I guess before you actually begin writing, or planning, or however it will be when you finally get started, there are a number of preparations to be made, and advice to be taken.
Advice is always good, and today’s is probably more relevant in a few months when the creativity might start flagging.
Writing a novel requires stamina and dedication. That saying ‘when the going gets tough, the tough get going’ is probably a sign on the wall of your writing room.
But that’s only one aspect of this particular item.
It is also relevant when you’ve finally finished the novel, firstly when you sit down and do that first reading, before the editing, or perhaps that first edit.
You are going to think perhaps it’s not as good as you thought it would be.
No, we don’t think like that. it can be fixed by some editing, by you or someone else. Just remember all those days, weeks, and months you put into it, working your fingers to the bone, sharpening the two hundred pencils you wrote it with. Or smudgy biros or leaking ink pens.
Don’t lose heart.
Don’t give up.
There are days when I write absolute drivel, but I always go back, rewrite, re-read, and rewrite until I’m happy.
That first draft is just the ideas, strung together, that will, eventually become that best-selling novel.
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 prioritising.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
An interrogation and a revelation.
…
I think I just about reached that same conclusion just seconds before she uttered it. But, I didn’t think this was the time to air my own thoughts on the matter.
The question I did ask was, “It appears our service has been compromised.”
She glanced at me almost condescendingly. “It appears so. Have you got your cell phone?”
I had it with me and gave it to her. I had it ready because I knew they would ask for it. It had a record of orders given, and phone conversations made, before, during, and after the operation.
For a review, or in this case, a search for the guilty.
I watched her put in the passcode, and go to the messages, and bring up the one sent to me, to attend the briefing. It was all in order, no different to the previous five, with all the right designations and protocols.
“There was no reason to suspect it was anything but a real callout.”
Another glance at the screen, she put it on the desk next to the file. “No, it looks real enough.”
Thought best kept to myself; how the hell did someone outside our organisation, know so well our inner workings? I wanted to ask the question but refrained from doing so.
It also explained, now that I thought about it, the reason why the target had said he was one of us. We had been hunting him so someone else, and enemy organisation perhaps, so they could kill him. The question was, why? Had he made a discovery, the evidence he was referring to that a certain Alfred Nobbin might have.
Perhaps a good idea, for the time being, to keep that snippet of information to myself. After all, this new person in front of me could be one of Severin’s people.
Where I was sitting was not a familiar place to me, though I had been to the building before, which is why I knew where to go for this interview. AS for the people, everyone I’d met so far, other than the other team members, bar one, I’d known from training.
So, now another expected question from me, or at least, if I was on the other side of the table, it’s one I’d expect to be asked. “Just who was I working for, if it was not for us?”
Assuming she was one of us.
“That’s what we intend to find out. Who was the target?”
I gave her the description we’d been given, and a copy of his photograph that had been circulated at the briefing. I’d kept one of them, and luckily no one noticed it missing. It was fortuitous that’s I’d copied the photo before I had to give it to her, which was right then.
There was not a flicker of recognition in her eyes.
“So, not one of us?” I asked.
For an interrogation, she wasn’t asking many relevant questions.
She looked up. “Why would you say that, if your mission was to keep him under surveillance?”
“Which we now know was not sanctioned, so we have to assume that we had been persuaded to find and track one of our own agents. You look as though you didn’t recognise him?”
“I don’t try to remember every agent we have in the field, here and overseas. There a few too many for that. But I’ve got a request out for his identity. He didn’t say who he was?”
“No.”
“Anything at all that might be useful?”
“That he was one of us, who’d made a mistake, and feared we’d set the dogs on him.”
Not much of a revelation when it’s winter, but why is it when you have to go somewhere in a hurry, the universe knows, and tries to throw everything at you so you don’t get there on time?
I like to be punctual.
I’m one of those people who leave home to get to the airport hours before I have to because I know, from past experience, that if you leave at the time where you’d make it with an hour to spare, you would get stuck in the mother of all traffic jams.
I know this to be true. It’s happened more than once to me,
If you’re not in a hurry, you get the best run you’ve ever had. I know that’s true too, because that’s what happens most times.
It’s like when at work you’re in a hurry to get a photocopy. The machine knows if you’re stressed and picks that particular moment to break down. That use to happen to me more times that I’d had hot dinners.
Sorry, I needed to use that expression, which generally means a lot. That photocopy machine, back in the days when they were huge and almost a new fad, my task every Tuesday was to copy a 3 page shipping report, 300 odd times. Not once did I get a clean run, not in the two years it was my job.
