Category: Writing

What I learned about writing – What can be explained is not poetry

The Unexplainable Truth: Why Yeats Said ‘What Can Be Explained Is Not Poetry’

W.B. Yeats, the towering figure of Irish literature and a Nobel laureate, often seemed to speak in riddles that contained profound universal truths. One such truth, delivered not from a stage but in a quiet moment with his son, Michael, cuts directly to the soul of creativity:

“What can be explained is not poetry.”

This deceptively simple statement is not merely a critique of literary analysis; it is a philosophy of art, a defence of mystery, and a guide for how we must approach the most cherished parts of our existence.

If poetry is built from words—the very tools of explanation—how can the final product simultaneously resist understanding? The answer lies in the fundamental difference between information and resonance.

1. The Reductionist Trap: Explanation as Destruction

When Yeats dismisses explanation, he is pushing back against the modern impulse to dissect, categorise, and summarise. Explanation seeks clarity, certainty, and a definitive endpoint. It wants to give you the meaning in a neat bullet point.

But for the poet, this act of definition is fatal.

Think of a poem like Yeats’s own “The Second Coming.” If you were asked to explain it, you might say: “It is about the breakdown of societal order, historical cycles, and the fear of a looming, savage future.” This is factually correct. But by the time you have finished this explanation, the poem itself—the terrifying rhythm, the shocking image of the “blood-dimmed tide,” the sheer visceral dread of the “rough beast, its hour come round at last”—has completely evaporated.

The Elements That Resist Explanation:

  • Rhythm and Sound: Poetry operates on the level of music. You can explain the notes on a score, but you cannot explain the feeling of the music’s vibration in your chest.
  • Ambiguity: A great poem holds multiple, often contradictory, truths simultaneously. Explanation forces a choice, killing the rich tension that gives the poem its power.
  • The Ineffable: Poetry deals in the realm of the subconscious, the spiritual, and the deeply felt human condition—areas that words can only point toward, never fully capture.

As the great poet Archibald MacLeish wrote, “A poem should not mean / But be.” If you can swap a poem for a paragraph of summarised meaning without losing anything vital, it was never truly poetry to begin with.

2. The Domain of True Art: Mystery and Aura

If explanation is the enemy, what elevates language into poetry? It is the successful creation of Aura—that inexplicable shimmer of authenticity and power surrounding a work of art.

Poetry, painting, and music—when successful—establish an immediate, emotional connection that bypasses the logical mind. They don’t give us facts; they provide us with an experience of being human.

A true poem resonates because it touches a nerve we didn’t know existed. It uses familiar words in unfamiliar arrangements that create a shock of recognition: Ah, yes, I have felt that thing, though I lacked the words for it.

This resonance cannot be taught, explained, or quantified. It is a mystery that the poet labors to create, and a mystery the reader must consent to receive. The poem’s job is to compel you to stop asking why and simply start feeling.

Art as a Sacred Language

For Yeats, an artist and a mystic, poetry was a sacred endeavour that tapped into universal symbols and mythic memory. This is why his poems are so dense with swans, spirals, gyres, and masks. These are not symbols to be easily decoded; they are portals meant to shift the reader’s consciousness.

To demand an explanation of a spiritual experience is to completely misunderstand the nature of the sacred. Yeats viewed poetry in the same light.

3. Beyond the Poem: Embracing the Unexplained Life

Yeats’s dictum is not just a lesson for the classroom; it is a profound commentary on how we live. The things we value most highly in life are often the things that defy bullet points and clear definitions.

If we can fully explain something, we often lose our sense of wonder for it. The minute we treat life as a logical equation, we forfeit the magic.

Love, Grief, and Beauty

Consider the deepest human experiences:

  1. Love: Can you truly explain why you love a particular person? You can list their qualities (kindness, intelligence), but those are merely the ingredients. The love itself—the specific, irrational, overwhelming devotion—is the chemical reaction that cannot be explained. If it could, it would be a transaction, not love.
  2. Beauty: Why is a specific sunset breathtaking? You can explain the atmospheric condition, the refraction of light, and the Rayleigh scattering effect. But none of that science touches the awe you feel when watching the sky turn orange.
  3. Grief: Grief is not a set of stages to be rationally completed; it is a primal force that washes over you. No explanation can contain the depth of loss.

