Tag: #amwriting

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 43

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

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Chasing leads, maybe

—–

“You left a paper trail, a car registration form at the flat in Bromley.”

I saw him shake his head. “I thought I’d removed any evidence.”

“Good thing then, that I found it, and not Severin who was next through the door.”

He nodded towards Jennifer. “What’s she doing here, she was one of your surveillance team.”

“She came with me. The department threw her out, I found her and asked her if she wanted to find out what was going on. Apparently, she did. Everyone can put their guns down now. We are, believe it or not, all friends here.”

Jennifer put her gun back in a pocket I hadn’t seen before.

Adam lowered his, but it was still ready to shoot if either of us made the wrong move. The old woman’s aim hadn’t changed; she was still intent on shooting me if I moved.

“Mother, give it up.”

A few seconds later she lowered the weapon, but it was still ready. To fire if I moved.

“Can we sit,” I asked. Having a gun aimed at you tended to make you feel week in the knees. I was.

There were three chairs in front of the fireplace, this room also having a fire ready but not lit, and one chair by the writing-table. We sat in the three chairs, the old woman over by the table. She put the rifle down on the desktop, within easy reach.

“My first question,” I said, “has to be, how are you still alive?”

“You left when Severin’s crew arrived to clean up. He left at the same time. Luckily. Then two of Dobbin’s agents arrived and cleaned up the cleaners, as it were, and took me to a safe place where it was discovered my injuries were not fatal.”

“You were hit by a sniper, that’s hard to believe he, or she, aimed to miss.”

“They didn’t. I think I moved slightly because of you, so I have you to thank for my life. Something else to remember, Dobbin doesn’t know I’m here, and I think the only link was that registration certificate. No one actually knows me by Adam Quigley, except, of course, my mother.

“And the USB everyone is after?”

A few seconds of silence, then, “It’s missing.”

“Were you the only one who knew where it was?”

“No, but as far as I’m aware, that person is dead, killed by the explosion you witnessed. We were due to meet there, just before the explosion which is why I was heading there.”

“You walked past it, as I recall.”

“Standard procedure. I walk past, check to see if the contact is there, then come back a few minutes later. I was running late, just got past when it went up. We would have both been in there, and dead.”

“And the USB gone with it?”

“Yes. My friend had it with him at the time. I was going there to pick it up.”

“No copies?” It was too much to expect there would be, even if it was worth more than life itself.

“No. That sort of information needs to be in as few places as possible.”

“You knew what it was about?”

“Yes.”

“And…”

“It’s above all our pay grades. But something I can tell you; I know why your Severin and Maury wanted it back.”

“It was theirs?”

“Yes. They originally stole it. I stole it from them and trying to return it to whom it belonged.”

“Nobbin?”

“God, no. I’ve since discovered he’s as crooked as all the rest. But now that it’s gone, it doesn’t matter who the owner of the information is. Just staying one step ahead of the jackals, that’s the job in hand.”

——-

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 45

Back on the alien vessel

…

If asking for and getting what you wanted was the technology of lesser beings, what was the other world’s technology like?

It was a question I asked myself, or perhaps a moment after, if the alien people we were currently talking to had difficulties with other more advanced people in their galaxy, where would we fit into the picture?

It was a worrying thought, because through time those that were inferior, in our world, were always subjugated by the more superior.

Granted we had spaceships making us seem reasonably advanced, but theirs were not like the one I was on.  We thought we were very clever getting the ship we were on into space, but out there, now, I certainly didn’t feel clever, or superior.

There was also the revelation that we had been observed for a long time, our progress monitored, and basically rejected as likely candidates for being welcomed.  Or being told we were not alone.

It must have been a dock to see us turn up one their proverbial doorstep, but not so great as out that they knew about us.  It was a case of our reputation preceded us, and it wasn’t the good, only the bad.

It would be true to say, given everything we’d done to our world through greed and selfishness, that finding off-world destinations for colonization was a definite requirement rather than an option, and along with that, to find and learn from other civilizations, especially those that had been in the same plight.

And having found what we had always believed, well, a lot of us anyway, that there was other life in the galaxy, it wasn’t going to sit well that we were basically in the ‘cane man’ stage of development as a civilization.

