The process of writing is rewriting editing and more rewriting.
The other day l wrote some words. I didn’t like them. But it had laid the groundwork for a second draft.
Here it is:
Growing up I did not believe l had one of those lovable faces.
My brother, known in school as the best looking boy of his graduating class, said it was a face only a mother could love.
He was mean.
Simone, a girl who was a friend, not a girlfriend, said my face had character.
She was charming and polite.
Looking now, in the mirror, l decided I’d aged gracefully.
I could truthfully say my brother had not, but that was as far as the comparison went.
My overachieving brother was the epitome of success in business, a veritable god zillionaire. Everything he touched turned to gold.
My ultra successful sister, Penelope, had married into the right family perhaps by chance, but she was also a very learned scholar whose life was divided between her chair and the university and her social life with the rich and famous.
Then there was me.
I gave up on my chance at university because l was not the scholarly sort and didn’t last long. Sadly l was the first of my family to be sent down from Oxford.
Instead, l took on a series of professions such as seasonal laborer, farmhand, factory worker, and lastly, night watchman. At least now I had a uniform and looked like I’d made something of myself.
It would not be enough for my parents who every year didn’t say it out loud but the disappointment was always there in their expressions.
My brother in his usual blunt manner said l was a loser and would never change.
My sister was not quite so blunt. She simply said it was disappointing so much potential was going to waste. I only asked her once what she meant and lost me after the first four-syllable word.
Finally, I’d taken their comments to heart and decided l would not be going home to the family Christmas holiday reunion.
I told my boss l was available to work the night shift over the holidays, the shift no one else wanted.
It was he said the time for reflection. He hated his family as much as I did so we would be able to lament our bad luck though the long cold hours from dusk till dawn.
It was 3 a.m. and it was like standing on the exact epicenter of the North Pole. I’d just stepped from the warehouse into the car park.
The car was covered in snow. The weather was clear now, but more snow was coming.
It was going to be a white Christmas, all I needed. I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.
As I approached my car, the light went on in an SUV parked next to my car. The door opened and what looked to be a woman was climbing down from the driver’s seat.
She closed the door and leaned against the side of the car. “Graham?”
It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time, my ultra-successful sister, Penelope. From what I could see, she didn’t look too well.
“What do you want?”
“Help.”
My help, I was the last person to help her or anyone for that matter. But curiosity got the better of me. “Why?”
“Because my husband is trying to kill me.”
The instant the last word left her lips I saw her jerk back into the car, and then start sliding down to the ground. There was no mistaking the red streak following her as she fell.
She’d been shot from what could be a sniper rifle, which meant …
It still needs work but I’ve got the gist of where I want to go.
The idea is not to make a character so loathsome no one would want to read about him.
This will evolve and you can if you like come along for the ride!
This is what we saw driving along the Coquihalla Highway in Canada, a rather infamous stretch of road featured on the Discovery Channel, and yes, we saw a number of cars and trucks off the side of the road, and not in a good way
The road was iced over in place, and driving was difficult, but on the plus side the scenery was spectacular, and it was hard not to be distracted when driving.
But, inspiration for a story? It might go something like this:
…
Arty was adamant that he knew the best where man in the business.
That might gave been true if he was in the middle of the city where there were endless tests and turns that could be used to lost chasing police vehicles.
But that didn’t apply to the open road, and one that was think with ice and snow, even if it had recently been cleared.
But that wasn’t as bad as the fact that we had got free of the city, lost the pursuing cars, changed vehicles, and got away free.
All he had to fo was follow the road.
Except Arty had a temper, and getting stuck behind an old van going ever so slowly on the road, caused him to first blast them with horn, then start doing dangerous accelations up behind them, and then attempt to overtake on a bend in the road.
That might not have been so bad if there had not been an oncoming car, but there was.
Even that might not have been so bad if the car had not been a police vehicle.
But the real kicker: Arty lost control of the car and we went sailing off the edge of the road into a ravine, landing on soft ice which after a minute started cracking and then gave way.
The last place I wanted to be was to be sinking into a freezing cold river, but there we were, all frantically trying to get out.
