Tag: Books

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 12

Day 12 – The smaller characters that can steal the scene

…

The Scene-Stealers: Why the Bit Players in Stories Make Them Unforgettable

Every compelling narrative has a protagonist—the hero, the rebel, the reluctant saviour. We cheer for them, root for their growth, and remember their names long after the book is closed or the credits roll. But have you ever paused to consider the unsung heroes who linger in the background, the extras who, with a single line or moment, could steal the entire show? These bit players might not have the spotlight, but they’re the secret sauce that makes stories rich, relatable, and unforgettable.

The Depth Weavers: How Bit Players Add Layers

Stories thrive in worlds that feel alive, and minor characters are the mortar holding those worlds together. Take Mrs. Dubose from To Kill a Mockingbird. On the surface, she’s a grumpy neighbour, hurling insults at Scout. But her brief appearance unravels the complexities of addiction, courage, and legacy. Her story—told in the periphery—deepens the novel’s themes long after she disappears.

Similarly, in The Godfather, the scene where a horse’s head is placed in a man’s bed is legendary. While the man himself (a minor character) is a plot device, his presence underscores the Corleone family’s ruthless power and the era’s mob culture. These characters are not just “extras”; they’re the brushstrokes that add texture to the canvas.

The Mirrors and Shadows: Contrasting the Main Event

Bit players often highlight the protagonist’s journey by acting as foils. Consider Mr. Collins in Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth Bennet’s sharp wit and independence shine brightest when measured against his obsequiousness and cluelessness. Though he’s a minor character, his presence sharpens the story’s critique of societal norms and amplifies Elizabeth’s growth.

In The Lord of the Rings, even the occasional tavern loiterer or roadside traveller reinforces the vastness of Middle-earth and the contrast between the mundane and the epic. These characters remind us why Frodo’s quest is so extraordinary—they live in the same world but will never attempt what he does.

The Scene-Stealers: When Bit Players Shine

Sometimes, all it takes is a single moment for a minor character to etch themselves into our memories. Recall the eerie calm of the priest in The Departed as he’s boxed in by assassins, or the surreal comedy of the “Dance of the Seven Veils” in The Producers. These characters may only appear for a scene, but their impact lingers.

Even in literature, consider the Looney Tunes-esque antics of the Gnomes in The Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. They exist for less than a chapter but remain among the most quoted, parodied, and loved elements of the series. Their fleeting presence reminds us that magic often lives in the moments we least expect.

Why It Matters: The Human Touch

At our core, humans crave connection and recognition. We’re all protagonists in our own stories, yet bit players in others’. The minor characters in fiction mirror this duality, grounding narratives in authenticity. They remind us that a society—or a story—needs more than just heroes and villains. It needs the barista who forgets your name, the coworker who “borrowed” your pencil, and the stranger who hands you a stray umbrella in a downpour.

By appreciating these characters, we become more intentional readers and creators. We learn to look beyond the surface, to find wonder in the ordinary, and to recognise that even the smallest role can carry profound weight.

Your Turn: Who Are Your Favourite Bit Players?

Think back to your favourite stories. Which minor characters stick with you? Is it the gruff motel owner in Breaking Bad, the inscrutable IT guy in The Office, or even the diner regulars in your favourite novel? Share them in the comments—sometimes the best stories are the ones we didn’t expect to remember.

Because in the end, whether they’re on the page or the screen, these bit players teach us this: every voice, even every extra, has the power to change the narrative.

What I learned about writing – Stirring conscience

The Writer’s Role: Menacing the Public’s Conscience

In an age of carefully curated content and echo chambers, the idea of a writer’s role is often reduced to entertainment, information, or self-expression. But at its most vital, literature and journalism hold a far more urgent purpose: to menace the public’s conscience. This phrase, simple yet provocative, invites us to consider how the written word can challenge complacency, disrupt apathy, and force society to confront its contradictions. Let’s unpack why this responsibility is not just important—it’s essential for a healthy democracy and a humane world.

What Does It Mean to “Menace the Conscience”?

The word menace often carries negative connotations, evoking fear or threat. But in this context, it refers to the act of unsettling—provoking discomfort so that the public is jolted from complacency. It’s about holding up a mirror to societal evils, hypocrisies, and injustices, and demanding that we look. A writer who menaces the conscience doesn’t offer easy answers; they ask uncomfortable questions. They expose the rot beneath the surface, from systemic inequality to the erosion of truth.

The Historical Imperative

Great writers have always played this role. George Orwell’s 1984 didn’t just predict a dystopian future; it forced readers to grapple with the dangers of authoritarianism and surveillance. Kafka’s The Trial and The Metamorphosis turned bureaucratic absurdity and alienation into visceral, haunting experiences. James Baldwin, in essays like The Fire Next Time, confronted America’s unhealed wounds of racism, not with anger alone, but with a moral urgency that demanded reflection.

