The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 44

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on the back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, 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.

Chasing leads, maybe

I leaned back in the chair and shuddered.  It was not so much the cold as the stark realization before me, well, before all of us really.

The USB was gone.

But it was going to be impossible to convince any or all of Severin, Maury, and Nobbin.  Or for that matter Monica.  None of them were going to believe the explosion in the café was a deliberate act.  

But it did raise a question.

“How did whoever placed the bomb in the café know you and your contact were going to be there, and, for that matter, that either of you might have the USB?”

O’Connell seemed lost in thought.  After prodding him, I asked the question again.  His hesitation seemed to suggest that what he’d told me might be a lie, or a half-truth because the more I thought about it, the more implausible it sounded.  The other side of that was, what did he have to gain by lying?  Of no doubt, there was more to this story.

“There are more people involved in this than what you know.  Dobbin had me looking into a biological laboratory, one that was reportedly doing research on cures for various coronaviruses, like SARS.  The thing is, they had a store of nasties they were using as candidates for finding cures.

“The laboratory had been getting funding from the military so that to me meant they’d been working on weaponizing one of those nasty viruses, but there had been containment breach leading to a review, and they lost their funding.

“That, in turn, leads to the head of the company seeking funding from elsewhere, and that it was going to be an overseas government institution, one which they claimed commercial confidence so the donor could not be released.  Of course, our intelligence services went into a spin, thinking the worst, that it was either Russia or the Chinese, or some other rogue regime, and if they got their hands on those candidates, well, you can imagine the paranoia.

“There was also the problem of hacking, where various countries and/or individuals are looking for information to use for their own benefit, or to sell to the highest bidder.  That as far as I can tell is what happened here; it was not a case of external hacking, this was internal by one of the staff, downloading sensitive information onto the USB and smuggling it out.

“As soon as the breach was discovered, it triggered an internal review, which had a member of the military on the panel, and it concluded it was one of three ex-employees.  Dobbin gave me the three names, and I tracked them down.  One of the three had stolen the data, but far from stealing it to sell to the highest bidder, he had stolen it to pass on to a newspaper reporter, the person I was going to see.

“He could see the information was not the sort to be disseminated to the general public and wanted it returned.  I was going to get it.

“So, in answer to your question, it was possible that someone else had done the same as I had after I had visited each of the three, and decided to deal with the problem decisively.  But it would have required planning and an organization with infinite resources to pull it off.  Top of my list is the owners of the laboratory, simply because, they were not interested in getting the copy back, and the fact they didn’t want to have any witnesses, which meant the reporter and had to be silenced.”

“And the person who stole the information?”

“Burned to death in a house fire.  The fire department concluded it was a gas leak.”

“Helped by a person or persons unknown.”

“Given the distribution list of that final report, unless Dobbin has been moonlighting as an assassin, there’s only one other name on the list.”

No need to say it out loud.  That left one question, and probably a hundred others that wouldn’t get answers.

“What’s it to do with Severin and Maury?”

“That’s not their names.  Severin is really David Westcott, and Maury is Bernie Salvin.  Both used to be in the security detail at the company about three years ago when several biological entities were being researched, both of whom were assigned by the military to keep an eye on their investment.

“When the accident occurred, they were reassigned, but I suspect, at the time, they knew exactly what had happened, and what is involved.  It’s not a leap to come to the conclusion they had a shift in allegiance and may have helped the person who stole the information because there was no way the person who stole it had the knowledge to get it out.

“It was not something he would tell me.  That, he said, if he told me, would sign his death warrant.”

Which it did.  Was the original thief killed before or after the explosion?

“Do we Assume Severin is the man in charge?”

“No.  They’re basically blunt instruments, giving orders, and doing what they’re told.  We all are, to a certain extent.  This operation had someone else, someone far more clever, and connected.”

“But they did create a whole unit and train them in an existing facility without anyone knowing.”

“Is that you they told you?  And you believed them?  Nothing goes on in that place with an official sanction.  No.  Your operation was created on the books, but on the quiet so if anything went wrong, they could disavow any knowledge of it.  It went south and what happened?”