Fortunately, I did, but not before I was soaking wet, and almost frozen. The rest didn’t make it.
This is one of those images that could be anywhere.
So, here’s the problem:
Ethan was reluctant to agree to go to the stag night, knowing firstly, that the others going were a bit too unruly when they had too many drinks, secondly, that they had to agree to not know where they were being taken by the bus, and thirdly, anything they saw or did had to remain completely confidential.
That was particularly the case when it came to the ‘stag’.
In that case, Ethan knew exactly what this night was going to be, hours of unrelenting debauchery.
And, since Ethan was the stag’s brother, and he was the best man, there was no way he could wriggle his way out of this one.
On top of that, Ethan had to promise the bride to be that he would not let her husband to be go too far. That statement, of course, was like a box full of hand grenades. He didn’t ask for a definition of too far.
So, seven sober, respectable, hard-working junior executives in suits that were worth more than Ethan’s annual salary boarded the bus.
What happened from that moment the bus drove off, until Ethan’s brother’s body was found floating face down in the river behind the resort, handcuffed to a naked girl in a rubber dinghy, barely alive from an overdose, was anyone’s guess, and Ethan’s worst nightmare.
Especially when he was the last one to see his brother, and the girl, alive.
And, no, this is not based on a real-life experience, though in recurring nightmares I’m the one floating fase down in the river.
This is a residential tower down at the Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia, with every apartment on the beachside overlooking the ocean.
There could almost be a Die Gard scenarion going on here, but I like the idea of a drama unfolding in the penthouse, like
The husband comes home and finds the wife with her personal trainer, who is getting too personal, and he is about to thrown him over the balcony. That’s a long way down.
Uber eats arrive at the door, but it’s really two wannabe ransomers who take the daughter, tie her up, then start making absurd demands, and the daughter almost throws the two of them over the balcony.
But, not one to miss an opportunity, or get her stepmother, who is younger than her, into all sorts of trouble.
The brother of the owner, a single father is killed in a freak accident, and his son has to be taken in, brought back to the penthouse, and thinks he’s struck it rich. The conniving brat is about to be taught a lesson he’ll never forget when he discovers all is not what it seems.
Or my absolute favorite, I win the lottery, move into the apartment, and so do the other 27 layabout members of my family.
This is an inlet near Port Macquarie in northern New South Wales. It is adjacent to a caravan and camping park, close to the ocean and parklands.
But, for our purposes, this scene is going to have a few more interesting connotations than just a few campers going for a jog along the beach, fishing in the estuary, or further out to sea on the other side of the wall in the background.
Firstly, to my favorite kind of story, a spy story…
It’s basically the evil billionaire’s backyard to his island hideaway, and our hero intends to come ashore at night and do battle with the guards, break into the underground holding cells and save the girl.
As always, saving the world comes second!
Or, it’s a place like Fantasy Island, without the landing strip on the beach, where people come to have their fantasies fulfilled. OK, to start there are no robots that are going to go berserk, that’s so ten years ago.
And, no, the hosts won’t be dressed in white safari suits. They went out in the 70s.
Then, I suppose, a story that I like, about people who have secrets, people who are broken, people who just want to get away from everyone else, come to this island where they can live in anonymity, without having to interact with anyone unless they want to.
If ever I needed a reminder that my understanding of women was appallingly bad, was the after I took Jennifer Eccles home.
Of course, I didn’t read the signals, that the invitation to come in for coffee was an invitation to explore where a relationship might go.
Instead, I dropped her off and said I would see her in the morning. It was an informative if not frosty day and in the end a nice enough parting, but not one that I interpreted as an opportunity to move forward.
Friends, I’d said, and friends of a sort it was.
Because she was in sales and I was in marketing, our paths crossed constantly, so there was no room for animosity or regrets. If things didn’t work out, if that is, things were to ever to progress.
And to be honest, I was careful not to let romance rule what happened at work. My father had made a mess if his life with an improper office romance, and I was determined not to let it happen to me.
