NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 24

I was writing Chapter 29 when I suddenly had a bad feeling. You know the sort of feeling you get, you’ve forgotten something, or there wasn’t a lead into an event which will feel like it came from nowhere…

I’m having one of those moments.

Damn.

I’ve forgotten something.

So, I stopped editing, brought up the last eight chapters and started reading.

No, nothing I’ve forgotten. But there is something.

No point going on. This has to run around in my mind for a bit while doing something completely different, like painting a ceiling.

True, I’m in the middle of painting the dining room ceiling and putting it off to get on with the project. The project has hit a speed hump, so it’s back to the painting.

Halfway through the roof, it comes to me.

A basic error is not making sure all the points are covered in the story; otherwise, the reader will say, “ok, you said that back in Chapter 18, and now, why haven’t you realised that something’s going to happen because of your negligence?”

I know what it is.

And it will require another chapter.

But first, I have to finish the painting.

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right

Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.

It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.

…

John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence after being so indifferent for so long.

They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable and calls on an old friend for help in finding her.

After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.

But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.

What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 23

The story continues.

Chapters 23 through 28 are done, and we are on the home stretch.

There are seven days and hopefully seven more chapters.

I have finally decided on how it’s going to end, and he’s not going to finish up with the one he thought he would.

And another twist that no one will see coming, even though there are hints.

I have in mind how this will play out in one of the last three chapters, and there is a devastating truth that comes with it, one that is going to be hard to understand for one of the two main protagonists.

Such is as it should be.

A to Z – April – 2026 – T

T is for – The truth, no matter how unpalatable…

…

A wise man once told me that, one day in the not-too-distant future, I would have to make a decision that I wouldn’t like.

At that particular point in time, I thought I had everything under control, and the pieces of my life were coming together one by one, the end result of a lot of hard work.

And so it came to be, the promotion, the jewel in the crown, the catalyst to take my life to the next level, arrived. I got the job I felt I had earned, I got the salary that made it possible to consider a better apartment, and to ask my current girlfriend to come and live with me, and, quite possibly, even get married.

All before I turned that magic age of 30.

Then there was the work event, celebrating another employee’s good fortune to move up into management, and I kind of tacked my own celebration to his wagon. Not that I would tell him, it would be just an in-joke between us in the lower echelons of the corporate structure.

Jack Bosworth, one of the three candidates for the position I finally got, was happy for me.

“Just glad Ansen didn’t get it,” he said.

We both were. Ansen was an ass who was only in it for himself and what he could get out of it. There were too many like that already. The company needed new blood if it was going to move forward.

Then Ansen wandered over. Five-thousand-dollar suits, one-thousand-dollar shoes, and I didn’t hear what the pure gold tie clip cost, but he made sure everyone knew what he was worth.

“Brick.”

He knew my name was John Brock, but pretended he could never remember. He knew it well enough when he was trying to convince the promotion committee ‘confidentially’ about my shortcomings.

“Brock, Ansen, which you know is my name.”

“Brick, Brock, Brack, it’s just a name. Well played, this time. Just don’t get too comfortable. The corporate jungle is like a chessboard, Brock. Pawn takes king, bishop takes castle, everything takes a pawn, and, sadly, you’re still just a pawn. Enjoy it while you can.”

Always flanked by his wingmen, he simply smiled, and they moved on to the next junior executive whose aspirations they could quash. Being related to the boss, I guess, had its privileges; he might not get the position, but he would never get fired.

With that, he slithered off with his regular hangers-on, ready to make someone else feel smaller than himself.

“Scumbag.” Bosworth didn’t like him; none of us did.

“Be that as it may, he’ll probably be my boss next week. I have to play nice.”

“We shouldn’t have to do anything like that to get ahead.”

“As he says, it’s a game. It’s the same everywhere; there’s always one adversary who seems to have a charmed life. But let us not dwell, the bar closes soon, and there are a few drinks I’ve yet to try.”

…

A few days later, as a result of a stuff-up perpetrated by the very same Bosworth that would have reflected badly on me, I had to work late, leaving me with a dash to the restaurant where I was meeting Bernice, for that all-important discussion on moving our relationship to the next level. Being a half hour late wasn’t the best of starts. She didn’t like late people and was looking very annoyed.