But…
Back to the weather.
My day to pick up one of the grandchildren from the railway station. It’s not far from our house, on any other day it would take about ten minutes, but since this is after 3 pm, I have the other school traffic to contend with, the tradies going home, and late afternoon shoppers getting dinner.
It never used to be like that. The road was a single lane that used to be blocked by floods when it rained, there was no shopping centre, and no new estates. In 30 years everything has arrived, the road expanded to two lanes either side, and almost continual traffic jams.
There’s a story there somewhere, but for the moment I have to take on the traffic. Maybe once I get to the station I might have time to consider it.
So after that rather undramatic ‘off with the fairies’ moment, it’s time to come back to earth. Holiday or not, there’s always something that can go wrong.
Even when you’ve been told to take some vacation days and reluctantly stay home. The notion that vacation meant going away somewhere doesn’t enter Bill’s mind.
Perhaps he’s like a lot of workaholics, using their job as an excuse to forget about life outside work.
Maybe he was hoping something would go wrong. Maybe he had considered manufacturing a problem so that he would have to go back.
Maybe not, but that was the sort of employee he was, not one that could willingly take a day away, just in case.
Like now.
I’d almost managed to doze off again when the phone rang.
I jumped to its equally shrill sound cutting through the silence. It had to be a wrong number because no one at work would call me, and I didn’t have many friends, so I let it ring out. As far as I could remember, it was only the third time it had rung since I’d moved in, four years ago.
Blissful silence. I looked at the bedside clock. 7 am. Who called anyone at that hour?
It rang again.
Ignore it, I thought. If it was anyone, it would be someone from the office. I’d told them all not to call me, not unless the building was burning down and they were all trapped in it.
And even then, I’d have to think about it.
Burying my head under the pillow didn’t shut out the insistent ringing, compelling me to answer. Almost reluctantly I rolled back, pulled the telephone out from under the bed, and lifted the receiver to my ear.
“Bill?”
It was Carl Benton, my immediate superior; an insipid, loathsome, irritating little man, the last person I would want to speak to. He’d insisted I take this leave, that the office could survive without me, adding in his most condescending manner that I needed the break.
I slammed the receiver down in anger. It was a forlorn gesture. Seconds later, it rang again.
“I seem to remember you were the one to tell me to go on holiday, that I needed a holiday. I’m off the roster. It can’t be that important. Call someone else.” I wasn’t going to give him the opportunity to speak. Not this morning. I was not in the mood to listen to that squeaky, falsetto voice of his, one that always turned into a whine when he didn’t get his way.
And hung up again.
Not that it would do any good. I knew that even if I was in Tibet, he would still call. Then I realized it was too early for him to be in the office, and if he was, he would have been dragged out of bed and put in a position where if he didn’t produce results, they might realize just how incompetent he was.
At last, my holiday had some meaning and smiled to myself. I’d make the bastard sweat.
He left it a few minutes before he rang again. And I let it ring out. I could see the expression on his face, bewilderment, changing slowly into suffused anger. How dare I ignore him!
Another five minutes, then the phone began its shrill insistence again. Before it rang again, I’d moved it from the floor to the bed. I counted the rings, to ten, and then picked up the receiver.
“Bill? Don’t hang up.” Almost pleading.
“Why? You said I should go, away from work, away from the phones, away to recharge my batteries, I believe you said.”
“That was Friday. This is Monday. You’re needed. Richardson has been found shot dead by his desk. All hell has broken loose!” Benton rarely used adjectives, so I assumed when he said all hell had broken loose, it meant something had happened he couldn’t fix. His flowery language and telegram style had momentarily distracted my attention from Richardson’s fate.
Harold Richardson was an accountant, rather stuffy, but good at his job. I’d spoken to him probably twice in as many years, and he didn’t strike me as the sort who would kill himself. So why did I think that? Benton had only said he was shot.
Benton’s voice went up an octave, a sure sign he was going into meltdown. “It’s a circus down here. Jennifer is missing, Giles is not in yet, the network is down, and that bunch of nincompoops you call support staff are running around the office like headless chooks.”
It all came out in a nonstop sentence, followed by a gasp for air. It gave me time to sift the facts. Jennifer, my sometime assistant, and responsible for data entry and accounts maintenance, was not there, which in itself was unusual, because she kept longer hours than me, Peter Giles, my youthful assistant, just out of university and still being beaten into shape was not in, and that was usual, so it could only mean one thing.
