Day 164

Writing exercise – who, what, where, when, and why?

…

There’s the hell of it. When the planets line up, it’s easy, but like mathematical equations, when you’re missing one basic element, a solution can be as far away as the moon, or, in this case, Pluto.

It was how this story stacked up, in the end, because it was not so much the clues, but those interpreting the clues and a very clever criminal that no one would ever have picked on first sight.

So much so that even when the perpetrator confessed, nobody believed them.

But…

I’m getting ahead of myself.

The day started like any other, sitting in the middle of the bull pen with twenty other journalists looking for that story that was going to win them a Pulitzer prize.

Of course, my chances were less than zero.  I’d let the story of the century slip through my fingers because I took a humanitarian stand to save the victim.  Someone else broke the story, and it was given a lecture and one more chance.

Then…

Like all investigations, great or small, it starts with the boss coming out of his office and yelling out a name.

“Curruthers?”

It was usually a raised voice so it could pierce through the hubbub of the pit, sometimes quiet because of the lack of participants, but today it was a full house, making it impossible to hear yourself think.

Today, he yelled, and instantly, the noise stopped.

Someone was for it, and that someone was Curruthers.

That someone was me.

I stood, but being five feet, something didn’t make much difference.

“Sir?”

“My office, now.”

Never keep an angry man waiting.  Since the boss was always angry, I all but ran.

“Shut the door.”

There was a difference between it and really for it.  The closed door…

I waited for the bollocking. I could see he was trying to find the words…

“The Spenser Building, a body in the penthouse, found by the Russian maid, stabbed a dozen, maybe more times, cops haven’t ruled out the lover, still there, blood on his hands, fresh, she was still alive when the maid found her, now deceased.  This has got sensation written all over it.  Daniels is the detective. You and her…get on it now.”

“Sir.”

I was going to say Detective Louisa Daniels and I had split up a year ago, but that would have ensured someone else got the story.  This was too good to pass up.

I was out the door before he could change his mind.

…

I arrived breathlessly at the front entrance to the Spenser Building at the same time as Detective Louisa Daniels, with her usual partner in crime, Detective Burns.  He had a first name, Oliver, but no one used it.

She was walking towards the front entrance where Gary, the front doorman, was stationed.  Ropes had been erected, and the police were there keeping the public back.

I was the public, in that moment, until Gary saw me arguing with a police officer and came over.  It stopped Louisa, who also turned to see what the commotion was about.

“He lives here, officer.”

The officer let it go and went back to his station.

I thanked him, and we headed back to the door.  Louisa stepped in front of me.  “Joseph.  I forgot you live here.”

“You’re here for the Eleanor Spencer murder.”

“Yes.”

Detective Burns came over. “Joseph? What are you doing here?”

“The editor sent me over to cover the story.”

“There’s nothing to cover.  We just got here,” he said.

“You can’t be here, Joe,” Louisa said.  “I thought you were covering the obits.  You certainly added a bit of life to their stories.”

She never did give me much credit as a journalist, even when I did as she’d asked and all but ruined my career.  It was basically the reason we broke up.

“I can help with this case.”

Detective Burns didn’t like me.  He had never liked me and had warned Louisa that I would betray her confidence.  I didn’t, but I suspected he had to another reporter, a rival reporter working for another newspaper.  He glared at me, “You’re a hack, Bateman.”

I wondered if Louisa remembered what I had told her about why I was living in the Spenser Building.  It was a long time ago, and she had always been preoccupied with becoming the best detective in the police department.

A measure of that was proved by her assignment to such a high-profile case.

She turned to Burns, “You go up and find out where forensics are, and if the medical examiner is on site.”

“You don’t think this fool knows anything?”

“Go.  I’ll be there directly.”  Back to me, she said, as we watched him go through the front entrance, “He thinks you told another reporter, but I knew Jaimie was playing him.  I think you did, too, but I didn’t believe for a minute it was you. There was nothing I could do.  I’m sorry.  In more ways than one.  Walk with me.”

We went into the building, heading for the elevator lobby.

If I remember correctly, and it was a moment when we were both a lot tipsy, a woman came to the front door, invited you to a gallery showing or some such, and when I asked who it was, you said it was your mother.”

“I might have said something silly like that.”

“I also remember seeing her in a magazine a week later with you in the background, and it was our victim, Mrs Spenser.  I also dismissed what you said because your name was Bateman, not Spenser.”

“That is true.”

“If you are who you say you are, then how did you get the name Bateman?”

“My adoptive parents, the Batemans.

“But if you are her child, how?”