It was not much of a starting point for any sort of negotiation, diplomatic or otherwise, along with the prospect of meeting the other civilizations in this quadrant if it could be called that, basically from behind that proverbial eight-ball.

We were still no wiser as to where these people came from, or that it was near our first intended destination, Proxima Centauri.  We had a list NASA had compiled, earth-like exotic plants that were thought to be able to support life.

Several of the meetings between the world’s greatest scientific minds, when they were not off on one of their theoretical rants, all concluded that there should be life out in the universe somewhere, that all the known explanations of our existence were wrong, and we were descendants of aliens, possibly more than one species. 

It was a fanciful notion that drew interesting reactions from the Darwinians who believed we descended from the apes, the church, still stuck on their Adam and Eve theory, and others that we evolved after the ‘big bang’, or that our DNA arrived via a colliding meteor, which had me puzzled.

Now, I was not sure what I believed.

The Russian captain, now free of being threatened with an alien weapon, had completed a full circuit of the bridge, taken a moment to stare out into space, and where our ships were standing off, then come and join us.

I had a hundred questions, but the first was, “What was your mission?”

“Beat you lot into space.  To be honest we never expected you’d ever get that ship out of the space dock”

A year late, and people still arguing over staffing, fittings, weapons, technology, even bragging rights, if it hadn’t been for the Admiral, we might still be there.

“You didn’t answer the question, not specifically.  No one just wants to be first, and especially not brave about it.”

“Not yet.”

“I assume you’ve been in communication back home?”

“Communication wasn’t one of the strong points since no one really knew how to make instant calls work, so not really.  We’re basically flying by the seat of our pants.”

“I can see that, applying earth mentality to alien relations.  I would have thought you and your superiors would take a more diplomatic approach.”

“We tried.  You do realize were are technically inferior to this lot, and they don’t view us as being worthy of their time and effort.  Apparently, they knew exactly who we are, and where we were from, something I find hard to believe.”

“Did you visit the planet?”

“We were stopped by a patrolling ship, and they actually fired on us.”

I was not surprised.  We would have done exactly the same, in reverse.

“So, you started on the wrong foot and it only got worse from there.”

“What would you have done in the same situation?”

“Be less confrontational, but then, we’re on an exploratory mission, not one that takes whatever we can steal or in your case kidnap.  Did you realize who those people were?”

“They approached us.  Before we got to their planet we got a distress signal from what looked like a space station, quite a distance from the planet.  We didn’t know it was a prison, only that there were people in distress.  We rescued them, as anyone else would.  That’s when the proverbial hit the fan.”

“Did you know they had specialist knowledge?”

“Eventually, when the aliens came after us, I told them I needed to know why they were being so angry about a few criminals.  I offered them sanctuary if they were willing to share their knowledge.  They agreed.”

“They didn’t want to go home?”

“No.  They said they’d be killed by their own people.   We call it treason, they call it something else, but its more or less the same thing.  Now they’re going to kill all of us.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2022

The colour purple

You would think, being one of a dozen colours that pip onto your head when asked, name a dozen colours, that it would be easy to find almost anything.

Wrong.

We are on a quest to find bridesmaid dresses in, you guessed it, any shade of purple.

We might as well be looking for gold nuggets.  In fact, we’d have a better chance of finding gold than a purple dress.

And, seven stores later, five of which are specialty fashion boutiques, sorry, no one is doing purple. Maybe a dash here or there, but it’s lost in the overall dress that may have flowers or a Picasso abstract.

OK, so the dresses are for a 15-year-old and a 12-year-old, you would think you could go to a Target, or K Mart, or Cotton On, or perhaps the Guess type of store that caters to that 13 to 25 market.

Think again.

Purple, mauve, lilac, or any shade in between just isn’t on the rack.

I suddenly consider the notion of phoning a supermodel and then convincing her to wear every shade of purple every waking hour in public, thus setting a new trend.

I’m betting that within a week, every store on the planet will have purple clothes in stock.

Of course, there is only one flaw in the master plan. I don’t know any supermodels.

So, this search is going to have a bad ending. I’m guessing the bride’s decision for purple and white as the signature color scheme was made before discovering that practically nothing comes in purple.

No the way, it was originally lilac, but that is impossible, not unless there are about 3 years before the wedding and you can get to Hong Kong to have the dresses specially made.

We’ve got about three weeks.