“They disavowed any knowledge of it.”

“And kept you on, only reassigned?”

“Those of us who survived, yes.”

“Then I suggest you watch your back and keep all of them at arm’s length.  You’ll only be useful until the USB is found, so you have to keep them believing it’s missing.”

“We’re not going to be able to do that forever.”

“No.  Which makes it imperative we find out who Severin and Maury’s bosses are and chop of the head.”

All while pretending he was dead.  Easier said than done.

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

Writing a book in 365 days – 241

Day 241

Why don’t I like poetry, and why can’t I write it

…

The Poetry Puzzle: Why We Don’t Always ‘Get’ It (And Why That’s Perfectly Normal)

Ever stared at a page of poetry, felt a distinct lack of comprehension, and then wondered if there’s something fundamentally wrong with you? You’re not alone. Many of us grapple with poetry, feeling a disconnect between the words on the page and any meaningful understanding.

If you’ve ever thought, “Why don’t I like poetry, and why can’t I write it?” then this post is for you. Let’s unpack those very common, very valid feelings.

“I Just Don’t Understand It!” – The Heart of the Matter

This is perhaps the biggest barrier. We’re often taught that language should be direct, clear, and efficient. Poetry, however, often delights in the opposite.

  • It speaks in whispers, not shouts: Unlike a news report or a textbook, poetry often communicates through suggestion, metaphor, imagery, and symbolism. It’s less about telling you something directly and more about making you feel something, imagine something, or see something in a new way.
  • The “Strange Rhymes” vs. “Endless Lines”: You mentioned getting a short ditty but feeling lost with longer pieces that resemble short stories. This highlights the vast spectrum of poetry. Some poems are indeed like mini-stories, but they often use poetic devices (like rhythm, line breaks, compressed language) to elevate the narrative beyond simple prose. Other poems eschew traditional narrative altogether, focusing purely on an image, an emotion, or a moment.
  • Haiku and the Rules Conundrum: And then there are the rules! Haiku, sonnets, villanelles, limericks… each comes with its own set of constraints. For many, these rules feel like handcuffs, making the poem impenetrable or, worse, stifling any potential enjoyment. Why restrict yourself when you could just say what you mean?

Why Do People Who Do Like It, Like It?

This is the million-dollar question! When something feels elusive to you, it’s natural to wonder about its appeal to others.

  1. Emotional Resonance: Poetry often taps into universal human emotions – love, loss, joy, grief, wonder, anger – in a way that feels incredibly personal and raw. It can articulate feelings we’ve had but haven’t found the words for.
  2. Beauty of Language: For some, the sheer craft of language is exhilarating. The rhythm of the words, the sound of the rhymes (or the effective lack thereof), the surprising juxtaposition of images, the perfect word choice – it’s an art form akin to music or painting.
  3. Fresh Perspectives: A good poem can make you see an everyday object or concept in an entirely new light. It makes the familiar strange and the strange familiar, jolting us out of our habitual ways of thinking.
  4. Conciseness and Power: Poetry often distills complex ideas or deep emotions into a few potent lines. It’s a powerful punch in a small package, inviting repeated readings to unlock its layers.
  5. A Shared Secret: Unlocking a poem can feel like cracking a code, discovering a hidden meaning that connects you to the poet and the broader human experience.

Think about song lyrics – many of them are poetry set to music. We don’t always fully “understand” every line, but we feel the emotion, appreciate the imagery, and connect to the rhythm.

“Why Can’t I Write It?” – Demystifying Creation

The idea of writing poetry can be incredibly intimidating, especially if you feel you don’t “get” reading it. But here’s a truth: you don’t need to be a literary genius to write poetry.

