The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 66

This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Things are about to get complicated…

Behind me, I could see Dobbin moving towards the door.

“You really don’t want to do this,” I said.

“He offered me a better deal.”

“I give you these, you will probably have about an hour, two at the most before he kills you.”

She shrugged. She was a deadly shot, so it was not an option to talk her out of it. I threw the plastic bag to her.

“This way, at least, you live. You’re good, but too trusting.”

Dobbin opened the door. “Enough chit-chat; let’s go before someone else turns up. Walk away Jackson, don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

I watched them leave, then turned to Anna. “This should please you immensely.”

“You mean you couldn’t see it coming? Hell, with all that analysis it wasn’t hard to work out Dobbin was the one orchestrating everything.”

I pulled out my phone and dialled Joanne’s number. When she answered I said, “They just left.”

“With the data?”

“With what they think is the data.”

“You have it?”

“No. O’Connell had it, and someone got to him. He’s dead next door, by the way, and we have two medical cases, one relatively serious, both requiring an ambulance sooner rather than later.”

“On it. And thanks.”

I went over to Anna and sat beside her.

Jan was glaring at us. “You said no one would get shot.”

We watched her slide over and join us against the wall.

“I said Jennifer was an unknown quantity. I didn’t think she’d take me so literally, but on the other hand, the signs were there. In training, she shot at three of the recruits.”

“Well, she didn’t recognise me, which, I guess, is something.”

“Who are you again?” Jan asked her.

“Yolanda. I was at the training camp with Sam. Severin made a pass at me, I kicked him in the you know what’s, and he kicked me out. I never gave back the comms unit, and I used to listen in to the exercises and discovered they’d finally been activated, so I went to have a look. Things got very scary when the target started taking out the surveillance team. They were out of their depth. Then I caught up with Sam, called him, and asked him what was going on. He said the target was going to the café and for me to go around the back, no time for hello’s. A minute or so later I see a guy toss something into the back of the café and take off. Then it goes up and all hell broke loose. Naturally, I got the hell out of there, and called him later, asked if he needed some off-book help, and here I am.”

“Could have been the death of you.”

“Nah. Sam and I were the best two of that bunch, and then maybe Jennifer. Damn that bitch to hell now. Hope they give us five minutes with her.”

“So,” I could see Jan was still wrestling with details. “Anna died in that explosion?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know who Anna was?”

“Not at first, but when I saw a photo of her, and the similarities I shared with her, Sam suggested I take her place, and we took it from there. Sam told me where I could find O’Connell and it wasn’t hard to reconnect, it was six months and he didn’t notice the changes in Anna, which, to me, is a sign of bad tradecraft. He still had the money, I pretended to still have the USB but not with me but back at the flat. He tested the USB and found the right level of encryption, then gave me the five million pounds, and we parted. Now he’s dead. When Sam arrived, I thought it was going to be me next.”

“How did you know what sort of encryption was on the USB?”

Good question. Jan was thinking outside the box, which is what any agent should be doing.

“We spend a few weeks off and on in training, studying encryption techniques, but concentrated on one, for reasons we were never told. I realized that it was related to the eventual mission. It wasn’t hard to emulate. I made up about a dozen USBs just in case.”

“Just out of curiosity, what’s on those USB’s?”

“A PDF copy of War and Peace.”

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 61

Day 61 – Relativity

…

Creating the Un‑Relatable to Be Truly Relatable

What Barry Jenkins’ paradoxical warning tells us about art, storytelling, and the quest for genuine connection

“If you try to create something that everyone can relate to, you’re gonna make something that no‑one can relate to.” – Barry Jenkins

When the Academy‑winning director of Moonlight and If Beale Street Could Talk drops this line, it lands like a well‑timed plot twist: it feels obvious, yet it rattles the comfortable assumptions we make about “universal” storytelling. In the age of algorithm‑driven content and mass‑appeal franchises, Jenkins’ warning feels both a warning sign and a rallying cry for creators who dare to be specific, risky, and, paradoxically, deeply human.

Below, we unpack the paradox, trace its roots in Jenkins’s own work, explore why “universal” often translates to “vague,” and walk away with concrete takeaways you can apply to any creative medium—whether you’re writing a novel, directing a short, designing a product, or crafting a brand story.

1. The Myth of the “Everyone‑Can‑Relate” Story

1.1. A Comfort Zone for Studios and Marketers

In Hollywood boardrooms, “universal appeal” is a budget line item. It promises box‑office safety: “Make a love story that anyone, anywhere, can get.” The same logic runs through advertising agencies (“a message that resonates with every demographic”) and even software design (“features that anyone can use”).

But, as marketers define it, universality often collapses into genericness. When you try to flatten the myriad shades of human experience into one “average” feeling, you lose the texture that makes any emotion or situation feel real.