“Born to a mother who got pregnant a year before her first marriage, out of wedlock, and sent to a foster home.  She is my mother.  Later, she spent a fortune to find me, then kept our secret.  However, that’s just grist to the mill.  You need to know that I was one of three people to see her alive.  There was a dinner party with eight guests, and when I left, there was only one other person, the lover.  I have information and want to help.”

“Is your apartment the same as before?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will look at the crime scene and then come and see you.  It will be strictly off the record.  OK. Oh, and if you killed her, you will feel the full weight of my wrath.”

“Fine.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 163

Some days are just an explosion of ideas, and you find yourself working on many stories at once

…

I’m a case in point…

There is more going on in the story front, and just to keep my mind active, or tortured, as the case may be, there are several other stories I’m working on.

In the first instance, there is the story with the tag line –

“What happens after an action-packed start…”

Quite a lot.

In part one, the protagonist is shot out of the sky, captured, and interrogated – but for what reason

In part two, the protagonist and a select team of misfits are flown into northern Nigeria, before crossing into the Democratic Republic of the Congo, in search of two men being held to ransom.

Previous attempts to rescue them had failed; this one had to succeed. It’s a matter of dealing with local militias who are tricky to deal with, and then getting out of the country after effecting the rescue.

At times, while writing it, looking at a map and using Google Earth to see what it is like, I felt like I was there looking down the barrel of a gun, and then, in the helter-skelter of getting to the evacuation point, I’m sure my heart rate had lifted considerably, particularly when the battered DC3 was about to be shot at with air to air missiles.

Just imagine this …

A DC3 versus a very maneuverable helicopter.

I was on the edge of my seat.

Next is the surveillance story where nothing is as it seems, which in the espionage business is nothing unusual. Nor is the fact that you cannot trust anyone.

It starts out as a routine surveillance operation until a shop front explodes a moment or two after the target passes it. In the ensuing mayhem, the target reappears, now in fear for his life, and our main character tracks him to an alley where he is murdered before his eyes.

Soon after, the two men whom the protagonist is working for appear and start asking questions that make our main character think that they had perpetrated a hit on the victim, and he decides that something is not right.

From there, the deeper he probes, the more interesting the characters and developments. Who was the target? What was he doing that got him killed? What does he have that everyone wants?

I’m about to start on the next phase of this story…

Then there is what I like to call comic light relief, the writing of stories inspired by photographs I’ve taken. Some, however, have exceeded the 1,000-word limit that I’ve set, only because I want to explore the story more, and some are spread over several stories.

They are titled: A picture is worth a thousand words … more or less

The first book of stories, 1 to 50, is to be published soon. Currently, I’m working on number 148 of the third volume of stories, but number 88 is my favourite so far, simply because it involves a starship.

But the overarching point to all of this is that ideas and stories can come in swarms, and unless you have the ability to focus on one, which I cannot, it is a juggling act, and one that I love being in the middle of.

And, you guessed it, I just saw an article on my news feed about how lifelike robots are getting, and an idea for a story just popped into my head.

What if you couldn’t tell the difference and … gotta run.

Day 163

Some days are just an explosion of ideas, and you find yourself working on many stories at once

…

I’m a case in point…

There is more going on in the story front, and just to keep my mind active, or tortured, as the case may be, there are several other stories I’m working on.

In the first instance, there is the story with the tag line –

“What happens after an action-packed start…”

Quite a lot.

In part one, the protagonist is shot out of the sky, captured, and interrogated – but for what reason

In part two, the protagonist and a select team of misfits are flown into northern Nigeria, before crossing into the Democratic Republic of the Congo, in search of two men being held to ransom.

Previous attempts to rescue them had failed; this one had to succeed. It’s a matter of dealing with local militias who are tricky to deal with, and then getting out of the country after effecting the rescue.

At times, while writing it, looking at a map and using Google Earth to see what it is like, I felt like I was there looking down the barrel of a gun, and then, in the helter-skelter of getting to the evacuation point, I’m sure my heart rate had lifted considerably, particularly when the battered DC3 was about to be shot at with air to air missiles.

Just imagine this …

A DC3 versus a very maneuverable helicopter.

I was on the edge of my seat.

Next is the surveillance story where nothing is as it seems, which in the espionage business is nothing unusual. Nor is the fact that you cannot trust anyone.

It starts out as a routine surveillance operation until a shop front explodes a moment or two after the target passes it. In the ensuing mayhem, the target reappears, now in fear for his life, and our main character tracks him to an alley where he is murdered before his eyes.

Soon after, the two men whom the protagonist is working for appear and start asking questions that make our main character think that they had perpetrated a hit on the victim, and he decides that something is not right.

