365 Days of writing, 2026 – 103

Day 103 – It’s easy, all I have to do is write stories

…

Beyond the Myth: Leigh Brackett and the Hard Truth of Professional Fiction

For many aspiring writers, the dream begins early. It’s a seductive, glittering mirage: the idea that you can simply sit down, tap a few keys or scrawl across a page, and “easy money” will flow forth in exchange for your tales.

Leigh Brackett, the legendary “Queen of Space Opera” and the force behind iconic screenplays like The Big Sleep and The Empire Strikes Back, began her journey with that very notion. For Brackett, the idea of writing as a living wasn’t just a career path; it was a beckoning light that captivated her at the age of thirteen.

But as Brackett’s prolific career eventually proved, the distance between the idea of easy money and the reality of a professional writing career is vast. To turn a childhood fascination into a lifelong vocation, Brackett—and anyone who follows in her footsteps—had to learn that writing is not a shortcut to riches; it is a discipline of iron.

The Myth of the “Easy” Vocation

When you are thirteen, the act of storytelling feels like magic. It is unburdened by deadlines, market trends, or the daunting weight of editorial rejection. Brackett, like many others, viewed the pen as a wand.

However, Brackett quickly learned that the “easy money” myth is a dangerous trap. It ignores the cold, hard reality that writing for a living is a business. It requires more than just a vivid imagination; it requires the fortitude to treat your craft with the same seriousness as an architect treats a blueprint or a surgeon treats a theatre.

What Else Does It Take?

If not “easy money,” then what fueled Brackett’s longevity in a field as fickle as pulp fiction and Hollywood screenwriting? It takes a combination of grit, adaptability, and a relentless evolution of craft.

1. The Discipline of the “Daily Grind”

Brackett didn’t wait for the Muses to descend. She understood that a professional writer shows up. She treated writing as a job, sitting down at the typewriter day after day, regardless of whether the words flowed like water or felt like pulling teeth. Inspiration is for amateurs; professionals have a schedule.

2. Radical Adaptability

Brackett’s career path was a testament to survival. She moved from the pulps of the 1940s to the high-stakes world of Hollywood noir, and eventually to the blockbusters of the late 70s. She didn’t cling to one medium. She learned the nuances of dialogue, the structure of a screenplay, and the pacing of a novel. To succeed for decades, you must be willing to learn new languages of storytelling and pivot when the industry shifts.

3. Developing a “Thick Skin”

The myth suggests that writing is a form of self-expression where your soul is the product. The reality is that your work is a commodity subject to intense scrutiny, brutal edits, and rejection. Brackett’s ability to take the “notes” from studio executives or editors without losing the integrity of her voice was vital. She understood that being edited wasn’t a personal attack; it was part of the refinement process.

4. The Craft over the Ego

Finally, it takes a genuine, unyielding love for the craft itself. Brackett didn’t just love the “money” or the “status”; she loved the challenge of building worlds. When the money was thin, and the deadlines were crushing, it was the intellectual puzzle of constructing a narrative—of finding the right word, the perfect plot twist, the emotional anchor—that kept her in the chair.

The Takeaway

Leigh Brackett’s journey from a thirteen-year-old dreamer to a titan of science fiction reminds us that while writing can become a career, it is never “easy.”

If you are looking for easy money, there are faster ways to find it. But if you are looking for a vocation—a calling that demands your best, pushes your limits, and forces you to grow every single day—then you are in the right place. Just remember: professional writing is earned in the trenches, one word at a time, long after the myth of “easy” has faded away.

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 30

It’s the end.

The last day, but not the last of the editing.

Yes, I have almost managed to complete most of the editing in 30 days, but with a few side trips, and changes to the plan on the run, it is mostly done.

The good news?

I’m going to stick with it until I’ve finished, so there will be a few more journal entries to cover the last chapters.

Had it been the length I had originally planned, it would have been finished.