  • Forget the “Rules” (Initially): If rules feel like a barrier, ignore them! Start with free verse. This form has no set rhyme scheme, meter, or length. It’s about expressing an idea, an image, or an emotion as authentically as possible.
  • Focus on Observation: Poetry often begins with paying close attention to the world around you. What do you see, hear, smell, taste, feel? What small detail catches your eye?
  • Explore an Emotion: What are you feeling right now? Joy, frustration, peace, anxiety? Try to describe that feeling without explicitly naming it. What does it feel like? What images come to mind when you experience it?
  • Play with Language: Think of words as building blocks. Try different combinations. Don’t worry about sounding “poetic” – worry about being honest and curious.
  • It’s for You: The first poems you write don’t have to be shared or even understood by anyone else. They can be a private form of expression, a way to process thoughts and feelings.

It’s Okay Not to “Get” It All

Ultimately, it’s perfectly normal not to connect with every poem, or even most poems. Just like not everyone loves abstract art or classical music, poetry isn’t a one-size-fits-all experience.

Rather than forcing yourself to “understand” it in a purely logical sense, try approaching it differently:

  • Read for sound and rhythm: How do the words feel in your mouth?
  • Read for images: What pictures pop into your mind?
  • Read for emotion: What does the poem make you feel, even if you can’t explain why?
  • Don’t worry about the “meaning”: Sometimes, the experience is the meaning.

So, if you find yourself staring blankly at a stanza, remember you’re in good company. Poetry can be a puzzle, a challenge, a mystery. But sometimes, in simply acknowledging that mystery, we open ourselves up to a different kind of appreciation. And who knows? Maybe one day, a little ditty or even an “endless line” will click into place, and you’ll find a poem that speaks directly to you.

What’s your relationship with poetry? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

Searching for Locations: The Eiffel Tower, Paris, France

Sorry, reminiscing again…

It was a cold but far from a miserable day.  We were taking our grandchildren on a tour of the most interesting sites in Paris, the first of which was the Eiffel Tower.

We took the overground train, which had double-decker carriages, a first for the girls, to get to the tower.

We took the underground, or Metro, back, and they were fascinated with the fact the train carriages ran on road tires.

Because it was so cold, and windy, the tower was only open to the second level. It was a disappointment to us, but the girls were content to stay on the second level.

There they had the French version of chips.

It was a dull day, but the views were magnificent.

20140107_132225

A view of the Seine

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20140107_132208

Sacre Coeur church at Montmartre in the distance.

Another view along the river Seine

Overlooking the tightly packed apartment buildings

Looking along the opposite end of the river Seine

I am making progress, really…

It’s been a long time, or what seems to be a long time.

A few weeks ago I was sitting in front of the computer screen, the ever-pervasive cursor flashing on a blank piece of digitized paper, and that was as far as I got.

No, the house didn’t burn down, no major catastrophe nor family member or friend was in dire need of my help.

I just didn’t know what to write next.

I have been writing, but not necessarily in the normal sense.  I have SomNote on my phone, and when I’m waiting, usually for doctors or Government offices, I write.  A bit of this, a bit of that, but sometimes the YA novel I’m writing for, and not necessarily about, my 19-year-old granddaughter.  Other times it might be a blog post about the experience, or someone who stands out in the crowd.

I find SomNote excellent for just putting words down quickly, as narrative, or just points, emailing it my myself and rehashing it later.  It has basically been used to write the first 37 chapters of the YA novel.

But as for the other writing?

Strangers We’ve Become, the follow-up to What Sets Us Apart took a new direction.  As this is the next book to be published, and I have completed the revisions the editor asked for. we might see this finally get to the publisher.

Never let anyone tell you there’s not something else to be done after 10 edits, and re-writes.

The Things We Do For Love, a little story I wrote many years ago, is finally through its last edit and ready for the final approval from the editor, and will be ready for publication.  It will be categorized as Romantic Suspense, along with Sunday In New York.

Look for those to be released in June or July this year.

My other story, the tales of PI Walthenson, private detective, had taken a back burner for a while, as I continue to muddle through the second case, now at about 60 episodes, of which 40 odd have been published.

I have no idea how it will end, but it’s going to be fun getting there.

This is a link to the latest episode here:  https://www.walthensonpi.com/

After that, Zoe will be back.  After the trials and tribulations in The Devil You Don’t, she finds that the past she tried to leave behind had come back to bite her, in the tentatively titled ”First Dig Two Graves’, because it is about revenge and whether or not it’s best served cold.  And whether or not John’s romantic aspirations are fulfilled.