These authors didn’t write to comfort the comfortable. They wrote to challenge the status quo, urging readers to see themselves not as passive observers but as active participants in the world they inhabit.

The Mechanism of Menace: How Writers Provoke Change

  1. Narrative as Disruption
    Stories humanise the abstract. When a writer portrays a character fleeing persecution or a community decimated by poverty, they convert statistics into lived experience. This empathy is a form of menace—it annoys the conscience into action.
  2. Language as a Weapon Against Lies
    In an era of misinformation, writers have a duty to sharpen truth. By exposing half-truths, biases, and manipulative rhetoric, they dismantle the narratives that allow injustice to persist.
  3. Unmasking Invisibility
    Too often, the powerful and the privileged are invisible to themselves. A writer’s job is to illuminate those hidden corners—like the systemic gender wage gap, the trauma of climate migration, or the dehumanising effects of capitalism.

The Risks and Challenges

Menacing the public’s conscience isn’t without peril. Writers may face backlash, censorship, or accusations of being “divisive.” After all, people protect their worldviews fiercely; to challenge them is to threaten the self. Consider the criticism directed at authors like Ta-Nehisi Coates for confronting racial trauma or Greta Thunberg for shaming inaction on climate change. The more a writer’s work stings, the more resistance it may provoke.

Yet, this resistance is a sign that the conscience is awakening. It’s a discomfort that precedes growth. The key is persistence.

The Modern Media Landscape: A New Frontier

Today’s writers face a paradox: we have more voices and platforms than ever, yet attention spans are shorter. How can a writer menace a conscience buried beneath viral trends and endless scrolling? The answer lies in specificity. Instead of broad, generalised critiques, focus on the personal, the granular. A single, powerful story can cut through the noise.

Also, consider the power of gentle menace. It’s not always about outrage; sometimes, it’s about aching honesty or poetic reflection that slowly reshapes how we see the world. Writers like Ocean Vuong and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie master this, blending vulnerability and truth to pierce the reader’s heart.

The Writer’s Responsibility: Beyond Provocation

To menace the conscience is not simply to shock for shock’s sake. It requires care. Writers must balance courage with nuance, pushing readers toward empathy without exploiting trauma. The goal is not to paralyse with guilt but to inspire—to show how change is possible and how each of us can contribute.

A conscience menaced is only useful if it leads to action. That means pairing uncomfortable truths with glimpses of hope, with paths forward.

Final Thoughts

The writer’s role has never been more critical. In a fractured world, we need voices that refuse to sanitise, that dare to ask, “What if this were you?” To menace the public’s conscience is to stand as a sentinel against complacency, a provocateur for justice, and ultimately, a hope for a better future.

So, to writers: Write boldly. Write with empathy. Write until the comfortable start to squirm—and then write some more.

What stories will you stir? What truths will you unearth? The world is waiting.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 12

Day 12 – The smaller characters that can steal the scene

…

The Scene-Stealers: Why the Bit Players in Stories Make Them Unforgettable

Every compelling narrative has a protagonist—the hero, the rebel, the reluctant saviour. We cheer for them, root for their growth, and remember their names long after the book is closed or the credits roll. But have you ever paused to consider the unsung heroes who linger in the background, the extras who, with a single line or moment, could steal the entire show? These bit players might not have the spotlight, but they’re the secret sauce that makes stories rich, relatable, and unforgettable.

The Depth Weavers: How Bit Players Add Layers

Stories thrive in worlds that feel alive, and minor characters are the mortar holding those worlds together. Take Mrs. Dubose from To Kill a Mockingbird. On the surface, she’s a grumpy neighbour, hurling insults at Scout. But her brief appearance unravels the complexities of addiction, courage, and legacy. Her story—told in the periphery—deepens the novel’s themes long after she disappears.

Similarly, in The Godfather, the scene where a horse’s head is placed in a man’s bed is legendary. While the man himself (a minor character) is a plot device, his presence underscores the Corleone family’s ruthless power and the era’s mob culture. These characters are not just “extras”; they’re the brushstrokes that add texture to the canvas.

The Mirrors and Shadows: Contrasting the Main Event

Bit players often highlight the protagonist’s journey by acting as foils. Consider Mr. Collins in Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth Bennet’s sharp wit and independence shine brightest when measured against his obsequiousness and cluelessness. Though he’s a minor character, his presence sharpens the story’s critique of societal norms and amplifies Elizabeth’s growth.

In The Lord of the Rings, even the occasional tavern loiterer or roadside traveller reinforces the vastness of Middle-earth and the contrast between the mundane and the epic. These characters remind us why Frodo’s quest is so extraordinary—they live in the same world but will never attempt what he does.

