I’ve been reading the latest headlines and picked out a few:
The seems to be a currency war,
Oil prices are set to rise in line with a cut in production,
Some tankers will not be plying the Hormuz strait,
There was a massive power outage in the UK,
Gold prices are rising,
North Korea is shooting missiles into the sea
The USA needs more missiles,
There are Chinese survey vessels in the South China Sea,
In Russia there is an explosion on a secret base with nuclear implications, and,
There might be a global recession coming.
What do all these events mean? Nothing really when taken individually, but when you start combining them, then the thriller writer in me starts to see all sorts of conspiracies and plotlines for stories.
For instance
Take that explosion in Russia, and the fact the word nuclear is attached to it, and then look at the massive power outage in the UK. What if that site was a laboratory, working on small, powerful bombs that can easily be carried, installed, in or around vital infrastructure, and in that quest for smaller and more powerful something goes wrong.
After all, isn’t that what testing is for?
And the fact there’s been one major event involving vital infrastructure, should we be looking for more? Then there are a few problems with bombs being attached to tankers in the Hormuz Strait. Does anyone see the potential for an apocalyptic event coming on?
Then the North Koreans are firing test missiles, and the US calling for more missiles to add to their arsenal. Are they using North Korea as an excuse? Or is there something more sinister going on with Chinese survey vessels in the South China Sea? What if they’re not survey vessels?
Then there’s a small matter of rising oil prices. Whilst the same report might say that the rise is due to OPEC cutting output, there could be other reasons, such as the currency war that’s about to erupt, and will this pre-emp a global recession. A good indicator of impending disaster, wars, and other maladies is the rising price of gold.
The gold market goes into overdrive when currency starts to lose value, recessions are coming or have arrived, or there is about to be a war, or there is one. The US and China are facing off, the US and half the middle east are a disaster waiting to happen, and, hang on, North Korea is being provocative, and in a late development, India and Pakistan are facing off over Kashmir.
Are we surprised people are turning to gold?
Maybe I should go back to doing the crossword, and ignoring the news.
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…
…
Carlo had returned, as promised, just over an hour later, and over the map, he showed where the explosives had been placed, under the tank, and where the men were camped.
They were set to go off in the early morning, giving them several hours before they had to assemble for the assault. According to Carlo, the explosives would neutralise the tank and immobilise about 30 of the enemy.
That was only one problem.
The other was the men that the new commandant had sent out of the castle to presumably hunt down Atherton and whatever resistance was left. They were noisy and failed to see Carlo following them, listening to their conversation.
It was obvious they were not trained for stealth.
The first mission was to take those men out of the equation.
Then there was a third problem, the last of the resistance in the castle, those left behind by Fernando, had taken all the prisoners out of the castle and executed them.
Carlo had then killed those men and left them with the bodies of the murdered defectors, and, unlike his German counterparts, he had undertaken it swiftly and silently.
Our force of eight moved quietly in the direction Carlo last saw the soldiers heading, he assumed towards the underground wine cellar where Martina had taken me after I had been captured.
We managed to hide Chiara in a spot where the enemy if they came to the church, would not find her. The plan was to find them before they got to or left the cellar.
Of course, like any plan, it could always be guaranteed to go wrong.
The last time I went from the cellar to the church, it had been by an old truck, and by my estimation, it would take us about half an hour by foot. It might, by the time we got there, and found them missing, make us late for the main event.
I looked at my watch about a dozen times on that trek, fretting about time which for some odd reason seemed to be passing faster than usual.
Then, Carlo was waving his hands, a signal I assumed was to tell us to stop. We were not far from the cellar. I recognised the landmark used to find it. We formed up in a line just inside the thicket line, a bunch of overgrown bushes providing excellent cover.
Beyond that, we could see intermittent flashes of light from torches. The soldiers were making no attempt to hide their presence.
Blinky was beside me. “What the hell are they playing at?”
“Perhaps they thought if they made a bold attack we’d wilt under the surprise.”
“Or just shoot them. Why are we waiting?”
“Carlo is ascertaining their position.”
“You trust this Carlo. He could be leading us into a trap up at the castle.”
I was surprised he’d taken this long to express his reservations. “Don’t be surprised if he kills everyone in the German squad himself. His home was in that castle. It was his life. They killed his friends. He is not forgiving.”
