Writing a book in 365 days – 15

Day 15

Set yourself a reading list, and don’t limit yourself to the sort of genre of books that you wish to write. But, I have to admit I’m guilty of not necessarily reading everything because there are genres that I do not like.

But, for the purposes of this exercise, what you are looking for are:

  • Descriptions of locations, the methods by which the author conveys the setting, whether, dark, light, eerie, scary, dripping with menace, or inspiring fear. A dark room can be just a dark room, but it can be so much more.
  • Descriptions of people. If anyone who witnessed a crime was asked to describe the guilty, ten different people would give ten different descriptions and unless there was a distinguishing factor like he only had one arm, it might describe a quarter to half the population. Your job is to see how others do it and refine it for your characterisations.
  • Conversation. We all have conversations but when it comes to writing them down and making them sound plausible, that’s another story. Conversation is the hardest part of this writing thing, or at least I think so.
  • Writing style. You will eventually get your own, but to begin with, it might be a little strange. Reading many similar-themed or genre books will give you some idea of what the publisher’s editors are looking for.

You will have to read quite a few, I have a library with about 3,000 books, having accumulated them over 50 years. And I think I have learned a thing or two from reading nearly all of them.

An excerpt from “The Things We Do For Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself.  Feeling the dampness of the pillow, and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs. Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived.  He’d heard her and Mrs. Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs. Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines.  She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied.  Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity.  And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain.  Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs. Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.  She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one.  Coming up to the new arrival she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner.  Would you like to sit with Mr. Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  He purposely didn’t look back.  In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six.  Out of a thousand!

“If Mr. Henshaw doesn’t mind….”  She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so.  Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.”  Mrs. Mac promptly ushered her over.  Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you.  You are most kind.”  The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.”  It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone but made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs. Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be.  There was something about him.

His eyes, they mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying?  There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No.  That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?”  Seconds later she realized she’d spoken it out loud, had hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilization, and home, as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal.  All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up.  “Rest.  And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note.  No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs. Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel.  Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but realized it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observance, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown.  And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame.  They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was he could do with a decent feed.  In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr. Henshaw?”

He looked up.  “Henshaw is too formal.  Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs. Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere.  It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs. Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself.  Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle.  “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought.  He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone.  Then, to Mrs. Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses.  After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation.  “How did you arrive?  I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question, otherwise she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me I had an accident.  I ran up the back of another car.  Of course, it didn’t matter to him the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.”  His attempt at humour failed.  “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came.  Both had found, after getting to know each other better, their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs. Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling.  She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living,” Michelle asked in an off-hand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser.  I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well.  Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, and tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work.  I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you.  I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night and then smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

lovecoverfinal1

In a word: Yellow

It was an easy choice from the start, yellow is a colour, in any number of shades from very pale to very dark.

We have yellow egg yolks, yet another y word, and depending on whether the eggs are farmed in cages or free range can dictate the shade of yellow.  Free-range gives the brightest yellow, by the way.

We have yellow cabs, but oddly enough these cabs are orange, not yellow as in this country, though the same may not be the case overseas, particularly in New York.  Good thing they are bright yellow so you can see them coming if you are crossing the road, perhaps illegally.

We have yellow bananas and lemons, probably the most common answers when asked, what is yellow?  That, and perhaps the yellow rose of Texas.

Then there is a more sinister meaning of the word, and it is associated with cowardice, and cowards are said to have a yellow streak down their backs.

If you have yellow fever then you are in a whole world of pain.

You can sometimes have what appears to be yellow skin, a sign of jaundice.

There is a yellow sea, and then there are the yellow pages, sometimes a substitute name for a telephone directory of businesses.

And lastly, an expression that comes out of the past, and not used so much these days, but people from Asia were thought to have yellow skin.

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case.  The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.

At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me.  I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters.  She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible.  I could sense the raging violence within him.  Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts.  Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy.  Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution.  Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down.  I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess.  Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again.  It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe.   I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee.  It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category.  I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone then put it back down again.  I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

The cinema of my dreams – It continued in London – Episode 28

A new mission

…

When we reached the hotel, the countess was met by a man whom I deduced was her brother-in-law.  I stood back because I got the feeling that the meeting was not expected and that his arrival was a shock, rather than a surprise, and not a good one.

I didn’t see her again that night, her personal assistant coming over to advise an urgent matter had come up and the countess was needed elsewhere. 

Nor did I see the Rodby’s who it seemed were diverted from coming to the hotel.  Rodby called and apologised on the countess’s behalf and left it at that.  I went home in the chauffeur-driven car; a small consolation afforded for my participation.