The Scene-Stealers: When Bit Players Shine

Sometimes, all it takes is a single moment for a minor character to etch themselves into our memories. Recall the eerie calm of the priest in The Departed as he’s boxed in by assassins, or the surreal comedy of the “Dance of the Seven Veils” in The Producers. These characters may only appear for a scene, but their impact lingers.

Even in literature, consider the Looney Tunes-esque antics of the Gnomes in The Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. They exist for less than a chapter but remain among the most quoted, parodied, and loved elements of the series. Their fleeting presence reminds us that magic often lives in the moments we least expect.

Why It Matters: The Human Touch

At our core, humans crave connection and recognition. We’re all protagonists in our own stories, yet bit players in others’. The minor characters in fiction mirror this duality, grounding narratives in authenticity. They remind us that a society—or a story—needs more than just heroes and villains. It needs the barista who forgets your name, the coworker who “borrowed” your pencil, and the stranger who hands you a stray umbrella in a downpour.

By appreciating these characters, we become more intentional readers and creators. We learn to look beyond the surface, to find wonder in the ordinary, and to recognise that even the smallest role can carry profound weight.

Your Turn: Who Are Your Favourite Bit Players?

Think back to your favourite stories. Which minor characters stick with you? Is it the gruff motel owner in Breaking Bad, the inscrutable IT guy in The Office, or even the diner regulars in your favourite novel? Share them in the comments—sometimes the best stories are the ones we didn’t expect to remember.

Because in the end, whether they’re on the page or the screen, these bit players teach us this: every voice, even every extra, has the power to change the narrative.

“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.

…

lovecoverfinal1

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I always wanted to rescue a damsel in distress – 7

Seven

If I had deliberately wanted to flush out the people following us, and eventually lose them, I would never have thought of renting a car at a suburban shop.  I had to wonder what James Bond would have done in similar circumstances.

But it worked.

Driving out of the carpark onto the main street, it wasn’t difficult to see several people caught unawares.  And on their cell phones making calls.

And it was Emily’s last-minute brainwave to cover the car’s registration plates so if they were to take a photo, they would not be able to track it.  Well, not straight away.  It was she who said London had a lot of CCTV cameras, but on the way to the carpark, she had checked out where they were, those that she could readily identify, and we could avoid.

Something I learned about Emily that I didn’t know; she was a computer nerd, and a hacker of sorts, not one of those dark web experts, but she knew enough to dig around in places most people wouldn’t go looking.

That skill might just come in useful.

And, for a few minutes, maybe an hour, we revelled in the thought we may have outwitted them, whoever ‘them’ was.

It was late afternoon when we finally found a hotel with a carpark, a long way from Cecile’s flat in Earl’s Court, and on the other side of the Greater London region in Mile End Road, not very far from Stepney Green underground station, the result of Emily searching the web for a hotel with a carpark, and near public transport.

She also had our luggage delivered from the airport a little less than two hours from the moment she made the call.  I think I may have remarked that I might just employ her as my travel agent when I started my European odyssey, but she had fallen asleep, way past exhausted.

I wasn’t far behind her.  We had a long day tomorrow if today was anything to go by.

I woke to the smell of coffee and that more interesting aroma of burnt toast.

There were shopping bags on the table, and it looked as though Emily had been up and around for a while.

I looked at my watch, it was not much past seven, and not an hour I found myself up back home.  I had an apartment in the city, and it was a ten-minute walk to the office, so early rising was not a necessity.  My parents lived in the suburbs, and more than an hour by public transport, and two by car.  It was the reason I moved.  I didn’t want to spend a quarter of my life travelling to and from work.

Of course, London was so much larger than where I came from, and definitely not a place I would want to live, or work, despite the advantages that Cecile had tried to impress upon me.  And don’t get me get started on driving around London.  Yesterday had been harrowing, and left me, at times, shaken.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

Emily put a coffee plunger on the table, two cups, a plate of toast, bowls, and the cereal that was my favourite, though how she knew was anyone’s guess.

“You’ve been busy.”

“I like to get some exercise every morning, so I combined it with a shopping expedition

I had not attended this type of domesticity in a long time, at least not since I left home.  I had grown accustomed to being on my own, and that might have contributed to Cecile and I drifting apart.  It probably also had a lot to do with my awkwardness with girls, and rather than try to get over it, I just avoided them.

But, somehow, Emily was different, perhaps because she was younger and hadn’t been blunted by the vicissitudes of life.  She had finished school, and as far as I was aware, didn’t have a real job, preferring to spend her time pottering in her father’s office.

I had thought, much like in an 18th century romance novel, she was waiting for the right man to marry, but there were not too many of those running around these days.

Something else I just realised; how well I seemed to like being at ease in her company, much more so than when I was with Cecile, always on my guard not to say or do the wrong thing.

“I find going to a grocery store a trial, which is why I eat out a lot.”

