Category: Writer

Writing a book in 365 days – 267

Day 267

Can banal events become edge-of-the-seat thrillers?

…

Absolutely, this is not only possible, it is the defining characteristic of some of the most successful and enduring storytelling across literature, film, and television.

This method of storytelling—taking the mundane and making it the setting for the dramatic—is known as the “Everyman” or “Fish-Out-of-Water” narrative.

The Power of the Mundane to Magnify Drama

The core effectiveness of this approach relies on two psychological factors: Relatability and Escalation.

1. The Relatability Factor (The “Everyman”)

When you start with a character grounded in the banality of everyday life, you automatically lower the barrier to entry for the reader.

  • The stakes are personal: Readers immediately connect with a character who has a recognizable job, routine, and worries (paying bills, traffic, dealing with a difficult boss). This initial familiarity creates a stronger emotional investment.
  • The trauma is amplified: When a character who is a high school chemistry teacher (like Walter White in Breaking Bad) or an ordinary suburban couple (like the protagonists in a Hitchcock thriller) is dragged into a life-or-death situation, the sense of dread and disbelief is far more intense than if the protagonist were already a spy or a police detective.

2. The Escalation Principle (The “Twist”)

The “twist” that turns the banality into chaos is almost always a single, seemingly small choice or event that then creates an irreversible spiral of consequences.

  • The Point of No Return: The character’s struggle is not against a supervillain, but against the weight of their own decisions. The conflict arises from an initial, poor choice made to protect their ordinary life (e.g., lying to a spouse, stealing a small amount of money, attempting a harmless prank).
  • The Loss of Control: The character quickly loses the ability to manage the consequences, and the problems grow exponentially—the simple lie requires a bigger lie, the small theft leads to criminal association. The reader watches their relatable life dissolve, experiencing the terror vicariously.

Examples of the Balanity Spiral

  • Literary Thrillers: Many novels, from those by Harlan Coben to Gillian Flynn (Gone Girl), start with an average person or couple whose ordinary life is shattered by a sudden disappearance or shocking revelation.
  • The Coen Brothers: Their films, like Fargo, often find dark comedy and terrifying violence when bumbling, ordinary people try to commit crimes and are overwhelmed by the reality of their actions.
  • The Suspense Genre: This entire genre is built on the idea that the threat is hiding in plain sight. It often features a non-professional protagonist—a librarian, a teacher, a banker—who stumbles upon a conspiracy and has to rely on their wits and their “boring” skills (like research or careful planning) to survive.

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

In a word: Murder

I started off thinking that murder was pretty straight forward, you know, someone pulls out a gun and shoots someone else: murder.  Of course, there are any other means of doing the same crime, by knife, poison, strangulation, or suffocation.

Or, by endless inane conversation.  Much less chance of going to jail with that one.

Its the stuff that keeps crime writers going, fictional detectives detecting and crime scene investigators analysing.

Still the fact someone might be getting away with murder, means they’ve successfully found a way to have their cake and eat it.

Come to think of it how many times have we used that word in vain, like when a child drives you to distraction, red-faced and you say with a great deal of conviction ‘you do that again I’ll murder you’.

Just make sure it doesn’t actually happen, or those words will come back to haunt you.

But this is only one aspect of using the word.

You could, if you want, scream blue murder, which is literally impossible.  In fact, what the does that really mean?

It can also refer to an onerous task or experience, hence the possibility that listening to that discussion about hot water bottles was absolute murder.

For one thing, it probably murdered an hour or two of my time.

It could also describe a comprehensive defeat, that we murdered the other side 86 to nothing.  Come to think of it, I never got to participate in such a game, so that might account for why I’d never heard it used before.

And, lastly…

Did you know it can refer to a flock of a particular type of bird, I think crows.

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.

“Trouble in Store” – Short Stories My Way:  The re-write – Part 2

Now that I’ve gone through the story and made quite a few changes, it’s time to look at the story

…

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, a 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 trying to remain calm, and his heart rate was up to the point of cardiac arrest.  No point in 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 was steady as a rock.  The only telltale sign of stress was 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 the 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 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 do 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 of Jack’s mind, something discussed at the dinner table with their neighbours, something about the shop being a pickup point for drugs.

