Category: Uncategorized

‘What Sets Us Apart’ – A beta reader’s view

There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?

A retired spy, well, not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.

But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.

And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.

Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest.  Then, inexplicably, she disappears.  That might have been the end of it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum: find her or come back to work.

Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!

A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father, who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.

When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.

I’ve been told there’s a sequel in the works.

Bring it on!

…

The book can be purchased here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 40

Sorry, but it was the only option at the time

…

“What’s the situation with the other ship?”

Number one had come up to the bridge and was standing over the navigator, looking at the screen.

“Sir, might I remind you…”  Nancy began.

“We’ll discuss the ethics later, but right now we don’t have much of a choice.  I expect you to keep what just happened to yourself for the time being.  Am I understood?”

I wasn’t silencing her, it was a matter for reports and discussions in due course.

“Understood, sir.”

“Very good.  Just be ready to be in the boarding party when we catch up with them.”

Her expression told me that she was far from impressed with my decision, but, I wasn’t about to test our ship’s defenses against an unknown quantity.  That might come later, after a discussion with the military commander.

“Later, then.”  She gave me a last witheringly look, then left.

Number one turned.  “What happened over there?”

“Not for discussion right now.  The ship?”

“About fifteen minutes at maximum speed.   They seemed to have stopped.  No indication if they’re having problems.”

“Lay in a course and get us there, maximum speed.”

A moment later the navigator said, “Awaiting the order, air.”

“Go.”

A slight shift inside the ship as it gathered momentum, then the dampeners kicked in.

“Time to target 11 minutes, 35 seconds sir.” 

He didn’t add the “give or take” at the end signifying that it was a serious situation.

“Code Red, military commander to the bridge.”

The lights dimmed and a hush came over the bridge.

“Have we had time to analyze the data on the Russian ship or the alien vessel?”

“For the Russian ship, yes.  Schematics, vulnerabilities, propulsion.  A scaled version of ours, no doubt stolen by their spies, but without some of the modifications we think. It appears its maximum speed is about 60% of ours.”

“Then we can catch them if they try to escape?”

“If we need to, but I’m not sure why we’d want to?”

“There are reasons which at the moment you don’t need to worry about.  Just get us there, and be ready to go after them if they try to leave.”

“Sir.” 

He was also unhappy because our remit was not to be attacking our own ships, but there were always extenuating circumstances, circumstances that I needed to take up with the Admiral before I took any sort of action.

The military commander stepped on the bridge.  “You want to see me?”

“Come with me.  Number one, keep me posted on progress.”

I ushered the commander into my day room.

“I hear we’ve just made first contact.”

“You could say that.  They are following us, on our way to the Russian ship.  At the moment I don’t have the luxury of knowing whether or not the Russians committed atrocities, but the commander of the alien vessel says they did.  To prevent this ship from being destroyed I told him we would apprehend those involved and jointly sort out the mess. It was the best plan I could come up with in the time frame, and we don’t know much about the alien vessel.”

“A sticky situation then.”

“Not even the half of it General.  Our first encounter and already we’re behind the eight ball.  This is not exactly how I envisioned it, but our fellow humans have managed to let us down badly.  Now, you’ve got about 10 minutes to prepare for various outcomes, but that ship can’t be allowed to leave, and, if the alien vessel attacks us, you have to defend us.”

“Battles used to be so much easier, on the ground. Very well.  I’ll see you on the bridge.”

While I had a great deal of autonomy aboard the ship, because we were a long way from home and the sheer distance over which communications had to travel through subspace would make them difficult at best, I didn’t have high hopes of getting hold of the Admiral in the time I had available to me. Of course, the relay satellites we dropped along the way would help boost the signal, but when you’re hoping to rely on something in a crisis, it invariably will let you down.

The situation was one that fell within the guidelines where I needed to brief the Admiral of intended actions so at the very least if there were consequences, he would be in a position to comment, defend, or more likely apportion blame.

This would not be an issue if we were the only ship out on the edge of space, but we were not.

While talking to the General I had started the call but was not expecting to raise him. Given the parameters needed on a good day, and because this was urgent, I wasn’t expecting anything.

I was surprised when a blurry picture of his office appeared on my screen, before it crystallised into the Admiral sitting on the front of his desk. It was almost as if he had been expecting a call.  There would be a lag, but a lag I could live with.