I managed to get through the back chapters last night after some distractions, and now it’s just two, possibly three more, and then one or two for the epilogue, which will be epic.

At the moment, the story is about 73,000 words long and will finish closer to 80,000.

It’s been at times a trial, a lot of hard work, but it has been worthwhile. The thing is, I’m going to continue on, past the estimated time, and get this finished.

It’s now three of three, books that will eventually be published in the near future.

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 29

I’m in the middle of writing a new chapter, one that goes back a little in time, but helps set up events that occur later towards the end.

And true to form, it’s going a little off track.

There is scope for it to be a pivotal point in the story, but it’s not quite working out that way.

I’m doing this while I’m waiting for my usual Friday grandchild collection from school. Here I have to get here a half hour before pick up time to get a favourable position in the queue.

So it’s a good time to do some editing.

And it’s where I work on one of my stories, matched to a photo as inspiration.

Not today.

There are pressures in getting the NaNoWriMo project finished, and it’s getting away from me.

This part was not as easy as I hoped, so back to the job. Hopefully, there will be better news tomorrow

A to Z – April – 2026 – Y

Y is for – You just never know what’s around the corner

…

Someone told me once that things happen for a reason. I think it might have been my father when the life I had expected to spend with Nina didn’t happen. Of course, he would add that at the time it was not apparent why, only after time had healed that wound, would you discover why.

Nina never told me why she left, and I never asked. I simply assumed she didn’t like the city, or me, or both, and went home.

As for the promotion, I wanted to believe fate was telling me the company I chose to work for didn’t appreciate hard-working employees, and that it was time to move on.

Outside the door, looking back, I shrugged. If anything, it had been a stepping stone to be chalked up to experience. Right then, I had no idea how it would help me later, but there would be time for rumination. Perhaps I would go home for a week or two, if only to regain my perspective.

I’d timed my meeting so that if it did or didn’t go south, I would be able to celebrate or commiserate at my favourite cafe not far from the office. For the first time in years, I was not in a hurry and could amble along the sidewalk like a tourist rather than a harried employee, taking in everything I had missed.

When I reached the café, one of several, as well as bars, where I was almost persuaded to have something stronger than coffee, and going to open the door, my hand reached the handle at the same time as another. I stepped back, seeing it was a lady, and manners took over. When she turned to thank me, I saw it was Nina.

She also stepped back and smiled. “Kevin.”

“Nina!”

I opened the door, she went through, and I followed. We stepped up to the front desk together.

“Are you here to meet someone?” I asked, still slightly awestruck that it was her. Of all the places she could be…

“As it happens, yes. You. If you remember, we used to come here on a Thursday, which is today. I hoped you would still come here.”

The girl came back to the desk after taking another couple to a table.

“Are you together?” She asked.

I looked at Nina.

“If you are not here to see someone else?” Nina said.

“I’m not.”

“Then,” the girl said, smiling, “You are together. Follow me.”

We weaved between the tables to the back near the bar and sat at almost the same table we had sat the last time we had eaten there, the day Nina left to go home.

Drink order taken, she left us with menus. I think we both knew what we were having.

“Remember that last lunch, nearly two years ago, you said that I should try the lobster and champagne. It was very expensive, but you said it would be a perfect way to cap off what had been a wonderful two weeks.”

“Then we should have it again.”

Only this time, I would not suggest paying for it. After some time to think about it, I could see why she didn’t like the idea of my paying for her. I’d always believe it was my responsibility if I asked her, or anyone else, out and forgot that she lived in a different world from the one my parents expected me to live in.

The drinks arrived, and we ordered.

A few sips of the champagne and a few moments to discreetly observe her, I realised that she had changed not just her hairstyle, but just about everything else. We had been younger then and in awe of everything the large city had to offer, and back then, it had intimidated her more than it had me. She had not said specifically why she had gone back home, but I suspected it was homesickness, and not landing the job she had come to interview for. I had more success, and though I had said she could stay with me, she believed that she had to stand on her own two feet.

