Days 32 and 33

A weekend to review the work so far, or if you haven’t had a chance to apply some basic questions to an existing project that you started…

I have a few of those.

So I picked a pile of pages out of the unfinished, run-aground, bin, stories I’d started and couldn’t go on after the initial wave of inspiration died off.

Does that mean I should have planned, with an outline, from start to finish, and that wouldn’t happen? No. Either way, plan or no plan, a story can run aground.

And the basic questions…

First – what sections do you like reading?

Well, most of it. When the spark is there, the story writes itself. Just re-reading some of the story reminds me that I am better at this and that I give myself credit. The spirit comes and goes, but when I’m in the grove, it doesn’t take long to write.

Second – what parts don’t you like, and should they be tossed or reworked?

There are no bad parts to be discarded, though sometimes when editing, a whole chapter can change in a rewrite, but the worst of those rewrites is when you write something later on that hasn’t been thought of or had been dealt with differently because the new stuff reflects where the story should go. Then you have to go back.

Third – is this the book you meant to write?

Yes. I find by some remarkable quirk that even if I plan an ending, sometimes it actually gets there, and if I don’t I find it was the ending and the story I was going to tell. It’s just it takes me a few rewrites to get it into shape.

That’s why sometimes I have to walk away from a story for months, sometimes a year, before I come back and the whole story has crystallised in my mind.

In the time I’ve looked at it for this exercise, I realised what was needed and made extensive notes for when I get back to it.

Some more about my book

…

Ever woken up in another part of the world in a strange bed, in a hotel or guest house, and wondered where you are?  It seems that would happen a lot if you were a road warrior.

I’m not but I still have those moments even at home in my own bed.

Is it the dreams we have that disorient us?  Like mine because they take me to different places, and different situations, and above all, it takes me out of my mundane and boring existence.

It’s time to immerse myself in a more vicarious existence.

The world of a spy.

I think an action start might work better than just introducing the main character.

The last time we visited him in a hotel room, very hot, very hungover, and not very ready to work.

Why is he there?

Most espionage works during meetings with sources, informants, and important people who defect with a bag full of state secrets.

For wads of money, of course.

Where is he, right now?  Perhaps it could be said he was not in a good place.  A very tough few years, in the firing line, and the loss of colleagues begin to make him question everything and everyone.

There is going to be a last straw, you know, that one that breaks the camel’s back.

I’m working on his background story, a legend if you like, so I’m more acquainted with the character.  I want to be able to slip into his character and be him.  It makes it easier to write when you know everything about him or her.

And, yes, there will be a her.

And yes, jaded, world-weary or not, he’s not quite done with the bad guys yet.

It’s just he wishes the moments of self-doubt would get less rather than more.

Some more about my book

…

Ever woken up in another part of the world in a strange bed, in a hotel or guest house, and wondered where you are?  It seems that would happen a lot if you were a road warrior.

I’m not but I still have those moments even at home in my own bed.

Is it the dreams we have that disorient us?  Like mine because they take me to different places, and different situations, and above all, it takes me out of my mundane and boring existence.

It’s time to immerse myself in a more vicarious existence.

The world of a spy.

I think an action start might work better than just introducing the main character.

The last time we visited him in a hotel room, very hot, very hungover, and not very ready to work.

Why is he there?

Most espionage works during meetings with sources, informants, and important people who defect with a bag full of state secrets.

For wads of money, of course.

Where is he, right now?  Perhaps it could be said he was not in a good place.  A very tough few years, in the firing line, and the loss of colleagues begin to make him question everything and everyone.

There is going to be a last straw, you know, that one that breaks the camel’s back.

I’m working on his background story, a legend if you like, so I’m more acquainted with the character.  I want to be able to slip into his character and be him.  It makes it easier to write when you know everything about him or her.

And, yes, there will be a her.

And yes, jaded, world-weary or not, he’s not quite done with the bad guys yet.

It’s just he wishes the moments of self-doubt would get less rather than more.

Day 31

Minimalist writing.

I don’t think this is going to make me a better writer. I like to describe things, set the mood, set the place, set the characters, and then jump in.

Minimalism requires you to strip away all of that baggage and get to the heart of the matter.