“Captain, we calculated you must be getting close to Pluto’s orbit.  How are you?”

“Everything is fine, and you’re right, we are close to seeing what’s beyond our galaxy.  But, there’s a problem.  There’s another ship out here from earth, been over the border, one that’s neither alien or in our ship register.”

I waited.

“The infamous Russian or Chinese ship?”

“Yes.  But more significantly, we have made contact with an alien race, as have these other humans, and the experience has left the aliens with a severe mistrust of our intentions.  So much so, when we met, I was presented with an ultimatum.  Suffice to say, I’m left in a position where I have to oversee justice against some of that crew.  We don’t have time to discuss the details, it’s a situation where I’ll have to find a mutually beneficial resolution, or our exploration aspirations will be over before they start.”

It was a lot for him to digest.

“Is it likely to cause a problem with the other human ship?”

“The alien captain demanded we detain the guilty crew members, and have them face a judiciary.  I’ve negotiated a presence, but I’m not sure just what the limits of participation will be.”

“How long have you got?”

A look at the top of my screen told me we were on station with the other earth vessel, with the alien ship not far away.

“We’re there, now, so it’s minutes rather than hours.  For the moment it’s simply a heads up.  I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.  You might want to ask some hard questions as to who is out here, sir, because they’re not helping our cause.”

It was exactly the situation the Space Alliance had predicted would happen if we were to present a fractured front to whomever might be out there.  Armed with the knowledge I’d just passed on, the data file the scientific team had assembled, he would be able to ask the hard questions, and hopefully get answers

“It would seem not. But, just so you know, we have just had a conference with what appears to be the command center of the Russian vessel, which, I can now tell you, is a joint venture between the Russians and the Chinese. Further, they claim their ship is being unjustly harassed by the alien who, according to them, simply took exception to them for no apparent reason. Someone is not telling us the whole story.”

“What do you make of it?”

“Since they lied about building a ship, and then sending it out into space without telling us, and given the arrogance shown during the conference, I’d say, from the body language of the Chief of Operations, they have something to hide. You have the authority to take whatever action you deem necessary while walking that very thin line of diplomacy.

“We have a diplomat in the crew.”

“Of course.  Keep me informed of developments, and remember, you are representing the whole world.”

No pressure then.

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2022

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 56

What story does it inspire?

…

…

While the first thought you might have of what this photograph represents might be of the water, yet again, as it is the same place as that of yesterday, in contrast, this was two days later and later in the day.

What fascinated me this time was the clouds.

I have it in mind that we always seem to imagine that very large alien spaceships are going to come out of the clouds, and that one I saw, well, I stood there for a while half expecting to witness the first alien visit.

It’s probably too much to expect that they would come to Australia first before they went to America, and even less so Queensland.

Except of course, they came to see Surfer’s Paradise, stay in one of the many hotels overlooking the beach and ocean, go to one of a zillion restaurants, get in some surfing, or just laze around for a week or so before they did what they came to do.

Just think, your famous catchline could be, “A funny thing happened on the way to the casino … I ran into this group of aliens … or at least I think they were aliens, it’s hard to tell the way our younger generation gets around these days…”

“Trouble in Store” – Short stories my way: Still working on the start

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 that involves Jack:

Jack was staring down the barrel of a gun.

He had gone down to the corner shop to get a pack of cigarettes.

He had to hustle because he knew the shopkeeper, Alphonse, liked to close at 11:00 pm sharp.  His momentum propelled him through the door, causing the customer warning bell to ring loudly as the door bashed into it, and before the sound had died away, he knew he was in trouble.

It took a second, perhaps three, to sum up the situation. 

A young girl, about 16 or 17, scared, looking sideways at a man on the ground, then Alphonse, and then Jack.  He recognized the gun, a Luger, German, relic of WW2, perhaps her father’s souvenir, or more likely a stolen weapon, now pointing at him then Alphonse, then back to him.

Jack took another second or two to consider if he could disarm her.  No, the distance was too great.  He put his hands out where she could see them.  No sudden movements, try to remain calm, his heart rate up to the point of cardiac arrest.  No point making a bad situation worse.

Pointing with the gun, she said, “Move closer to the counter where I can see you better.”

