Over the past year or so I have been selecting photographs I’ve taken on many travels, and put a story to them.
When I reached a milestone of 50 stories, I decided to make them into a book, and, in doing so, I have gone through each and revised them, making some longer and into short stories.
50 photographs, 50 stories. I’ve called it, “Inspiration, Maybe”
It will be available soon.
This is Chester. He’s waiting for me.
Or he is on guard mode. He does this sometimes when he hears the click of the back gate latch.
He has better hearing than me.
I’m not sure what he’s going to do if the visitor is 6 foot 10 and carrying an Uzi but it’s good to know we’re both going down fighting.
But, nothing.
It’s the wind again.
I guess if a cat could sigh, he would.
And winge about the vagaries of weather interrupting his afternoon nap.
That gives me an idea…
What happens when your past finally catches up with you?
Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.
Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment Will’s life slowly starts to unravel and it’s obvious to him it’s time to move on.
This time, however, there is more at stake.
Will has broken his number one rule, don’t get involved.
With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.
But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved there is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.
If I was ever in doubt that there was one medium that could produce a thousand storylines, it’s watching reality television.
It is truly horrible, and is somewhat akin to a ‘train wreck’. Why, then, do we watch it? And why on earth am I watching it?
Currently, where I live, there was a show called ‘Married at first sight’. Going by the title, you can guess the premise, two people are matched by ‘science’ and meet for the first time at the altar. They then live together, with and without external influences for a number of weeks before deciding if they want to continue after the show ends.
As it happens, the experts here have yet to get it right in a number of series (or, I think they may have succeeded on one occasion).
Whilst the fact it looks to be scripted, a fact the Producers vehemently deny, it is impossible to wrap your head around some of the antics, and especially the words used by the ‘participants’. Decent people do not ‘act’ in the manner of some of these people, and more often than not, several of the ‘participants’ are labeled by the public as ‘actors’.
I guess, in most reality television, ratings can only be achieved by controversy.
Certainly, the Twitterverse goes off after an episode, championing the good and railing into the bad. Each will, good or bad, get their fifteen minutes of fame.
And, is it not surprising we have learned one of the participants is going to write a ‘no holds barred’ account of her time in the show, but given the fact all participants have to sign an NDA, I don’t whether it will ever hit the bookstores.
I was considering doing the same, from an armchair perspective. But, sadly, when I thought about it, it would never sell. No one could believe or even identify with the antics these people get up to.
It’s the reason why Big Brother disappeared.
But, never fear, there’s a new disaster, I mean series, on TV called Love Island. I’ve seen the promos. Perhaps I should leave it at that!
Round about now, in our part of the southern hemisphere, spring is nearly a month gone and leading into November, we start having hot days.
Today, is is going to be 30 degrees Celsius.
This is the calm before the storm, because round about now, we not only have to contend with the heat, we also have the humidity, sometimes reaching 100 percent.
Those days, every move you make, causes endless perspiration.
So, best not to go outside if you can avoid it.
Some years ago we out in air conditioning and it’s been great for summer. Then, the climate change became a factor in everything, and saw huge increases in the cost of water, and in particular, electricity.
Our bill for summer frequently topped a 1,000 dollars for the three months, and getting worse every year.
So, last year we put on solar panels. What a difference. The air conditioning costs very little and our bills are now about 300 dollars for the three months.
More money then for holidays.
Watching the ice hockey has put in my mind a trip to either Canada or America, to coincide with the Maple Leads playing. In Toronto, if they play there it costs a small fortune for tickets, last time over 1,800 dollars, and they lost. As it happened when we were in New York, they were playing the New Jersey Devils, so we jumped on the train and went. It cost 280 dollars, and they won.
I think there’s a message there.
New York, here we come.
Aside from the lure of ice hockey, there’s the cold. The idea of minus 19 degrees may faze some people, but not us. If you can imagine endless days at 35 degrees Celsius with 100 percent humidity, you would understand why we prefer to be anywhere but home.
But, of course, there’s quite a few places where ice hockey is played, and where it is equally as cheap to go and see them play, so I’m checking out the draw.
And I can check put some new locations for my stories.
That’s what I call win-win.
I’m finding it hard to get back into the groove. I suspect I was not in one before, but I was writing, and the stories were coming together.
My biggest accomplishment for the latter part of 2018 was writing 50,000 words for a NANOWRIMO book. It’s interesting that it seems to be the only time I can focus my mind on writing.
As it happened, the creative mind was organised and the ideas and words flowed. I know it was just supposed to be raw writing, but I even had time to rewrite the start. As we all know, by the time you get to the end, a lot of stuff at the start needs to be fixed, especially in light of plot changes and continuity.