Beijing west railway station is about eight kilometers from the Forbidden City, located at East Lianhuachi Road, Fengtai District. Most trains traveling between south central, southwest, northwest, and south China are boarded here.
This place is huge and there are so many people here, perhaps the other half of Beijing’s population that wasn’t in the forbidden city.
Getting into the station looked like it was going to be fraught with danger but the tour guide got us into the right queue and then arranged for a separate scanner for the group to help keep us all together
Then we decided to take the VIP service and got to waiting room no 13, the VIP service waiting room which was full to overflowing. Everyone today was a VIP. We got the red hat guy to lead us to a special area away from the crowd.
Actually, it was on the other side of the gate, away from the hoards sitting or standing patiently in the waiting room. It gave us a chance to get something to eat before the long train ride.
The departure is at 4 pm, the train number was G655, and we were told the trains leave on time. As it is a high-speed train, stops are far and few between, but we’re lucky, this time, in that we don’t have to count stations to know where to get off.
We’re going to the end of the line.
However, it was interesting to note the stops which, in each case, were brief, and you had to be ready to get off in a hurry.
These stops were Shijiazhuang, Zhengzhou East, Luoyang Longmen, Huashan North, and Weinan North. At night, you could see the lights of these cities from a distance and were like oases in the middle of a desert. During the day, the most prominent features were high rise apartment blocks and power stations.
A train ride with a difference
China’s high-speed trains, also known as bullet or fast trains, can reach a top speed of 350 km/h (217 mph).
Over 2,800 pairs of bullet trains numbered by G, D or C run daily connecting over 550 cities in China and covering 33 of the country’s 34 provinces. Beijing-Shanghai high-speed train link the two megacities 1,318 km (819 mi) away in just 4.5 hours.
By 2019, China keeps the world’s largest high-speed rail (HSR) network with a length totaling over 35,000 km (21,750 mi).
To make the five and a half hours go quicker we keep an eye on the speed which hovers between 290 and 305 kph, and sitting there with our camera waiting for the speed to hit 305 which is a rare occurrence, and then, for 306 and then for 307, which happened when we all took a stroll up to the restaurant car to find there had nothing to eat.
I got a strange flavored drink for 20 yuan.
There was a lady manning a trolley that had some food, and fresh, maybe, fruit on it, and she had a sense of humor if not much English.
We didn’t but anything but the barrel of caramel popcorn looked good.
The good thing was, after hovering around 298, and 299 kph, it finally hit 300.
We get to the end of the line, and there is an announcement in Chinese that we don’t understand and attempts to find out if it is the last station fall on deaf ears, probably more to do with the language barrier than anything else.
Then, suddenly the train conductor, the lady with the red hat, comes and tells us it is, and we have fifteen minutes, so we’re now hurrying to get off.
As the group was are scattered up and down the platform, we all come together and we go down the escalator, and, at the bottom, we see the trip-a-deal flags.
X’ian,and the Xi’an North Railway Station
Xi’an North Railway Station is one of the most important transportation hubs of the Chinese high-speed rail network. It is about 8.7 miles (14 km) from Bell Tower (city center) and is located at the intersection of the Weiyang Road and Wenjing Road in Weiyang District.
This time we have a male guide, Sam, who meets us at the end of the platform after we have disembarked. We have a few hiccups before we head to the bus. Some of our travelers are not on his list, but with the other group. Apparently a trip-a-deal mix-up or miscommunication perhaps.
Then it’s another long walk with bags to the bus. Good thing its a nicely air-conditioned newish bus, and there’s water, and beer for 10 yuan. How could you pass up a tsing tao for that price?
Xi’an is a very brightly lit up city at night with wide roads. It is very welcoming, and a surprise for a city of 10 million out in the middle of China.
As with all hotels, it’s about a 50-minute drive from the railway station and we are all tired by the time we get there.
Tomorrow’s program will be up at 6, on the bus 8.40 and off to the soldiers, 2.00 late lunch, then train station to catch the 4.00 train, that will arrive 2 hours later at the next stop. A not so late night this time.
The Grand Noble Hotel
Grand Noble Hotel Xi’an is located in the most prosperous business district within the ancient city wall in the center of Xi’an.
The Grand Noble Hotel, like the Friendship Hotel, had a very flash foyer with tons of polished marble. It sent out warning signals, but when we got to our room, we found it to be absolutely stunning. More room, a large bathroom, air conditioning the works.
Only one small problem, as in Beijing the lighting is inadequate. Other than that it’s what I would call a five-star hotel. This one is definitely better than the Friendship Hotel.