These are the poetic aspects of life. They are what make living rich, maddening, and profoundly meaningful. They require us to accept ambiguity and to tolerate the fact that the most important truths lie just beyond the reach of language.

The Call to Wonder

Yeats’s quiet lesson to his son remains a powerful challenge to us today: In an age where every phenomenon is instantly broken down by algorithms and summarised in 280 characters, are we losing our capacity for wonder?

If we insist on explaining everything, we risk reducing the rich tapestry of existence to a dry instruction manual.

True poetry—in literature and in life—requires us to put down the defining pencil, step away from the summary, and simply stand in the presence of the powerful, beautiful, bewildering thing that is.

The challenge of the reader, the lover, and the appreciative human being is to honour the mystery that remains when all the explanations have failed.

What truths in your life have you accepted as unexplainable? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 180

Day 180 – Rest periods for compulsive writers

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The Inescapable Itch: How Compulsive Writers Finally Unplug (and Why They Dread It)

For the compulsive writer, the blank page isn’t just a workspace; it’s a nervous system. To stop writing is, in many ways, to stop feeling the pulse of the world. But even the most prolific ink-stained wretches occasionally find their pens running dry, or their minds fogging over with the static of over-output.

How does a writer whose baseline is “compulsive” actually step away? And more importantly, is the silence of a break actually a form of creative death?

The Williams Paradigm: The Panic of the Still Moment

If you want a masterclass in the agony of the “break,” look to Tennessee Williams.

Williams was a man possessed. His plays—A Streetcar Named Desire, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof—seemed to bleed out of him in a fit of architectural necessity. He didn’t just write stories; he exorcised ghosts. For Williams, the act of writing was a frantic attempt to outrun his own inner demons.

When Williams wasn’t writing, he wasn’t “relaxing” in the way modern self-help gurus suggest. He wasn’t taking a spa day or practising mindfulness. He was vibrating with a specific, high-frequency anxiety. He famously equated the downtime between creative bursts with a kind of spiritual oblivion.

He didn’t take breaks by choice; he took them when the exhaustion became too heavy to carry. But in those quiet intervals, the “boredom” he felt was actually a confrontation with reality—a reality he found far less interesting and far more terrifying than the worlds he built on paper.

Why the Break Feels Like a Grave

For the compulsive writer, a break feels like “death” for three distinct reasons:

  1. The Loss of Control: When you are writing, you are the god of a small, contained universe. You decide who lives, who dies, and how the dialogue flows. In the real world, you are subject to the messy, boring, and uncontrollable whims of traffic, groceries, and small talk.
  2. The Shadow of the “Interior”: Writers often use work as a distraction from the recursive loops of their own thoughts. When the writing stops, the inner monologue—usually the one questioning your worth or replaying old embarrassments—gets the megaphone.
  3. The Identity Crisis: If you define yourself as a “Writer,” then a day spent not writing is a day you aren’t “being” anything. You feel like a malfunctioning machine.

How to Take a Break Without Losing Your Mind

If you are like Williams—wired to the page—you can’t just stop. You have to “pivot” your compulsion. Here is how the pros handle the hiatus:

  • Change the Input: If you can’t stop the output, change the channel. Switch to a medium that doesn’t feel like “work.” If you write prose, spend your break painting, gardening, or cooking. You are still creating, but you’ve let the part of your brain that handles syntax rest.
  • The “Low-Stakes” Journal: Give yourself permission to write in a way that doesn’t count. Take a pocket notebook where you are forbidden from writing anything “publishable.” Write about your lunch, the colour of the sky, or how annoying your neighbour’s dog is. It keeps the muscle moving without the pressure of the performance.
  • Embrace the “Restless Walk”: Williams often found his best ideas while walking. If you’re bored, don’t sit still. The brain that is compulsive needs movement. A three-mile walk can settle the nervous system while allowing the subconscious to keep filing away plot points.

The Verdict: Is It Boredom or Fuel?

Is it boring? Yes.

But here is the secret that Tennessee Williams eventually realised: Boredom is the soil in which the best ideas take root.