She shook her head.  “You’re just lazy, like everyone else your age.  Convenience over practicality.  And you should think about doing some exercise.”

I could feel the eyes of the appraiser upon me and shivered.  It was good that I could not read her thoughts, but if I could, perhaps some might be considering those extra pounds that had found their way onto my frame after I stopped playing tennis and squash.

“I promise I’ll think about it.”

“Better still, I don’t think it’s all that safe to be jogging the streets in this neighbourhood early in the morning, so you can come with me as my protector.”

She saw my look of disdain, or was it the thought of having to exercise.

“Cheer up, I don’t go very fast.”

The sound of the phone vibrating on the table interrupted that thought, and conversation.

It was a private number, so I assumed it was the man from the day before.

“Yes?”

“Trafalgar Square, by the column, 12:30 pm today.”

It was the man’s voice.

“We’ll see you there.”

The call was disconnected.  Short and to the point.

“We have a lunch date.”

Before I could reach out to pick up my cup of coffee, the phone rang again.

Also a private number, I assumed it was the man ringing back with a change of plans.

“Yes?”

“We need to talk.”

A woman’s voice this time, not one that was familiar.

“About what?”  I was surprised and didn’t have time to work on a better comeback.

“Your Cecile.  She is over her head.”

Aside from stating the obvious, who was this woman, how did she know about Cecile, and more importantly, how did she know my cell number?

“Who the hell are you?”

“The London end of the team that recruited her.  Time is of the essence, so we’ll come to you.  We’ll be there in half an hour.”

That line went dead before I could ask another pertinent question, how did she know where we were?

“Who was that?”  Emily had been oblivious to the turmoil I was feeling.

“Someone else who wants to talk about Cecile.”

“Who?”

“No idea, but the word reruited popped up, whatever that might mean.”

“Here?  No one knows we’re here.”

“Exactly.”

“Perhaps we should leave, like, right now.”

“No.  I have a feeling that we might find out what Cecile is up to.”

And, in the back of my mind, several small, associated details clicked into place.  At the time they didn’t make any sense, but now, in a bigger context, and given the circumstances, I think I knew now why she had come.

And, more importantly, I realised she had been dropping breadcrumbs for me to follow long before she had left.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 10/11

Days 10 and 11 – Writing exercise

Standing over the grave, staring down at the coffin that held the body of my wife, there was only one question.  “Just who the hell were you?”

…

I was there when Mary Antoinette Davis died.  I wasn’t expecting it, but who does, at any time?

It shouldn’t have happened, but it did.  Simple, fast, a blink of an eye, and she was gone.

It wasn’t fair, but then, most of life isn’t.  It hands you a deck of cards, and you put them in the order you want them to be in.  And sometimes you get it right, and sometimes you get it wrong.

Like that morning.

The same as every other morning when Mary was home.  We slept in till ten, wandered around the house for an hour, had coffee, toast and marmalade, home-made by the neighbour next door.

Dress and go shopping, or sometimes to the cafe to have tea and scones.

Not this morning.

It was to the village grocery shop.

It had been raining.  The side of the road was wet, so we were walking on the edge of the road when there were no cars.

And then, within sight of the shop front, a car came, rather fast, and we got out of the way.

Just.

But she slipped on the wet grass and fell down.  Shaken.  She thought she had hit her head, feeling a little faint, but then, after a few minutes, she was back to her old self again.

We bought oranges, apples, some rhubarb, and bananas.  A fruit salad.

Then it happened.  I turned to pay Silvia, the storekeeper, and when I turned back, Mary had collapsed on the floor.

Quietly.

Not panicking, thinking it might be some residual effect from the slip, I took her hand and squeezed it, saying, “Are you alright?”

There was no response.

I shook her shoulder gently, but there was still no response.

I turned back to Sylvia.  “Please call an ambulance.  This might be serious.”

I heard her go over to the telephone and dial the number.  I turned back and decided to test for a pulse.  Not that I could remember how.

That was when Doc Adams came in, saw Mary on the ground, and came straight over.  He had been her doctor for most of her life.

“What happened?”

“She slipped and fell outside, avoiding a speeding car, and I think she hit her head, but she wasn’t dizzy for long.  She just collapsed just now.”

I watched him as he checked everything I’d forgotten to, and then for a pulse.  He was shaking his head.

Sylvia yelled out, “Ambulance here in five, they were just up the road.”

Otherwise, it would take twenty from the nearest depot.

“There’s no pulse, her eyes…”

He leaned down to see if she was breathing, then started C.P.R.

I didn’t want to ask, but in that moment I felt a chill run through me.  I knew she was dead because part of me had just died with her. 

That’s when I felt the room start to turn, and moments later, nothing.