1.2. The Psychological Counter‑Strike

Human brains are wired to recognise patterns and seek novelty. When a story leans too heavily on clichés—“the underdog triumphs,” “the love triangle resolves,” “the hero’s journey”—the brain flags it as “already known.” The emotional impact dwindles, and the audience disengages.

Aiming for “everyone” inadvertently triggers that disengagement because the work becomes predictable and impersonal.

2. Barry Jenkins: From the Specific to the Universal

2.1. The Personal Lens of Moonlight

Moonlight follows three chapters of Chiron’s life—a Black, gay boy growing up in a Miami housing project. The specifics are unmistakable:

The heat of a Miami night.
The rhythm of a neighbourhood barbershop.
The ache of a mother battling addiction.

Yet the film’s emotional core—searching for identity, yearning for love, the pain of invisibility—resonates far beyond the particularity of Chiron’s experience. Jenkins never diluted those specifics; he amplified them with lyrical cinematography and an intimate sound design that let any viewer feel the ache, regardless of background.

2.2. The Power of “Specificity as a Gateway”

Jenkins has spoken about his writing process: “I write what I know, and I hope that what I know is something someone else has felt but can’t name.” The mantra is simple—be true to the moment you inhabit, and the universality will follow. In practice:

Specific Element	Why It Connects Universally
A single, lingering glance between two strangers	Captures the universal tension of unspoken longing
The sound of a sprinkler in a summer backyard	Evokes any memory of a quiet, nostalgic summer
The smell of burnt toast on a rainy morning	Triggers a sensory flashback that anyone can recall

Jenkins doesn’t “add a universal subtitle” after the fact; his specifics are the universal signposts.

3. Why “Everybody‑Can‑Relate” = “No‑One‑Can‑Relate”

Pitfall	What It Looks Like	Why It Fails
Over‑Generalization	A love story where the couple never experiences conflict, and the conflict is always “a misunderstanding that’s quickly resolved.”	Conflict drives narrative tension; without it, stakes evaporate.
Cultural Sanitization	Removing regional dialects, customs, or context to make a story “more global.”	Strips away authenticity; the audience feels a lack rather than a bridge.
Emotion Dilution	“Feeling sad” becomes the only emotional cue, with no particular cause.	Sadness alone is a vague umbrella; audiences need a why to empathize.
Predictable Structure	Relying solely on the classic three‑act model without twists.	Predictability leads to emotional numbness—viewers already know the destination.

When creators chase a one‑size‑fits‑all, they often erase the very details that give an experience its magnetic pull. The result is a bland, “every person in the world” product that no one sees themselves in.

4. The Counter‑Intuitive Path to True Relatability

4.1. Start With a “Micro‑Truth”

A micro‑truth is a tiny, observable slice of life that feels honest—the way a mother’s hand trembles while she folds laundry, or how a teenager’s fingers ache after a night of gaming. Write it down. Let it be the seed.

Exercise: Pick a mundane habit you have (e.g., the way you sip coffee on a rainy day). Write a 100‑word vignette that captures the sensory details, emotions, and internal monologue. Now ask: what larger feeling does this tiny moment point to? (comfort? anxiety? nostalgia?)

4.2. Layer the Universal Emotion

Once you have the micro‑truth, ask: What universal feeling does this moment embody? The answer becomes the emotional core of your piece. The specifics remain the scaffolding; the universal feeling is the roof that shelters the audience.

Micro‑truth: A dad’s hands shaking as he ties his son’s shoelaces before school.
Universal Core: Fear of letting go / love in everyday gestures.

4.3. Show, Don’t Explain

Instead of telling the audience “this is about fear of loss,” let the scene show it. The audience will infer the universality themselves—an experience far more powerful than an explicit statement.

4.4. Invite Multiple Interpretations

When a story is steeped in specific detail, each viewer projects their own memories onto it. Moonlight contains a scene of two boys sharing a moment in a bathroom; Black viewers might recall similar spaces in their own neighbourhoods, while others may remember any cramped, intimate place where secrets were whispered. The specificity creates a canvas; the audience supplies their own colours.

5. Real‑World Applications

5.1. Brand Storytelling

Instead of a generic tagline like “We’re here for everyone,” craft a narrative around a real customer’s specific moment: “When Maya, a single mom in Detroit, pulled her son’s sock off after a long night shift, she needed shoes that wouldn’t slip.” The brand then becomes the solution to that precise pain point—yet anyone who’s ever struggled with tired feet can see themselves in Maya’s story.

5.2. Product Design

Designers often chase “the user who wants everything.” The opposite is to focus on a niche use case and then let that insight inform broader usability. For example, the Dyson Airwrap was built around a specific problem—protecting hair from heat damage. By mastering that micro‑need, it appealed to a massive market of hair‑care enthusiasts who value health over convenience.