When you are constantly writing, you are mining your storehouse of ideas until you hit bedrock. You are repeating yourself because you haven’t given yourself time to experience anything new. The break, as terrifying as it feels, is the process of refilling the well.

You aren’t dying when you put the pen down. You’re simply waiting for the tide to come back in. And trust me—if you are truly a compulsive writer—the tide always comes back. You’ll be back at the desk before you know it, pen in hand, wondering why you ever missed the silence in the first place.

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Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Sydney

Beyond the Icons: Five Hidden Sydney Gems on the Road Less Travelled

Sydney is one of the world’s most beautiful cities, but let’s be honest: once you’ve seen the Opera House sails sparkle and crossed the Harbour Bridge, you might feel like you’ve checked the box.

But for the traveller yearning for authenticity—the one who prefers the local pub to the tourist trap, and a hidden bush track over a crowded promenade—Sydney holds secrets. If you’re touring New South Wales and looking to uncover the true soul of the Harbour City, you need to drive past the postcards.

Here are the top five things to do in Sydney on the road less travelled, reserved for those willing to venture just slightly off the beaten track.

1. Trace Ancient History at Ku-ring-gai Chase National Park

While the Royal National Park gets most of the glory (and the weekend crowds), the vast, stunning wilderness of Ku-ring-gai Chase, located in the north, often slips under the radar for international visitors. This is the perfect spot for a Sydney day trip that feels like a true escape from urban life.

Why it’s on the road less travelled: This park is not just known for its phenomenal bushwalking and sprawling waterways; it is a repository of irreplaceable history. Ku-ring-gai is home to some of the most significant and well-preserved Aboriginal rock art and engraving sites in the Sydney basin.

The Must-Do: Head to the captivating West Head Lookout, which offers panoramic, uninterrupted views across the juncture of the Hawkesbury River, Broken Bay, and Barrenjoey Headland. On your way back, stop and walk the short loop trail at the Basin Track to view Aboriginal engravings of marine life and human figures, remnants of the Guringai people who have called this land home for millennia.

2. Harbour Views Without the Crowds: The Hermitage Foreshore Walk

Everyone knows the walk from Bondi to Coogee, but Sydney’s most exquisite harbour views are often found on the quieter paths along the Eastern Suburbs. The Hermitage Foreshore Walk, connecting Nielsen Park to Rose Bay, is the perfect example of secluded city beauty.

Why it’s on the road less travelled: This 1.8 km track meanders through lush, protected rainforest, leading you to tiny, secret beaches that feel utterly remote, despite being minutes from million-dollar homes. You get postcard-perfect views of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and Opera House—but from across the water, framed by trees and exclusive little coves.

The Must-Do: Pack a picnic and stop at Milk Beach, a glorious sliver of sand that is largely inaccessible except via this track or boat. It is one of the most romantic spots in Sydney, ideal for watching the yachts sail by without the presence of tour buses or selfie sticks.

3. Step Back in Time (and Ruin): Cockatoo Island

Located right in the middle of Sydney Harbour, Cockatoo Island is a UNESCO World Heritage site and one of the world’s most unique islands. It’s an industrial ghost town, a former prison, shipyard, and reformatory school, offering a fascinatingly gritty contrast to the polished surrounding suburbs.

Why it’s on the road less travelled: While easily accessible by ferry from Circular Quay, most tourists jump off at Taronga Zoo or Manly. Those who make the short trip to Cockatoo Island find a raw, sprawling historical site where the massive industrial machinery and sandstone penal buildings have been left largely intact.

The Must-Do: Take a self-guided audio tour that delves into the island’s dark convict past and its role in building Australia’s naval strength. For the truly adventurous, book a waterfront glamping tent or apartment for the night. Waking up on a silent, historical island, watching the sun rise over the harbour, is an experience few visitors ever get to claim.

4. Explore Inner West’s Industrial Transformation: The Tramsheds

Sydney’s Inner West is famous for its hipster cafes and vintage shops, but the Tramsheds in Forest Lodge offer a specific culinary and architectural experience that screams “local.”