So, after the tour date, if you could call it that, we reverted to being just colleagues, but it was evident we got along very well, to a point where it had been noticed, and asked to work together, side by side, rather than in different areas.
Something else I’d noticed about her, she toyed with all the boys, some might say she was a teaser, but I think it was her manner to be extroverted and flirt. It was on us not to misinterpret her actions and act accordingly.
And, after about six weeks, relaxed in each other’s company, there was a slight shift in the relationship, where for a moment, our eyes met and lingered.
I blinked first.
“Would you like to go for a bite, talk about something other than work?” I asked.
I was not sure what to make of her expression, but it went from perhaps slightly puzzled, to a wry smile.
“I’d love to, thank you. I’m a bit guilty myself with the all work, no play…”
“It’s why we’re here, I guess.”
…
I offered to pick her up from her place and take her to dinner. My choice! I suspect she would be happy with a hamburger, but that was not what she would expect.
There was something else, I was going to see what she wore, having had one girl base what she wore on where I was taking her. For that reason, we only went to a nightclub once.
Jennifer had a long, flowing dress that suggested somewhere formal, so it was going to be fine dining. Something else I noticed, once removed from the office, and taking leave of her work-based demeanor, that she was almost someone who was barely recognizable from the woman I worked side by side with up to 12 hours a day.
I had to wonder for a moment if the girl I was seeing now was Jennifer’s twin sister, or simply an alternative ego. And there was the issue I had with dating at work, that it would be easy to fall for this version.
But we were both in agreement this was not a date, just two colleagues having dinner, and not talking about work.
The question was where we expected to be in five years’ time.
It was a question that I’d not normally think about, but it was one of those questions people who were interested in other people liked to ask.
I delivered my answer with usual candor. By now she had a good idea of what she could expect, and I wasn’t going to change, or surprise her.
“Not here,” I said.
That was the one thing I was certain of. Whether we succeeded or failed, we will have all moved on to someplace else. Very few were asked to remain, either as an ordained executive on the way to the top or in a training capacity.
“Because?”
Was she interested in staying, or did she have an indication she might be one of the ordained executives? It was a nice city, smallish enough to have the best of both worlds, and the countryside was not far away. That begged the question of whether her aspirations were based on being safe, rather than taking risks.
Ambition is one thing, but real ambition always came with taking a risk or two. I knew from the outset I was not the overly ambitious type and being surrounded by a group that had only made that abundantly clear.
But that didn’t mean I didn’t have a clear idea of what I really wanted out of life. I was less sure about my ideal partner to spend the rest of my life with.
“I always wanted to live near the ocean, not necessarily in the city. In my mind’seye, there’s a large house on a cliff overlooking the ocean, the aroma of salt water when the breeze is blowing in odd the sea. Not far from the mountains, hiking in summer, skiing in winter.”
“And work-wise, where do you see yourself?”
“Preferably not in an office. The idea of working eighteen hours a day for someone else doesn’t hold much appeal. The point is, only a few make it to the top, but I have the fear if I did make it, it wouldn’t last, because you have the expectations of many on your shoulders, and you only have to make one mistake…”
“But isn’t that the reason why you aspire to get to the top? You don’t want to think much beyond that, or, as you say, you wouldn’t necessarily do it.”
A point, and a good one. Most people never think of the consequences of being so driven that everything ends up being sacrificed for what is only an ideal. I saw that happen with people close to me, and I vowed I would not be that person.
And yet, I was going down that path. It wasn’t something I’d expected to discover about myself.
All of this soul searching had been going on alongside a three-course meal with wineand topped off by French champagne, what I could only describe as a gastronomic triumph.
That voyage of self-discovery had come to the end with coffee, and Jennifer explained what her ideas were for the figure, which, like me, having put it into words, had caused moments of pause.
In the end, she stood, and it was time to go. It had been an experience, but the idea before the evening started that I would walk away with a different perspective was entirely unexpected. And that I could reach those conclusions with her, well, I never expected that.
By the time we reached the car we were holding hands, a subconscious action, I was sure, on both our parts.
It was a clear, cool night, clear sky, and almost a full moon making it lighter than normal. It was almost as if the moonbeams were directed at us.