“Sorry,” I said, sliding into the chair after hanging my coat on the back of it.

“You wouldn’t have to apologise if you were on time. This is the second occasion Tim; there will not be a third.”

I gave her one of my ‘I’m looking at you, but not looking at you’ appraisals, and did an internal double-take at the girl I thought liked me enough to work around a little tardiness. She knew my job wasn’t strictly nine to five, as was hers.

A very slight shrug, then the thought, maybe tonight wasn’t the night to tell her my good news. The promotion was about responsibility, not a bucketful of money, and besides, money shouldn’t be a criterion in a relationship. Move on, see how it goes…

“Are you ready to order?” It was her ‘take no prisoners’ tone.

Her expression brooked no small talk. She was an eat-and-run girl, forever telling me her time was precious. The waiter was hovering. She asked for the salad, and I said ditto. No point in having more food than she, I would not get to finish it.

The waiter was gone, drinks poured, and she looked around the room. This was my moment. Her eyes came back to me.

“Not a good day at the office?” I was going to dance with the devil.

“It’s never a good day at the office.” I still didn’t know exactly what it was she did, and each time I asked, she went off on a tangent.

All of a sudden, I was thinking of everything that was wrong with this relationship, to the point of questioning whether it was one at all.

I saw her eyes wander over to the entrance to the restaurant. She did this several times over the next half hour, at one point going to the restroom for at least five minutes and looking black as thunder when she returned.

Then, several more minutes passed before she looked over at the door, and I thought I detected recognition as three men came in. Her eyes lingered on them for a moment longer than they should have before one pulled out a shotgun under his coat and fired into the roof, making a loud bang and a lot of mess.

“Now I have your attention. James Brock. Stand up now, or I will start shooting diners till you do.”

I looked at Bernice, who was shaking her head. Did that mean she didn’t want me to stand up, or something else entirely? As for my own opinion, the situation looked exactly like he called it. I had no doubt he would do what he said he would. And, with a gun pointing at a woman’s head next to where he was standing…

I stood.

“Excellent. We’re leaving. Bring your friend.”

Before I could say wasn’t involved, his two men had come over and dragged her out of her chair. Gun pointed at me, he yelled, “Let’s go.”

Thirty seconds, a police siren in the distance, we were bundled into a white van, and it left the curb before the door was shut. Then, a needle to the neck, and I had only enough time to wonder what it was they wanted from me.

…

I woke to the sound of dripping water, a leaking tap not unlike the one I had at my current apartment, just one of the reasons why I wanted to move. Eyes still closed, I did a quick assessment.

Sitting, hands and feet bound, mouth taped. It was not hot or cold, and the only sound was that drip, every ten seconds. I could not tell where I was, or whether Bernice was there with me. From behind the closed eyelids, I could tell the place was well-lit.

I tried remaining unmoving for as long as I could, then reflex action forced my eyes open. The bright light hurt, and for a few moments, everything was blurred. Then I saw Bernice.

In exactly the same situation I was. Bound and gagged. She was looking at me. I had expected she would be hysterical, God knows, I was nearly there myself. Not sitting there calmly, making no effort to get free.

A quick glance showed no signs of exertion to free herself.

Why had they brought her? That was easy. If they believed she meant something to me, she could be used as leverage. And that, to my mind, right then, after the first thirty minutes of our dining engagement, was their first mistake. During the next five minutes, I created a mental list of pros and cons for the relationship, and there were no pros.

That being the case, I could move on to the next issue. Who were they? Not top-line criminals. They had been lucky; I’d been too stunned to fight back and moved quick enough to negate resistance.

The bindings were tight, but they had been tied by someone who didn’t know their knots. The chair was bolted to the floor, so no trying to fall over or break it. We were not blindfolded, and we had seen the faces of our captors. Equally amateur, or didn’t it matter, there was going to be only one conclusion to this exercise.

I had questions, but being gagged defeated that. I would have to wait and see what they wanted.

The man who did the talking in the restaurant appeared out of the gloom and stopped not far from Bernice, a silenced pistol in his right hand.