Jack chose that moment to return from wherever he’d gone soon after we reached the thicket. He had come with me from the church, and I wondered if he knew just how dangerous it could be. He flopped down beside me, waiting.
“What’s with the dog?”
“We found each other at an ambush. Been with me ever since. I have no idea if he’s German, or Italian, or if he understands English. But there’s no questioning his loyalty, he helped me take down Jackerby.
“Well, just as long as I don’t trip over him in the fray of battle.”
We watched the German soldiers who remained on sentry duty when I thought the entrance to the cellar was, and I assumed the others were down in the cellar.
It was what Carlo said was the case when he returned.
Ten in the cellar, two on guard, though I would not call what they were doing sentry duty. They were smoking and talking, guns leaning up against a tree.
Easy shots for our sniper who at this moment had both in his sights.
Carlo kneeled beside me and said, “Cover your ears, pass it on.”
I did, and thirty seconds later there was a huge explosion followed by a storm of soil particles falling on his. The sniper, in the instance following the boom, shot the two sentries.
German forces were eliminated.
The only issue was the castle was now alerted to our presence, so our arrival at the castle was going to be a little more difficult.
Z is for Zoo. It seemed that who’s who in the zoo was about to be very much a statement.
…
There’s the easy way and the convoluted way to go to jail.
The first, the easy way, commit a crime, hand yourself in, plead guilty, and the justice department will be falling over themselves to frogmarch you to the front gate
The hard way, trying to create a foolproof backstory with official evidentiary documents, to take you seemingly from one jail to another without raising suspicion.
Of course, it was never my intention to become a felon, but people are sometimes so stupid they don’t know when to back off. And, of course, we are trained never to ‘lose it’ under any circumstances, but I did.
In front of about a hundred other prisoners who made very reliable witnesses. He was kind of popular, so that made my continued presence in that prison untenable.
Hence the move. No trial, an extra twenty years, I should see the world outside again when I was too old to enjoy it.
I would have time to contemplate the mistakes of the past for a long time. Or not. The prison I was going to was notorious for chewing up and spitting out newbies in their system.
I had a name, Louie. It’s best not to call him that, I was told. He was the one to look out for. There were another hundred or so, all varying degrees of Louie-like danger, so my hands would be full for a while.
Along with six other new prisoners, we were taken inside. There we were given the once over by the warden, whose expression when he looked at me was the very definition of hatred. Then he had three of the guards drag me into a room up the passage. Special treatment, he said with a smile, that told me it was not a special I was going to like.
Once onside with door shit, two professionals, the guards beat me with their batons. Bruises, abrasions, and barely able to walk, I rejoined the others, who all looked the other way lest they incur the same wrath.
An hour in the dispensary, then taken to meet my new best friend, it was the greeting I expected.
The guard stopped me outside the two-bunk cells that I would get to call my Hilton hotel room. My roomie was lying on his bed, odd since he should be out on the exercise yard with his friends, but I was guessing he was going to lay down the ground rules.
“Your new roomie, Dyson.”
He glanced over at me, then at the guard. “I’m paying the single rate.”
“Not any more.” The guard nodded at me to go in and shake a plain to the empty bed.
This is going to be interesting.
I took a step towards the bunk, and he was out of his bunk and standing in my way.
I looked him straight in the eye. “This can go two ways, Dyson. You keep standing there, and I get to stake a few weeks on solitary. Since I’m used to it, it’s no skin off my nose. But you, you might not walk again, or maybe this time I’ll see if I can rip your arm off and beat you with it. Lasy guy, I tried to prove it could be done, but he died. You know where I’m from, and you know why I’m here.”
I made it menacing enough. Most of the men in this jail didn’t frighten easily.
Tyson looked at the guard.
“My money is on the fact he’ll do it. Plenty of you idiots who don’t know when to leave well alone. I’ll turn around so I can say I didn’t see who started it.”
Which is what he did.
Tyson backed down and sat on his bunk. “Louie isn’t going to be pleased.”
“Not trying to please or displease anyone. All I want is a quiet contract and to be left alone.”
And knowing that was never going to happen.
“Get along, Dyson.” The guard said, just before he left.
After I threw everything on the bed, not that it amounted to much, and certainly nothing worth stealing, it was time to get some air.
The cell was quite stuffy, and Dyson wasn’t the cleanest of men. I might tell him later, when he is a little more friendly.
“Which way to the exercise yard?”
“Follow the passage to the end and turn left. You’ll see it.”