…

I woke in the small hospital in the nearest town.  It handled non-serious cases, but mostly acted as a triage centre before shipping people off to the city an hour away.

Mary wasn’t there.

Angelina, the matron, nurse, pseudo doctor when Doc Adams was not there or in transit, and general factotum, was sitting beside the bed, knitting.

Nobody ever knew what she was knitting, and they never asked.

“You’re awake?”

I hoped I was recovering from a nightmare because my first thought was horrifying if it was true.

“Mary?”

“Doc couldn’t revive her.  I’m sorry, Evan.  Doc said she had taken a blow to the temple area, found an abrasion, went back to the accident site and found the rock.  Delayed reaction, or some such.”

“She’s dead?”

“Yes.  The police will be here soon and ask you some questions.  Routine, whatever that means.  Doc had her taken to the city hospital, and you will have to go and identify her, for the record.”

She put the knitting aside and stood.  “Doc told me it would not be a good idea if you drove anywhere, just for a day. It’s been a huge shock for you, for all of us.  Doc asked me to bring you, unless…”

“It’s fine.  I don’t think I could concentrate.  How is it possible…?”

“Simple things sometimes trump the more complex.  The odds are a million to one that she would fall and hit her head in that exact spot.  A billion to one even.  I can’t believe it myself.  None of us can.”

She continued with her checks, ticking boxes and making notes with the fountain pen that Mary had given her last Christmas.  They were old friends.  Angelina had known her long before I had, and they had their secrets.

“Can I go now?”

“Sorry.  No.  Not yet.  Have to monitor you for a half hour.  Doc’s orders.

…

I felt fine, but then what I thought I knew was not what Angelina was taught to expect.  Her medical training was extensive, proving a handy backup for the Doc.

He had asked her if she wanted to go to med school; he could arrange it, but she had shied away from fully committing because she wanted better.

What could be better than being a doctor?

I would be one in a heartbeat if I had the talent, but I did not.  I was destined to be an agricultural labourer, with no qualifications and no prospects.

What I couldn’t believe was a brilliant girl who could be anything she wanted, wanted to marry me and live in the village.  When she was not away being brilliant at her real job.

She explained it to me some time ago, but it was all double Dutch to me, well, some of it anyway.  I was a little smarter than I looked, and I think Mary knew, just decided not to rock the boat.

Her friends certainly thought I was just this farmer guy, punching above his weight.  It was true, if not unexpected.  She was the belle of the ball, the pick of the crop, and I ran last in the stakes for a date.

Until I saved her from one of the upper-class boys.  That day, I became her hero and their whipping boy.  Until one day it stopped.  Henry Turbot, son of the local laird, considered her his property because his parents owned everything, even us pathetic farm workers.

And then went about proving a point.

Until he disappeared.

The mystery of the missing Henry Turbot.  The police came and asked questions until they were satisfied I had nothing to do with his disappearance.  Apparently, according to some, there was a portal near the bakery building, painstakingly rebuilt when transferred from a local Stonehenge to the common.

Somehow, he had activated it and disappeared into the ether.  People preferred mumbo-jumbo to the truth;  he had disappeared to his grandmother’s in America. 

I was the luckiest man in the village.  Now I was the saddest.

…

It was painful to visit her in the big city hospital morgue.  It was her, she was dead, and I had half an hour before she was taken to the undertaker.

The funeral was in a few days.

She had no family, so there was no one to call.  We had no family, she was unable to have children because of a riding mishap when she was younger, and I was an only child of now deceased parents.

She had friends all through the village.  They were all devastated.  Most treated me with indifference, and now she was gone, as though I didn’t exist.

I rang her work, picking a number off her phone that oddly said work.  It was strange.

“Identification?”

“It’s Mary Antoinette Davis husband.  I’m calling to tell you she died yesterday.”

“Who is this?”

Didn’t they listen?  “I’ve already told you “

Silence for a moment.  “Wait.”

I waited.  For five minutes, then a woman answered, “Who is this?”

“The husband of Mary Davis.  I’m calling the number on her phone that says work. Who are you?”

“Irrelevant.  She’s dead.”

“Yesterday.  An accident.”

“And you are,”

“Her husband.”

“Of course.  Thank you.”

The line went dead.  I put the phone down, and a minute later it looked as if self-destructed.

What the hell…

What a strange bunch of people she worked for.  But what did I know about medical research and finding cures for complex maladies?  It was ironic that a medical condition other than a serious disease killed her.

Slipping and falling on a rock.

I thought no more of it and went down to the local pub.  Rex, one of the other farmers, asked me if I wanted to talk.  I didn’t, but perhaps a drink or two might have eased the pain.

Outside the pub, I arrived at the same time as a black Audi.  I don’t know why it caught my attention.  Perhaps it was the four men sitting in it.  Suits, big, men who’d seen a few bar fights.

They didn’t get out.  I went inside.