From the monthly letters I received from my mother, first asking when I was going to find a nice girl and settle down, she would tell me the news from home, and invariably, a paragraph or two about Nina.

She had always liked Nine and had expected that we would end up together. It was interesting that she had not married back home. Certainly, there were several of the boys she had liked at school still available, and one in particular that I almost lost out to as my Prom date.

I suspect she had been observing me, too. Mother would have told her that I was still unmarried, but would not have known the reason, other than that city girls were not likely to be interested in going back to my hometown. I was not sure if I wanted to either. If what my mother said was true, there were even fewer opportunities there than before I left.

I let her ask the first question.

“It’s a bit early for you to be coming out for lunch. Problems at work?”

“No. Just decided to clear my head.”

“How far up the ladder have you climbed. I seem to remember you wanted to be one of the section managers by now.”

“It was one of my goals.”

“Not there yet?”

It was a simple question, but to me it was particularly pointed because when I thought about it, for the first time since I’d left the building, it seemed like it was always going to happen. I realised then that I was not the sort of person who had that blind ambition to get to the top.

“No.”

Perhaps it was the time, or my demeanour, or something else that she picked up on. Nina always had that instinct that could see through the wall I often put up to protect myself, especially when things got difficult.

She took my hand in hers and asked, softly, “What are you not telling me? I know something is wrong, Kevin. I know you.”

I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“But it does. I can feel it. What happened at work? It is work, isn’t it?”

I could spar with her, but in the end, she would get it out of me. “I didn’t get the promotion I wanted. The one I deserved.”

It was a bit presumptive, and maybe that had something to do with why I didn’t get it. Or that I wasn’t willing to play the same game as the other candidates.

“So, where does that leave you?”

“Out of a job. I resigned. I couldn’t work for people who didn’t respect the time and effort I’ve put in over the last two years.”

“When?”

“This morning, just before I came here. It’s why I’m early. I was coming here to have a few drinks and contemplate what I was going to do. To be honest, I’m glad you are here. Now I don’t have to think about it.”

“Maybe, just maybe, my coming here was serendipitous. Would you like to talk about it?”

“There’s not a lot to say.”

“Can you get another job? Do you want to do the same thing, or would you like to take a break? Your mother laments the fact that you didn’t come home last Christmas and would like to see you. I had hoped you would come home too, but I guessed you needed to consolidate your position at the company. So much for rewarding dedication.”

My mother had more than hinted she wanted me to come home, if only for a few weeks, to sort out their affairs. Dad wanted to retire, and let my older brother, Alfie, step up, but she said he had concerns that Alfie didn’t have the inclination to take over; he preferred to be one of the workers. Susannah wanted to, but her marriage was falling apart, and the two young children needed her full attention.

The last letter had shifted the hinting to pleading, so perhaps the events at work had been part of a bigger plan that I had no control over.

But, aside from everything else, she was right. Maybe it was time for me to take a hiatus from the plan and get my feet planted firmly back on the ground. “You’ve probably just said what I was thinking. With everything my mother tells me about Dad and the business, perhaps I should go home for a while. Has it changed much?”

“As far as you and I are concerned, no. The diner’s there, and Mary still waits tables, and Fred still can’t fry eggs properly. Mr Halliday still runs the drug store, but his daughter helps in between college. Our haunts have not been part of what the county calls urban renewal, even though our town could hardly be called urban. Mum and Dad were glad I went home, because like all of the parents, they’re getting older.”

That was when the food came out, and it looked like a feast for the eyes as well as for the eating. The conversation was just enough for me to seriously consider what I would do next.

What did interest me, and a point that had been carefully avoided, was why she had decided, now rather than any time in the past, to come visit. Mother’s letter had not said it was specifically to see me, and the main reason anyone would come to the big city was for medical reasons.