Yes, there’s another thing about this wedding. From announcement to the big day, is six weeks. Logistically, it can’t be done. Practically, there’s going to be a ward in the mental hospital for the wedding party, even if they pull it off.

Meanwhile, it’s back on the trail. There’s one more level to trawl, in what is a very large shopping mall.

And for the first day after the easing of many of the drastic Covid restrictions, it seems everyone for miles around has descended on this very place.

Sigh!

Then, majestically appearing through the mist…

No, not sunshine! A purple dress.

I am all astonishment. And, it’s not just one, there are several.

Hold that thought…

Alas, we find the dress, but not the colour, well, not in that store. Now it’s a matter of phoning other stores to see if they have any purple stock.

I’ll let you know what happens next!

Looking for wedding dresses in the most unlikely places – thrift shops

Walking into certain types of thrift stores is like walking into a time warp.

These stores are typically full of clothes, and other items, that the previous owners have passed on, whether those owners have changed sizes, taste, or simply just died.

I say time warp because a lot of these places could pass as inventory for movie studios who periodically shoot films of a certain era.

Yes, there are a lot of clothes on the racks I would not be caught dead in, and yet probably will – when I’m dead that is, but, on the other hand, would make ideal attire for a fancy dress party.

We’re here, believe it or not, for the wedding dresses, and there are quite a few.  To me, it seems those dresses now reside at the thrift store because their once owners might have had bad memories associated with them, or a reminder of what they once had. Either way, it seems impractical, to me, to keep a wedding dress unless you were planning to use it again!

And these dresses were not cheap, to begin with, some still having the original price on them.  Those, I’m guessing have a particular story attached to them and fertile material for a story or two. For the moment I’m leaving the others to those dresses, there would not be much use asking me what I thought.

I’ve discovered that not only are the people who are shopping in-store are interesting, and some begging to become characters in my stories, there’s also the weird and wonderful stuff you could never find anywhere else. What’s that saying, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure?

While others are scouting the clothing racks for that piece that highlights their individuality, and believe, shopping at a thrift store is not just for those with a tight budget, I’m looking at other stuff, some of which could be classified as vintage, but mostly associated with my childhood.

Particularly crockery, and bed throws,

Vintage stuff that could very well be a bargain has long since disappeared, for those who work there are now far more knowledgeable about their value, so no more thrift shop bargains.  Those are now in the realm of garage sales.

For me, every visit I’d a hunt through the bookshelves for once read then discarded novels that cost far too much new, but for the sake of a few creases on the spine, are a definite bargain at $2, and still, look like new.

Today’s there’s only one, a voluminous dictionary/thesaurus to add to the reference library, but on recent hunts, I’ve managed to get a few.  But, there’s more than one thrift store on our visit roster, so hope springs eternal.

After the third attempt, still needs work

I have a stab at improving this starting piece every now and then, a project that started about a year or so ago, and I find myself rewriting the start over and over because I’m not satisfied with the characterization.

It’s not so much the storyline, as it is in trying to create sympathy for the character, and not find him as dull as ditchwater.  He’s improving with age.  As writers, we tend to create colourful characters and shy away from those who are dull and boring, because after all, as a reader, you want to become something or someone who is far from ordinary.  Well, Graham is starting out ordinary, but he will be anything but by the time I write those words ‘The End’.

I promise.

I am the master of my own destiny.

My father had drummed that into me, as well as my older brother and younger sister, over and over, until it became a mantra.

For them.

I could not say I didn’t have the same advantages afforded to them, afforded to me.  I did.

But somewhere lost in the translation, someone forgot to tell me that it was only advice, not an order, and mistaking it for the latter, I struck out on my own path.

And for the next ten years, it was a long and winding path that led me to this point in time, in a small room that held nothing to tell me where I came from, or who I really was.

My parents were very wealthy with an Upper Westside Apartment in Manhattan and a holiday house in Martha’s Vineyard, my sister had a successful medical career and married a most eligible bachelor, as expected, and my brother, he was a politician.

I’d not seen any of them in at least five years, and they hadn’t called me.

You see, I was the black sheep of the family.  I dropped out of college when it all became too much, and drifted.  Seasonal labourer, farmhand, factory worker, add job man, and night watchman. 

At least now I had a uniform, and a gun, and looked like I’d made something of myself.