From there, the deeper he probes, the more interesting the characters and developments. Who was the target? What was he doing that got him killed? What does he have that everyone wants?

I’m about to start on the next phase of this story…

Then there is what I like to call comic light relief, the writing of stories inspired by photographs I’ve taken. Some, however, have exceeded the 1,000-word limit that I’ve set, only because I want to explore the story more, and some are spread over several stories.

They are titled: A picture is worth a thousand words … more or less

The first book of stories, 1 to 50, is to be published soon. Currently, I’m working on number 148 of the third volume of stories, but number 88 is my favourite so far, simply because it involves a starship.

But the overarching point to all of this is that ideas and stories can come in swarms, and unless you have the ability to focus on one, which I cannot, it is a juggling act, and one that I love being in the middle of.

And, you guessed it, I just saw an article on my news feed about how lifelike robots are getting, and an idea for a story just popped into my head.

What if you couldn’t tell the difference and … gotta run.

Day 162

Journalism is a great learning ground for writers

…

It comes as no surprise that many writers, when they are asked about how they got into writing, say they were once journalists.

This is because journalism is a great background. You learn to get to the crux of any story in one paragraph, asking five basic questions: who, what, where, when, and why.

In the commission of any story, sooner or later, you ask the question: at what point does a writer become a journalist?

Quite often, journalists become writers because of their vast experience in observing and writing about the news, sometimes in the category of ‘truth is stranger than fiction’.

I did journalism at university and thought I would never get to use it.  I had to interview people, write articles, and act as an editor.  The hardest part was the headlines. Thank God that’s usually a problem for the editor. It’s about as much fun as coming up with a title for the book.

But, for example…

Several opportunities arose over the last few months to dig out the journalist hat, put it on, and go to work.

Where?

Hospital.  I’ve had to go there a few times more in the last few months than I have in recent years.

And I’d forgotten just how hospitals are interesting places, especially the waiting room in the Emergency department.

After the second or third visit, I began observing the people who were waiting and ran through various scenarios as to the reason for their visit.  None may have been true, but it certainly was an exercise in creative writing, or would make an excellent article.

Similarly, once we got inside the inner sanctum where the real work is done, there were any number of crises and operations going on, and plenty of material for when I might need to include a hospital scene in one of my stories.

Or I could write a volume in praise of the people who work there and what they have to endure.  Tending the sick, injured and badly injured is not a job for the faint-hearted.

Research, which is one of the most important tools a journalist uses, if it could be called a ‘tool’, turns up in the unlikeliest of places.  Doctors who answer questions, not necessarily about the malady, nurses who tell you about what it’s like in Emergency on nights you really don’t want to be there, and other patients and their families, all having a perspective, amd a story to tell, while waiting patiently for a diagnosis and then treatment so they can go home.

We get to go this time at about four in the morning.  Everyone is tired.  More people are waiting.  Outside, it is cool, and the first rays of light are coming over the horizon as dawn is about to break.

I ponder the question without an answer, a question one of the nurses asked a youngish doctor, tossed out in conversation, but was there more intent to it, what he was doing on Saturday night?

He didn’t answer.  Another crisis, another patient.

I suspect he was about to say, where else would he be, but on duty in the Emergency.

Day 162

Journalism is a great learning ground for writers

…

It comes as no surprise that many writers, when they are asked about how they got into writing, say they were once journalists.

This is because journalism is a great background. You learn to get to the crux of any story in one paragraph, asking five basic questions: who, what, where, when, and why.

In the commission of any story, sooner or later, you ask the question: at what point does a writer become a journalist?

Quite often, journalists become writers because of their vast experience in observing and writing about the news, sometimes in the category of ‘truth is stranger than fiction’.

I did journalism at university and thought I would never get to use it.  I had to interview people, write articles, and act as an editor.  The hardest part was the headlines. Thank God that’s usually a problem for the editor. It’s about as much fun as coming up with a title for the book.

But, for example…

Several opportunities arose over the last few months to dig out the journalist hat, put it on, and go to work.

Where?

Hospital.  I’ve had to go there a few times more in the last few months than I have in recent years.

And I’d forgotten just how hospitals are interesting places, especially the waiting room in the Emergency department.

After the second or third visit, I began observing the people who were waiting and ran through various scenarios as to the reason for their visit.  None may have been true, but it certainly was an exercise in creative writing, or would make an excellent article.

Similarly, once we got inside the inner sanctum where the real work is done, there were any number of crises and operations going on, and plenty of material for when I might need to include a hospital scene in one of my stories.

