Day 104 – Writing Exercise

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He brushed the curtain to one side and looked out the window.

There had been no reason to.  Usually, he just arrived at a hotel, checked in, partially unpacked, had a shower and went to bed.

His employers didn’t believe that he should arrive in the morning, get settled, study up on the details for the meeting the next morning, and be ready, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Instead, because he was usually on the last plane, it was always late, arriving at the destination just before the airport closed, and often, it was almost impossible to get a cab into the city.

Which invariably made him tired and angry by the time he reached the hotel. 

He would be lucky to get three hours of sleep, if at all.

And lucky enough, this time, to get a room with a balcony.  He decided to get some fresh air before turning in.  The day had been hot, but the night was cool with a gentle breeze.  The room was cold from the air conditioning, which he had turned off.

He should be looking at the agenda for the following day.  Instead, he took a bottle of beer from the bar fridge, turned all the lights off behind him, and went out into the night.

After midnight, darkness had settled.  Office towers had only some areas lit, some floors in darkness, making the view look like a patchwork quilt.  Some floors were ablaze, perhaps waiting for the cleaners, or people were working back.

The neon advertising lights, glaringly bright, vied for attention, from the brighter colourful blinking advertisements atop buildings, standing out starkly against the black backdrop, to those static signs at ground level.

In the distance, a large stadium still had all the arc lights going, and it looked like a patch in daylight.  Had someone forgotten to turn the lights off?

In the morning, he would be hard-pressed to see any of it.

…

There was no rhyme or reason why his eyes ended up on a dull glow of a desk lamp in an office in a building almost across the road, on a diagonal line from his balcony.

He was standing in the darkness, the lighting of the room in the darkness, except for the bedside lamp, which was just visible from where he was standing.  It was dark on the balcony, and he would’ve been invisible to anyone looking his way.

The glow of the lamp showed a man and a woman in an office.  She was sitting on the desk, and he was sitting in his chair.  They had a look of familiarity about them, perhaps a pair in a relationship, perhaps married, perhaps an affair, his mind turning over the scenarios.

She was stunningly beautiful, still in her work clothes; he guessed she might be a lawyer or accountant, she had that university-acquired air of authority.  The man was all too familiar to him, the smartest man in the room type, the one who commanded attention. 

Politicians, law practice partner or management.  Definitely management.

The way she looked up at him, not the way a wife or girlfriend would.  There was something else going on there.

She laughed, that sort of laugh that changed her manner.  She was madly in love with him, and then he stood and came to her; she melded into his arms with a practised ease of long-term lovers.

Then, suddenly, the lights came on; someone had flicked a master switch. They were suddenly apart, and the whole atmosphere had changed.

Very businesslike.

The cleaners had arrived.

She collected her coat and handbag, gave a coy wave and headed off.  The secret assignation was over. 

It was true, he thought, that the janitorial staff were almost invisible.  The things they must know, if only they knew who they were.

…

I shrugged.  Enough of inventing the lives of others who were so much better off than I.

A third-year law clerk whose lot in life was to handle the small legal issues of our clients when we had to liaise with out-of-state matters.

This one was a deceased estate that the client’s mother had left behind, and a minor dispute over who had the final will. 

The client claimed to have the last true will and testament of Agatha Bernadette Williams, the lawyers who claim to represent the caretaker and his wife had what was a later will.

It was suspicious in the sense that the son, and rightful heir, according to him, had a detailed record of the last time his mother had made her will, with signed documents and statutory records of interviews and letters between the son and his mother.

The second will was simply writing on a piece of paper and was supported by two witnesses, not the caretaker and his wife, leaving everything to them.

It might not have been a problem if the estate were worth 50,000 dollars rather than fifty million, give or take.

The son considered the claim to be fake, my boss believed what the client told him, so they sent me.  I had very specific instructions.  Prove they were lying.  The problem, the lawyers, the caretaker and his wife had selected were very reputable and charged very high fees for one reason only.  They very rarely lost.

I had to wonder why they sent me into a legal minefield. 

I had a copy of the new will, the old will, reports from a handwriting expert, and a deposition from the son saying that the other will and the manner in which it was created were not done by his mother.

There was another document, the caretaker’s criminal history, and it didn’t make pleasant reading.

Why was it that money, particularly large chunks of it, brought out the worst in people?

…

I was staying in the hotel I was in because it was not far from the offices of our affiliate lawyers.  It was another reason why I was annoyed.  The affiliate lawyers could have sorted the problem, and I would not have had to get on a plane.

I hated planes.