Why it’s on the road less travelled: This is not a standard food court; it’s a beautifully restored Rozelle Tram Depot, built in 1904. The massive, soaring industrial space, complete with old tram tracks and repurposed steel infrastructure, now houses a selection of artisanal retailers, high-quality restaurants, and providores focusing on local Australian produce.

The Must-Do: Skip the chain restaurants and grab lunch at a specialist venue like Bodega 1904 or pick up fresh seafood. The atmosphere is buzzing but intimate, giving you a real feel for Sydney’s industrial heritage fused seamlessly with modern dining culture. It’s a perfect pitstop for lunch if you are driving through the Inner West towards the city.

5. Discover the Tranquil Waters of Pittwater via Ferry

For a Sydney experience that truly requires a sense of adventure (and a slightly longer drive north), head to Church Point or Palm Beach and leave the car behind to explore the hidden waterways of Pittwater.

Why it’s on the road less travelled: Pittwater is Sydney’s serene northern counterpart to the bustling Harbour. It is edged by protected national parks and sprinkled with tiny, virtually car-less communities only accessible by private ferry or water taxi. This area feels less like Sydney and more like a secluded holiday destination.

The Must-Do: Catch the little commuter ferry from Church Point across to Scotland Island or The Basin (part of Ku-ring-gai Chase). The Basin offers brilliant, calm, lagoon-like swimming and excellent walking tracks leading to lookouts over the pristine water. This ferry journey itself is a charming slice of local life—you’ll be sharing the trip with residents doing their grocery runs and kids heading home from school.

Your Sydney Adventure Starts Now

Sydney’s iconic sights are worth the visit, but the true brilliance of the city lies just beyond the tourist trails. By taking the road less travelled, you don’t just observe Sydney; you immerse yourself in its history, its wild geography, and its genuine, local spirit.

So, ditch the guidebook, fire up the GPS, and go find the hidden beaches and industrial ruins that the locals try to keep secret.

Have you discovered a hidden Sydney gem that should be on this list? Share your favourite off-the-beaten-path spot in the comments below!

In a word: well

At first, you would think this word has something to do with your health.

You’d be right.  “Are you well?” or “Are you well enough?”

Of course, it can cause some confusion, because how do you measure degrees of wellness.

Reasonably well, very well, not well, or just well.  Not a good descriptive word for the state of your health, maybe.

How about what if the team played well.  Not health this time, but a standard.

There’s ordinary, mediocre, as a team, brilliantly, and then there’s well.

It seems it can be used to describe an outcome.

Well, well.

Hang on, that’s something else again.

What about, then, we use the word to describe a hole in the ground with water at the bottom.

Or not if it is a drought.

A lot of people get water from a well, in fact in the olden days that was a common sight in a village.

What about those environment destroyers, oilmen.  They have oil wells, don’t they?

And when I went to school, there were ink wells on every desk.

Messy too, because I was once the ink monitor.

But if the well’s dried up?

It becomes a metaphor for a whole new bunch of stuff.

OR what about a stairwell?

And at the complexity of it all, for such a small word, tears well up in my eyes.

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the Past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The Birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus, the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all rewrites, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally, it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Year’s, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening, we were out late and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow; it was cold and wet, and apartment buildings were shimmering in the street light, and I thought, “This is the place where my main character will live”.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went, so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller Centre is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy man with few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

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Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Shanghai

Shanghai Unveiled: 5 Offbeat Adventures Beyond the Usual Tourist Trail

Shanghai. The name itself conjures images of glittering skyscrapers, historic Bund architecture, and bustling shopping streets. It’s a city of undeniable grandeur, a futuristic metropolis steeped in a fascinating past. Most visitors flock to the Oriental Pearl Tower, wander through Yu Garden, or stroll along Nanjing Road. And while these experiences are certainly iconic, they only scratch the surface of what this incredible city has to offer.

What if you’ve seen the postcard views? What if you crave a deeper connection, a glimpse into the everyday magic and quirky corners that locals cherish? You’ve come to the right place. Pack your sense of adventure, because we’re about to explore the roads less travelled in Shanghai, uncovering five unique experiences that will show you a different side of the “Pearl of the Orient.”