Or I could write a volume in praise of the people who work there and what they have to endure.  Tending the sick, injured and badly injured is not a job for the faint-hearted.

Research, which is one of the most important tools a journalist uses, if it could be called a ‘tool’, turns up in the unlikeliest of places.  Doctors who answer questions, not necessarily about the malady, nurses who tell you about what it’s like in Emergency on nights you really don’t want to be there, and other patients and their families, all having a perspective, amd a story to tell, while waiting patiently for a diagnosis and then treatment so they can go home.

We get to go this time at about four in the morning.  Everyone is tired.  More people are waiting.  Outside, it is cool, and the first rays of light are coming over the horizon as dawn is about to break.

I ponder the question without an answer, a question one of the nurses asked a youngish doctor, tossed out in conversation, but was there more intent to it, what he was doing on Saturday night?

He didn’t answer.  Another crisis, another patient.

I suspect he was about to say, where else would he be, but on duty in the Emergency.

Day 161

Writing exercise

…

The street was quieter than usual that Friday.

I wasn’t a believer of omens, but walking down the left side of the street, it seemed to me people were hurrying along a little bit faster than usual.

Not being in a hurry, it felt like I was left behind a surging tide. 

Was it because of some event coming up the next day that people had to get home and then away, like the holidays?  Then, the street was less busy but not by much, and this felt different.

A search for events involving this part of the city and its streets showed nothing unusual.  It was just a normal Friday night.

I ducked into the pub not far from the underground station outlet, a place where, if I didn’t want to get home too early, I would have a pint or two and something to eat.

Usually, Friday was one of the two days I would treat myself to restaurant food rather than cook for myself.  My cooking skills were not great.

In the corner, another resident of my building was also taking a refreshment.  We ran into each other sometimes in the morning, if she was early, or, like now, in the pub.

Susannah, last name unknown, had been a resident of the building for about eleven months now, and I had seen her two or three times a month, enough to say hello, and once, last week, in the pub which she confessed she had only just discovered.

She was a personal assistant to a cranky female boss, her words, and I was an accounts clerk, a dull-as-ditchwater job, my words.  But we had not talked about work, but another of the building’s residents, Rory.

He was, of all things, a male model, extremely good-looking, and I had seen once or twice his effect on women.  And now, Susannah.

I had harboured a secret desire to woo her, if that’s the right name for it these days, and had gone to cast the first overture when she asked about Rory’s availability.

Hiding my disappointment, I had to answer truthfully, and that was I didn’t know.  He brought women home from time to time, female models, I thought, but that was the extent of it.

I said I would ask if I ran into him, had asked him even though it was none of my business, and he responded with an emphatic no.  Afterwards, I realised he must have thought I was interested, which I wasn’t, and he was probably avoiding me.

Passing it on, with those sentiments, she laughed.  She thought he definitely wasn’t gay.  I wasn’t so sure.  I had to say I had friends who were, and they never advertised, to the extent that if they hadn’t told me, I would never know.

I didn’t tell them I didn’t want to know.

She looked up as I came in and waved.  I was not sure what that meant, so I went to the bar, had a brief conversation with the bartender, then sat on a stool down the end.

A few minutes later, she joined me.  Perhaps I’d misread the signal.

“A bit quieter than usual,” she said

She was right.  The bar generally had customers spilling out onto the path outside.  Tonight, it was rather sparse with spare seats inside.

A flow on from the lack of foot traffic?

“It seems so.  Maybe a lot of people moved, and we failed to see them go.”

“Not in our building.  Another family of six got Bernie’s old flat on the third floor.  The lift was out, and they all had to trudge upstairs.”

The lifts were always malfunctioning.  The landlord refused to pay for anything.  His idea was if the tenants used it, the tenants paid. 

Her rooms were opposite the elevator shaft, and she had to listen to the creaking and groaning of the two old lifts day and night.  I was lucky to be further away.

‘That flat barely fitted Bernie by himself.  How does it fit six?”

“With great difficulty.” 

She finished her drink, and I motioned to the bartender.  “Another,” I asked as he approached.

“Why not.  All that’s waiting for me is a noisy, lonely flat.”

Was that an opening to ask her out, perhaps on a date, or perhaps just to eat dinner with someone else?

“Two more,” I said, and he went away.

“Have you had dinner yet?” she asked.

“I’m trying not to think about it.”

“By the way,” she added, “I ran into Rory earlier in the week.  He asked me out to dinner when I was free, which was last night. I’m at the restaurant at the appointed time, and he stood me up.  I’m not happy at all.”