It was hard to say why, just before I was about to head out of the factory to end my shift, that those thoughts about them came into my mind.   They might be gone, but I guess I would never forget about them.  I wondered briefly if any of them thought about me.

It was 3 a.m. and it was like standing on the exact epicentre of the South Pole.  I’d just stepped from the factory warehouse into the car park.

The car was covered in snow.  The weather was clear now, but I could feel more snow was coming.  A white Christmas?  That’s 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 inside an SUV parked next to my car.  The door opened and what looked to be a woman was getting out of the car.

“Graham?”

It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time.

I looked again and was shocked to see my ultra-successful sister, Penelope.  She was leaning against the front fender, and from what I could see, didn’t look too well.

How on earth did she find me, after all the years that had passed?  Perhaps that sparked my un-conciliatory question, “What do you want?”

I could see the surprise and then hurt in her expression.  Perhaps I had been a little harsh.  Whatever she felt, it passed, and she said, “Help.”

My help?  Help with what? I was the last person who could help her, or anyone for that matter, with anything.   But curiosity got the better of me.  “Why?”

“I think my husband is trying to kill me.”

Then, with that said, she slid down the side of the car, and I could see, in the arc lamps lighting the car park, a trail of blood.

My first thought, she needed the help of a doctor, not a stupid brother, then a second thought, call 911, which I did, and hoped like hell they got here in time.

And, yes, there was a third thought that crossed my mind.  Whether or not I would be blamed for this event.

© Charles Heath 2022

After a few days to consider the existing text – a new approach? – Part 3

It’s been a while since I looked at this story, and after reading the start through each iteration, it always seems the case that I’m never quite satisfied.

That said, I decided to come at it from a different direction.  It might not be better, but it might provide a different perspective, and lead to a more polished start in the next iteration.

Certainly this time, there are more words, and a totally different start.  It was needed bcause we need to get a little insight into the main character, just before the action starts.

And now we know our main character is a bit of a pessimist, something bad does happen.

…

There were five cars in the car park, three over the back, and one next to mine, closer to the entrance.  Perhaps it was one of the two new guards, though I thought they had left before me.  The three others belonged to the morning shift.

As I approached it, the door opened, and a figure well wrapped up in snow clothes got out.  My first thought, the detective who had said he would get back to me, though I doubted he would come to the factory site, or in this weather.

Someone else then?

I headed towards the other car, and seeing me approach them, the person stopped not far from the door.

“David?”

It was a voice I was familiar with, belonging to my sister Penelope.  She had pulled back the hood so I could just see her face and from what I could see, she didn’t look too well.  My second thought, how did she know where I worked.  We were supposed to meet a cafe in town, later in the morning.

“How did you find me?”

“I’m a lawyer, I can find anything or anyone.”

“What couldn’t wait a few hours.  I just finished a long shift and was hoping to freshen up before coming to see you.”

“Circumstances.”

A second, maybe two, after she took a step towards me, the windscreen of her car shattered.  Instictively, I dived towards her, pushing her to the ground between the cars just as there was a loud bang as something hit the front of the her car.

A bullet.  A sound I was familiar with, and hoped I wouldn’t hear again.

“What the…”

“Someone is shooting at us.”  The moment I said it, it sounded unbelievable.

A second shot, lower this time, not far from where my head had just been, told me we were being targeted by a sniper, a good one to get so close in these conditions.

It was cold, and cramped in that small space, and the sniper wasn’t going to wait around until we came out, he, or she, was going to come to us and finish the job.

“What the hell have you got me into,” I said, more than a little anger in my tone.

“I think my husband is trying to kill me.”

…

More on this tomorrow, enough time to get over the shock, and figure out what to do…

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

Short Story writing – don’t try this at home! – Part 7

Putting it all together: the short story

…

I had once said that Grand Central Station, in New York, was large enough you could get lost in it.  Especially if you were from out of town.

I know, I was from out of town, and though I didn’t quite get lost, back then I had to ask directions to go where I needed to.

It was also an awe-inspiring place, and whenever I had a spare moment, usually at lunchtime, I would go there and just soak in the atmosphere. It was large enough to make a list of places to visit, or find, or get a photograph from some of the more obscure places.

Today, I was just there to work off a temper. Things had gone badly at work, and even though I hadn’t done anything wrong, I still felt bad about it.