I had only one thought.
There was a wan smile as if she knew what I was thinking.
“Right idea, but bad timing. But it’s the best non-date date I’ve ever been on. It’s going to be hard for you to top this.”
This is Railway Hotel in Gympie, adjacent to the old Gympie station
Just the name Railway Hotel conjured up a lot of interesting connotations. There’s one in almost every rural town that has Railway station, or perhaps a Junction Hotel, a Railway Hotel, or a Terminus Hotel.
And, once upon a time, there were nearly 600 of them, up until the 1920s, ubiquitous hotels build to house the people building the railways, and, then, when they were finished a lot disappeared, but a lot also remained to service the railway station and passengers coming and going.
These days, these old hotels that still exist are anachronisms of a bygone age, rather ornate wooden structures with big rooms and communal bathrooms, bars, saloons, and dining rooms, and only those curious about the past would stay there.
I’ve stayed in a few myself.
But, as for a story, well, the older, the better, because these would have ghosts.
They could also have infamous pasts, like a fire that destroys only part of the hotel, signs of which form part of the character.
A doorway into a now hidden room closed off because of something horrible happening there, could suddenly become a portal, where stepping through takes you back to the time of the event.
In fact, I’m in the mood to write just such a story…
Worthington was in a state, now realizing that he had become a target, and immediately assumes it was Zoe on the end of the sniper rifle.
He considers calling John and telling him what just happened, but if Zoe was there with him…
No, better to attend to the problems at hand. Arabella wasn’t dead, but it had come very close. And, he suspected, it was because he had asked her to get a drink for him, and if she had not moved, the damage would be far less.
It was important then to go to the hospital with her and make sure he was then when she woke up to explain what just happened. If she would ever speak to him again, that is.
Meanwhile, John is ‘collected’ at his hotel, and taken to Olga. When he wakes up in a rather quaint bedroom or what seems to be a house in the countryside, he only remembers being in the hotel, then nothing.
When he is escorted to the meeting room, it is not the sort of interrogation he was expecting but is fascinated with the old Russian woman who claims to be Zoe’s mentor and teacher, and says that she has no interest in harming him, she only wants Zoe back.
John works out that the woman is in fact Alistair’s mother and presses her for more information about Zoe.
…
Today’s writing, with Zoe languishing in a dungeon waiting for a white knight, 1,771 words, for a total of 57,988..
This is countryside somewhere inside the Lamington National Park in Queensland. It was one of those days where the rain come and went…
We were spending a week there, in the middle of nowhere on a working macadamia farm in a cottage, one of four, recuperating from a long exhausting lockdown.
It was not cold, and we were able to sit out of the verandah for most of the day, watching the rain come and pass over on its way up the valley, listing to the gentle pitter-patter of the rain on the roof and nearby leaves.
But as for inspiration:
This would be the ideal setting for a story about life, failed romance, or a couple looking to find what it was they lost.
It could be a story about recovering from a breakdown, or a tragic loss, to be anywhere else but in the middle of dealing with the constant reminders of what they had.
It could be a safe house, and as we all know, safe houses in stories are rarely safe houses, where it is given away by someone inside the program, or the person who it’s assigned to give it away because they can’t do as they’re supposed to; lay low.
Then there’s camping, the great outdoors, for someone who absolutely hates being outdoors, or those who go hunting, and sometimes become the hunted.
Every time I went out with friends, no one ever asked my opinion about anything, and I never really ventured one, and it had been that way all my life.
It came from learning at a very young age that I should listen not prattle and speak only when spoken to.
All through school I spent most of my time studying alone, or with one or two others who wanted to help with their schoolwork, and I think that after a while I’d become a definitive nerd.
Things changed a little when I went to university and found there were quite a few just like me, and we sort of gravitated towards each other.
After that, getting a job, I still found myself more or less keeping my own company though from time to time one or other of my contemporaries would ask I’d I was going to the drinks after work on Friday night, which usually I avoided.
My contemporaries were a little too outgoing for a self-confessed boring person.