In the center of the city, very close to the bell tower, one of the few ancient buildings left in Xi’an. It is also in the middle of a larger roundabout and had a guard with a machine gun.
Sadly there was no time for city center sightseeing.
What happened at a Russian missile site? This is also tinged with nuclear fallout.
The US is consulting with allies in Asia about missile sites. Nothing more inflammatory to a country like China, with whom relations are deteriorating at a rapid rate of knots.
Investors rush to buy bonds. OK, that’s short term bonds not long term bonds, and that, of course, caused an inverted curve, or a preclusion to a recession.
Gold and silver investment is booming, and in times past, this could be a precursor to war.
China has a huge fishing fleet in the South China Sea. Why, no one knows.
China is also planning naval exercises in the same area. Are they flexing muscles or sending a warning?
They’ve also had problems in Hong Kong, but it didn’t escalate into what happened at Tiananmen Square. But, bottom line, Hong Kong is not a place to go to or stop over any more because of a constant threat of being arrested. I’m certainly never going there again, which is a shame because it was my second favorite Asian city after Singapore.
And, of course, there’s another flashpoint in Kashmir, which everyone seems to have an opinion, but that had been simmering for a long, long time, and probably will for years to come.
And as for the former world power, the UK, they have got past Brexit, or have they?
So, from a thriller writer’s perspective, it means that if Russia is rearming, the US is trying to pre-empt missile strikes from China, or anything is simmering in North Korea which currently doesn’t seem to be the case, it seems the savvier investors have a notion the world might be on the brink of war, and the US might be in the middle of it all.
The US appears:
to be in a trade war with China, or perhaps a war of words
are selling billions worth of arms to Taiwan, a red rag to a bull if there was ever one
are offering to help out in Kashmir
are sending ships to the South China sea to show the ‘flag’
are standing back and watching North Korea launch missiles
are emphatically denying there will be a recession, at least at home
Can we get a plot line out of all this?
Title: Flashpoint
Synopsis:
A leaked report on a Russian missile base suggests a recent ‘mishap’ with disarming ‘old nuclear missiles’, was more than just routine issue, and a flyover by satellite shows there are more sinister and unexplainable operations in play.
Meanwhile, the arrival of a Russian nuclear specialist and a group of Chinese scientists in North Korea is quickly followed by several missile tests a week later. Are the North Koreans, with the help of the Chinese, looking to arm their missiles with Russian nuclear warheads?
The CIA has sent two of their best operatives to find out what is really going on, one, Sam Stockton, borne of Russian parents, and who has yet to exorcise his demons from the last failed mission, and the other, Elizabeth Chen, a North Korean expert who is coming out of retirement for this particular delicate assignment.
Will they discover the truth before the world descends into a nuclear holocaust?
David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.
Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.
They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?
When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.
When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.
Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.
In Beijing Hutongs are formed by lines of traditional courtyard residences, called siheyuan. Neighborhoods were formed by joining many hutongs together. These siheyuan are the traditional residences, usually occupied by a single or extended family, signifying wealth, and prosperity.
Over 500 of these still exist.Many of these hutongs have been demolished, but recently they have become protected places as a means of preserving some Chinese cultural history. They were first established in the Yuan Dynasty (1279-1368)Many of these Hutongs had their main buildings and gates built facing south, and lanes connecting them to other hutongs also ran north to south.
Many hutongs, some several hundred years old, in the vicinity of the Bell Tower and Drum Tower and Shichahai Lake are preserved and abound with tourists, many of which tour the quarter in pedicabs.
The optional tour also includes a visit to Shichahai, a historic scenic area consisting of three lakes (Qianhai, meaning Front Sea; Houhai, meaning Back Sea and Xihai, meaning West Sea), surrounding places of historic interest and scenic beauty and remnants of old-style local residences, Hutong and Courtyard.
First, we had a short walk through the more modern part of the Hutong area and given some free time for shopping, but we prefer just to meander by the canal.
There is a lake, and if we had the time, there were boats you could take.
With some time to spare, we take a quick walk down one of the alleyways where on the ground level are small shops, and above, living quarters.
Then we go to the bell and drum towers before walking through some more alleys was to where the rickshaws were waiting. The Bell tower
And the Drum tower. Both still working today.
The rickshaw ride took us through some more back streets where it was clear renovations were being made so that the area could apply for world heritage listing. Seeing inside some of the houses shows that they may look dumpy outside but that’s not the case inside.