I came in the 42nd street entrance and went up to the balcony that overlooked the main concourse. A steady stream of people was coming and going, most purposefully, a few were loitering, and several police officers were attempting to move on a vagrant. It was not the first time.

But one person caught my eye, a young woman who had made a circuit of the hall, looked at nearly every destination board, and appeared to be confused. It was the same as I had felt when I first arrived.

Perhaps I could help.

The problem was, a man approaching a woman from out of left field would have a very creepy vibe to it, so it was probably best left alone.

After another half-hour of watching the world go by, I had finally got past the bad mood and headed back to work. I did a wide sweep of the main concourse, perhaps more for the exercise than anything else, and had reached the clock in the center of the concourse when someone turned suddenly, and I crashed into them.

Not badly, like ending up on the floor, but enough for a minor jolt. Of course, it was my fault because I was in another world at that particular moment.

“Oh, I am sorry.” A woman’s voice, very apologetic.

I was momentarily annoyed, then, when I saw who it was, it passed. It was the lost woman I’d seen earlier.

“No. Not your fault, but mine entirely. I have a habit of wandering around with my mind elsewhere.”

Was it fate that we should meet like this?

I noticed she was looking around, much the same as she had before.

“Can I help you?”

“Perhaps you can. There’s supposed to be a bar that dates back to the prohibition era here somewhere. Campbell’s Apartment, or something like that. I was going to ask…”

“Sure. It’s not that hard to find if you know where it is. I’ll take you.”

It made for a good story, especially when I related it to the grandchildren, because the punch line was, “and that’s how I met your grandmother.”

…

© Charles Heath 2022

After a few days to consider the existing text – a new approach? – Part 1

It’s been a while since I looked at this story, and after reading the start through each iteration, it always seems the case that I’m never quite satisfied.

That said, I decided to come at it from a different direction.  It might not be better, but it might provide a different perspective, and lead to a more polished start in the next iteration.

Certainly this time, there are more words, and a totally different start.  It was needed bcause we need to get a little insight into the main character, just before the action starts.

This iteration puts the main character squarely in the frame, gives a few small details about him, and context leading into the next part

…

I was woken abruptly from an uneasy sleep by an unusual sound coming from my cell phone.

It was late afternoon, and the night shift had extended into the morning after an incident that required a report, and a statement to the police.  As a security guard in a dormant factory in an abandoned industrial estate, this was the worst incident I’d been involved in since starting there, a deliberately lit fire, no doub to hide a body, and what looked like wholesale theft of a factory’s machinery, and the police had hinted it was an inside job.  As the new guy, I had been interrogated rather than questioned, and it had been rough, my past being dragged up, and not the good aspects of it.  I was very tired and still angry.

The phone was on the floor, just out of reach, and I was tempted to ignore it.  I might have, if it hadn’t made the same sound a minute later.

It was a simple phone, one that stored numbers, sent messages, and took photos.  I purposely didn’t get the internet connected, and disabled the GPS.   There were seven numbers stored on it, the only people I wanted to make contact with, or had to, and none had a unique message tone.

I pressed a button and the screen came to life.

Two notifications were displayed, two missed calls from Penelope Bryson.  Definitely not one of the seven stored numbers.  Penelope was my sister, and Bryson was her married name.  But the bigger question here was, how did she get my cell number?

She had also left a message, and I played it out loud.

“David, long time.  I am somewhat disappointed you didn’t tell me you were back, or for that matter, whether you were dead or alive.  You’re a hard man to find, for obvious reasons, but don’t be a stranger, at least not to me.  I need to see you for some advice and I will be in Wilmington next Monday.  Let me know where and when and I will be there.”

I rang the number but it went to message bank, and then I remembered she rarely answered the phone first time, waiting to see who it was, and then decided if she would call them back.  Perhaps it was a lawyer thing.

I tossed the phone back on the floor and lay down again.  I tried to put it out of my mind, but kept going back to the phrase ‘I need to see you for some advice’.  I was the last person a high flying lawyer would want advice, unless she wanted to become a soldier, or a get away driver, the only occupations I had since leaving school.  I doubted she was looking to become a secuirty guard, but she could hardly know that I was one.  I hadn’t spoken to her since our father died, just before I served my final tour.