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

…

© Charles Heath 2016-2024

Writing about writing a book – Day 3

Yep, in changing characters and timelines and thinking about the plotline between Bill and Ellen, a lot has changed, well, perhaps not a lot, but some fundamentals in the relationship.

Whilst I am determined, for some unknown reason, to write the first draft by hand, it leads to using a lot of paper and wearing out several self-lead pencils.  I have a bin with screwed up paper, and yes, if I get it in, it’s three points.  A lot don’t make it and lie forlornly beside and in front of the bin.

If only I had a cleaner to clean up.  When I’ve become a best-selling author.

I look at the pages I kept.  God, I didn’t know I was that messy.

Coffee first.

I start typing the first draft on the computer using my trusty old version of Microsoft Word, only because I know how to use it.

I have Scrivener but haven’t yet worked out all the bells and whistles.  That will come, no doubt, with book number two.

But, as you might think, I am getting ahead of myself.  I have yet to finish the first.

—

A cool breeze blew briskly across meadows of tall grass, giving the impression of the ocean in a storm.  High above, clouds scudded across the sky, occasionally allowing the sun to shine through to bathe the ground in sunshine, intensifying the richness of the greens and browns.

It was spring.  Trees were displaying new growth, and flowers were starting to show the promise of summery delight.  An occasional light shower of rain added to the delightful aromas, particularly where the grass had recently been mown.

I was there, too, with my grandmother, the woman who had, for the most part, brought me up at her country residence.  But, as I got older, the dream changed, and sometimes there were storm clouds on the horizon, or I was caught in the rain, alone and frightened, or lost in the woods in the dark.

There were other visions like these from my childhood, now a million years away somewhere in a distant past that was hard to remember or say where and when they belonged.  It was a pity some were now based on images stolen from the start of a movie seen on TV late at night, as I was trying to get to sleep.  Or that the psychiatrist had said there was some trauma from my early childhood, trying to work its way out.

Like every other morning, these images came to me as I was hovering somewhere between conscious and unconscious, just before the alarm went off.  Then it did, filling the room with a shrill noise that would have woken the dead.

I cursed and then dragged myself over to the other side of the bed, where I’d put the alarm clock, and hit it, killing the shrill sound.  I’d put it there so I would have to wake up to turn it off.  And, worse, I’d forgotten to turn it off the night before because it was, technically, the first day of my holiday.

Not that I really wanted one, because since Ellen left, my life consisted of work, work, and more work.  It kept my mind off being alone, and in an empty apartment except for the books, a bed, a table and two chairs, a desk, and a well-worn lounge chair.  I’d been there for a while and still hadn’t bought any new furniture or anything else for that matter.

And the last holiday I’d gone on had been organised by Ellen only a few years ago in Italy after our two daughters had finished school and graduated almost top of their class.  We’d both thought it might help mend the damage, and for a while we were happy, but happiness was too fleeting for me, and soon after the rot had set in, and it was the beginning of the end.

I remembered it only too clearly, coming home, opening a letter addressed to her, and finding proof of what I think I’d known all along.  She was having an affair, had been for quite some time.

It should not have been a surprise, given what I had put her through over the years, since my discharge from the Army and later the nightmares active service had fuelled, but it was what it was and sent me spiralling to a new low.

But that was two years ago.  I came out of the fog a year after that.  Ellen was away most of the time with a new partner she never told me about, and the girls, who shared a unit not far from mine, came to see me from time to time

But for all of that, all I now had left were memories.

I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.  I was on holiday.  No work, no pressure, nothing. 

I thought about going back to my grandmother’s house and visiting, but my grandmother was no longer there, and my mother, who was, was too judgmental, and I didn’t need to be told, yet again, how I had let the only woman for me slip through my fingers.

I could do almost anything.

I’d almost managed to doze off again when the phone rang.

I jumped to its equally shrill sound, cutting through the silence.  It had to be a wrong number because no one at work would call me, and I didn’t have many friends, at least none who would call me at this hour.

I let it ring out.

Blissful silence.  For five minutes.

Then it rang again.

Ignore it, I thought.  It had to be someone from the office.  I’d told them all not to call me, not unless the building was burning down and they were all trapped in it.

And even then, I’d I said I would have to think about it.

Burying my head under the pillow didn’t shut out the insistent ringing. 

Almost reluctantly, I rolled back, pulled the telephone out from under the bed, and lifted the receiver to my ear.