“I’m sorry about the interruption to your dinner, but I’m in a hurry, and you have something I need.” No beating about the proverbial bush.

I shrugged. No point answering while I was gagged.

He removed it, and Bernice’s. Surprisingly, she didn’t speak.

“What do you need?” I asked, suddenly realising that a secret that only three people knew about was no longer a secret.. A special algorithm, or one third of it at least, one that unlocked Pandora’s box. No one had access to the whole algorithm.

“Your part of the algorithm. One of three such code bearers, I have been told. The other two are being swept up as we speak.”

Who could have told him? The list of suspects was very, very short.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bluff first, though the tone I used didn’t exactly sell it.

“You do. Let’s cut to the chase.”

“If I don’t.”

“Missy here dies from a nasty gunshot wound to the head.”

“You’re going to do that anyway. There’s no way you’re going to let us live now we’ve seen you.”

He shrugged. “I can guarantee you will not remember who we really are. I was going to come as Abraham Lincoln, but I wasn’t allowed to. Remembering our faces is not a problem. You tell me, we’re in the wind.”

I could see Bernice following the conversation.

“Just give him the code,” she said, quietly. No sign of nerves or fear, like she was telling me what to do as if it was her right. “Then we get to live our lives.”

“This, unfortunately, is one of those no-win situations, Bernice. Either way, we’re both going to die. If I give it to him, thousands, possibly millions will die, if I don’t give it to him, we will die. The people I work for will know I gave it up, and they will execute me for treason. There’s no incentive.”

She glared at the man. “You’re not selling it very well. If what he says is true, even I wouldn’t give it to you.”

A rather interesting comment. Was she aiding him or goading him?

The man looked at both of us. Then he raised the gun and shot at her, not fatally, the bullet grazing her arm, and she screamed more at the noise in a confined space and the tug of the bullet passing her clothing.

“Think very carefully what you say next,” he said to her. The look between them was unmistakable.

I looked at her and felt disappointed. “I can’t, no matter how much I want to.”

She glared back at me with an intensity that was a good example of ‘if looks could kill’. I suspect that if, in the last few seconds, I asked her to marry me, it would be met with an emphatic ‘No!’

“I realise that you have an obligation that you take very seriously, trust me, I do,” she said, “but this is a life and death situation. Whatever this code thing is, it can’t be worth dying for.”

An odd thought popped into my head, my father, unravelling another of his pearls of wisdom, this one: silence sometimes is golden.

A few seconds after I didn’t respond, she added, “I was so sure you were going to ask me the question.” Her tone changed slightly.

It was on my mind this morning when I woke up. Even when I stepped out the front door of the building on my way to the restaurant. Then, when I sat down, the look she gave me sent a shiver down my spine. Not a good one. An omen, perhaps, that everything wasn’t going to go the way I’d hoped.

I had begun to have second thoughts about a week ago, when I woke up the morning after a dinner with a few of her friends, people I’d only met in passing before.

And accidentally overhearing a conversation between two of the other halves. One asked the question, ‘What is she doing with him?’ The other replied, ‘It’s something to do with what he does, and it won’t be for much longer.’ I had thought hearing that would have saddened me, but oddly, it didn’t.

I shrugged, “Had we not been interrupted…”

I just realised the man with the gun had stepped back. Knowing he couldn’t kill me because he would not get the algorithm if he did, he decided to let her sell it. I was sure he was not going to fatally shoot her. There was no blood from the last shot, so perhaps it had only been for effect. Perhaps he realised, too, that killing her removed all the incentive to give him the code.

“Perhaps now, even in trying circumstances…”

“It would certainly make a good story to tell our grandchildren, but when you said that we would get to live our lives, you didn’t add the word together, that we get to live our lives together. It’s a small oversight, but in times of stress, people tend to say exactly what they believe.”

Her expression changed, just slightly.

Just a fraction before the man with the gun was shot in the head and went down without a murmur. It was followed by a half a dozen more shots, then silence.

“What just happened?” Now she did look very frightened, as she should have looked from the moment this started in the restaurant.

The door opened, and the company’s head of security, a man I only knew as Walter, came in.

“You OK?”