Here’s the problem:

I spent the next seven days planning to remove my worst enemy.

Why?

There has to be motivation, though I guess it could be a series of short vignettes that explain the lead-up to this drastic situation.

I have a problem sometimes getting to the point. We get there, but perhaps we should have made a left at Alberquerqe and instead, went on the grand tour instead.

Just think, if I wanted to see London, Paris and Berlin, where would be the fun in that. I want to see everything possible in between, like the Eurostar, Disneyland, the Rhine and all those castles and vineyards.

Stories are like that, too. We need the details to make educated guesses and keep reading to see if we are right.

Day 31

Minimalist writing.

I don’t think this is going to make me a better writer. I like to describe things, set the mood, set the place, set the characters, and then jump in.

Minimalism requires you to strip away all of that baggage and get to the heart of the matter.

Here’s the problem:

I spent the next seven days planning to remove my worst enemy.

Why?

There has to be motivation, though I guess it could be a series of short vignettes that explain the lead-up to this drastic situation.

I have a problem sometimes getting to the point. We get there, but perhaps we should have made a left at Alberquerqe and instead, went on the grand tour instead.

Just think, if I wanted to see London, Paris and Berlin, where would be the fun in that. I want to see everything possible in between, like the Eurostar, Disneyland, the Rhine and all those castles and vineyards.

Stories are like that, too. We need the details to make educated guesses and keep reading to see if we are right.

Day 30

Today under the guise of words of wisdom, we have a concept of, if he wrote it, he could get rid of it.

OK, does that mean the writing goes from the pad straight into the bin? I’m sure all of has had a moment like that more than once.

Or is there something a lot deeper going on here?

I’m going with deep because there is another line, He had gotten rid of many things by writing them.

So does that mean if I write about the things that bug me, they’ll go away?

Sounds interesting.

My slant on this is. If you could write out all your problems and imagine a different happier ending to all of them. I mean I don’t really want to send my younger brother to the moon, but the thought is there.

I’m thinking that it might be a way to not pay expensive shrinks to analyse your problems, you could do it yourself, write the problems down like a quadratic equation, and solve them yourself.

Or work out how to send your brother to the moon yourself without having to plead with or pay millions of dollars to NASA.

Day 30

Today under the guise of words of wisdom, we have a concept of, if he wrote it, he could get rid of it.

OK, does that mean the writing goes from the pad straight into the bin? I’m sure all of has had a moment like that more than once.

Or is there something a lot deeper going on here?

I’m going with deep because there is another line, He had gotten rid of many things by writing them.

So does that mean if I write about the things that bug me, they’ll go away?

Sounds interesting.

My slant on this is. If you could write out all your problems and imagine a different happier ending to all of them. I mean I don’t really want to send my younger brother to the moon, but the thought is there.

I’m thinking that it might be a way to not pay expensive shrinks to analyse your problems, you could do it yourself, write the problems down like a quadratic equation, and solve them yourself.

Or work out how to send your brother to the moon yourself without having to plead with or pay millions of dollars to NASA.

Day 29

While this is a writing exercise, it is more about setting up a routine to write.

First, write for 25 minutes. That might, if the inspiration is flowing, take anything for a minute from inception to three weeks.

Dallying is called procrastination. Some might call it writer’s block. I’ll let you know what I write.

…

A change is as good as a holiday.

I said that once, in jest, but Joey had taken it to heart.

Joey was like that, ever since we were little, from that first day at elementary school, and then off and on until we graduated college.

Well, I did.  Joey had been too preoccupied with the latest love of his life, Agnetha from Sweden.  Apparently, she didn’t have a last name, or he just didn’t ask.

That was probably the reason why when she returned to Sweden and didn’t come back, Joey had no means of finding her.

He tried.

And now he was heartbroken

I looked at my phone and re-read the message that Joey had sent me.  It had been nearly three months, partly on that odyssey to Sweden, partly hiding at his parents’ retreat at Martha’s Vineyard wallowing in self-pity, and then just disappearing.

“I’m back, bigger and better than ever.  See you at the usual haunt, 3:00 pm.”

Typical Joey.

You could never keep a guy like him down.  After another round of psychoanalysis, his mother indulged his every whim, and there he was Joey 2.0.