Now, looking at the document on the screen, I have the job of editing and re-writing.
Perhaps I should give that a few more months before I start. There’s something going on at the NaNoWriMo site that says to leave it until they run the re-write month in April, or something like that.
That month came and went, and the file had not been looked at since. Perhaps later this year.
Then there’s the sequel to What Sets Us Apart, called Strangers We’ve Become I’m writing.
Here’s the thing.
It was done and dusted, and I was doing a final read before handing to the editor. That was a mistake. I seem to be one of those writers that can’t let it go. I should not have done the final re-read!
I don’t know if anyone else has the same problem, but as soon as I had finished it, I had a feeling (oh no not one of those feelings, I can hear the editor saying) and something was not quite right.
I hate it when I am in one of those moods, and looking at it, I could see where there was a problem and began the re-write. Problem is, it affects later on, so there’s going to be cuts and additions.
So the question is what do I attack first?
Start a new novel, work on the old novel, or … ?
Perhaps I should just pour another drink and go back to watching the ice hockey? The Maple Leafs are up and down this year, and that’s equally frustrating.
Decisions, decisions…
This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.
Coming soon!
I’ve been thinking ….
… and that could be a good thing or a bad thing.
An idea had popped into my head, fired up from seeing the news on television. I don’t normally look at the news if I can help it because usually its all bad, deaths, fires, drugs, and worst of all, politics.
This item was the equivalent of a two paragraph ‘mention’ buried on page six of the newspaper.
It was the umpteenth variation of a common story, wife having an affair, wife murdered, and, after seeing so many American and English cop shows, assumed the husband would be the number one suspect, no children involved mercifully, but there was something else going on, something I thought I could read between the lines.
No names were mentioned.
I’m not sure why it captured my imagination, but it did, and it swirled around in my head for about a week.
Then, out came a pad and pen and I started to write.
I put myself in the place of the husband and tried to imagine what it was like.
It is a work in progress.
A week or so later, another small paragraph appeared on page five, getting closer to the front page.
No names still because I assume the relative had not been tracked down.
But this alluded to something else as being the cause, and it was the manner of the death that warranted further investigation.
My imagination went into overdrive.
Rest assured I’ll be scouring the papers for the next ‘clue’.
It has any number of names, from Leave of Absence to Vacation, but it is meant to be a time where you can rest and relax.
And by the time you finally get to go away, preferably somewhere as far from home as possible, you are sure ready for it.
Those long days at the office, the decisions, the deadlines, the endless pressure of having to achieve the impossible all melt away when you walk out the door, and what a feeling it is when you tell everyone, ‘I’m off on holidays, see you when I get back.’
As anyone will tell you, it’s not wise to travel the next day if at all possible, because you need some time to decompress before tackling what sometimes can be an arduous getting to the final destination, especially if it is at a peak holiday period, or on planes where anything and everything can go wrong very quickly.
Been there done that.
We have travelled the next day, and nothing went wrong, but on the other hand, on other occasions not so lucky.
Except …
As a writer and having spent the last few months finishing off my last novel, and it was possible to get away for a few days.
Then, as it always does, despite the best-laid plans of mice and men, once again Murphy’s Law strikes again, and it all comes unstuck.
Inspiration often comes out of left field; something happens, a piece in a newspaper, an item on TV, or just lying down staring at the ceiling, when ‘bang’ it hits you.
As the travel arrangements start to unravel, you’re stuck in a departure lounge having missed the connection, and waiting for the airline representative to come and tell you a miracle has occurred,
You find yourself immersed in the start of a new story, with a theme that you can run with.
Damn, the airline representative comes over, looking flustered, telling us there’s a flight leaving in 20 minutes, and it’s waiting for us to board.
The idea goes back in storage, and we run.
Once on the plane, relaxed, and after dinner is served, I can come back to the idea, and make some notes.
Until I get an elbow in the side, and a dark look from my companion.
This is a holiday, not a working holiday.
Sigh. Maybe later when she’s asleep!
I looked at the invitation, a feeling of dread coming over me. It was not entirely unexpected but like a great many things that had suddenly come into my life, it caused equal measures of fear and excitement.
The gold edging and the perfect script displaying my name in the exact centre of the envelope made it almost unique. Very few people ever received such an invitation.
I held it in my hand for a longer than necessary, then put it down on the desk carefully, as if it would explode if I dropped it.
My first instinct, driven by fear, was not to accept.
But, fear or not, there was no question of me not attending. Circumstances had painted me into a corner; I’d agreed to go a long time ago when I thought there was no chance it would come to pass.