“Bill?”

It was Carl Benton, my immediate superior, an insipid, loathsome, irritating little man, the last person I would want to speak to.  He’d insisted I take this leave, that the office could survive without me, adding in his most condescending manner that I needed the break.

I slammed the receiver down in anger.  It was a forlorn gesture.  Seconds later, it rang again.

“I seem to remember you were the one to tell me to go on holiday, that I needed a holiday.  I’m off the roster.  It can’t be that important.  Call someone else.”  I wasn’t going to allow him to speak.  Not this morning.  I was not in the mood to listen to that squeaky, falsetto voice of his, one that always turned into a whine when he didn’t get his way.

And hung up again.

Not that it would do any good.  I knew that even if I was in Tibet, he would still call.  Then I realised it was too early for him to be in the office, and if he was, he would have been dragged out of bed and put in a position where, if he didn’t produce results, they might realise just how incompetent he was.

At last, my holiday had some meaning, and I smiled to myself.  I’d make the bastard sweat.

…

A good day’s work if I say so myself.

I only wished I were better at typing, but it was a self-correcting ribbon and would suffice.

Tonight it would be the sleep of the just.

Tomorrow, more plotting, more characters.  I need a friendly head of a department, one that suffers Benton, a name for the assistant, and what are the circumstances that drag him back into work?

Death, murder, police, or security?

And all I thought I had to do was write!

—

© Charles Heath 2016-2025

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 2

On the ground, not daring to move

…

Lying there, afraid to move, I honestly believed that was just the stupidest thing I’d ever done.

Aside from the fact I could see we were about to be blown to kingdom come by a rocket, I had that split second to decide if I wanted to be incinerated, or in possession of 206 broken bones.

I guess I was assuming I’d survive the landing. 

After all the helicopter was only about twenty to thirty feet above the ground and not moving very fast, in fact, it was slowing, and turning away, when the pilot saw the rocket launcher.

I could hear the crackling of fire not far from me, a result of the helicopter hitting the ground.  It wasn’t a large explosion, and certainly not accompanied by a hail of red-hot metal parts.

Not yet.

I moved and it hurt.  Understandable.  But there didn’t seem to be any broken bones, which was nothing short of a miracle.  I did try to affect a roll when landing as we were trained in parachute jumping, and maybe that had helped.

Enough time to recover, I rolled over and got to my knees.  Ok, that hurt, twinges in my lower back, and a slight sprain in my right ankle.  No running then.

Then I heard the gears crunching, so sort an old Toyota pickup would make, followed by an over-revving engine.  A novice driver.  Or a man in a hurry.

Damn.

The pickup was coming back to check the wreckage.

And if there were any survivors.

No gun, lost that in the jump.  But, as luck would have it, an AK47 was lying on the ground between me and the burning wreckage.

Only one problem.  The pickup would be on me before I could get to it.

Is this the very definition of being between a rock and a hard place?

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2023

Writing a book in 365 days – 266

Day 266

Writing exercise

…

Honestly, I wish I had been born twenty years earlier

Never make wishes.  And definitely never make wishes after too much to drink, or when you are very angry.

Because in the unlikely event…

It was only the second time I had been in that house; the first time, I went away very disillusioned, and my life never really went anywhere.

I had no idea why I was asked back, because Susan was the last person I ever wanted to see again. After all, the last time I was here, I didn’t do what I’d planned to do, to ask her to marry me.

Instead, Gary did, which apparently was the reason for the party.  On his birthday, he was going to make an announcement.  He asked her and she accepted.  I got drunk, punched him, and got thrown out.

20 years ago.

Now he was the Mayor and on his way to the State Governor.  I was the town drunk, well on the road to purgatory.

I had gone straight to the bathroom after someone told me I looked like shit.  Looking at myself in the mirror, I had to agree with them.

Why had they asked me to come to their party?  Susan had barely spoken to me in 20 years, and Gary simply hated me.  I never knew why, because he got the girl of his dreams.

I threw water over my face and through my hair, using my fingers to brush it back off my face like I used to all those years ago.  It was unruly then; it was a mess now

There was a knock on the door, and a male voice said, “You done on there?”  Impatient.

“Yeah.”  A last look, I unlocked the door. 