I wanted to come by train, but my boss, Horace Aloysius Jacketine, the third, mind you, senior partner, determined this matter had to be settled now, today, no excuses, and no delays

I tried to argue the case for the local office, and failed.  One of us had to oversee it.  The lawyer handling the matter, Jennifer Joan Rickerson, herself from a long line of distinguished legal people, was disappointed.  I don’t blame her.  She was overqualified for a matter this small.

She did not play the female lawyer card, but I knew Horace had a low opinion of female lawyers, perhaps because he had been beaten by one once, and I suspected that had been his wife.  He married her, and she was no longer a competition.

Horace was a strange and remarkably out-of-date sort of man.  More than once, I thought he belonged in the late 1800s and had arrived here through a portal.  As you can appreciate, reading science fiction was almost the perfect escape from heavy legal matters.

I rose early and quickly scanned the documentation.  I was supposed to leave with the affiliate lawyers and request that they go through it before I left to return home.  Lawyers never moved that fast, but in this case, there seemed to be a rush for a result from both parties.

Something was not right.

…

My sixth sense got me the job at the law office.  That year, the candidates were given a case file and told to find what the key issues were so that a winning case could be prepared and executed.

Based on an old case that they had lost? I had heard from a previous intake candidate that it was a case that set the candidates up to fail.  No one had cracked it, and it was rumoured to be one of Horace’s old cases, and he refused to let it go.

I didn’t blame him.  The billable hours would have been worth a fortune.

We were given an hour, sat in a small, stuffy room, with a big binder of papers that hadn’t been filed properly, a fact that I realised later, but there was no need.  Discovery and document collection, and their collating, were always very messy.

I also learned a valuable lesson that day, that it was not a good idea to simply overlook something because it did fit a set of parameters.  The exercise in part was to sort out those who probed and those who glossed.

Five pages in, and my nose was twitching.

On page 397, I had the answer and wrote three lines on a sheet of legal note pad paper with the number they gave me, and I gave it to the receptionist, the same one who had looked down her nose at me when I arrived.

I doubted it would ever reach the person responsible and left feeling rather dejected.

But it did, and I got the job, the only one out of 29 candidates, and my first job was to write up the case in a way that we would have won.

After that, I got to work for Horace, which had its perks and its problems.

…

I took a dedicated elevator up to the 20th floor, where the law firm lived, atop the building.  It was that floor that cost a small fortune for the uninterrupted views, and the impression it made on the clients, that this was a law firm that consistently won.

We lived in the original historical building where the first law office was, our message being that we had been around for a long time and were reliable and resolute.  I thought the place creaked and groaned like an old sailing ship.

Clients like glass and concrete, not musty dark wood panelling that retained centuries of cigar smoke and carpets, well, I was never quite sure what that aroma was.

This office had lightning-fast elevators, an open layout where everyone had stunning views, and offices with glass walls.  There was nowhere to hide.  The breakout area was nothing less than spectacular.

It was where the receptionist left me, and where I made a cup of coffee with a machine that had a TV screen and lots of pictures of different types of coffee, but not one of just coffee.

Back home, our office had instant coffee in a large tin; you boiled the water and scooped sugar out of a large piece of vintage crockery. I didn’t have milk.

I was waiting for Jennifer Joan Rickerson.  She had an interesting voice on the phone, and I was eager to see if my imagination matched the reality.

“Mr Pargeter?”

The voice.  I turned and nearly dropped my cup.  It was the girl from the late-night office, in different clothes but just as stunning.  I noticed the slight wrinkle of her nose, a sign of disapproval.

I guess I was not her idea of lawyer material.

“I am.”

I was not sure if we shook hands, so I didn’t move, except to put the cup on the sink.

“I think you equally agree with me that there was no reason to send someone from your office.”

“I do.  But you try making the point with my boss. It’s a dotting the i and crossing the t exercise.”

She gave me one last disapproving look before saying, “We’re set up in the conference room.  The Caretaker’s lawyer will be coming in about an hour.”

I followed her into a large, very bright room surrounded by glass, with distracting views.

She sat at the head of the table, and I sat in the cheap seats.  I knew a lot about strategic seating, positions of power, and the place where the poor client, if necessary, was placed at a disadvantage.  She was obviously well-versed in strategy, especially when faced with a third-year legal representative.

The worst seat in the room was my biggest advantage.  That was why they could never see me coming.

“The Catetakers’ legal representatives had sent over their latest documents, which are in the blue folder.”