“Don’t like exercise?”
“Don’t like the inmates. You’ll see.”
I’m sure I would. As far as I was aware, Louie had my resume, and when I read it, it was impressive. Mostly enemy soldiers, but there were also a few who were not.
I came out into the sunshine, and when the others out there realised who it was, they stopped and glared at me. Not in a friendly manner.
There were two waiting by the entrance, ready for what? Were they expecting trouble?. I could see the man called Louie on the other side, sitting on the bleachers, his acolytes around him.
The two men were almost beside me when they stopped. One of the left, short, obese, and sweating badly, said, “You have an appointment.”
The one on the right looked menacing. He was in trouble because he had his hand in his pocket, so there was a ship, knife or another weapon there.
Np point in giving him an excuse to get beat up.
I shrugged. “I don’t remember making one, but if you say so.”
He nodded in the direction of the man I thought was Louie. I shrugged again and walked. Slowly. If things went south, I needed a strategy.
Of course, there was never enough time. We were standing in front of him. No matter. He was intent on ignoring me because he could. He was the boss. I’m not sure how or why.
A minute passed, then two.
Never the patient, man, I said, “Listen shit for brains, you make an appointment you keep it. I’ll count to three, and if your head’s still up your ass, then I’m going over the other side.” I waited a few seconds, then said, “One.”
He glanced at me. To do otherwise would lessen his prestige.
“Two.”
He smiled, then turned. “Have you noticed people are always in a hurry?” He said it to no one in particular.
“To fie,” I said. “Yes, they are. I’m sure you don’t want to be one of those, do you?”
The smile turned to a frown. “You should be more respectful.”
“Respect us earned, not given or expected.”
I saw the imperceptible nod to the enforcer and was ready. Disarmed and arm twisted out of its socket, he was no longer a threat. I threw the shiv over the fence, outside.
The enforcer hadn’t made a sound short of a grunt, but he stayed down. No one else moved.
“Sorry. I needed to verify who you are, Stanson. The best of the best now is the best of the worst?”
“Whatever. You’ve had your fifteen minutes. I’m going over there,” I pointed to the bench on the other side of the compound. “And rest in peace. I won’t be so kind to the next fool you send.”
“As you wish. But we still have to have words.”
“Then call my secretary and make an appointment.”
A final look at the red spots growing on his cheeks, and I walked away. No one followed me. It was not a victory, just a minor delay before he came back.
There had been a plan, and when I heard it, I sat back and laughed.
It was anything but a plan, except if I wanted to die before one day had passed.
Everyone knew who ran that prison.
Louie.
And to get what they wanted, which I didn’t know about, simply because if I did and was captured and tortured, they would discover who was behind this charade, they needed to neutralise Louie
And the three attempts so far had failed spectacularly, and in the process had alerted him to what they were trying to do.
I told them it was a mistake.
They then made me an impossible promise, one I knew they would never keep because they knew I would not see it through.
I was surprised I got to see Louie, so perhaps one aspect of this mission might be true. Louie was scared, not of me, but of someone else.
The question was, who?
I pondered all of these questions in that dank gold called solitary confinement. I was there firstly for my protection, no other prisoners were allowed near me, and secondly, I could not be seen to get away with harming another prisoner.
Then I heard the outer door being unlocked.
An unscheduled visit.
Could it be that there was someone else in the prison who was facilitating a host, and not a friendly one?
There was no hiding spot in the cell, so all I could do was be ready if the guard was hostile. A figure loomed out of the darkness into the dull glow of the low-wattage globe illumination and space in front of my cell door. It had been the only light I’d had for days.
“Good. You’re awake.”
My contact in the jail, the one whom I was to go to, if I got into trouble. Why was he here? He was not supposed to approach me.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“There’s an opportunity. Louie has been taken to the infirmary. He will be alone. You have 30 minutes to do what you have to.” He dropped a bag on the other side of the door, then opened it. “Change of clothes and tools.”
“Afterwards?”
“You disappear. As promised.”
There were so many holes in this plan. I didn’t know where to begin. “Who put this on motion?”
“The same person who put Louie in the hospital. You’re wasting time.”
Three minutes to freshen up and change, then along the passage and up to ground level. Out one door and in the next, along another passage, and we were outside the infirmary. Another four minutes.
A nurse was sitting at a desk, with monitors on three beds with prisoners. The middle one was Louie. My guard pointed to the middle door on the other side of the passage we were standing in.