That, to me, was surprising because Suzannah was quite beautiful, with what I thought were the attributes for being a model herself. I was saved from making a comment when the drinks arrived.

I was debating with myself whether I should ask and had all but decided not to, when she asked, “What do you do with your Friday nights?”

“Find new restaurants and try something I’ve not had before.  It’s not always the surprise I’m expecting.”

“Tonight?”

“Yet another voyage of discovery into the great unknown of culinary experiences.”

“Want a fellow diner.  I don’t want to go home, and I don’t think you do either.”

I didn’t, but I was a little irked that I couldn’t find the courage to ask her.

“I do not. You’re quite welcome.  What are your preferences?”

“None.  I’m one of those rare few who can and will try anything.”

“Then why not?

Was it an omen, perhaps, but it was not a bad one.  If it hadn’t been for the lack of people, this would never have happened.  On the other hand, it still didn’t mean it was going to be plain sailing.  It would be the first time in ages I’d dined with a woman, on my own, on what could be called a date.

And anything could and possibly would go wrong.

All I could do was hope it didn’t. 

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 161

Writing exercise

…

The street was quieter than usual that Friday.

I wasn’t a believer of omens, but walking down the left side of the street, it seemed to me people were hurrying along a little bit faster than usual.

Not being in a hurry, it felt like I was left behind a surging tide. 

Was it because of some event coming up the next day that people had to get home and then away, like the holidays?  Then, the street was less busy but not by much, and this felt different.

A search for events involving this part of the city and its streets showed nothing unusual.  It was just a normal Friday night.

I ducked into the pub not far from the underground station outlet, a place where, if I didn’t want to get home too early, I would have a pint or two and something to eat.

Usually, Friday was one of the two days I would treat myself to restaurant food rather than cook for myself.  My cooking skills were not great.

In the corner, another resident of my building was also taking a refreshment.  We ran into each other sometimes in the morning, if she was early, or, like now, in the pub.

Susannah, last name unknown, had been a resident of the building for about eleven months now, and I had seen her two or three times a month, enough to say hello, and once, last week, in the pub which she confessed she had only just discovered.

She was a personal assistant to a cranky female boss, her words, and I was an accounts clerk, a dull-as-ditchwater job, my words.  But we had not talked about work, but another of the building’s residents, Rory.

He was, of all things, a male model, extremely good-looking, and I had seen once or twice his effect on women.  And now, Susannah.

I had harboured a secret desire to woo her, if that’s the right name for it these days, and had gone to cast the first overture when she asked about Rory’s availability.

Hiding my disappointment, I had to answer truthfully, and that was I didn’t know.  He brought women home from time to time, female models, I thought, but that was the extent of it.

I said I would ask if I ran into him, had asked him even though it was none of my business, and he responded with an emphatic no.  Afterwards, I realised he must have thought I was interested, which I wasn’t, and he was probably avoiding me.

Passing it on, with those sentiments, she laughed.  She thought he definitely wasn’t gay.  I wasn’t so sure.  I had to say I had friends who were, and they never advertised, to the extent that if they hadn’t told me, I would never know.

I didn’t tell them I didn’t want to know.

She looked up as I came in and waved.  I was not sure what that meant, so I went to the bar, had a brief conversation with the bartender, then sat on a stool down the end.

A few minutes later, she joined me.  Perhaps I’d misread the signal.

“A bit quieter than usual,” she said

She was right.  The bar generally had customers spilling out onto the path outside.  Tonight, it was rather sparse with spare seats inside.

A flow on from the lack of foot traffic?

“It seems so.  Maybe a lot of people moved, and we failed to see them go.”

“Not in our building.  Another family of six got Bernie’s old flat on the third floor.  The lift was out, and they all had to trudge upstairs.”

The lifts were always malfunctioning.  The landlord refused to pay for anything.  His idea was if the tenants used it, the tenants paid. 

Her rooms were opposite the elevator shaft, and she had to listen to the creaking and groaning of the two old lifts day and night.  I was lucky to be further away.

‘That flat barely fitted Bernie by himself.  How does it fit six?”

“With great difficulty.” 

She finished her drink, and I motioned to the bartender.  “Another,” I asked as he approached.

“Why not.  All that’s waiting for me is a noisy, lonely flat.”

Was that an opening to ask her out, perhaps on a date, or perhaps just to eat dinner with someone else?

“Two more,” I said, and he went away.

“Have you had dinner yet?” she asked.

“I’m trying not to think about it.”

“By the way,” she added, “I ran into Rory earlier in the week.  He asked me out to dinner when I was free, which was last night. I’m at the restaurant at the appointed time, and he stood me up.  I’m not happy at all.”