“You took your time,” I said, shakily, because the man with the gun could have got trigger happy, but as Walter had said, they needed the code and killing me would defeat the purpose.

Two of his men came in, freeing us from the bindings. The man who freed Bernice took a look at her arm. “Not a scratch, sir,” he said, and stood back.

Her expression changed to suffused anger. “This was what, you dragged me into a situation where we could both be killed. I was shot, for God’s sake.

“Yes, and it was almost convincing.”

“What do you mean, almost convincing? You’re not implying…”

“That you were complicit in whatever this was? Yes. You were never in danger.”

“Neither were you.”

“And if you didn’t get the code?”

“We’d be left in the room, wake up, be happy we survived.”

“Without the code?”

“It was a long shot. I underestimated your resolve.”

There might have been no resolution if she had reacted normally, but I wasn’t going to tell her that.

“What happens to me now?”

“Words like treason get bandied around behind closed doors. Depending on whether you cooperate, your choices will be a very dark, dank hole and never see daylight again, or life in a tower where you get to see daylight every morning until you die.”

“You’re kidding?”

Walter nodded to the men, and they took her away.

“Of course, you know what this means, don’t you?” he said.

“Shortest promotion ever.”

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 96

Day 96 – One word in front of another

…

The Architecture of Scraps: How Great Things Are Built One Fragment at a Time

“A book gets written only by putting one word in front of another…” — Sinéad Gleeson

We often romanticise the act of writing. We imagine the dedicated author in a sun-drenched study, sitting down with a clear mind, a fresh pot of coffee, and a singular, uninterrupted focus that flows like a mountain stream.

But for the vast majority of us—and even for the most celebrated writers—that is rarely the reality. The reality is far messier, far more fragmented, and, in many ways, far more beautiful.

The Art of the Scrap

Writing isn’t always a grand, sweeping gesture. More often than not, it is written in scraps.

It is the half-formed sentence scribbled on a napkin while waiting for a train. It is the paragraph drafted in the quiet, blue-tinted hours before the sun comes up, while the rest of the world is still suspended in dreams. It is the frantic note typed into a smartphone while hiding in the pantry, or the single, perfect adjective that floats to the surface while standing in the grocery checkout line.

These fragments feel inconsequential in the moment. They are mere “scraps”—tattered pieces of thought that seem too small to hold the weight of a story. But there is a quiet, rhythmic power in the accumulation of these moments.

The Physics of “One After Another”

Sinéad Gleeson’s reminder is both a grounding truth and a liberation: a book gets written only by putting one word in front of another.

When we look at a finished book, we see a monolith. We see a daunting, polished, finished object that feels like it must have required a singular, Herculean effort to summon into existence. But that is an illusion. A book is not a monolith; it is a mosaic. It is a collection of thousands of tiny, separate decisions.

By focusing on the “one word,” we remove the crushing pressure of the “whole book.” You don’t have to write a masterpiece today; you just have to write a sentence. You don’t have to solve the plot holes of chapter ten; you just have to capture the fleeting thought you had on the commute.

The Beauty of the In-Between

There is a specific kind of magic that happens in the cracks of our lives. When we write while waiting—for the coffee to brew, for the meeting to start, for the bus to arrive—we are practising a form of mindfulness. We are telling ourselves that our creative voice is worth honouring, even when we don’t have hours to spare.

Often, these “stolen” words are the best ones. They are raw, unfiltered, and honest. They haven’t been overthought or polished into dullness. They are the artifacts of a life truly lived.

Before You Know It…

The most hopeful part of this process is the surprise. If you keep choosing to put one word in front of another—if you keep collecting those scraps and piecing them together—something shifts.

The scraps begin to talk to each other. They form lines, then paragraphs, then chapters. One day, you look up from your messy, fragmented notes and realise that the space between “I have an idea” and “I have a manuscript” has been bridged.

Before you know it, there’s the book.

So, if you are feeling overwhelmed by a project, or if you feel like you don’t have the “perfect” environment to be a writer, let go of the pressure. Stop waiting for the sun-drenched study. Carry a notebook. Tap a note into your phone. Write a sentence on a scrap of paper.

Don’t worry about the book. Just worry about the word. Keep putting one in front of the other, and let the rest take care of itself.