Rex was sitting at the side of the bar where we farmers say, away from the village folk.  Rex was nibbling at the remnants of a pork pie.  There were two large ales sitting in front of him.

I went over and sat.  He slid one over.

“You should be looking sadder,” he said without looking at me.  He was watching the door.

“I am.  I’m just hiding it well.”

The ale was not bad.  It was one the publican brewed himself.  He was getting better at it.  Rex and I were his Guinea pigs.

“Shell be missed.”

“Especially by me, Rex.”

“Damn horrible way to go.  It just goes to show we can all pop off at any moment.”

If been thinking about that, the randomness of it.  I’d also been reliving the event over and over in case I missed a detail, a sign that would tell me everything wasn’t alright.

There wasn’t any.

So, we talked.  People came, and people went, some who knew her, some who didn’t.  No one had a bad word to say about her.  Her friends, though, nodded but didn’t have anything to say.

If I could read minds, they’d probably be saying it was my fault she was dead.  If it came to that, they were probably right.  If she had not come home, it would never have happened.

It was, quite literally, my fault.

…

I left the pub after one too many drinks.  I didn’t drive, I walked, and I took the back path behind the pub that cut through the thicket and the bottom of Giles’ farm, two up from mine.

It was a public access path, and there had never been any trouble about it.  There was none tonight, except that as I approached our house, I saw two men walking towards the road, and a car drove off at speed.

That was unusual for these parts.

I went around the front, and when I got to the door, I could see it was ajar slightly.  I didn’t remember leaving it unlocked or partly open.

I pushed it open and looked in.  Someone had trashed the place, tossing everything out of cupboards, off shelves, off benches,  drawers emptied, seats slashed, and the stuffing ripped out.

In the other rooms, it was worse, clothes and belongings tossed everywhere, walls smashed in with gaping holes.

Someone had been looking for something and not found it.

I called the village constable.

…

Constable Jack Dwyer was close to retirement and ready to hang up his hat; that realisation, he said, was after trying to chase down a young offender on foot.

Neither the speed nor the stamina these days for the requirements of modern policing.

He was old school.

He arrived at the door where I was waiting outside, not wanting to contaminate the crime scene any more than I already had.

I watched all the police shows and knew the jargon.

“Evan.”

“Constable.”

“Jack, please.  You and Mary are friends.” 

He had a slight wheeze from the walk from the lane up to the door.

He peered in the door, and I heard a sharp intake of breath.  “What have we here?’  He pushed the door open further and took a few steps into the room.

I followed.

“When?”

“I came home a half hour ago, so it happened in the three hours before that.  I was at the pub.  Came home, this was what I found.”

“Touch anything?”

“Very little.”

“Anything missing?”

“Nothing obvious.  Why would people be looking in walls? That strikes me as not your average thief.”

“It does not.  I’ll call it in.  This is serious.”

“Do you think it might be something to do with Mary’s death.  She was a cutting-edge researcher, brought something home?”

He shrugged.  “Can’t say.  Let the experts work it out.  Above our collective pay grade, I think.”

He went back out onto the porch and made the call.

I took another look.  I tried to recall any episodes of the dramas I watched for similar incidents.  The best I could come up with; she was a spy and had secrets hidden away, on hand in case she had to run.

And then I laughed at the stupidity of that assessment.  She was a medical researcher.  Her work took her all over the world.  She was going to cure cancer.  We spoke about it often.  If anyone could, I knew it would be her.

When I came out of the bedroom, Jack was by the front door examining it, then looked at me, “Who has a key to the front door.”

“Both of us.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.  Why.”

“This door shows no signs of tampering.  It was opened with a key.”

Mine was in my pocket.  I had her bag, collected from the hospital when I identified her.  I fetched it from the car.  The key was on a key chain with other keys we shared.

“Both accounted for.”

He shrugged.  “Can you stay somewhere else for a few days?”

“Of course.”

We went out, and I locked the door and gave him the key. 

“I’ll let you know when the forensics are done.  They should be here tomorrow.  Bad business, Mary going like that.  One in a billion, the Doc says.  I’m sorry for your loss.”

I thanked him, and he left.

I refused to believe this had anything to do with Mary’s death.

…

The funeral service was attended by everyone in the village and some from the surrounding villages.  There was no one out of place, or I didn’t recognise.

No one from her work turned up.  I had met some of her colleagues fleetingly, first names only and only briefly to the point where I wouldn’t recognise them again.

The rebuff from the telephone call still lingered, and the fact that the phone self-destructed, well, no explanation made it sound plausible.

It was a beautiful service, a tribute to the fact that everyone loved her.  I got to say a few words before I couldn’t.  Others were equally overcome by emotion.

It was a short trip from the church to the freshly dug grave, where another little service was conducted, and the coffin was lowered into the grave.