That, to me, was surprising because Suzannah was quite beautiful, with what I thought were the attributes for being a model herself. I was saved from making a comment when the drinks arrived.

I was debating with myself whether I should ask and had all but decided not to, when she asked, “What do you do with your Friday nights?”

“Find new restaurants and try something I’ve not had before.  It’s not always the surprise I’m expecting.”

“Tonight?”

“Yet another voyage of discovery into the great unknown of culinary experiences.”

“Want a fellow diner.  I don’t want to go home, and I don’t think you do either.”

I didn’t, but I was a little irked that I couldn’t find the courage to ask her.

“I do not. You’re quite welcome.  What are your preferences?”

“None.  I’m one of those rare few who can and will try anything.”

“Then why not?

Was it an omen, perhaps, but it was not a bad one.  If it hadn’t been for the lack of people, this would never have happened.  On the other hand, it still didn’t mean it was going to be plain sailing.  It would be the first time in ages I’d dined with a woman, on my own, on what could be called a date.

And anything could and possibly would go wrong.

All I could do was hope it didn’t. 

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 160

Just why are we doing this thing called writing?

…

It’s a long-standing joke that the light at the end of the tunnel is the headlight of an express train coming right at you.

Metaphorically speaking, this is quite often true if you are a pessimist, but since I’ve converted to being an optimist, a bit like changing religions, I think I’ve seen the ‘light’.

It’s a lot like coming up from the bottom of a deep pool, breaking the surface and taking that first long gulp of air.

Along with that elated feeling that you’re not going to drown.

What’s this got to do with anything, you ask?

Perhaps nothing.

As an allegory, it represents, to me, a time when l finally got over a period of self-doubt, a period where a series of events started to make me question why l wanted to be a writer.

I mean, why put yourself through rejections, sometimes scathing criticism, and then have the people whom you thought were your friends suddenly start questioning your choices after initially wholeheartedly supporting them?

Are we only successful or supportable if we are earning a sufficient wage?

Or sold a million copies?

Is this why so many people don’t give up their day job and then find themselves plying the ‘other’ trade into the dark hours of the night, only to find themselves being criticised for other but no less disparaging reasons?

It seems like a no-win situation, but these are the times when your mettle is tested severely.  But, in the end, it is worth it when the book is finished and published, even if it is only on Amazon.

You can sit back and say with pride, I did that.

That metaphorical light, you may ask…

When you get that first ‘we’re publishing your story’ letter!

Day 160

Just why are we doing this thing called writing?

…

It’s a long-standing joke that the light at the end of the tunnel is the headlight of an express train coming right at you.

Metaphorically speaking, this is quite often true if you are a pessimist, but since I’ve converted to being an optimist, a bit like changing religions, I think I’ve seen the ‘light’.

It’s a lot like coming up from the bottom of a deep pool, breaking the surface and taking that first long gulp of air.

Along with that elated feeling that you’re not going to drown.

What’s this got to do with anything, you ask?

Perhaps nothing.

As an allegory, it represents, to me, a time when l finally got over a period of self-doubt, a period where a series of events started to make me question why l wanted to be a writer.

I mean, why put yourself through rejections, sometimes scathing criticism, and then have the people whom you thought were your friends suddenly start questioning your choices after initially wholeheartedly supporting them?

Are we only successful or supportable if we are earning a sufficient wage?

Or sold a million copies?

Is this why so many people don’t give up their day job and then find themselves plying the ‘other’ trade into the dark hours of the night, only to find themselves being criticised for other but no less disparaging reasons?

It seems like a no-win situation, but these are the times when your mettle is tested severely.  But, in the end, it is worth it when the book is finished and published, even if it is only on Amazon.

You can sit back and say with pride, I did that.

That metaphorical light, you may ask…

When you get that first ‘we’re publishing your story’ letter!

Days 158 and 159

Writing exercise – of four types, a conversational piece, maybe

…

Sunday lunch could be the best of times or the worst of times.  Any family gathering at my parents’ house was a trial, one that eventually drove me away.

I had stopped turning up at the family residence for the weekly gathering simply because the ritual cross-examination of why I was not like my brothers and sisters, married with three point two children, got too exhausting.

It meant that I rarely, if ever, got to see my nieces and nephews or my brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, and well-meaning but over-the-top parents.

Moving to the other side of the country had a lot to do with it.  The rest of my family had stayed put, making their lives in the one place they all professed they could never leave.

Only one other sibling had attempted an escape, my younger sister Eileen, but two weeks after she left, she came home.  I knew something bad had happened, but she never said anything and never left again, except for the odd trip to the state capital for work.