I would wait until she told me, or if she didn’t, I would ask.

Lunch was a welcome diversion; I wouldn’t have thought of having Lobster and Champagne if she hadn’t been here, but it could only put off the inevitable for so long.

She could see I had something I wanted to say. She had always known when, as she described it, I had a bee in my bonnet. It was a quaint expression, but she had taken English Literature and was now the fountain of all things English. It had been for another purpose, to aid in a writing career, and she had hoped to become a journalist at one of the prestigious city newspapers. It hadn’t happened, but she did get a job back home at the local paper, a weekly digest of all things country.

When the lunch dishes had been removed and an apple pie was on order, she gave me one of those looks, the one that told me to fess up.

“You want to know the real reason I’m here, don’t you?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“I couldn’t come just to revisit and see how you were getting on?”

“It’s a long train ride. I know you don’t like planes.”

“I could have changed.”

“Not that much.”

“You know if God wanted us to fly, he would have given us wings.”

Another saying, trotted out when I originally asked her to come with me, was almost across the whole continent. Oddly, I liked the idea of taking the train, if only for the time it gave us to spend together.

“Where’s Icarus when you need him?”

She frowned, a prelude to a scowl. I knew better than to push her.

“What if I said it was to come and see you, to find out if you were coming home in the near future?”

It was plausible, but why didn’t she tell my mother? They were constantly talking.

“My mother just said you were coming to the city. Not why. I figured if you didn’t tell her, then it must be something serious. You are not unwell, are you?”

“No. I’ve been thinking about you a lot. It’s one of those things where I had always imagined we would end up together. You remember the pact we made on prom night, out the back, after a few drinks and how silly we were after one too many. We promised each other that if we were not married at the end of the two years, we would find each other and have this conversation.”

To be honest, I had forgotten it. It had been drunk, and when I went home afterwards, my father threatened to kill me, not because I was drunk, but because I was incapable of protecting Nina. Responsibility, he said, was never, ever, to be taken for granted.

I learned from that mistake and never indulged to that extent again.

“I remember going home that night and my father completely losing it. He expected more of me, so much so, I got to the point where I never thought I would ever live up to his expectations.”

“Alfie hasn’t, so don’t fret too much. You got me home safely, and that was all that mattered.”

“Except if you had been in trouble, I would not have been much use.”

“Nothing happened, that was all that mattered. However, not to get off track, though sometimes I believe you deliberately do it, it’s been two years. You’re not married, and I’m not married, but Giles has asked me to marry him.”

“Westerby?”

She nodded. “As you can imagine, my parents have been telling me I’m not getting any younger, and I should not wait for the man of my dreams to make up his mind. Except, I really don’t want to marry Giles. He’s a nice boy, but he’s too nice, no ambition, content to simply plod through life with two point four children, alternate Sunday lunches with family, and once a year camping vacation in Yellowstone with the rest of his family. They’ve been doing the same thing for centuries.”

She sighed. “Unless I get a better offer…My mother thinks I’m about to become an old maid left on the shelf and has been working her way through Oldbury County’s eligible bachelors. Giles is the latest, and he’s keen.”

“Because no one else will take him.”

“Perhaps, but he can provide a girl a life of luxury to which she could become accustomed.”

“Is that what you want?”

“If there’s nothing else in the offing. According to my mother, my childbearing days are rapidly diminishing.”

“You’re barely into your mid-20s.”

“You know, mother’s. You also have one, and she longs to hold a grandchild, yours preferably, and more likely than one from your brothers.” She shrugged. “We could go home and pretend we’re engaged. It’d solve the Giles problem, and we could string the engagement out for a few months and then let it fizzle.”

“Or we could just get married. I mean, we always said we would. If no one else wanted us, or at least had first right of refusal.”

“Would you still want to. I mean, we were silly kids back then, all starry-eyed and full of impossible plans.”

“I meant it. Didn’t you?”