The rickshaw ride ends outside the house where dinner will be served, and is a not so typical hose but does have all the elements of how the Chinese live, the boy’s room, the girl’s room, the parent’s room, the living area, and the North-south feng shui.
Shortly after we arrive, the cricket man, apparently someone quite famous in Beijing arrives and tells us all about crickets and then grasshoppers, then about cricket racing. He is animated and clearly enjoys entertaining us westerners.
I’m sorry but the cricket stuff just didn’t interest me. Or the grasshoppers.
As for dinner, it was finally a treat to eat what the typical Chinese family eats, and everything was delicious, and the endless beer was a nice touch.
And the last surprise, the food was cooked by a man.
Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
So after that rather undramatic ‘off with the fairies’ moment, it’s time to come back to earth. Holiday or not, there’s always something that can go wrong.
Even when you’ve been told to take some vacation days and reluctantly stay home. The notion that vacation meant going away somewhere doesn’t enter Bill’s mind.
Perhaps he’s like a lot of workaholics, using their job as an excuse to forget about life outside work.
Maybe he was hoping something would go wrong. Maybe he had considered manufacturing a problem so that he would have to go back.
Maybe not, but that was the sort of employee he was, not one that could willingly take a day away, just in case.
Like now.
I’d almost managed to doze off again when the phone rang.
I jumped to its equally shrill sound cutting through the silence. It had to be a wrong number because no one at work would call me, and I didn’t have many friends, so I let it ring out. As far as I could remember, it was only the third time it had rung since I’d moved in, four years ago.
Blissful silence. I looked at the bedside clock. 7 am. Who called anyone at that hour?
It rang again.
Ignore it, I thought. If it was anyone, it would be someone from the office. I’d told them all not to call me, not unless the building was burning down and they were all trapped in it.
And even then, I’d have to think about it.
Burying my head under the pillow didn’t shut out the insistent ringing, compelling me to answer. Almost reluctantly I rolled back, pulled the telephone out from under the bed, and lifted the receiver to my ear.
“Bill?”
It was Carl Benton, my immediate superior; an insipid, loathsome, irritating little man, the last person I would want to speak to. He’d insisted I take this leave, that the office could survive without me, adding in his most condescending manner that I needed the break.
I slammed the receiver down in anger. It was a forlorn gesture. Seconds later, it rang again.
“I seem to remember you were the one to tell me to go on holiday, that I needed a holiday. I’m off the roster. It can’t be that important. Call someone else.” I wasn’t going to give him the opportunity to speak. Not this morning. I was not in the mood to listen to that squeaky, falsetto voice of his, one that always turned into a whine when he didn’t get his way.
And hung up again.
Not that it would do any good. I knew that even if I was in Tibet, he would still call. Then I realized it was too early for him to be in the office, and if he was, he would have been dragged out of bed and put in a position where if he didn’t produce results, they might realize just how incompetent he was.
At last, my holiday had some meaning and smiled to myself. I’d make the bastard sweat.
He left it a few minutes before he rang again. And I let it ring out. I could see the expression on his face, bewilderment, changing slowly into suffused anger. How dare I ignore him!
Another five minutes, then the phone began its shrill insistence again. Before it rang again, I’d moved it from the floor to the bed. I counted the rings, to ten, and then picked up the receiver.
“Bill? Don’t hang up.” Almost pleading.
“Why? You said I should go, away from work, away from the phones, away to recharge my batteries, I believe you said.”
“That was Friday. This is Monday. You’re needed. Richardson has been found shot dead by his desk. All hell has broken loose!” Benton rarely used adjectives, so I assumed when he said all hell had broken loose, it meant something had happened he couldn’t fix. His flowery language and telegram style had momentarily distracted my attention from Richardson’s fate.
Harold Richardson was an accountant, rather stuffy, but good at his job. I’d spoken to him probably twice in as many years, and he didn’t strike me as the sort who would kill himself. So why did I think that? Benton had only said he was shot.
Benton’s voice went up an octave, a sure sign he was going into meltdown. “It’s a circus down here. Jennifer is missing, Giles is not in yet, the network is down, and that bunch of nincompoops you call support staff are running around the office like headless chooks.”
It all came out in a nonstop sentence, followed by a gasp for air. It gave me time to sift the facts. Jennifer, my sometime assistant, and responsible for data entry and accounts maintenance, was not there, which in itself was unusual, because she kept longer hours than me, Peter Giles, my youthful assistant, just out of university and still being beaten into shape was not in, and that was usual, so it could only mean one thing.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 