Way back then, I had been compared to the aspiring painter in an attic having to die before I made any sort of impression. In those days people thought it amusing. I thought it was amusing. Kirsty, in particular, had thought it was as impossible as I had.
Now it was not amusing. Not even remotely.
My life was once quiet, peaceful, sedate, even boring. That didn’t mean I lacked imagination, it was just not out on display for everyone to see. Inspired by reading endless books, I had the capacity to transport myself into another world, divorced from reality, where my boring existence became whatever I wanted it to be.
It was also instrumental in bringing Kirsty into my life. In reality, I thought she’d never take a second look at me, let alone a first. So I pretended to be someone else. Original, witty, charming, underneath more scared than I’d ever known.
And yet she knew, she’d always known and didn’t care.
As we spent more time together, she discovered I liked to write, not finish anything, just start, write a hundred pages, then lose interest. Like everything I did. Start, and never finish.
Why not? It would never be published. It would never succeed.
So she bribed me. If I didn’t finish my first book and send it away, I couldn’t marry her. It didn’t matter if it was rejected, all I had to do was finish a book, and send it.
The thought of marrying her had not entered my mind, because I hadn’t thought she would. Incentive enough, I picked out one of the unfinished manuscripts and humoured her. She read bits of it, not saying a word. Sometimes she’d put a note or two on the manuscript, her equivalent to sweet nothings, and with it I gained inner confidence in my own ability, not only to write but in many other aspects of my life.
When it was finished, it was Kirsty who sent it off. She read it, packaged it, addressed it, and sent it before I had a chance to change her mind. Once gone, I heaved a huge sigh of relief. It was done. That was, as far as I was concerned, the end of it.
It was not possible that one letter could change a person’s life so dramatically. I came home to the all-knowing smile, and mischievous whimsicality that had always suggested trouble.
Trouble indeed!
My book was accepted. With a cheque called an advance. For more money than I knew what to do with.
This was followed not long after by publication. And a dramatic change to my life, one I didn’t want. To become a public person, to face an enormous number of people, people I didn’t know.
I went back to being scared.
Kirsty smiled at me and told me how wonderful I looked in my monkey suit. Why couldn’t I go in jeans and a dress shirt? All the best actors in Hollywood did it.
“This is not Hollywood. You’re not an actor.” It was a simple, practical, answer.
The hell I wasn’t. I could act sick, dying, fake a heart attack, anything. “What am I going to say?”
“You could talk about books.” Quiet, efficient, oozing the confidence I didn’t feel.
She didn’t fuss. She took it in her stride. She dressed in her usual simple elegance, in a manner that made me love to be seen with her. I couldn’t tie my tie, so she did it for me. She straightened my jacket because I couldn’t do that either. Nerves. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them. Or was that a reference to wives, or mistresses, or something else?
The palms of my hands were sweating. Meatball hands, I thought, the sort of palms that betrayed the pretenders. Me, I was the pretender. My neck felt too large for the shirt. Beads of sweat formed on my brow. Where was a sponge when you needed one?
“I can’t do this.”
“You can.”
We hadn’t even left the hotel yet.
“How long before the execution.”
She looked at me with her whimsical smile. “Long enough for me to give you a hard time.”
I lost count of the number of times I had to go to the bathroom, for one thing, or another. Nerves I said. Perhaps a dozen Valium or something similar. Did I have any? Had she hidden them? Why did she keep smiling?
In the car, I looked at my watch at least a dozen times. I couldn’t breathe. It was too hot, too cold. She held my hand, and it served best to stop the trembling that had set in. Why did I agree to this? Why?
We were greeted by the Events Manager, who was polite and genuinely interested. He took us inside where he introduced the interviewer, another woman who oozed confidence and charm, who went over the format and generally tried to set me at ease.
I didn’t let Kirsty’s hand go. Not yet. She was my lifeline, the umbilical cord. When it was severed, I knew I was going to die.
Bathroom? Where was the bathroom? Hell, five minutes to go, and I felt like passing out. No, Kirsty couldn’t come in. Comb my hair. Straighten my tie, no it was straight. Maybe I could hide in here? I looked around. No, maybe not.
Time.
The cue man was standing beside me, hand gently on my back. He knew the score. He knew I would turn and run the first chance I got. Kirsty was on the other side, smiling. Did she know too?
Then the announcement, my cue to walk on.
The gentle shove, the bright lights, the deafening applause, the seemingly endless walk to the chair, dear God, would I make it without tripping over?
How many times had I made this trip? I stood, facing the audience, waved, then sat. It was the fifteenth. You’d think I’d learned by now.
There was nothing to it.
© Charles Heath 2016-2019
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 