1. Immerse Yourself in Urban Art at M50 Creative Park (Moganshan Road 50)

Just a short walk from the Suzhou Creek, M50 is Shanghai’s answer to New York’s SoHo or London’s Shoreditch. Once a series of derelict industrial buildings and textile mills, this sprawling complex has been cleverly repurposed into a vibrant hub for contemporary art.

Why it’s off the beaten path: While known to art enthusiasts, M50 isn’t on the typical tourist itinerary. It’s not a single attraction but a collection of galleries, studios, and workshops, requiring a willingness to wander and discover.

What makes it special: You’ll find everything from cutting-edge installations and abstract paintings to photography exhibitions and quirky design shops. Many artists work on-site, offering a chance to see them in action or even purchase unique pieces directly. The raw, industrial backdrop provides a stark contrast to the sleek art, creating a unique atmosphere. Grab a coffee, chat with a gallerist, and let the creative energy inspire you.

Pro Tip: Look out for street art and graffiti that constantly change on the exterior walls, adding another layer to the artistic experience. Weekdays are generally quieter if you prefer a more contemplative visit.

2. Step Back in Time at the Shanghai Propaganda Poster Art Centre

Tucked away in the basement of a nondescript apartment building in the former French Concession, this private museum is a fascinating, if somewhat clandestine, journey into China’s revolutionary past.

Why it’s off the beaten path: Blink and you’ll miss the subtle entrance! There are no grand signs, and finding it often feels like you’re on a secret mission. It’s certainly not listed in every guidebook.

What makes it special: This veritable treasure trove houses an incredible collection of original propaganda posters from the early days of the People’s Republic of China, through the Cultural Revolution, and beyond. The posters are vibrant, historically significant, and incredibly rare. They offer a unique, visual narrative of a pivotal era, showcasing the artistic styles and political messages that shaped a nation. It’s a poignant and thought-provoking experience, often leaving visitors with a deeper understanding of modern Chinese history.

Pro Tip: Be prepared to ring a doorbell at the address (Room B, 868 Huashan Road) and navigate a residential complex. Photography is usually allowed without flash in most areas, but always double-check.

3. Dive into Local Life at a Bustling Wet Market

Forget souvenir shops; for a true taste of authentic Shanghai life, head to a local wet market. These vibrant, sensory-overload hubs are where locals buy their fresh produce, meat, fish, and unique regional ingredients.

Why it’s off the beaten path: This isn’t a “sight” in the traditional sense, but an immersive cultural experience. It can be loud, a little messy, and overwhelming for some, but that’s precisely its charm.

What makes it special: The sheer energy is infectious. Watch vendors expertly butcher meat, bargain over piles of colourful fruits and vegetables, and marvel at the exotic array of seafood, some of which you’ve probably never seen before. It’s a kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, and smells, offering an unfiltered glimpse into the daily routines of Shanghai residents. You might even discover some incredible street food stalls outside the market selling freshly made noodles, dumplings, or steamed buns.

Pro Tip: Go in the morning when the markets are most active and the produce is freshest. Popular options include the Wulumuqi Road Wet Market or smaller ones nestled in local neighbourhoods around the former French Concession. Be respectful, don’t block aisles, and be open to new sensory experiences!

4. Find Serenity at Longhua Temple & Pagoda

While Yu Garden’s classical beauty draws crowds, the Longhua Temple offers a more contemplative and authentic Buddhist experience. Located a bit further south, it’s Shanghai’s oldest and largest Buddhist complex, boasting a history that dates back nearly 1,800 years.

Why it’s off the beaten path: It requires a short Metro ride out of the absolute city centre, making it less convenient for quick tourist dashes. This results in fewer crowds and a more peaceful atmosphere.

What makes it special: The temple complex features several grand halls, each housing impressive statues of Buddha and various deities, as well as beautifully manicured gardens. The most striking feature is the magnificent 7-story Longhua Pagoda, an elegant brick and wood structure that is one of the few examples of ancient pagoda architecture remaining in Shanghai. Explore the grounds, listen to the rhythmic chanting of monks, and watch locals offer prayers, giving you a sense of ancient spirituality amidst the modern urban sprawl.

Pro Tip: Visit during a Buddhist festival for a more lively experience with special ceremonies and offerings, but avoid it if you prefer quiet reflection. The Vegetarian Restaurant within the temple grounds offers a delicious and authentic temple-fare lunch.