Now I had two issues on my mind, whether the police would assume I was the guilty party so they could wrap up the case, even if I could prove it was not me, and what Penelope could possibly want, and it was odd that it was the latter that caused me the most concern.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

You learn something new every day (2)

I got a call this morning from my brother who has been delving into the places we have lived over the years, including those before we were born.

My recollection, hazy at best, is that my father’s parents lived in Camberwell, a suburb of Melbourne, and the boys, those that survived the war, lived there too. He had three brothers, I think, and a sister. From what I’ve read, his older brother was a sensible chap and the peacemaker between him and his parents.

Later one of his brothers went to Sydney, his sister lived among orchards our Ringwood way, and another, much later, moved to Queensland. We very rarely, if ever, saw them, and the last time I did with most in one place, was after my Grandmother died. I do remember Dora, the site, visiting us once, and being young at the time, she seemed a very forbidding woman.

But, this is about where they lived.

My father, presumably before and immediately after the war, at home, and my mother at her home in Pakenham. There her father ran a service station and motor mechanic shop and was well known. Their house, at the time, was built over the road, just a short walk from home to work. The place, the first time I saw it, was a mechanics dream, with old cars and car parts outside and inside garages, and a woodworking shop with every tool imaginable.

Once the place had very elegant gardens, but by the time I got to stay there, in the 1960s, it was all overgrown, and the house was in disrepair. My mother’s brother lived there with my grandmother, and he was a fearsome, huge man who said little. All I knew about him was that, a) he was the one who found his father after he had killed himself, b) he liked fishing and went to a place called Corinella, and c) he was a mechanic like his father.

So, at some point in 1948, my father must have up and left, perhaps after an argument with his parents, and moved to Keiwa House, Bogong, where the Snowy River Hydro-Electric Scheme was being built, as a projectionist, bringing films to the workers in Town Halls.

As I’ve said, my mother stayed in a boarding house for ladies during the week and went home on weekends. I have the first letter that my father wrote to her and references the fact he went calling on her, and she was not there. We’ll never know what she thought, but there’s a second letter, after she wrote back, so a friendship was struck. He told her, almost in minute detail, what he was doing, and presumably, she told him about hers.

A year later, they married.

Now it gets interesting. We both thought that their first house, after getting married was in Carrum. It wasn’t. In the pile of letters were references to the family staying in a rented flat in Camberwell.

Sometime after that, there is a contract for a war service loan in relation to a property in Carrum, which turns out to be the first house they lived in, and where my brother, born in 1950) lived, and where I lived after I was born in 1953. I have interesting if vague memories of this house, and of the people who lived behind us because we could climb through the fence into their property. We knew them during, and after living in Carrum.

Now, today, some interesting new facts came to light about the Carrum house. We always assumed we owned it, but it seems that we didn’t. A copy of the title for that property never had the name Heath on it, so did we rent it? More information is required, and we need to dig deeper. Let’s hope there are no skeletons there.

And something else came out of a discussion with the daughter of my mothers sister, that it was believed my mother’s parents bought them a house in Chelsea, but my father, apparently, refused to live in it and sold it.

OK, I never claimed that my father was the sort that might have accepted charity, so perhaps in a moment of madness, he lost the plot. The question is, what happened to the money?
Recycle bin(0)Empty

I go missing for a day, and…

It’s like dying a literary death.

The silence is deafening.

It seems, after a lot of trial and error, trying this that and the other, I’ve discovered that you only get out of social media what you put into it.

And it means that unless you are on it 24 hours a day, every day, spruiking, or whatever it is we writers are supposed to do promoting ourselves and our work, nothing happens.

Don’t get me wrong, there are those who are raging successes, and I am happy for them.

But for us living on the fringe, and there is quite a lot of us, trying valiantly to reach the public eyes, the battle is just that, a battle.

When do you get time to write?

Is it a choice between writing, or trying to garner support and a following?

The authors who are published by the large publishers will tell you that it is the only way to become an author, where all of the marketing is done by the publisher and all they have to do is put in an appearance and pocket the royalties.

I don’t think that’s necessarily true.

But when I find that happy medium between marketing and writing, I’ll let you know.

Until then, I guess there will be more days like today, and that battle going on in your head that is telling you to give up, it’s never going to get any better.

Maybe not.

But give up? Not today, nor tomorrow.

After all, we live in a world where anything is possible.