Whoever was on the other side must have been pushing because as I was turning, the door opened and hit me in the side of the head.

And it was the last thing I remembered.

I woke, staring at the ceiling and to a familiar scent.  The perfume Susan wore.

“You’re back.”

Susan.

I rubbed my eyes and then looked at her, and jumped.  What the. .

She was twenty years younger, the girl at the first party.

“Where am I?”

“In my room,” she said, smiling.

“What happened?”

“Gary was trying to go to the restroom, and you were in there.  You unlocked the door as he was trying to open it, and it hit you in the head.”

I felt the spot, and it was tender.  And it had to be Gary.  I was sure it was deliberate.

But, put that thought away.  She was still 20 years younger.  I struggled to sit up, and she helped me.  Opposite was a mirror and I could see that I was 20 years younger too.

But I had my memories.  It was obvious she didn’t.

What the hell had just happened?

“Are you going to be OK?”

“I think so.  Just give me a few minutes.”

Gary put his head in the door and saw me.  “Sorry, man.  Don’t know my own strength.  You’ll live.  Babe, that thing…”

He tapped his watch.  Gary always had to be somewhere else. 

“Yeah, soon.  Gotta take care of problems before they become problems.”

“Don’t be too long.”  Then he was gone.

“He’s an ass.”

“He’s going places, Rich.  My parents like him.”

“He’s still an ass.”  I sighed.  20 years and I still couldn’t talk to Susan.  “You can do better?”

“In this town? 

I shrugged.  “You’re right, of course.  Aside from the football team and the basketball team, who’s left?  That bunch of misfits on the dopey table.”

The targets for the jocks, as they were known.  Gary, quarterback and captain of the star football team, often delighted in our humiliation.

All the girls swooned over them.

In response to her look of disdain, I added, “Including me.  Just why am I here?”

All those years ago, I had wondered why there had been an invitation sent.  It was for me alone, not a plus one, and I thought it was just another humiliation.  I was the only one from the misfits who got an invitation.

Did Gary send it?  After all, it was his moment; he knew I had a thing for Susan, something he had ragged on me over, especially after he and she became an item.

“Why did you come?  You know Gary is going to ask me to marry him.”

“You don’t have to say yes.”

“Why would I do that?  I want to get out of this place.  Don’t we all?”

I sat there with a dumb expression on my face and her looking at me.  A thousand thoughts went through my head, stopping at one.  Why would she ever want to be with someone like me?

It was 20 years ago all over again.  And then I realised the irony in that.

“That’s why I thought…” That idea of rejection, even of her laughing outright in my face.  I don’t think I could handle it a second time.

“You thought…”

Damn it.  Just say it.  “I love you, Susan.  Always have.  I have often tried to summon the courage to tell you, but I get it.  I’m not one of the cool boys, and…”

She smiled and then shook her head.  “You might have told me this a while back, Rich.  I think you might want to leave now.  I’m glad you told me.  Just remember that you don’t have to be cool, just yourself.”  She took my hand and squeezed it, gave a last, rather curious look, then left.

I took a moment looking at my 20 years younger self in the mirror, shrugged, then turned to leave.

I nearly fainted when I saw Gary filling the doorway.  No exit that way.  There was no mistaking his intention, and just as I tried to duck, I was too late.

When I woke, I was lying on Susan’s bed.

Again.

A slow look around showed the room was different, but the mirror was still there and I was back to my old self, only I didn’t look like shit.

Well, that was a matter of opinion.  Gary, or someone, had made a mess of my face.

Just what in hell was happening to me?

“You’re awake.”

It was that familiar face, 20 years older, but to me, it would never age.  Just seeing her made me feel better.

“What happened?”

“Gary.  Not a happy camper.”

“What did I do this time?”

She looked at me strangely.  “Are you sure you’re ok.  He seemed to hit you rather hard.”

“Not much good at ducking.  I guess I should leave.”

“Why would you want to do that?”  Her expression was more worried now.  “You’ve been acting strangely for a week now.  What aren’t you telling me?”

How could I tell her what just happened?  Travelling through time.  Then I remembered she had once said I could tell her anything.

An odd thought made me look at her hand, and as soon as I saw it and the ring on it, the ring that I intended to give her after I asked her to marry me and she accepted, I knew my whole life had been changed, and I couldn’t remember anything of it.