Everything but her hand steady as a rock.  Only telltale sign of stress, the bead of perspiration on her brow.  It was 40 degrees Fahrenheit in the shop.

Jack shivered and then did as he was told. 

A few seconds more for him to decide she was in an unpredictable category.

“What’s wrong with your friend?”  Jack tried the friendly approach after he’d taken the three steps sideways necessary to reach the counter.

The shopkeeper, Alphonse, who, Jack noted seemed to have aged another ten years in the last few months, spoke instead; “I suspect he’s an addict, looking for a score.  At the end of his tether, my guess, and her to get some money.”

A simple hold up that had gone wrong.  Wrong time, wrong place, in more ways than one Jack thought, now realizing he had walked into a very dangerous situation.  She didn’t look like a user.  The boy on the ground, he did, and he looked like he was going through the beginnings of withdrawal.

Oddly, though, Jack had noticed a look pass between the shopkeeper and the girl.

 “All you had to go was give us the money, and we wouldn’t be here, now.”  She was glaring back at Alphonse.  “You can still make this right.”

A flicker of memory jumped out of the depths on Jack’s mind, something discussed at the dinner table with their neighbors, something about the shop as a pick-up point for drugs.

The boy on the floor, he was not here for the money.

Jack thought he’d try another approach.  “Look, I don’t want trouble, and you don’t want trouble.  I’ll go, forget this ever happened.  You might want to do the same.”

The girl looked like she was thinking.  The gun, though, still moved between him and the shopkeeper.

Another assessment of the girl; this was not her real home.  She was from a better class of people, a different part of town.  Caught up in a downward spiral because of her friend on the floor.

Caught in a situation she was not equipped to deal with.

That didn’t bode well for his, or anyone else in that shop right then, health.

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 70

Day 70 – The nine-to-five effect

…

The 9‑to‑5 Grind: How a “Soul‑Destroying” Day Job Can Become the Secret Sauce Behind Award‑Winning Fiction

“The work we do for a living is the very material our imagination chews on while we’re trying to stay awake at the office.” – Anon.

If you’re a writer who spends eight-plus hours a day staring at a spreadsheet, fielding angry customers, or shuffling paperwork, you’ve probably wondered whether that soul‑sucking routine is killing your creative spark. The short answer? It’s not.

In fact, for many of the world’s most celebrated authors—including the master of psychological suspense, Patricia Highsmith—the very same grind that felt like a dead‑end at the time became the fuel, discipline, and grounding that later powered their best work. Below, we’ll unpack why the daily grind can be a surprisingly potent catalyst for literary greatness, and we’ll look at real‑life writers who turned their “day‑job drudgery” into literary gold.

1. The “Soul‑Destroying” Job: Why It’s Not All Bad

Common ComplaintHidden Benefit
Monotony – “It feels like I’m watching paint dry.”Rhythmic structure. Repetitive tasks teach you timing, pacing, and the power of restraint—key ingredients in tight prose.
Lack of creative freedom – “I’m stuck following a script.”Constraint breeds invention. When you can’t control your environment, you learn to make the most of the tiny windows you do control (a notebook on a lunch break, a restless mind on the commute).
Emotional exhaustion – “I’m drained by the time I get home.”Emotional reservoir. The frustrations, absurdities, and small triumphs of office life provide a deep well of authentic human experience to mine later.
Time scarcity – “There’s never enough time to write.”Time‑management mastery. Juggling deadlines forces you to carve out micro‑moments of focus, sharpening the skill of writing with brevity.
Identity dilution – “I feel like a cog, not a creator.”Grounded perspective. A day job anchors you in the “real world,” preventing the echo chamber that can make fictional worlds feel detached from lived experience.

Think of the nine‑to‑five as a training ground rather than a trough. It may feel soul‑crushing in the moment, but the resilience you build, the people you observe, and the grit you develop often become the scaffolding for your most resonant stories.