Now, I guess, it’s back to work!

Coming soon – “Strangers We’ve Become”, the sequel to “What Sets Us Apart”

Stranger’s We’ve Become, a sequel to What Sets Us Apart.

The blurb:

Is she or isn’t she, that is the question!

Susan has returned to David, but he is having difficulty dealing with the changes. Her time in captivity has changed her markedly, so much so that David decides to give her some time and space to re-adjust back into normal life.

But doubts about whether he chose the real Susan remain.

In the meantime, David has to deal with Susan’s new security chief, the discovery of her rebuilding a palace in Russia, evidence of an affair, and several attempts on his life. And, once again, David is drawn into another of Predergast’s games, one that could ultimately prove fatal.

From being reunited with the enigmatic Alisha, a strange visit to Susan’s country estate, to Russia and back, to a rescue mission in Nigeria, David soon discovers those whom he thought he could trust each has their own agenda, one that apparently doesn’t include him.

The Cover:

strangerscover9

Coming soon

 

Searching for locations: Paris, France: Place de la Republique

Whilst a rather important place for the French, for us visitors, it has a convenient hotel located just behind the square, and an underground, or Metro station, underneath.

2014-01-07 11.43.05

Added to that was equally convenient cafes, one of which, The Cafe Republique, we had dinner every night.  The service and food were excellent, and we had no problems with the language barriers.

At the top of the monument is a bronze statue of Marianne, said to be the personification of France.

2014-01-07 11.43.41

Surrounding Marianne is three more statues, representing liberty, equality, and fraternity.

2014-01-07 11.43.32

At the base is a lion guarding what is said to be a ballot box.

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 re-writes, 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 Years, 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 there were apartment buildings 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 center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of 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.

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

Writing a book in 365 days – 241

Day 241

Why don’t I like poetry, and why can’t I write it

…

The Poetry Puzzle: Why We Don’t Always ‘Get’ It (And Why That’s Perfectly Normal)

Ever stared at a page of poetry, felt a distinct lack of comprehension, and then wondered if there’s something fundamentally wrong with you? You’re not alone. Many of us grapple with poetry, feeling a disconnect between the words on the page and any meaningful understanding.

If you’ve ever thought, “Why don’t I like poetry, and why can’t I write it?” then this post is for you. Let’s unpack those very common, very valid feelings.

“I Just Don’t Understand It!” – The Heart of the Matter

This is perhaps the biggest barrier. We’re often taught that language should be direct, clear, and efficient. Poetry, however, often delights in the opposite.

  • It speaks in whispers, not shouts: Unlike a news report or a textbook, poetry often communicates through suggestion, metaphor, imagery, and symbolism. It’s less about telling you something directly and more about making you feel something, imagine something, or see something in a new way.
  • The “Strange Rhymes” vs. “Endless Lines”: You mentioned getting a short ditty but feeling lost with longer pieces that resemble short stories. This highlights the vast spectrum of poetry. Some poems are indeed like mini-stories, but they often use poetic devices (like rhythm, line breaks, compressed language) to elevate the narrative beyond simple prose. Other poems eschew traditional narrative altogether, focusing purely on an image, an emotion, or a moment.
  • Haiku and the Rules Conundrum: And then there are the rules! Haiku, sonnets, villanelles, limericks… each comes with its own set of constraints. For many, these rules feel like handcuffs, making the poem impenetrable or, worse, stifling any potential enjoyment. Why restrict yourself when you could just say what you mean?

Why Do People Who Do Like It, Like It?

This is the million-dollar question! When something feels elusive to you, it’s natural to wonder about its appeal to others.