The monitors blinked, the screens went fuzzy, and then came back on. Replay, so my presence in his room would go unnoticed.
He knocked and went into the room with the nurse. I didn’t wait to see what he was going to do. I crossed to the door and listened, then went in.
He watched me warily as I closed the door.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.
“Why?” I crossed to his bed. Handcuffed. Precautions.
“You’ve come from Alexander, haven’t you?”
Alexander was the crazy man who made promises he couldn’t keep.
“He is crazy. I told him that. And yet here I am. You know why I’m here?”
“He blames me for Forrester’s death. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Then why are you on a video, clear as day, shooting him in the back of the head. An execution. You said he was a traitor, and traitors get their just deserts. To you, maybe, but not his country.”
“And you’re going to execute me?”
He didn’t deny it, which he strenuously did in court before they found the video. There had been a camera, but it was broken. Someone else had installed another, one not so obvious, and when we reviewed the recordings, it was clear why it was there and had led to a dozen other arrests. The footage of my brother’s death was collateral damage.
“It was my first thought, but you need to suffer.”
“He didn’t if it’s any consolation. Just what does it have to do with you?”
“My brother.”
“You look nothing like him.”
“Well, that’s as much I’m going to tell you.” I pulled the hypodermic syringe that was also in the bag of clothes and jabbed it into his leg.
Less than a second. Justice.
“What did you just do?”
“Give you a lifetime to reflect on what you did.”
I gave him a last look, the serum starting to work, relaxing all of his muscles, and in about ten minutes would completely paralyse him.
If he was lucky, they would recognise what had happened and give him the other syringe sitting on the bedside table. It wouldn’t unparalyse him, but it would make it so he could live, only with full-time care. He could not move or speak, but behind that mask, his mind would be active, and he could play over and over the actions that got him there.
Justice for murdering my brother.
And this prison was now free of his influence and threats.
Did that mean I could take over?
No. It simply meant I’d repaid a debt and was now free.
My prison contact returned, took me out the back way through an unknown passageway, built secretly at the time of the prison itself, there in case the warden and his family needed to escape, when a car was waiting.
Great are the days when writing flows easily, and bad are the days when it doesn’t flow at all. What you’re striving for is somewhere in the middle.
If that is at all possible.
Conditions have to be conducive, which means it doesn’t necessarily follow that you can write just anywhere.
That means you need, if it is at all possible, to set up a little, or big, nook someone in your residence where you can write.
It doesn’t necessarily have to be free of distractions, except, of course, the electronic kind. Of course, if you are writing on a computer of any sort,t it would be better if it were not connected to the internet, where every few seconds there’s an alert, an email, a phone call, or breaking news headlines.
Nor do you really want to be near a phone, except if you’re expecting a call from your agent telling you you just got a multi-million dollar three-film contract.
OK, I’m projecting my own desires here…
But…
A writing room or nook would to me be a room with a view, my preference overlooking the ocean high on a cliff so that I could see the roiling ocean and dhimips battling against the odds.
Distraction.
Not necessarily, but on summery days it can provide the background for a lengthy piece of prose, or even a poem, an ode to days of leisure.
And to dream…
Yes inspired.
In such a computable and familiar place, it is possible to write without hindrance. I do not have a room with a view, but I am surrounded by a thousand books, lounge chairs, and the tools to inspire me.
Writing isn’t difficult. It’s more about getting out there because the daily routine often gets in the way
But, my best writing happens at night after everyone has retired for the day, and the words come. Often, it is no trouble to write a whole short story or several chapters of a novel.
But, then, having participated in the yearly A to Z blog month and twice yearly NANOWRIMO novel writing month has conditioned me to getting the job done.
The Kingston Flyer was a vintage train that ran about 14km to Fairlight from Kingston, at the southern end of Lake Wakatipu, and back.
This tourist service was suspended in December 2012 because of locomotive issues.
However, before that, we managed to go on one of the tours, and it was a memorable trip. Trying to drink a cup of tea from the restaurant car was very difficult, given how much the carriages moved around on the tracks.
The original Kingston Flyer ran between Kingston, Gore, Invercargill, and sometimes Dunedin, from the 1890s through to 1957.
There are two steam locomotives used for the Kingston Flyer service, the AB778 starting service in 1925, and the AB795 which started service in 1927.