2. How the Day Job Turns Into Narrative Gold

  1. Observation Lab – An office is a micro‑society. You see power dynamics, office politics, and the hidden rituals people perform to survive. Highsmith famously used the mundanity of a clerk’s life to study the banality of evil, later channelling it into the chilling psyche of Tom Ripley.
  2. Character Templates – The “friend who never stops complaining,” the “manager who micromanages,” the “quiet intern who overhears everything.” Real people become ready‑made character sketches that feel instantly believable.
  3. Dialogue Bank – The snappy exchange at the water cooler, the forced politeness of customer service calls, the frantic email threads—each is a masterclass in subtext, pacing, and voice.
  4. Structural Discipline – Meeting deadlines and delivering consistent output teaches you to treat your manuscript like a project with milestones, not an amorphous dream.
  5. Financial Safety Net – Money isn’t the only resource a steady job provides; it buys the psychological freedom to take creative risks later, without the pressure to “sell” immediately.

3. Real‑World Proof: Writers Who Turned the Grind Into Glory

WriterDay‑Job DragHow It Informed Their WorkNotable Works/Accolades
Patricia HighsmithCopy‑editor, office clerk, and later a full‑time mother with no literary income.The repetitive, almost mechanical nature of clerical work sharpened her ability to depict the “quiet horror” of everyday life. Her protagonists often feel trapped in dead‑end jobs, mirroring her own experience.The Talented Mr. Ripley (adapted into multiple films), Strangers on a Train (Oscar‑winning screenplay).
Raymond CarverWarehouse loader, janitor, saw‑mill worker.The stark, economical prose of minimalism mirrors the physical labor and scarcity of his jobs—every word had to earn its place, just as every broken piece of wood earned his paycheck.What We Talk About When We Talk About Love (National Book Award finalist).
J.K. RowlingUnpaid research assistant, later a single mother on welfare.Living on the edge of financial collapse fueled the poverty‑and‑hope themes in the Harry Potter series; the bureaucracy she faced informed the Ministry of Magic’s absurdities.Harry Potter series (multiple Booker‑type honors, 7‑time Hugo nominee).
Stephen King – The TeacherHigh school English teacher (full‑time).The daily rhythm of lesson planning and grading taught King the mechanics of suspense: pacing a lesson parallels pacing a chapter; the “classroom” is a micro‑stage for human drama.Carrie (1974), The Shining (1977), The Dark Tower series (Hugo, World Fantasy).
Franz KafkaInsurance clerk at the Workers’ Accident Insurance Institute.Kafka’s legal‑bureaucratic prose directly mirrors the labyrinthine paperwork of his day job—The Trial is practically a love letter to (and indictment of) bureaucratic absurdity.The Metamorphosis, The Castle (posthumous critical acclaim).
Toni MorrisonEditor at Random House (while writing).Editing other authors’ manuscripts sharpened her ear for rhythm and voice; the corporate environment gave her a front‑row seat to the politics of representation.Beloved (Pulitzer, Nobel).

Takeaway: None of these writers quit the day job because they loved it. They leveraged it—using the grind as a crucible for observation, discipline, and raw material.

4. Turning Your Own 9‑to‑5 Into a Writing Engine (Practical Steps)

  1. Carry a Pocket Notebook
    A two‑minute break? Jot down a striking phrase you overheard, a facial expression that tells a story, or a sudden burst of emotion.
  2. Set “Micro‑Writing” Goals
    • 5‑minute flash fiction during lunch.
    • One paragraph before you log off.
    • A single line of dialogue while waiting for the elevator.
  3. Create a “Work‑to‑Write” Ratio
    Example: 90 % work, 10 % writing. When you see the 10 % slice, treat it like a sacrament—no scrolling, no emails, just writing.
  4. Use the Commute as a Lab
    Audio‑record your thoughts (or a voice‑memo of a character’s monologue). Transcribe later; you’ll have a ready‑made scene while still stuck in traffic.
  5. Harvest Office Archetypes
    Make a cheat‑sheet of “the boss,” “the gossip,” “the silent observer.” When you need a character, pull from your list and tweak a few details.
  6. Schedule a “Reflection Day”
    Once a month, take a half‑day off (or use a vacation day) to sit with your notebook, reorganise ideas, and see what patterns emerge from your daily observations.
  7. Remember the Paycheck’s Purpose
    The salary isn’t just a means to survive; it’s a portfolio that lets you fund research trips, attend workshops, and ultimately leave the day job when you’re ready.