But like all good things that came to an end, it was approaching that time when I would have to go back, if only once, because it was time.

…

I might have returned home earlier had it not been for an entirely unforeseen event.

I never had any intention of looking for, or becoming involved with, any other person, not to the extent that it would require explanation of my rather odd, to me anyway, circumstances.

Yes, I harboured the same hopes and dreams of meeting ‘the one’ as everyone else had, but the idea of subjecting them to the rigours of the family third degree was the single limiting factor.  I could not say I was an orphan, but then I didn’t think it would be a selling point that I was the second youngest of fourteen children, with twelve of the thirteen others married with a collective twenty-six nephews and nieces.

What was probably the worst aspect, this group turned up every Sunday for lunch, all fifty-four of them, unless a major calamity prevented their attendance.  As you can see, with odds of fifty-four to one, the Spanish Inquisition would have been a kindergarten outing by comparison.

But to say I missed them may have been the case, but that they missed me more was becoming very hard to ignore or put off.

Perhaps they had missed making my life hell, because over the past three years, there had been many phone calls and messages and one visit by my eldest brother, the self-elected spokesman, he said, the peacemaker, who had come to take me home.

It was the last time we spoke. Civilly, anyway.

That was a year ago.

Things had changed during that year, though I was not sure whether for the better.  I had met someone, yes, a woman named Catherine, Katerina if I wanted to call her by her Russian name, which I didn’t, one who was perhaps as skittish as I was at the whole dating and sharing your life thing.

Our first meeting was fascinating because her Russian accent was intoxicating, and I told her at the end of the night that she could read me War and Peace, and I would listen to it all night.  I think that I realised she used her Russian heritage to put off potential suitors.  I told her it wouldn’t work with me.

We both started out playing the orphan card, and as the dates piled up and the little pieces of our sad lives leaked out, it became apparent we both had suffered the small-town, large family, endless expectations things.  She had been expected to marry her high school sweetheart until she found out he was secretly cheating on her.

When she told her parents and they confronted him, he denied it and made her look like she was just spiteful because she didn’t want to marry him.  The other girl could have him, and she left on the next bus out.  It was no surprise to learn the other girl hadn’t married him, nor had any other.

From there, with cards on the table, we just clicked.

But like all good things, it, too, should have ended because I was one of those people who never finished what they started.

…

A Saturday morning, not generally a work day and the day we set aside for everything that couldn’t get done on a weekday, came after an extended evening in the pub.

We rarely stayed beyond a drink or two, but others we knew, just back from a long holiday, dropped in on the off chance we would be there, and it turned into dinner and more drinks.

It never affected Katerina. I was guessing it was something to do with her Russian heritage and vodka, and the explanation I missed when I had to go to the bathroom. I was not so lucky.

She was up and about, and I heard the buzzer, usually someone trying to get in after they forgot to take their key, and I thought no more about it.

Five minutes passed, and then Katerina was standing in the doorway, her half-hostile, annoyed expression glaring at me. It was one of those expressions you could feel.

“Some silly girl at the door says she is your sister.”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“I say this, and she says, ‘go tell that annoying bastard Eileen is here’.  So, annoying bastard, who is this Eileen?”

“One of the thirteen other siblings I try very hard not to admit I have.  They’re like debt collectors. You can never really escape them.”

I climbed out of bed and went out.  She stayed back at the door but was still visible from the front.

I opened the door and there was Eileen, my youngest sister, the last born and the most spoiled.  Given the age differences between me and my other siblings, she was the only one I could relate to.

“What the hell, Robert?”

“What the hell, yourself?  Didn’t I make it clear to Prince Walter that I had disappeared through a portal to another dimension?”

It was an attempt at a joke that he couldn’t and wouldn’t understand.  He had no sense of humour at all.

“That dumb shit doesn’t work on me.  Are you going to leave me standing in the passage?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Oh, for fucks sake Robert,” then brushed past inside.

Katerina was watching with a bemused expression.  Perhaps this was her family, too.

I could see Eileen giving her the traditional family female death stare.  “Who is she?”

“She is standing right here, and I can hear and see you.  A warning word, my other job is a bouncer at a nightclub, and you may, depending on what you say next, find out how I treat recalcitrant customers.”

That notion of not wanting to meet her in a dark alley was right.  Katarina was a gym freak.

It was amusing to see Eileen think before she spoke next.

Then, with a glance over my shoulder at Katarina, she said, “As I said at the door, I’m his sister, Eileen.  I’m surprised he didn’t mention me.”