This would be Joey 13.5.  Maybe.

Last time, he had gone surfer Dan, the rippling muscles and six pack, board shorts and muscle tee, and to top it off, the bleach blonde hair.

With that came the beach buggy and the most expensive surf board money could buy.  And after lessons from a would famous surfer, he still couldn’t stay on the board long enough to get to the other side of the wave.

What was it going to be this time?

I was supposed to have afternoon tea with Penelope, the girl I had decided to spend the rest of my life with.  I just had to tell her that.

I’d recognised the signs that she wanted more, but I had been holding back, waiting for a sign that my job was going to move upwards, with that a commensurate raise in salary that would fund the move in together.

We had been looking at apartments, but on what I was making, it wasn’t enough.  With the call from Wickham in HR this morning and the fact I was on the shortlist, I made it ideal to tell her.

I told her Joey had texted, and knowing how she felt about him, we could postpone until later, but she said she was only available then and didn’t mind.

That in itself should have set off alarm bells.

Perhaps I was too preoccupied with Joey 13.5.

I was running late, which was highly unusual, but Wickham called again, for no apparent reason, taking an inordinate amount of time to say nothing.

When I arrived, I saw Joey and Penelope talking animatedly, and if my eyes were not mistaken, flirting with him.

It was not hard to see why.

Joey had finally decided to become the executive type his father had always wanted, the heir apparent finally growing up.

Penelope had always joked about looking for that elusive, rich, dark, handsome billionaire type that always seemed to be taken.

There he was.

When she saw me, she suddenly became more aloof, which, to me, was the last warning sign that the good ship Lollypop had run aground.

What’s that saying?  He who hesitates is lost?

I put on my best happy to see you have and came up smiling and astonished in the same expression.

“Well, look who has finally joined the human race.”

I sat down next to Penelope but not next to Penelope.  She smiled in my direction, but I think she knew that I had seen their display.

There was no kissing or touching hands.

I could feel the icy wall building between us.

“Had to, Ethan. Had to.  Agnetha was the last straw that broke my mother’s tolerance level.  It was time to shape up or ship out.”

An inheritance of 20 billion dollars could do that to a young man.  I was lucky to put together 20 thousand dollars at best, and Penelope had expensive tastes.

“Can you believe it.  Joey is having a soiree at the Martha’s Vineyard place, and we’re invited.  It’ll be such fun.”

I saw the look between them.

I sighed.  That last look at the shoreline so near and yet so far, just before I went under.

Was it possible that I could just understand what Joey had felt when Agnetha had decided to go home and not leave a calling card?

“It will be, but I won’t be able to make it.”  I looked at her.  “But don’t cancel going because of me.  I’m sure you’ll be fine on your own.”

I stood.

“Hey, Ethan.  What’s going on.”

I looked at him.  “I’m sure you are more aware of what’s going on, Joey, than I am.”

There was a look of concern on Penelope’s face.  “Are you alright?”

I turned to her.  “Perfectly.  We’ll talk later, but I have to get back to work.  Wickham scheduled a meeting just before I stepped out, the reason I’m late.  You two carry on without me.  I wouldn’t make very good company at the moment.”

With a wan smile and a nod to Joey, I turned and left. I doubted I would see or hear from either of them again.

…

Then take a five-minute break.

Second, repeat the process up to 3 times.

At the end of each increase the rest time to 15 or more minutes.

Feel happy about what’s been written.

…

Well, here’s the rub, lately I’ve been writing and it hasn’t impressed me, and for the last few days, I’ve been rewriting, and reinventing.

I am my own harshest critic.

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 29

While this is a writing exercise, it is more about setting up a routine to write.

First, write for 25 minutes. That might, if the inspiration is flowing, take anything for a minute from inception to three weeks.

Dallying is called procrastination. Some might call it writer’s block. I’ll let you know what I write.

…

A change is as good as a holiday.

I said that once, in jest, but Joey had taken it to heart.

Joey was like that, ever since we were little, from that first day at elementary school, and then off and on until we graduated college.

Well, I did.  Joey had been too preoccupied with the latest love of his life, Agnetha from Sweden.  Apparently, she didn’t have a last name, or he just didn’t ask.