5. The Psychological Flip: From “Soul‑Destroyer” to “Soul‑Maker”

Many writers describe a pivotal moment when they stop hating their day job and start using it. Here’s a quick mental reframing exercise:

  1. Identify the Pain Point – “I hate the endless emails.”
  2. Find the Narrative Parallel – “Characters stuck in a flood of unwanted information.”
  3. Translate to Plot – “A protagonist receives a mysterious series of emails that slowly reveal a conspiracy.”
  4. Create a Symbol – The email inbox becomes a metaphor for the subconscious, a place where buried secrets surface.

When you consciously map a nuisance onto a story element, the job stops being an opponent and becomes a collaborator.

6. The Endgame: When the Lights Go Out

Your day job may eventually fade—whether you quit, get promoted, or transition to freelance—but the lessons you learned never do:

  • Structure – You now know how to break a massive manuscript into manageable sections.
  • Observation – You can paint vivid settings with a single, well‑placed detail.
  • Resilience – You’ve already survived the “soul‑destroying” grind; rejections and revisions will feel less brutal.

Patricia Highsmith herself once said, “The ordinary is an endless source of the extraordinary if you just look at it.” She didn’t escape the office to find inspiration; she stayed and listened—and the result was a body of work that still haunts readers decades later.

Bottom Line

The nine‑to‑five isn’t a curse; it’s a crucible. It strips away the illusion that writing lives in some ethereal realm and forces you to mine the real world for raw, unfiltered material. That material—filtered through discipline, observation, and a dash of rebellion—can become the backbone of award‑winning fiction.

So the next time you stare at your computer screen and feel the weight of a “soul‑destroying” task, remember:

Your desk is a front‑row seat to humanity.
Your inbox is a repository of dialogue.
Your paycheck is a safety net that lets you risk the stories that truly matter.

Embrace the grind, write in the margins, and let the ordinary become the extraordinary foundation of your next masterpiece.

Happy writing, and may your coffee be strong and your ideas stronger.

References & Further Reading

  1. The Talented Mr. Ripley – Patricia Highsmith (1955) – analysis of occupational ennui in character development.
  2. Reading Like a Writer – Francine Prose – chapters on “Writing from Experience.”
  3. On Writing – Stephen King – King’s reflections on his teaching career and its influence on his narrative pacing.
  4. The Art of Fiction – John Gardner – on using everyday life as a seed for fiction.

Want more stories of day‑job‑turned‑novelists? Subscribe to the newsletter for monthly case studies and actionable writing hacks!

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.

What I learned about writing – What do you believe is your forte as a writer?

I have always liked English as a subject at school, starting at primary school and getting books for Christmas.

My favourite shop was a newsagent’s and bookstore up the road, and while my mother shopped in the grocery store, I would go looking at the books.

It wasn’t until secondary school and the introduction to English literature that my love of books took a new turn. The school had a library, and there I could discover all of the schoolboy heroes like Biggles and the adventures of the Famous Five and Secret Seven.

It also afforded me the chance to work as a librarian and learn the ropes, as it were, and for a while, the idea of going to university to become a proper librarian was firmly planted in my mind.

Of course, circumstances got in the way of that plan, and I finished up leaving school early and never quite making it to university.

But I did go to correspondence school and picked up English literature again, but this time, it was a study of various aspects of literature, such as poetry, fiction, plays, and nonfiction.

I didn’t like poetry. In fact, I did not understand it at all.

I liked the idea of writing a play and creating a screenplay, but I never got around to it.

No, my first foray into writing came when I started doing an off-campus degree that majored in literature and had units called narrative.

Yes, the expectation was to write stories. Short stories, and so I began. Those I wrote as assignments scored well. Those I wrote and submitted did not.

Yes, it was the beginner’s story, the pile of rejections that started crushing that desire to succeed.

There was, around this time, a novel competition run by the Australian newspaper, and, like all naive beginners, I told myself my first entry would blow them away, and the prize was mine.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

But I wrote a novel every year until I was too old to participate. Unfortunately, I can’t find the manuscripts I wrote back then; perhaps disgusted, I threw them away. Pity, I would like to see them now, just to see how bad they were.

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’

Searching for locations – Port Macquarie – Day 5 – Part 3

The timber mill

This timber mill was typical of the time, the mid to late 1800’s and into the 1900’s. It could be assembled and disassembled quite quickly and moved to where the wood was being felled.

It was run by a single portable steam engine which made it possible to have a mill near where the trees were being felled

The engine drives vertical and horizontal saw blades by a series of belts and driveshafts

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.

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

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