There were five folders, all different colours.  Their notes on the case were in the yellow folder.  Documents we had sent were in the green and purple folders.  The grey folder was empty; that was for today’s notes.

I took a plain manila folder out of my ancient satchel and slid it across the table.

“Another affidavit from the son.  He’s adamant that his mother would never create such a document, given how structured her life had been for so long.  Oddly, and with no relevance, my father was the most orderly man I ever knew, and in the last year of his life, that all fell apart.  I guess we don’t want to believe that it’s possible.”

Another of those rather interesting expressions that covered a multitude of thoughts.  If only I could read her mind…

“Anything is possible, but as you know, we only deal in facts, not possibilities.”

“Exactly.  What do you make of this case, based on the latest information supplied by the Catetaker?”

It would be interesting to hear what she thought.  I had made an assumption based on a single glance at the top page of the yellow folder.

“They have a strong case.  It’s going to come down to the court deciding the outcome.  Take a look at the documents and see what you think.  It’s going to be a battle to get any form of closure today, contrary to what is expected.”

“And if it was over fifty thousand dollars?” I asked, in my non-confrontational tone.

The look said it all.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 103 – It’s easy, all I have to do is write stories

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Beyond the Myth: Leigh Brackett and the Hard Truth of Professional Fiction

For many aspiring writers, the dream begins early. It’s a seductive, glittering mirage: the idea that you can simply sit down, tap a few keys or scrawl across a page, and “easy money” will flow forth in exchange for your tales.

Leigh Brackett, the legendary “Queen of Space Opera” and the force behind iconic screenplays like The Big Sleep and The Empire Strikes Back, began her journey with that very notion. For Brackett, the idea of writing as a living wasn’t just a career path; it was a beckoning light that captivated her at the age of thirteen.

But as Brackett’s prolific career eventually proved, the distance between the idea of easy money and the reality of a professional writing career is vast. To turn a childhood fascination into a lifelong vocation, Brackett—and anyone who follows in her footsteps—had to learn that writing is not a shortcut to riches; it is a discipline of iron.

The Myth of the “Easy” Vocation

When you are thirteen, the act of storytelling feels like magic. It is unburdened by deadlines, market trends, or the daunting weight of editorial rejection. Brackett, like many others, viewed the pen as a wand.

However, Brackett quickly learned that the “easy money” myth is a dangerous trap. It ignores the cold, hard reality that writing for a living is a business. It requires more than just a vivid imagination; it requires the fortitude to treat your craft with the same seriousness as an architect treats a blueprint or a surgeon treats a theatre.

What Else Does It Take?

If not “easy money,” then what fueled Brackett’s longevity in a field as fickle as pulp fiction and Hollywood screenwriting? It takes a combination of grit, adaptability, and a relentless evolution of craft.

1. The Discipline of the “Daily Grind”

Brackett didn’t wait for the Muses to descend. She understood that a professional writer shows up. She treated writing as a job, sitting down at the typewriter day after day, regardless of whether the words flowed like water or felt like pulling teeth. Inspiration is for amateurs; professionals have a schedule.

2. Radical Adaptability

Brackett’s career path was a testament to survival. She moved from the pulps of the 1940s to the high-stakes world of Hollywood noir, and eventually to the blockbusters of the late 70s. She didn’t cling to one medium. She learned the nuances of dialogue, the structure of a screenplay, and the pacing of a novel. To succeed for decades, you must be willing to learn new languages of storytelling and pivot when the industry shifts.

3. Developing a “Thick Skin”

The myth suggests that writing is a form of self-expression where your soul is the product. The reality is that your work is a commodity subject to intense scrutiny, brutal edits, and rejection. Brackett’s ability to take the “notes” from studio executives or editors without losing the integrity of her voice was vital. She understood that being edited wasn’t a personal attack; it was part of the refinement process.

4. The Craft over the Ego

Finally, it takes a genuine, unyielding love for the craft itself. Brackett didn’t just love the “money” or the “status”; she loved the challenge of building worlds. When the money was thin, and the deadlines were crushing, it was the intellectual puzzle of constructing a narrative—of finding the right word, the perfect plot twist, the emotional anchor—that kept her in the chair.

The Takeaway

Leigh Brackett’s journey from a thirteen-year-old dreamer to a titan of science fiction reminds us that while writing can become a career, it is never “easy.”

If you are looking for easy money, there are faster ways to find it. But if you are looking for a vocation—a calling that demands your best, pushes your limits, and forces you to grow every single day—then you are in the right place. Just remember: professional writing is earned in the trenches, one word at a time, long after the myth of “easy” has faded away.