I also got the impression that a certain wife got a bollocking for interfering in matters that were not her concern.  She may have thought so, given their close relationship, she could ‘help’, but European families preferred to sort their own problems out in very definitive styles, something we did quite understand.

I doubted I would have been able to help.  That phrase, ‘lifelong enemy’ told me that another woman had eyes for the count, and her snafu was unexpected and unwanted.  The question was, did it have anything to do with the count’s death.  It was a stretch, but Rodby would not have made that small concession if she did not think either of us could be any assistance.

When I got home, I had a few drinks and put it all out of my mind.

…

Three days later I was sitting in the basement briefing room, after being taken down by Rodby and introduced to what he described as the two best researchers in the organisation.

Anthony Bird, and Alessia Lombardi.

And as a complete, but pleasant surprise, sitting at the other end of the table, looking as her cell phone, Cecilia.  Was her starring role over? Or was working for Rodby her day job?

She heard me come in, looked up, nodded, and then went back to her phone.  Rodby didn’t stay.  Nor had he mentioned at any time, from the moment I arrived outside his office, what this was about.

I sat next to her at the end of the table.

When Rodby left, she said, “We meet again.”

“For a retiree, it seems odd, unless you’ve also retired.”

“I tried.  A starring role wasn’t a good enough excuse.  Good thing they finished filming my scenes.”

“Can I expect to see it soon?”

“It was a pilot.  It’ll probably finish up on the cutting room floor.”

We looked at the two standing up at the front of the room, glaring at us.

Anothony said, “If you are finished?”

She threw her phone on the table and looked at him.  I shrugged.

“I suppose it’s too much to want this to be a guide to setting up a retirement plan.”

I guess not.

A photograph of the countess suddenly came up on the screen on the wall.  Anthony was starting the show, “You will know this woman as Countess Heidi von Burkhardt.  She is nominally the head of the international Burkehardt bank, with headquarters in Geneva, and principal branches in Berlin, Rome, Paris, Vienna, and a few other places.”

“A banker.  I must have missed that.  She doesn’t look like a banker.”

“She isn’t, she inherited the bank from her husband.”

Another photo appeared on the screen; a man I thought looked like a terrorist in an expensive suit.  He continued, “Alessandro Burkehardt, her late husband’s brother.  Claims he should own and run the bank, that it’s a family company that’s the purview of the male line of the Burkehardt family.  Actually, he wants everything she has, and then kick to the kerb for want of a better expression.”

Nice man.  He must be the lifelong enemy she had referred to.  Looking at him, he was not a man I would willingly challenge to a duel.

“I don’t think we’re here to discuss family squabbles.  Money will do that, but it’s not in our purview to settle those scores, is it?”

No answer.  Perhaps Rodby didn’t have anything else going on like a megalomanic trying to take over the world this week.

“Bear with us, it gets better.”

Another photo flashed up on the screen, that of a woman about the same age as the countess.

“Vittoria Romano.  Alessandro Burkehardt’s current squeeze and a very nasty piece of work.  She had already tried to kill the countess twice in twenty years.”

Beautiful but very deadly. 

Another photograph came up on the screen, the same woman, but in a photo with three others, two women, the countess, and Mrs Rodby.  And a teenager.  A girl that looked very much like…”

“Wasn’t that your ex back in Venice, what’s her name yes, Juliet Ambrose?”

Long before she became the disgraced doctor.  Long before any of them had become the old ladies there were now.

“This photograph was taken the week before the countess’s wedding.  The girl, as you say, has the name Juliet, but she, we now believe, was the illegitimate daughter of Vittoria Romano, and the Count.  It’s a very tangled web.

The words ‘lifelong enemy’ came back to me again.

Vittoria.  She had his baby, expected him to marry her, didn’t and like any other normal jilted lover, tried to kill the replacement.

“So just the normal complicated Italian aristocratic family secrets fuelling an equally normal feud.”

“Which you two are going to uncomplicate.  But first, you must find the countess.  She has, as far as we’re aware, not left the country, and hasn’t been seen since she left the hotel shortly after coming home from the Opera.  You were there, I believe.”

“I escorted her to the hotel, and when we arrived, she was intercepted by someone who looked a lot like Alessandro Burkhardt.”

“Most likely Fabio Burkehardt.  He had an altercation with the check-in staff over a lost booking, and shortly after that, she checked out.  A half hour later the surveillance team lost her.  We have her last known location and direction she was heading.”