Flowers, dirt, done.  Handshakes, hugs,  muttered condolences and then nothing.  I was alone by the grave, staring down at what had been the love of my life.

Then my cell phone rang.

No name, no number.

“Hello?”

“Evan, Mary’s husband?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t go home.  Leave, now.  Don’t look back.”

“What?  Who is this?”

“I worked with Mary.  She was murdered.  They’re after me.  And now you.  They think we have it, but we don’t, and no one will believe us.  Run.  Now.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone.  That voice on the other end.  Near hysterical.

I stared down at the box in the grave.  “Just who the hell were you, Mary Antoinette Davis?”

The truth was, I didn’t know, and what I thought I knew wasn’t even remotely true.

In that moment, a montage of scenes popped into my head.  The knowing looks between friends, the nuances and double meanings of her conversations, the way the policeman, the doctor and the matron acted.  They all knew.

A loud bang that sounded very much like a gunshot came from behind me, and I jumped, almost slipping into the grave.

I ran.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

What I learned about writing – Point of View

Your Story’s Lens: A Guide to the Pros and Cons of Every Point of View

Ever read a book and felt like you were right there, inside the character’s head, hearing every thought and feeling every heartbeat? Or maybe you’ve felt like a fly on the wall, watching events unfold with a god-like perspective, knowing secrets the characters themselves don’t.

That shift in experience is the magic of Point of View (POV).

Choosing your point of view isn’t just a grammatical decision; it’s the single most important lens you’ll place on your story. It defines the reader’s relationship with your characters and shapes the entire narrative. Get it right, and your story will sing. Get it wrong, and you can create confusion and distance before the plot even gets going.

So, how do you choose the right lens? Let’s break down the “big four” POVs, exploring their unique strengths and weaknesses.

First Person: The “I” of the Storm

What it is: The story is told from the perspective of a character using “I,” “me,” and “my.” We experience everything directly through our senses and biases.

The Advantages:

  • Unparalleled Intimacy: This is the gold standard for creating a deep, personal connection. The reader isn’t just watching the character; they are the character.
  • A Unique Voice: First-person is the perfect vehicle for a strong, distinct narrative voice. Think Holden Caulfield’s cynical ramblings or Katniss Everdeen’s pragmatic survivalism. The voice is the story.
  • Built-in Suspense: The reader knows only what the narrator knows. This is fantastic for creating mystery, as an unreliable narrator can deliberately (or unintentionally) mislead the reader.

The Disadvantages:

  • A Limited World: The narrator can only be in one place at one time. If something important happens off-screen, they have to hear about it secondhand, which can feel clunky.
  • Risk of Navel-Gazing: Stuck in one person’s head for 300 pages can become claustrophobic. It’s easy to fall into long, repetitive internal monologues that slow the pacing.
  • Describing the Narrator: It’s notoriously difficult for a first-person narrator to describe themselves organically without sounding like they’re staring at a mirror.

Best for: Character-driven stories, thrillers, and novels where a unique, memorable voice is key.

Second Person: The “You”

What it is: The story speaks directly to the reader, casting them as the protagonist using “you.” It’s rare in fiction but powerful when done well.

The Advantages:

  • Total Immersion: This POV drops the reader directly into the action. It’s an active, engaging experience that can feel incredibly urgent and personal. It’s the foundation of “Choose Your Own Adventure” books for a reason.
  • Unconventional and Experimental: It immediately breaks the mould and signals to the reader that this is going to be a different kind of story. It can be used to create a sense of disorientation or memory loss.

The Disadvantages:

  • Can Feel Gimmicky: It’s a high-risk, high-reward POV. If the reader doesn’t connect with being told who they are, it can feel alienating and pretentious.
  • Hard to Sustain: For a full-length novel, the constant “you, you, you” can become exhausting for both reader and writer. It works best in shorter fiction or specific stylistic choices.

Best for: Short stories, experimental fiction, video games, and interactive narratives.

Third Person Limited: The Close Third

What it is: The narrator uses “he,” “she,” and “they,” but sticks closely to the perspective of a single character at a time. We see the world through their eyes, feel their emotions, and know their thoughts, but from a slightly more external voice.

The Advantages:

  • The Best of Both Worlds: It offers much of the intimacy of first person without the claustrophobia. You also get more flexibility in prose and the ability to describe your protagonist from the outside.
  • Creating Dramatic Irony: The narrator can subtly hint at things the character doesn’t yet understand, building suspense for the reader. The Harry Potter series masterfully does this with Harry’s cluelessness about certain plot points.
  • Greater Scope: You can switch perspective characters between chapters or scenes, allowing you to show parallel storylines (though you must avoid “head-hopping” within a single scene).