Then things changed, a promotion to a different branch in an office in the next state, with new people and a different atmosphere, fuelled a desire to break the mold I’d created for myself.
It was time to be more outgoing.
…
What kicked off the new attitude was a meeting of department heads. I found that the company had brought together a group of people, hovering in the middle management group, of which I was only one of about a dozen of similar age, experience, and qualifications.
It was an interesting meeting because it was addressed by the current CEO, a man who was rarely seen out of head office, on the other side of the country. We were, he said, the up-and-coming future of the company, and our time in this particular branch would determine our trajectory.
So much easier then to crash and burn.
I was last to leave the room, with much to ponder.
“You’re new, aren’t you?” One of the female attendees had been talking to several others, then turned her attention to me.
“Two weeks on Thursday, but yes.”
I’d see her at various times during the last week, in different parts of the building, leaving me to think she had some sort of managerial role. It was no surprise to learn she was in sales.
“Jennifer Eccles.”
‘Daniel Wells.”
We shook hands, which was a surprise.
“New to the city then?” She asked.
“I am. I’m still working on what I want to see, but there’s plenty of time for that. I have a mountain of reading to get through.”
“You know the saying, all work, and no play…”
She had a look about her that suggested she might be the life of the party, certainly if the meeting was anything to go by, the center of attention.
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
…
I had made our acquaintances in the first week, Oliver Birtwhistle, another introvert like myself, a candidate settling into research and development, right down to the white coat and pencil pack in the pocket.
He had also been at the meeting, and had Bern at the company for three months and had been giving me the drill, who to avoid, who had nuisance value, and how to get ahead if I was that way inclined.
The thing is, he had said, you were sent to this place to prove your boss’s faith in your potential. Each manager of each branch hot to pick the brightest candidate. I had been my manager’s choice, odd because there were others who would have appreciated the opportunity more than me.
He had to go past my office to get to the laboratory and dropped in, flooding into the lounge chair along the sidewall, a remnant of the last office owner who used to sleep on it overnight while going through a messy divorce.
“I see you were ambushed by the incorrigible Jennifer Eccles.”
“You say it as if it’s a bad thing.’
“That’s because it is. You would be well advised to steer clear of her. The last three people like you she selected as work partners all left broken from the experience. She sucks novices dry of all their knowledge, claims it as her own, and moves up another rung.”
“She seems quite nice “
“So does a rattlesnake until it bites you.”
“Well, forewarned is forearmed. She doesn’t have anything to fear from me, I’m not the ambitious sort.”
“That’s not how it works here. You need to be competitive just to stay here. There are no free lunches. Next meeting you’ll be required to make a pitch, and if the boss doesn’t like it, you go back home.”
“You’re still here?”
“That’s more because I have an incompetent manager. It’s easy to create cost/benefit savings when his methods ate all last century. All I’m saying is watch your back.”
…
I never gave Oliver’s advice another thought, as the days passed, and Jennifer was just a shadow on the horizon.
Until she dropped into my office, on her way to somewhere else. Another person, also wary of her, had said she burned shoe soles faster than a spendthrift spent money.
“How are you settling in?”
She sat exactly where Oliver had been a month before.
“Feels like home.”
“See anything of the place?”
“I bought a car, moved into company-assisted accommodation, just haven’t had the time to get out and about.”
“OK. Tell you what, I’m free this weekend, come by my place and I’ll show you around. And, Friday night, drinks in the bar off the cafeteria. You should come, meet the competition.”
“Do I want to?”
“Of course, you do. You want to at least meet the people who are most likely going to stab you in the back.”
“Is that what you do?”
“Me, no. I’m a woman. We use poison. Much more efficient “
…
So, curiosity got the better of me, and on the way out, I had a last-minute change of heart, thinking about what the harm could be.
When I arrived most of the staff cafeteria was already there, and underway, and by the look of it, for some time.
As I’d surmised, Jennifer was the Queen bee surrounded by her drones. Crossing the room, I tried to pick of the ones she had picked up and spat out. Probably all of them, hence her interest in me.