“I’m losing my memory.  I think I’ve just gone back 20 years, to the day Gary was going to ask you to marry him, and back here now when I was the town drunk and…”

She put her hand over my mouth and said, “Shhh”

Then she leaned over and kissed my forehead.  “We knew this was possible.  Doc Ferguson has moved the surgery forward to Monday.  They’ll get the tutor in your head, and we’ll be back to normal in no time.”

“You’ve been having minor blackouts, but Gary assaulting you has tipped the scales.  He’s going to jail this time, I’ll make sure of it.  You just rest.  Andie will get you anything you need.  Rest.”

She was replaced by a younger version, the way Susan looked 20 years ago.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?”

Truth be told, I didn’t.  “You are the spitting image of your mother 20 years ago.”

She smiled.  “Not that far down the rabbit hole then?”

Apparently not.  It was as if everything came back in a rush, almost overwhelming.  “I’m going to be a grandfather?”

“Mum told you.  She’s not fond of the idea of being a grandmother.  Say it will make her feel old.”

“That girl will never get old.  Not in my eyes.  Now if anything goes wrong on Monday…”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Searching for locations: A small part of London, England

We were in London in Summer, it was a fine afternoon, going into the evening and we decided to get on the London Eye.  As you can see from the clock it was near 7:00 pm.

housesofparliament3

This photo was taken as we were coming down.

Those long evenings were quite remarkable, not in the least going to a pub and sinking a few pints!  There was one such pub not far from Charing Cross Station

The pub was called ‘The Princess of Wales’

And still be light enough to find your way home.

What I learned about writing: The dust jacket biography

There is that biography that sits on the inside of the dustcover of your book, slightly more impressive than that on X. What are the requirements?

…

That’s a fantastic point, and you’ve hit on the core difference between marketing copy (the X bio) and the author’s professional narrative (the book dust jacket bio).

The dust jacket biography, often called the Author Flap Copy or Jacket Copy, has a completely different purpose, format, and tone than the 160-character X bio. It serves as an authoritative statement to both readers and the book industry.

Key Differences in Purpose and Tone

FeatureX (Twitter) Bio (160 Characters)Book Dust Jacket Bio (Approx. 150-250 Words)
Primary GoalAcquisition & Engagement: Get a quick follow and signal the type of content the user tweets.Authority & Trust: Validate the author’s expertise and establish their professional credentials.
PerspectiveOften First-Person (“I write…”) to establish a personal connection.Almost always Third-Person (“She lives in…”, “He is a…”) to create an objective, authoritative voice.
ToneConversational, Witty, Casual, or Punchy.Formal, Professional, Established, and Narrative-Driven.
FocusCurrent interests, latest projects, and a personal flair.The author’s full professional history, prior publications, and relevant background.

Essentials for the Dust Jacket Biography

Since the book flap bio has a generous word count (relative to X), it functions as a short professional narrative. It should ideally include the following five components:

1. The Opening Hook (Name & Residency)

Start with the author’s full name and their geographic context, often framed by a sentence that establishes their vocation.

  • Example: Dr. Alana Chen is a professor of history at Yale University and a renowned specialist in Cold War espionage.

2. Relevant Credentials and Expertise

This is where the biography justifies why the author is the person who should be writing this particular book.

  • Non-Fiction: Include academic degrees, professional roles, awards, and relevant real-world experience (e.g., “A former intelligence analyst,” “Holds a PhD in Astrophysics,” “Co-founder of the global non-profit…”).
  • Fiction: Mention prior successful novels, major literary awards, or specific background that lends authenticity to the story (e.g., “Her short stories have appeared in The New Yorker,” “A three-time winner of the Edgar Award”).

3. Prior Work and Social Proof

List a maximum of two or three previous major works to demonstrate a history of publication and success.

  • Example: She is the author of the critically acclaimed novels, The Silicon Fog and The Memory Architect.

4. Personal/Relatable Detail

A single sentence to humanise the author and make them relatable to the reader. This is often an interest, a pet, or a detail about their family life.

  • Example: When not researching ancient civilisations, she enjoys hiking the trails near her home with her two rescue dogs.

5. Current Location

The final line often returns to their place of residence to provide a grounding detail.

  • Example: He currently lives in London. (This is often stylised to be the last, standalone line.)