  1. Emotional Resonance: Poetry often taps into universal human emotions – love, loss, joy, grief, wonder, anger – in a way that feels incredibly personal and raw. It can articulate feelings we’ve had but haven’t found the words for.
  2. Beauty of Language: For some, the sheer craft of language is exhilarating. The rhythm of the words, the sound of the rhymes (or the effective lack thereof), the surprising juxtaposition of images, the perfect word choice – it’s an art form akin to music or painting.
  3. Fresh Perspectives: A good poem can make you see an everyday object or concept in an entirely new light. It makes the familiar strange and the strange familiar, jolting us out of our habitual ways of thinking.
  4. Conciseness and Power: Poetry often distills complex ideas or deep emotions into a few potent lines. It’s a powerful punch in a small package, inviting repeated readings to unlock its layers.
  5. A Shared Secret: Unlocking a poem can feel like cracking a code, discovering a hidden meaning that connects you to the poet and the broader human experience.

Think about song lyrics – many of them are poetry set to music. We don’t always fully “understand” every line, but we feel the emotion, appreciate the imagery, and connect to the rhythm.

“Why Can’t I Write It?” – Demystifying Creation

The idea of writing poetry can be incredibly intimidating, especially if you feel you don’t “get” reading it. But here’s a truth: you don’t need to be a literary genius to write poetry.

  • Forget the “Rules” (Initially): If rules feel like a barrier, ignore them! Start with free verse. This form has no set rhyme scheme, meter, or length. It’s about expressing an idea, an image, or an emotion as authentically as possible.
  • Focus on Observation: Poetry often begins with paying close attention to the world around you. What do you see, hear, smell, taste, feel? What small detail catches your eye?
  • Explore an Emotion: What are you feeling right now? Joy, frustration, peace, anxiety? Try to describe that feeling without explicitly naming it. What does it feel like? What images come to mind when you experience it?
  • Play with Language: Think of words as building blocks. Try different combinations. Don’t worry about sounding “poetic” – worry about being honest and curious.
  • It’s for You: The first poems you write don’t have to be shared or even understood by anyone else. They can be a private form of expression, a way to process thoughts and feelings.

It’s Okay Not to “Get” It All

Ultimately, it’s perfectly normal not to connect with every poem, or even most poems. Just like not everyone loves abstract art or classical music, poetry isn’t a one-size-fits-all experience.

Rather than forcing yourself to “understand” it in a purely logical sense, try approaching it differently:

  • Read for sound and rhythm: How do the words feel in your mouth?
  • Read for images: What pictures pop into your mind?
  • Read for emotion: What does the poem make you feel, even if you can’t explain why?
  • Don’t worry about the “meaning”: Sometimes, the experience is the meaning.

So, if you find yourself staring blankly at a stanza, remember you’re in good company. Poetry can be a puzzle, a challenge, a mystery. But sometimes, in simply acknowledging that mystery, we open ourselves up to a different kind of appreciation. And who knows? Maybe one day, a little ditty or even an “endless line” will click into place, and you’ll find a poem that speaks directly to you.

What’s your relationship with poetry? Share your thoughts 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:

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 was any number of 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 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 which 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, literally, it 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 re-occurrence. 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 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 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 romanticized 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.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2024

In a word: Brevity

Now, brevity is something that I have not been able to fully wrap my head around.

The dictionary explains Brevity as

‘concise and exact use of words in writing and speech’

So…

I remember working with a writer a long time ago who explained certain authors styles, and for James A Michener of Hawaii fame, he said Michener wrote sentences instead of words, paragraphs instead of sentences, pages instead of paragraphs and chapters instead of pages.

It was a little harsh considering I’d just read the book and had liked it, despite its length and the time it took.

But some time later I realized he was not criticizing Michener, but trying to tell me, in his, what I came to discover, interesting way, that I should strive to write more compactly.

I then came across a book by Brian Callison which was exactly that, the concise version, a story that fitted into about 200 pages.

That too was a good book and it took me a day to read it, and by his use of that economy of words, it read quickly.

Of course, I have tried over the years to emulate both styles, and to a certain degree, failing, because I think I have created my own style which is somewhere in between.

Still, when editing, it is always in the back of my mind that I should be

Using words instead of sentences

Using sentences instead of paragraphs

Using paragraphs instead of pages, and

Using pages instead of chapters.

The chapters, he said, with an air of amusement, will always take care of themselves.