She stopped mid-sentence when she saw me, and then abandoned the group, to come over and give me a kiss on the cheek, and a hug. It did not go unnoticed.
Then we went back to the group with several new faces, and she introduced me. I was ‘the new guy in marketing’ who was ‘working on a huge new concept’. Of course, I had no idea what she was talking about, but let it ride. It was a close approximation of the truth.
This informal get-together was much like a brainstorming session, but to me, with one purpose in mind. Run, clearly, by Jennifer, for the purpose of mining their ideas.
I was encouraged to talk about my huge ideas, but in reality, they were just pie in the sky clouds, there was nothing to talk about. And that seemed to annoy her. It wasn’t for the want of gentle prodding, down to outright asking me, but I generally ignored her, and it was noticed.
Then she manicured us to be alone at the bar. Was this going to be the big push?
“Haven’t forgotten about tomorrow, have you?” She said, sliding a Millers across to me.
She was a beer drinker, a tick in a box if I was ticking boxes.
“No. Looking forward to not talking shop.”
“Oh, you never stop living a breathing work at this level. It can be all-consuming for some. Just as a matter on interest, had any of the orders spoken about me?”
There was that fraction of a second hesitation that could be construed in a dozen different ways. I tried covering it, but she knew, so I tried walking carefully through the mindfully.”
“I suspect that most of the guys I’ve spoken to consider you just a little out of their league. I should be so lucky to be spoken of so highly.”
I had always dreamed of following my father into diplomacy, but there was little on offer these days. The old days had long since been replaced by the new generation who considered diplomats anachronisms of a colonial empire.
She smiled. She was smart enough to see what I was doing. But I was still treading water.
“So, what do you think of me?”
Direct.
“That’s a question of whether you want me to tell you what you want to hear, or tell you what I think, which is something entirely different.”
“What you really think, of course.”
I could see that she didn’t, but this was rapidly leading up a one-way street to the firing squad.
“Here’s the thing. I learned a long time ago that opinions count for nothing, and more often they cause more grief than anything else. You don’t need other people’s opinions of you to validate who you are, and what you want to do with your life, especially not from me.
“I have no opinion. As for me, I am not ambitious, and truth be told I don’t belong here. If the powers that be thought I’d play the competition, there wrong. Actions speak louder than words, and I will do my job to the best of my ability, but I won’t depressive someone else of an opportunity because I think I’m better than them. I’m not.
“I like you, and I’m happy to be your friend or something else if it ever comes to that, but don’t expect me to play the game, or be something I’m not.”
There, I said it, and it was what I intended, and perhaps if she was to read the subtext, would realize I was subtlety telling he she didn’t need to screw everyone over to better herself, but the truth is, she was, and perhaps she didn’t really know it.
Judging by the look on her face, I was blindfolded up against the wall in front of the firing squad, and then we’d just received the ready, aim, and about to say fire.
“Friend, you say.”
“There’s a lot of wiggle room with a word like that. It’s all in the individual interpretation.”
“Wow. For not giving an opinion…”
“I’m sorry it was not what you were expecting.”
It was interesting if not strange in a way to watch her expression change with each new thought pr reaction. I wondered for a moment if any of the other men spoke to her in such a manner
Perhaps not, because they would not want to sully their chance of getting a date with what was a woman that had both brains and beauty. As for me, I hadn’t been thinking of her in that way, but only in terms of how we could work together.
Perhaps that would be regarded as strange also.
Then she smiled, or perhaps it was a smirk, I was not quite sure, but it seemed she had come to a conclusion.
“You do realize no one has ever spoken to me in that manner, especially the men here. I can see now that asking me on a date, or the preliminaries before that are not on your immediate agenda, and, in fact, I suspect you did that to some of the other women here, you’d get a very cold shoulder. I’ll admit now, that you intrigue me, and I want to know more about you. You still want to go touring tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
“Then you can take me home, so you know where to pick me up. But, for now, we’d better get back to the others before we become the subject of tomorrow’s water cooler gossip.
My take: Perhaps I could refine what is and isn’t opinion before I actually did upset someone.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 