“I did, but I never thought you’d remember. I thought you were just saying what I wanted to hear.”

The fact I had forgotten about the pact was one thing, but I had never stopped loving her, not from the first time I saw her. It was that proverbial, impossible, love at first sight.

“I loved you more than anything. It broke my heart when you went home.”

“I had to. I missed home too much. You were the only one, and as you can see, I waited. And then now I’m here giving you first right of refusal.”

“That sounds pretty awful, doesn’t it?”

“I can’t think of a better way of putting it. You are my first and, to be truthful, only preference. But, if you have had a change of heart…”

“I have not. Let’s have apple pie and coffee to think about it, and if you still want to go through with it, we’ll go to Tiffany’s. If we’re going to do this, let’s do it in style.” I took both her hands in mine. “Oh, and just to be formal, will you marry me?”

“Fine. I had hoped it might be more traditional, but yes.”

I kissed her hand. “Excellent. We will make a stop after going to Tiffany’s. There’s a special spot in Central Park where I’m told you can propose. We’ll get a horse and carriage and flowers.”

“And photographs.” She smiled.

“And photographs.”

“You knew I was coming, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but not why. It was my horoscope this morning, one that was too coincidental to not come true. ‘An old friend will come back into your life, causing you to make a life-changing decision.

In fact, I made three. I quit my job, I decided to go home, and I proposed to and was accepted by the only girl I ever loved. What more could any man ask for?”

The twinkle in her eyes told me there was a lot more than I could ever imagine.

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 101/102

Days 101 and 102 – Writing exercise

A random few pages of a novel you might write – the idea of a story

…

It was a perfect day for a funeral. Overcast, cold, snow imminent, after a week of snow culminating on a blizzard the night before.

I shivered. Was it her Ghost?

No one had told me Gwen had died, and I had to find out from a newspaper. I guess that was the price to be paid for being an ex.

It was not my choice; she had decided to move on to bigger and better things with a man who was, in her words, aspired to far more than I ever would.

At the time, I would have agreed with her. I didn’t make a fuss when I discovered the affair, nor did I make it difficult for her to do as she wished. I loved her, always would, and it was better to let her follow her heart.

The children, Ben and Amber, decided they wanted to go with her; the thought of living in a mansion and having a life of luxury was more appealing than staying with me.

Again, I didn’t object, believing they would be happier there.

And now, twenty years almost to the day she left, here we were. A cemetery. The last place I expected to be ten days before Christmas.

Oh, by the way, I hadn’t been invited to the funeral service, so I didn’t get into the church, which was for families and celebrities only. No, I was at the burial plot, waiting to have the last word.

Perhaps not getting an invite was a blessing in disguise.

To say that I abhorred Jerry Northington-Jobson from the very first moment I saw him would be an understatement.

He was the only child of perhaps the fifth richest noble family in the country, spoilt beyond reason, indolent, rude, and the last man I expected Gwen would so much as look once at let alone twice.

When his parents died, in suspicious circumstances, I might add, he became the seventh Earl of something or other, the owner of a dozen estates in England and throughout Europe, and then Gwen’s second husband.

He was a lucky man.

Until she died.

In the last week, there was little else in the newspapers, every minute detail of his affairs, of his company’s misdemeanours, and the most telling of all, how he had, in twenty-plus years, spent every penny of his inheritance, and then some, on bad investments, gambling, and simply travelling around the world.

Had Gwen been alive to see it, it would have destroyed her. I honestly believed she had no idea what their financial state would have been.

Nor would she, or any of her friends, had they been invited, have appreciated the funeral he had planned.

My cell phone vibrated in my hand.

“It’s over, sir.”

“Thank you.”

I felt, for a second, like I was in a spy novel. It was nothing like that, just a friend who had got into the church where the service was being held, so I’d know when the coffin would arrive at the plot.

It seemed an odd way of seeing her to her final resting place, but it was the only way. My request for a seat in the church had been denied.

