in requests.
The Data Analyst: Staring at click-through rates, conversion percentages, and ranking algorithms trying to decode why book sales are fluctuating.
It’s an immense amount of unpaid, non-creative labour that happens after the manuscript is finished.
Why Discoverability is the Ultimate Indie Hurdle
Getting a book “out there” isn’t just about uploading a file to a retailer; it’s about discoverability.
The Sea of Competition: Thousands of books are published every single day. Standing out requires an eye-catching cover, a compelling blurb, professional formatting, and zero grammatical errors. Even with all that, you still have to catch a reader’s eye.
The Review Catch-22: Readers love reviews. They validate a book’s quality before buying. But to get reviews, people have to buy and read the book. Breaking this loop is one of the toughest challenges for a debut or mid-list indie author.
Algorithm Anxiety: Amazon’s algorithm is the gatekeeper most indie authors obsess over. Understanding how to trigger “Also Boughts” and rank well in specific niche categories requires a mix of strategy, timing, and sheer luck.
The Joy Makes the Struggle Worthwhile
With all of these hurdles—the marketing costs, the algorithmic mysteries, the relentless hustle—why do indie authors keep doing it?
Because of what Peter Mayle talked about.
It’s the email from a stranger on the other side of the planet saying your story helped them through a tough week. It’s seeing a five-star review from a reader who “gets” the deeper themes you worked so hard to weave into the narrative.
Indie publishing is hard, gruelling work. It requires thick skin, business acumen, and an unshakeable belief in your own work. But when you finally bridge the gap between your hard drive and a reader’s nightstand, and that appreciative word finally comes in?
There truly is nothing like it.
Are you an indie writer currently fighting the visibility battle? What has been your biggest struggle (and your greatest triumph) in getting your book out into the world? Let’s chat in the comments below!
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 