5. Ride the Local Ferry for Unbeatable Skyline Views (Without the Price Tag)

Forget expensive Huangpu River cruises! For a truly local and incredibly cheap experience with equally stunning views of Shanghai’s iconic skyline, hop on one of the regular commuter ferries.

Why it’s off the beaten path: Most tourists are directed to the fancier cruise ships. The local ferries are simply a means of transport for residents crossing the river, making them a genuine “road less travelled” experience.

What makes it special: For just a few yuan, you can glide across the Huangpu River, enjoying panoramic vistas of both the historic Bund on the Puxi side and the futuristic Pudong skyline (Oriental Pearl Tower, Shanghai Tower, Jin Mao Tower) on the other. It’s an unpretentious, unhurried way to soak in the city’s breathtaking architecture, rub shoulders with locals, and feel the pulse of Shanghai’s daily life, all while getting incredible photo opportunities.

Pro Tip: Take the ferry from the Bund (near Chenyi Square) to Pudong, especially around sunset, for the most dramatic views as the city lights begin to twinkle. You can pay with a Shanghai Public Transportation Card or exact change (usually 2-3 RMB).

Shanghai is a city that constantly reinvents itself, but its true magic often lies just beyond the well-trodden paths. By venturing into these less-explored corners, you’ll not only discover hidden gems but also gain a richer, more authentic understanding of this dynamic metropolis. So, next time you’re in this incredible city, dare to take the road less travelled – you might just find your new favourite Shanghai memory.

What hidden gems have YOU uncovered in Shanghai? Share your tips in the comments below!

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything: red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

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When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone, one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much; it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there were several sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and a costly mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt, he would soon find out.

His mother and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time, he couldn’t help himself, and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation that ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days, he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, it literally made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head, trying to prevent a recurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact that his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall, cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile that Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticised trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

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© Charles Heath 2019-2024

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 180

Day 180 – Rest periods for compulsive writers

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The Inescapable Itch: How Compulsive Writers Finally Unplug (and Why They Dread It)

For the compulsive writer, the blank page isn’t just a workspace; it’s a nervous system. To stop writing is, in many ways, to stop feeling the pulse of the world. But even the most prolific ink-stained wretches occasionally find their pens running dry, or their minds fogging over with the static of over-output.

How does a writer whose baseline is “compulsive” actually step away? And more importantly, is the silence of a break actually a form of creative death?

The Williams Paradigm: The Panic of the Still Moment

If you want a masterclass in the agony of the “break,” look to Tennessee Williams.

Williams was a man possessed. His plays—A Streetcar Named Desire, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof—seemed to bleed out of him in a fit of architectural necessity. He didn’t just write stories; he exorcised ghosts. For Williams, the act of writing was a frantic attempt to outrun his own inner demons.

When Williams wasn’t writing, he wasn’t “relaxing” in the way modern self-help gurus suggest. He wasn’t taking a spa day or practising mindfulness. He was vibrating with a specific, high-frequency anxiety. He famously equated the downtime between creative bursts with a kind of spiritual oblivion.

He didn’t take breaks by choice; he took them when the exhaustion became too heavy to carry. But in those quiet intervals, the “boredom” he felt was actually a confrontation with reality—a reality he found far less interesting and far more terrifying than the worlds he built on paper.

Why the Break Feels Like a Grave

For the compulsive writer, a break feels like “death” for three distinct reasons:

  1. The Loss of Control: When you are writing, you are the god of a small, contained universe. You decide who lives, who dies, and how the dialogue flows. In the real world, you are subject to the messy, boring, and uncontrollable whims of traffic, groceries, and small talk.
  2. The Shadow of the “Interior”: Writers often use work as a distraction from the recursive loops of their own thoughts. When the writing stops, the inner monologue—usually the one questioning your worth or replaying old embarrassments—gets the megaphone.
  3. The Identity Crisis: If you define yourself as a “Writer,” then a day spent not writing is a day you aren’t “being” anything. You feel like a malfunctioning machine.