Katerina looked her up and down.  “He mentioned all of you, but I think his description may have been a little harsh.  You only seem a little bit bitch from hell.  I am Katarina.  Bigger bitch from Siberia.”

I smiled.  She could be a fascinating companion, more so after a bottle of vodka, and especially when she related tales of being in the Russian army.  I could never tell if they were true and never dared to ask.

Eileen didn’t know what to do or say at that point. She was a hugger, and for the first time, I saw her hesitate.

Instead, she said, “Wow.  The others are going to shit their pants when they meet Katarina.”

“And you know that’s never going to happen.  That unappreciative, condescending collection of hypocrites doesn’t deserve anything from me and nothing for Katerina.”

She switched her death stare back to me.

“Dad’s dying.  Earlier in the week, the final diagnosis gave him four to six months, if he’s lucky.  We don’t believe he’s lucky.  He has to go to the hospital next week, and I honestly believe he won’t be coming out, Robert.  We gave him a wish, the one thing he wanted most of all, no matter what it was, and we would grant it.  He wants to see you one more time before he dies.”

That was saying something. When I left, he told me I could die in purgatory, after hell froze over, before he wanted to see me again.

“You were there when I left?  He was the one who drove me away.  Along with everyone else, including mother, who, I might add, spent every last breath making you the spoilt brat you are.”

“You need to get over it and yourself.  I was not spoiled.  When I left, I made a fool of myself and was raped.  It was the worst experience of my life, and my mother nearly fought a losing battle when I tried to kill myself.  I thought I knew everything, but I knew nothing.  Perhaps I should have told you, and you wouldn’t have left.”

Well, if nothing else, it was typical of how my family handled trouble.  My brother could have explained everything when he came, but he chose not to.  He was the same man as my father, uncompromising and a hard task master.  I was sure that if my father, and in turn my eldest brother, could whip us for our sins, he would have.

I shook my head and looked at Katerina.  She went up to Eileen and hugged her. 

“It is a terrible thing, what men can do to women.  We go find this lowlife and teach lesson, no?”

“Too late.  God has a way of sorting out these problems. He was killed in a crash, chased by the cops while kidnapping an underage girl he had got pregnant.  Leopards and spots, my father says.”

That would be him.  A saying for everything, not a solution.

“There is no God, just karma.  But the story doesn’t change people, as you say, leopards and spots.  Nor does death. They are still the same people as in life.  You need more compelling reasons.  I have the same family, which is why I left Russia.”

Eileen glared at me.  “Who is this woman?”

Katerina put her angry face on again. “When you live my life, you can dare ask.  You have delivered a message.”  She went to the door and opened it.  “We will discuss, let you know.”

“Robert?”

“Where are you staying?”

“The hotel up the road, not far from here.”

“Good.  I’ll call you.  I assume your cell number hasn’t changed?”

Her annoyance changed to surprise. I was not sure what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the open door.

“Is that it?”

“Like the rest, your expectation is that I would just fall into line. You could have called me.”

“You wouldn’t answer.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.   But I will call you.”

“We can talk now?”

“No.  You can’t just turn up on my doorstep and expect I’m going to drop everything.  I now have a life, one I like, free of all that obligation and expectation.  I don’t have to meet anyone’s standards other than my own and of Katarina, as it should be.”

“He’ll be very disappointed if you don’t.  Everyone will be.”

“And there’s the emotional blackmail.  Go now before I simply refuse, and you will have wasted your time and money.”

She looked at me with anger and just a little of what my brother had in his eyes the last time I saw him.  Hatred.

“I don’t understand why you hate us so much.”

“You should be asking them, not me.”

A final shake of the head, and she left.  It was not what I wanted, but it was the right thing to do.  Something I had learned while away from home, that decisions were not mine alone when there were others involved, something my father never practised.  It had always been his way or no way.

I leaned against the door and sighed.

“You think her story is true?  She is quite manipulative, as you said.”

“Maybe.  My father taught them well, her especially.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Go back to bed and pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Shopping or bed, I know which I prefer, but it doesn’t resolve the problem.”

“Then I make a call to a friend who will know what’s really going on.  Then bed, then we talk, then we take her to dinner and send her back with the good or bad news.  It’s up to you, too.”

“It is, after all, your family.”

“And yours for better or worse, if or when we decide to make this permanent.”

“Does that mean we have to go to Siberia to see mine? It is not something I would ask of you.”

“I’d love to see Siberia.”

She laughed.  “You are funny, boy Robert.  No one loves to go to Siberia, especially Siberians.  Make the call, and then I will make you forget Siberia exists.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025