Alessia came down with two folders and gave one to me and one to Cecilia.

“Everything we have on the relatives, those in the country at the moment, possible locations she could be staying, or being held, and background on the family’s issues.  There’s a list of properties overseas where she may have gone, but we have no active record of her leaving.”

“Planes or ferries are not the only means,” I said.  “Does she or any one of the family own a yacht?”

“She does, but it’s moored at Antibes.  It hasn’t moved for over a month.

“I’m assuming Alfie is out there and will be the go-between?”

“Yes.  Oh, and one more thing.  There’s a bit of an urgency to this because if the countess is not in Geneva in five days’ time to sign the transfer documents, passing complete ownership of everything the Count possessed, she forfeits it to the eldest brother.”

“Doesn’t point a finger at him at all does it,” Cecilia muttered.

Anthony switched off the projector and put all the papers into a folder.  “The clock’s ticking.  Daily reports to the Chief are mandatory.”

© Charles Heath 2023

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 30

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a 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

 

Collecting the car was easy because it was not kept near my flat.  I could not afford to park nearby, and couldn’t get a permit to park on the street.  I had cursed my bad luck at the time, but now it was very useful.

I spend a few hours resting in the car, stopping along the way at a park, and then, well past nightfall, I drove to the block in Oakwood Avenue, easily recognizable from the exterior photo also provided by the realtor.

Twice around the block, I stopped around the corner, past the block, and noted that I could walk back and then take cover from the trees and shrubs growing in front of, and around the building.  To reach the right flat, I would have to pass down the inner side towards the rear where, hopefully, there might be a door.

Otherwise, it would have to be the hard way.

At 00:45, I left the car, and walked back to the block, keeping an eye out form people walking, or looking out their windows on either side of the street.  Then, satisfied I hadn’t been seen, I ducked through the trees and quickly walked the distance from the front to the side where I stopped and waited.  After a few minutes, and nothing had stirred, I started down the side of the building.

Several flats had lights on, but the curtains were drawn.  Being the ground floor, I doubted whether those curtains would be open at night.  It didn’t take long to be alongside the flat in question.

It was in total darkness, and the curtains had been drawn.

First problem.  There was no back door.  The traditional entry point would be the front door, and no doubt there was a communal back door as well.  Next, I checked the windows, and those that I could see were complete glass and non-opening.  Worse still they had a metal grilled across them to deter thieves.

Near the corner, leading to the rear of the building was a window, higher up and ajar.  By its location, I guessed this was the bathroom or the toilet.  I was hoping for the former.

It took a few minutes to unlatch the window and several more to scramble up the wall, and it through the window opening, which wasn’t much wider than me.  I had to be careful not to drop any of the bottles on the inner ledge.

Once down of the other side, inside the room, it was a narrow bathroom, without a bath, and almost impossible to see.  I fixed the window and put everything back on the ledge, just in case someone did a circuit of the building at a security measure.

Once inside, and after one in the morning, little stirred.

I could just faintly hear the flat owners above, hardly enough noise to be concerned about, and bringing a thought; shouldn’t they be asleep like everyone else.

It was certainly a quiet neighborhood.

I brought a small torch from the car with me and sparingly used it to find my way around.  When my eyes got used to the semi-darkness, I found that the flow from small lights of appliances adequately lit the rooms.

It had two bedrooms, one empty and being used as a storeroom, a lounge room, a dining area, and the bathroom, and kitchen area.  It was big enough for a couple, or even a couple with one child.

Inside what I assumed was the front door, I found several letters shoved under the door.  They were addressed to Mr. Adam Quinley.

I hoped that I’d not made a mistake and broken into a flat belonging to another person.  O’Connell didn’t see to me to be a Quinley, because it was an unusual name.

The dates on the letters went back a week and told me whoever the flat belonged to, they hadn’t visited it for a while.  I went back to the lounge room and over to a desk.  There were the familiar cords leading to no computer, but there was a printer.  It meant he had a laptop he carried with him.

A laptop that no one had found.  It suggested to me that he had it somewhere near him, perhaps in a car, which may be still parked in a garage, or parking station somewhere.

I searched through the neat pile of documents on the desk, and in a folder marked ‘Accounts’ and found one for the car registration, in the name of Quigley.  I noted the registration and type of car, and just in case I forgot it, folded the piece of paper and put it in my pocket.  It would be the subject of my next search if nothing showed up.

The next half hour I made a thorough search of the flat and found nothing of use.  I checked for all the spots he might have hidden the USB, but it was not there.  He had kept it somewhere else.