5.3. Content Creation (YouTube, Podcast, Blog)

Instead of a “how‑to be productive” video that covers every generic tip, zero in on a concrete scenario: “How I built a writing habit while caring for a newborn in a two‑room apartment.” The specificity gives viewers a hook, while the underlying desire for productivity speaks to anyone juggling responsibilities.

6. A Checklist for Avoiding the “Everybody‑Can‑Relate” Trap

Check	Ask Yourself
Specific Setting	Do I name the city, the street, the sensory details?
Distinct Voice	Does my character speak in a dialect or use phrasing unique to their background?
Concrete Conflict	What is the exact obstacle (e.g., a broken faucet, an overdue bill, a silent phone call)?
Show, Not Tell	Have I shown the emotion through actions, not just dialogue?
Universal Core	What larger feeling does this moment tap into?
Room for Projection	Does the scene leave space for the audience’s personal memories to fill in?
Avoid Cliché Fixes	Have I resisted the urge to replace a specific detail with a generic shorthand?

If you can tick all of these boxes, you’re on the right side of Jenkins’s paradox.

7. The Takeaway: Embrace the Particular, Trust the Universal

Barry Jenkins didn’t coin the idea that “specificity breeds universality”; he lived it. His films prove that when you dig deep into a singular experience, you create a mirror in which a multitude can see their own reflections—even if those reflections are of lives you never walked.

In a world where data analytics push creators toward mass‑appeal formulas, Jenkins’s counsel feels rebellious—and it should. The rebellion is not against the audience; it is against the notion that the audience is a monolith. The rebellion is a call to honour the jagged edges of our stories, trusting that those edges are precisely what make a story graspable for anyone willing to reach out.

So the next time you sit down to write, design, or pitch, remember:

“Don’t try to be everyone’s every‑thing. Be someone’s something.”

When you choose a single, authentic voice, a single, vivid moment, you open a doorway—one that countless strangers will step through, each carrying their own stories, each finding a fragment of themselves in yours.

Format	Title	Why It Helps
Film	Moonlight (2016) – Barry Jenkins	A masterclass in specific storytelling that feels universal
Book	The Art of Possibility – Rosamund & Benjamin Zander	Explores how reframing specifics can unlock broader impact
Article	“The Power of Specificity in Storytelling” – Harvard Business Review	Academic perspective on why details matter in brand narratives
Podcast	Storytelling with Data – Episode “When Numbers Get Personal”	Shows how data can be humanized through specific anecdotes

What I learned about writing – Does your story germinate or evolve in your sleep?

There are sweet dreams, and there are nightmares.

For writers, they can be something else entirely.

Because I write mostly late at night and into the early morning hours, the story I’m working in is still fresh on my mind, and sometimes when I’m not sure where the story is going to go next, I put my head on the pillow with the express desire of working out what the next plot point is.

Most of the time, it works. Sometimes, other ideas pop into my head.

The good thing is that I can use that time just before going to sleep to review what I have written and where it can go. The real problem with that process is that I sometimes forget what I came up with when I wake up the next morning.

This is aside from the fact that I have been known to have nightmares, things from a past life that I’ve tried very hard to repress. These are not the sort of dreams that fuel stories, but can lead to becoming an activist to prevent it from happening to others.

Not everyone has suffered in such a manner.

Then there are the dreams, not that there are many and those that I remember are quite weird, and sometimes when I could have a dream interpreter, I just don’t get how or why they happened.

Or perhaps I should be questioning the interpretation.

What I would seriously like is to be able to drop back into a particular period and actually observe what it was like. A story I am writing goes back to 1928. In London, I’m catching the night version of the Flying Scotsman, and it’s difficult because there aren’t many photographs or diaries from those who travelled back then.

I can imagine, but it’s not the same as being there.

There is another kind of dream I have had, and, to be honest, it was scary because it felt so real. I went back in time, I don’t know how far back it had to be, 1700s or 1800s, a small cabin, sleeping in a bed near the kitchen, in a hut with no rooms.

Could it be something to do with reincarnation, and I was dreaming of being back there in a previous life? I know now for a fact our forbears lived in the country in the late 1800s, but before that, in Dorset, England, in villages, so it is quite possible they could have been there then.

It’s only happened twice, but it was very real.

“The Things we do for Love”, the story behind the story

This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.

Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.

Why, you might ask.

Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne

At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.

I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.

Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them

Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.

I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.

Damn!

So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years

I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.

It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey. Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.

Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.

So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.

Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.

It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there. She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.

And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions. Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.

Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.

But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.

As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life

If only I’d come from such a background!

And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.

I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.

One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.

Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.

It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife. Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.

…