That was probably the reason why when she returned to Sweden and didn’t come back, Joey had no means of finding her.

He tried.

And now he was heartbroken

I looked at my phone and re-read the message that Joey had sent me.  It had been nearly three months, partly on that odyssey to Sweden, partly hiding at his parents’ retreat at Martha’s Vineyard wallowing in self-pity, and then just disappearing.

“I’m back, bigger and better than ever.  See you at the usual haunt, 3:00 pm.”

Typical Joey.

You could never keep a guy like him down.  After another round of psychoanalysis, his mother indulged his every whim, and there he was Joey 2.0.

This would be Joey 13.5.  Maybe.

Last time, he had gone surfer Dan, the rippling muscles and six pack, board shorts and muscle tee, and to top it off, the bleach blonde hair.

With that came the beach buggy and the most expensive surf board money could buy.  And after lessons from a would famous surfer, he still couldn’t stay on the board long enough to get to the other side of the wave.

What was it going to be this time?

I was supposed to have afternoon tea with Penelope, the girl I had decided to spend the rest of my life with.  I just had to tell her that.

I’d recognised the signs that she wanted more, but I had been holding back, waiting for a sign that my job was going to move upwards, with that a commensurate raise in salary that would fund the move in together.

We had been looking at apartments, but on what I was making, it wasn’t enough.  With the call from Wickham in HR this morning and the fact I was on the shortlist, I made it ideal to tell her.

I told her Joey had texted, and knowing how she felt about him, we could postpone until later, but she said she was only available then and didn’t mind.

That in itself should have set off alarm bells.

Perhaps I was too preoccupied with Joey 13.5.

I was running late, which was highly unusual, but Wickham called again, for no apparent reason, taking an inordinate amount of time to say nothing.

When I arrived, I saw Joey and Penelope talking animatedly, and if my eyes were not mistaken, flirting with him.

It was not hard to see why.

Joey had finally decided to become the executive type his father had always wanted, the heir apparent finally growing up.

Penelope had always joked about looking for that elusive, rich, dark, handsome billionaire type that always seemed to be taken.

There he was.

When she saw me, she suddenly became more aloof, which, to me, was the last warning sign that the good ship Lollypop had run aground.

What’s that saying?  He who hesitates is lost?

I put on my best happy to see you have and came up smiling and astonished in the same expression.

“Well, look who has finally joined the human race.”

I sat down next to Penelope but not next to Penelope.  She smiled in my direction, but I think she knew that I had seen their display.

There was no kissing or touching hands.

I could feel the icy wall building between us.

“Had to, Ethan. Had to.  Agnetha was the last straw that broke my mother’s tolerance level.  It was time to shape up or ship out.”

An inheritance of 20 billion dollars could do that to a young man.  I was lucky to put together 20 thousand dollars at best, and Penelope had expensive tastes.

“Can you believe it.  Joey is having a soiree at the Martha’s Vineyard place, and we’re invited.  It’ll be such fun.”

I saw the look between them.

I sighed.  That last look at the shoreline so near and yet so far, just before I went under.

Was it possible that I could just understand what Joey had felt when Agnetha had decided to go home and not leave a calling card?

“It will be, but I won’t be able to make it.”  I looked at her.  “But don’t cancel going because of me.  I’m sure you’ll be fine on your own.”

I stood.

“Hey, Ethan.  What’s going on.”

I looked at him.  “I’m sure you are more aware of what’s going on, Joey, than I am.”

There was a look of concern on Penelope’s face.  “Are you alright?”

I turned to her.  “Perfectly.  We’ll talk later, but I have to get back to work.  Wickham scheduled a meeting just before I stepped out, the reason I’m late.  You two carry on without me.  I wouldn’t make very good company at the moment.”

With a wan smile and a nod to Joey, I turned and left. I doubted I would see or hear from either of them again.

…

Then take a five-minute break.

Second, repeat the process up to 3 times.

At the end of each increase the rest time to 15 or more minutes.

Feel happy about what’s been written.

…

Well, here’s the rub, lately I’ve been writing and it hasn’t impressed me, and for the last few days, I’ve been rewriting, and reinventing.

I am my own harshest critic.

©  Charles Heath  2025