How to Take a Break Without Losing Your Mind

If you are like Williams—wired to the page—you can’t just stop. You have to “pivot” your compulsion. Here is how the pros handle the hiatus:

  • Change the Input: If you can’t stop the output, change the channel. Switch to a medium that doesn’t feel like “work.” If you write prose, spend your break painting, gardening, or cooking. You are still creating, but you’ve let the part of your brain that handles syntax rest.
  • The “Low-Stakes” Journal: Give yourself permission to write in a way that doesn’t count. Take a pocket notebook where you are forbidden from writing anything “publishable.” Write about your lunch, the colour of the sky, or how annoying your neighbour’s dog is. It keeps the muscle moving without the pressure of the performance.
  • Embrace the “Restless Walk”: Williams often found his best ideas while walking. If you’re bored, don’t sit still. The brain that is compulsive needs movement. A three-mile walk can settle the nervous system while allowing the subconscious to keep filing away plot points.

The Verdict: Is It Boredom or Fuel?

Is it boring? Yes.

But here is the secret that Tennessee Williams eventually realised: Boredom is the soil in which the best ideas take root.

When you are constantly writing, you are mining your storehouse of ideas until you hit bedrock. You are repeating yourself because you haven’t given yourself time to experience anything new. The break, as terrifying as it feels, is the process of refilling the well.

You aren’t dying when you put the pen down. You’re simply waiting for the tide to come back in. And trust me—if you are truly a compulsive writer—the tide always comes back. You’ll be back at the desk before you know it, pen in hand, wondering why you ever missed the silence in the first place.

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 24

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

 

While waiting for Carlo and Chiara to return with the villagers, and taking some time to consider the plan that had almost formed in my mind, I went back to my room, which, I was guessing was once used for wine storage, because now that I had taken a moment to stop and consider my surroundings, I could smell the aroma of spilled wine.

With a little more light, I could see the arches within which the bottles would be stacked.  I’d also noticed while I’d been outside, that there were vines everywhere, albeit in bad shape as the people who tended them had either left, or been taken away, or shot.

Red grapes if I was not mistaken, though I had no idea what the variety might be.

If the war dragged on much longer, it would do a lot of damage to the wine-growing districts, and I doubted, when the Germans were here, they had any interest in tending the vines, but just drink the wine, and then probably not with the appreciation it deserved.

That had certainly been the case up at the castle before fate turned against me.  Perhaps that was where all of the wine from this cellar had been taken for safekeeping, once the locals thought the Germans had gone forever.  Maybe that was the reason why Leonardo spent so much of his time at the castle, the free wine.

Jack had returned from what I assumed was an inspection of our new quarters and was sitting on the ground next to me.  I wondered what he made of everything he had seen.  It was certainly not a dog’s life being caught in the middle of a war.  

“It’s a fine mess we’re in,” I said to him, and he looked back with uncomprehending eyes.  I would have to brush up on my German.  Or maybe Italian.  It only just occurred to me that he was probably someone’s dog from around here.  We’d only run into each other a few miles away.

“Yes, and I’m sure if you spoke English you could tell me a thing or two.  But, alas, you can’t, so a piece of advice.  Try to keep out of trouble, and by that, next time I go out, you might want to stay here.”

I shrugged.  Things must be bad; I’m talking to a dog.

Martina stopped outside the entrance.  “I heard voices.  Who are you talking to?”

“The dog.  He’s the only one who’s making any sense at the moment.”

“Are you sure he’s not a German spy.  Or, in fact, it’s a he?”

“You probably know as much as I do.  Anything happening?”

“Carlo’s back with a dozen or so of those who want to stay alive.  Chiara has a few more.  The rest have other places to hide if they need to.  We’ve told them to expect a raid.  Leonardo and a few of his men have been out looking for you and told everyone that you are a German spy and that he’ll pay them a lot of money for information about where you are or who’s hiding you.  He doesn’t understand everyone hates him, they always have.”

“Good to know if I run into him, he won’t be happy to see me.”

“This plan of yours?”

“Wallace will be getting edgy about the men he sent out, those men we ambushed at Chiara’s place.  It depends on who he sends, and where they go, but I was thinking we could prepare another ambush at Chiara’s.  All we have to do is wait because I’m sure they’ll get there eventually.”