The AB class locomotive was a 4-6-2 Pacific steam locomotive with a Vanderbilt tender, of which 141 were built between 1915 and 1927 some of which by New Zealand Railways Addington Workshops.
No 235 is the builder’s number for the AB778
There were seven wooden bodied passenger carriages, three passenger coaches, one passenger/refreshments carriage and two car/vans. The is also a Birdcage gallery coach. Each of the rolling stock was built between 1900 and 1923. They were built at either of Addington, Petone, or Hillside.
I suspect the 2 on the side means second class
The passenger coach we traveled in was very comfortable.
This is one of the guard’s vans, and for transporting cargo.
The Kingston Railway Station
and cafe.
A poster sign advertising the Kingston Flyer
The running times for the tourist services, when it was running.
When the story is over, you realise you’ve forgotten a major chunk of it.
It’s one of those wakes in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, and screaming.
I was just looking at the first few chapters and realised, what about that horrid reporter that confronted them in the restaurant?
While Cherise dealt with the problem, it occurred to me later that she would be perfect for the new king to get an outsider, and a cynic at that, view.
Yes, he does get a little payback later on at the media conference at the Embassy when he arrives back from Ruth’s home.
So, now there’s a new chapter or section where the ambassador summons her editorial boss, and they put a proposal to both of them.
This will also then lead to an interview of sorts on the plane when they are coming home, where he has become King
I’m also including a new chapter where he meets with Archie, an old friend and the head of the principality’s only newspaper and TV station.
And there will be a revolving door of interaction with the media.
It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.
John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.
So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?
That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.
What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.
The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.
All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.
Huka Falls is located in the Wairakei Tourist Park about five minutes north of Taupo on the north island of New Zealand.
The Waikato River heading towards the gorge
The water heading down the gorge, gathering pace
until it crashes over the top of the waterfall at the rate of about 220,000 liters per second. It also makes a very loud noise, so that when you are close to it, hearing anything but the falls is impossible.
It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t. It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…
She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room. It was quite large and expensively furnished. It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.
Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917. At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.
There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.
She was here to meet with Vladimir.
She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.
All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring. Not that she had blurted that out the first they met, or even the second.
That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.
It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years. She had been there once, and still hadn’t met all the staff.
They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.
It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this was a fencing match.
They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity. She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.
The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined. After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.
Then, it went quiet for a month. There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited. She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.
A pleasant afternoon ensued.
And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.
By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends. She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy. Normally for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.
She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful. In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.
After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit. She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.
It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine. She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.
A Russian friend. That’s what she would call him.
And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue. It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.
Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour. It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.
So, it began.
It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.
She wasn’t.
It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country. It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms. When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.
Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report. After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.
But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report. She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.
It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen. Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.
And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.
She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room. She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.
Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.
There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit. She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.
Later perhaps, after…
She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.
A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival. It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality. A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.
The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.
She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.
Great are the days when writing flows easily, and bad are the days when it doesn’t flow at all. What you’re striving for is somewhere in the middle.
If that is at all possible.
Conditions have to be conducive, which means it doesn’t necessarily follow that you can write just anywhere.
That means you need, if it is at all possible, to set up a little, or big, nook someone in your residence where you can write.
It doesn’t necessarily have to be free of distractions, except, of course, the electronic kind. Of course, if you are writing on a computer of any sort,t it would be better if it were not connected to the internet, where every few seconds there’s an alert, an email, a phone call, or breaking news headlines.
Nor do you really want to be near a phone, except if you’re expecting a call from your agent telling you you just got a multi-million dollar three-film contract.
OK, I’m projecting my own desires here…
But…
A writing room or nook would to me be a room with a view, my preference overlooking the ocean high on a cliff so that I could see the roiling ocean and dhimips battling against the odds.
Distraction.
Not necessarily, but on summery days it can provide the background for a lengthy piece of prose, or even a poem, an ode to days of leisure.
And to dream…
Yes inspired.
In such a computable and familiar place, it is possible to write without hindrance. I do not have a room with a view, but I am surrounded by a thousand books, lounge chairs, and the tools to inspire me.
Writing isn’t difficult. It’s more about getting out there because the daily routine often gets in the way
But, my best writing happens at night after everyone has retired for the day, and the words come. Often, it is no trouble to write a whole short story or several chapters of a novel.
But, then, having participated in the yearly A to Z blog month and twice yearly NANOWRIMO novel writing month has conditioned me to getting the job done.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 