Done, I left the flat by the front door, and for good measure, checked his mailbox, outside, and found a number of letters.  I took them and would look at them back in the car.  Just as I made the tree line to walk back, a car stopped outside the building.

The door opened and I watched the driver get out of the car, stop and look up and down the street, then walk towards the front door,

By chance, the occupant of the flat above the door switched on a light in the room which, uncurtained, spilled out to shed light on the person now at the front entrance.

I recognized her immediately, just before the light was switched off and darkness took over.

It was Jan.

 

© Charles Heath 2020

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 25

This is an old chateau at the foot of a skiing area on the north island of New Zealand. It was once predominately advertised as a guest house for hikers in the summer months.

chateautongoriro

However, with fertile imaginations, we can come up with a whole different scenario.

Like, for instance, a haunted house, owned by an old and some might say creepy family, a place where few are invited, and those that are, approach the front door with trepidation.

It could be the family estate, the sort of place grandparents live, and their children consider themselves lucky to have escaped and their children, in turn, hate going there.

Of course, the opposite to that is that everyone loves going there for the holidays when the whole family gets together.

Then, a murder occurs…

It might also be a hotel in an unusual backdrop, where fugitives come to hide, or just one person from the city, trying to get away from a bad partner, or someone working there seeking a fresh start.

The truth is, there are any number of possibilities.

Writing a book in 365 days – 14

Day 14

Writing is nothing more than a guided dream. So says Jorge Luis Borges in Doctor Brodies report.

Wow! If only I could guide my dreams.

They are a mess at the best of times and always end before I get to the good part.

That’s why I am writing a series called The Cinema of My Dreams. I lie awake at night staring at the ceiling, and instead of seeing darkness, I see the plots of my stories playing out. They never go where I want them to, but that’s because life doesn’t always play ball.

It’s the way my stories are written, an episode at a time, and not fully knowing what’s going to happen, as I write. i am writing like I’m the reader, hanging on every word, leaping from cliffhanger to cliffhanger.

Admittedly it can be nerve wracking especially when an idea for the next episode doesn’t materialise, but I get there. Inspiration sometimes comes from anywhere at any time.

But most people like to have a plan, and that to me, means you know every aspect of the story before you write it. I don’t like that because it would take too like to create the outline.

Searching for locations: Queenstown, New Zealand, from the top of a mountain

You take the gondola up to the Skyline and get some of the most amazing views.

Below is a photo of The Remarkables, one of several ski resorts near Queenstown.

You can see the winding road going up the mountainside.  We have made this trip several times and it is particularly frightening in winter when chains are required.

theremarkables3

In the other direction, heading towards Kingston, the views of the mountains and the lake are equally as magnificent.

theviewfromthegondolaquwwnstown

Or manage to capture a photo of the Earnslaw making its way across the lake towards Walter Peak Farm.  It seems almost like a miniature toy.

Plots ripped from newspaper headlines

Truth is stranger than fiction

…

I’ve been reading about an anomaly in Google Maps where people are looking at maps that display weird objects in places where they shouldn’t be,

For instance, one of the recent occurrences of this places a plane, either an Airbus A320 or a Boeing 737, is on the ground, in the middle of a clearing of a dense forest with trees all around it.

No one is missing a plane so where did it come from, and how could it possibly get there?

Another occurrence was a car at the bottom of a lake, though there has been more than one occurrence of this. 

But, sometimes those objects actually are there, like, for instance, one of those cars where the body of a man who had been missing for 20-odd years was discovered.

There is a rational reason why people are seeing what are objects that cannot be explained.  It is an instance where two images have been taken, and one is a ‘ghost’, and in the case of the aeroplane, it could have been flying very low over the area in question when the photo was taken.

So.

What if …

Someone was using the map program to look at various places, places that did not get the usual public scrutiny, or perhaps not at all.

After all, what does one do with the leisure hours when there’s nothing else to do?

Mick was a tramper, one of those people who liked to trail blaze, find new paths through forests and make odd discoveries, one of which, several years before, had uncovered a lost village of some archaeological value.

He sees what seems to be wreckage dispersed in the forest, notes the date of the photograph, nearly a year before, and checks newspapers and media sources for any news of missing small lanes, but discovers none.

But just in case his mind is playing tricks, he asks a friend to come and verify the discovery, and, lo and behold, it is no longer there.

Perhaps it was his imagination, wanting to find something.

Until he checked the date of the photograph and notes it’s been updated to another, a year later.

With nothing else to do, perhaps it was time for another walking holiday, and to see what was there.