“And if I know Leonardo, he’ll send them straight to my farm.  He knows that both Carlo and I, and the other two you’ve met were the other four who refused to join him in going up to the castle to make peace.  It seems he’s made a bad choice.”

“Wallace didn’t.  He needs someone like Leonardo to find us.  You’re probably right.  I was thinking Carlo and I could go.  No sense sending all of us, and if anything happens, there will be someone left to carry on.”

“You don’t sound too confident.  You are a soldier, aren’t you?”

“In a manner of speaking.  But I was not trained to be a commando, and not necessarily on the front line, or in this case behind enemy lines.”

“You’re not one of those rich kids whose father bought a commission, so you didn’t have to fight?”

Interesting the ideas foreigners had about elements of the army.  I was not sure if that was done anymore, at least not in this war.

“I have poor parents, that is if they have survived the bombs falling on London.  Refused to give in to Hitler’s aggression.”

I tried to convince them to go to the countryside, just to be safe, but one of the places they thought of going, had also been bombed, so as far as they were concerned, nowhere in England was safe.

“But yes, they did teach me how to shoot, and I know my way around several different types of gun.”  My mind flicked to the sniper rifle and the damage that could do.  

I’d be definitely taking that with me.

I saw her turn her head, and then heard the sound of new arrivals.  Chiara had returned.

“Time’s up for planning.”

I told the dog to stay, but as usual, he ignored me.  We went back into the main cavern where a dozen more people were settling in various places along one wall.  They looked as though they’d packed for a reasonably long stay.

But what worried me was the way they looked at me.  Those rumors Leonardo spread, I was hoping no one believed him.  Above the sound of voices, I could hear Marina speaking to them in Italian, hopefully, to tell them I was not a threat.

I found Carlo. 

“I have a small job to do.  After our last exercise at Chiara’s my old commander will no doubt send someone down to the village to seek answers, and I’m hoping you’ll come with me so we can convince them of the error of their ways.”

He smiled.  There was no mirth in it, and I knew I didn’t have to say anything more.

I saw movement coming from a group of people, and among them the boy I’d met earlier, Enrico.  He had jumped up off the floor when he saw me and came over.

“What are we going to do now.  I mean, we’re not going to sit here and do nothing.”

Boyish enthusiasm.  He had not been shot at yet, and to him, it was all a bit of a game.  I remembered back to the start of the war, and the number of boys who lied about their age, hardly waiting for the war to be declared.  They had no idea what a real war was, and if they had known, they would not have been so recklessly enthusiastic.

“You’re going to stay here and protect your family and all the others here.”

“No.  I want to be useful, fight the bastards.”

Carlo gave him one of his dark stares.  “You will stay here and help others if anything goes wrong.  Out there,” he pointed towards the entrance, “out there, if you’re not careful, you will die.”

Martina had seen him talking to us and came over.

“Enrico, we’ve talked about this.  Go back to your family.”

A last pleading look in case we changed our minds, then he reluctantly returned to his group.

Carlo handed me the sniper rifle and a pistol, a luger, probably captured from a German earlier, when they were in occupation.

“Good luck,” Martina said.

© Charles Heath 2019-2020

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

…

With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction.  He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from the eye socket to the mouth, and he was wearing a black shirt with a red tie.

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

He apologised as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.

I kept my eyes down.  He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognise later in a lineup.  I stepped to the other side, and so did he.  It was one of those situations.  Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I went towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.

Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic.  I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone.  I shrugged and looked at my watch.  It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.

Wait, or walk?  I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station.  What the hell, I needed the exercise.

At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’.  I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light.  As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tyres.

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

It was a high-powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini.  I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.

Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car.  It was that sort of car.  I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him.  I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on.  The moment had passed, and everyone went back to their business.

My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter.   Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.

At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure.  I was no longer in a hurry.

Next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot.  A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring.  I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road.  I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.

At the next intersection, I realised I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar.   It was somewhere on 6th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.

I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did.  There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me.  It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.

Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me.  As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger was a large man with a red tie.

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

It could not be the same man.  He was going in a different direction.

In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long, cold winter.  I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.

I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in.  I would have a few drinks and then leave through the back door if there were one.

Just in case.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

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