It took about ten minutes before the procession came into view, with the priest leading the way. Jerry Northington-Jobson, at the head of the coffin bearers, looked every bit the stricken husband over the loss of his wife.

Yet, according to the message I just received on the service, he had delivered a somewhat emotional eulogy that lacked, yes, real emotion.

It took five more minutes before the coffin was laid on the struts over the open grave, and those willing to brave the minus temperature to hear the last eulogy before her body was committed to the ground.

Fittingly, light snow began to fall at the same time the priest uttered his first words, in Latin.

I had forgotten they were both Roman Catholic. That had been another strike against me; I did not have the same faith in God.

Then it was over, and the cold scattered the participants, and within a quarter hour, everyone was gone. Everyone but this strange old man, standing at the grave, shedding a tear or two.

“Are you really an irascible old man?”

I turned, then looked down. It was a girl, dressed in black, about five or six years old.

“It depends on who told you that.”

“My mother. She tells me you are my long-lost grandfather, the one we never talk about.”

OK, that was a surprise. Having not heard about any children, the children were too busy making asses of themselves in public as befitting the rich and somewhat famous; it was not improbable that this was my great-granddaughter.

“And why is that?” I kept my voice in the same low conspiratorial tone.

“He deserted my grandmother, but I think he dodged a bullet.”

I almost laughed, just managing to keep a straight face. She was obviously repeating what she had heard elsewhere, but it was hard to believe it would come from Amber. The last words I spoke to her, she hated me.

“What’s your name?”

“Daisy “

“I’m Ken. Sometimes irascible, but I don’t go out very often.”

“Do you always hide?”

“Not usually, but today it was prudent. I don’t want to cause trouble at your grandmother’s funeral.”

“You don’t have to worry. My grandfather has already done that. My mother says he’s an ass too, so it must be something all grandfathers have in common.”

A distinct possibility, I thought. I scanned the few people remaining, the snow falling harder now, and her mother was not one of them, or at least anyone I might recognise as Amber. It had been so long that she may have changed, and I’d not know her.

“It is most likely because we are old. Where is your mother?”

“In the church still. She is not very well. She told me to come out and see if you had come. Her description was quite accurate.”

I had changed, too, so how could she know what I looked like? Unless she had guessed that I might turn up at the funeral, invited or not.

“Do you think she might want to see me?”

“I think so. It’s a bit hard sometimes to tell what she’s thinking. Perhaps we should go and find out.”

The snow had settled in, falling steadily. It was time to get indoors, preferably near a large fire. There was one waiting for me back at the inn where I was staying for a few days.

“OK. Lead the way.”

Her little hand slipped into mine, and we headed towards the church. A thought did cross my mind that she was far too trusting of strangers, but then, I didn’t feel like one. Perhaps she had sensed that.

Still, I would have a word with her mother about it.

We dusted off the snow before going into the church. Not far from the entrance, a solitary person was sitting, head in hands.

Daisy left me and went up to her mother, shaking her. “Mummy, mummy, I found the man.”

Her mother lifted her head slowly and turned towards me.

Amber. All grown up. That was the first shock; the second was that she was the spitting image of her mother, exactly as I had seen her that first day I met her. So flawless, so beautiful, so English.

The second shock was that she was very, very ill.

“Hello, daddy.”

I walked over as she stood and held out her arms. The next moment, she collapsed, and I just managed to catch her.

She was not just ill; she was very near death. I recognised the signs; she had the disease that finally killed her mother.

…

“The Things we do for Love”, the story behind the story

This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.

Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.

Why, you might ask.

Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne

At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.

I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.

Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them

Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.

I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.

Damn!

So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years

I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.

It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey. Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.

Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.

So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.

Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.

It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there. She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.

And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions. Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.

Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.

But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.

As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life

If only I’d come from such a background!

And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.

I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.

One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.

Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.

It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife. Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.

…