The Disadvantages:

  • Can Lack a Strong Voice: It can sometimes feel less distinctive than a strong first person. The narrative voice can blend into the background if not handled with care.
  • Head-Hopping Danger: The biggest pitfall is accidentally slipping into another character’s thoughts within the same scene. This disorients the reader and breaks the POV contract.

Best for: The vast majority of commercial fiction, from fantasy and sci-fi to romance and thrillers. It’s the workhorse of modern storytelling.

Third Person Omniscient: The All-Knowing Narrator

What it is: The narrator is a god-like entity who knows everything about everyone. They can dip into any character’s mind, travel anywhere in time and space, and offer commentary on the events.

The Advantages:

  • Epic Scope: This is the POV for sprawling, epic sagas. Want to show the king on his throne, the soldier in the field, and the assassin in the shadows all in the same chapter? Omniscient is your tool. Think Lord of the Rings or War and Peace.
  • Masterful Control: The omniscient narrator can build suspense on a grand scale, weaving together plot threads and creating dramatic irony that the characters themselves could never achieve.

The Disadvantages:

  • Can Feel Distant: By jumping between so many heads, it can be difficult for the reader to form a deep, lasting bond with any single character.
  • Risk of Info-Dumping: It’s easy for an omniscient narrator to simply tell the reader everything instead of showing them through scenes. This can feel like a history lesson, not a story.
  • Can Feel Old-Fashioned: While it’s making a comeback, this POV is strongly associated with 19th-century literature. It takes a very skilled author to keep it feeling fresh and modern.

Best for: Epic fantasies, historical sagas, and stories with a massive cast of characters and sprawling plots.

Choosing Your Lens

There is no “best” point of view—only the best point of view for your story. Is your tale an intimate portrait of one person’s struggle? First person might be your answer. Is it a grand, epic battle for a kingdom’s fate? You might need the power of omniscience.

Think about the experience you want to give your reader. Do you want them to be a participant, a close confidante, or an all-knowing observer? Your answer will point you to the perfect lens.

So, experiment. Try writing a scene from two different POVs and see how it feels. The choice is yours, writer. Now, go frame your perfect shot.

What’s your favourite POV to write in, and why? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 10/11

Days 10 and 11 – Writing exercise

…

Standing over the grave, staring down at the coffin that held the body of my wife, there was only one question.  “Just who the hell were you?”

I was there when Mary Antoinette Davis died.  I wasn’t expecting it, but who does, at any time?

It shouldn’t have happened, but it did.  Simple, fast, a blink of an eye, and she was gone.

It wasn’t fair, but then, most of life isn’t.  It hands you a deck of cards, and you put them in the order you want them to be in.  And sometimes you get it right, and sometimes you get it wrong.

Like that morning.

The same as every other morning when Mary was home.  We slept in till ten, wandered around the house for an hour, had coffee, toast and marmalade, home-made by the neighbour next door.

Dress and go shopping, or sometimes to the cafe to have tea and scones.

Not this morning.

It was to the village grocery shop.

It had been raining.  The side of the road was wet, so we were walking on the edge of the road when there were no cars.

And then, within sight of the shop front, a car came, rather fast, and we got out of the way.

Just.

But she slipped on the wet grass and fell down.  Shaken.  She thought she had hit her head, feeling a little faint, but then, after a few minutes, she was back to her old self again.

We bought oranges, apples, some rhubarb, and bananas.  A fruit salad.

Then it happened.  I turned to pay Silvia, the storekeeper, and when I turned back, Mary had collapsed on the floor.

Quietly.

Not panicking, thinking it might be some residual effect from the slip, I took her hand and squeezed it, saying, “Are you alright?”

There was no response.

I shook her shoulder gently, but there was still no response.

I turned back to Sylvia.  “Please call an ambulance.  This might be serious.”

I heard her go over to the telephone and dial the number.  I turned back and decided to test for a pulse.  Not that I could remember how.

That was when Doc Adams came in, saw Mary on the ground, and came straight over.  He had been her doctor for most of her life.

“What happened?”

“She slipped and fell outside, avoiding a speeding car, and I think she hit her head, but she wasn’t dizzy for long.  She just collapsed just now.”

I watched him as he checked everything I’d forgotten to, and then for a pulse.  He was shaking his head.

Sylvia yelled out, “Ambulance here in five, they were just up the road.”

Otherwise, it would take twenty from the nearest depot.

“There’s no pulse, her eyes…”

He leaned down to see if she was breathing, then started C.P.R.

I didn’t want to ask, but in that moment I felt a chill run through me.  I knew she was dead because part of me had just died with her. 

That’s when I felt the room start to turn, and moments later, nothing.

…

I woke in the small hospital in the nearest town.  It handled non-serious cases, but mostly acted as a triage centre before shipping people off to the city an hour away.

Mary wasn’t there.

Angelina, the matron, nurse, pseudo doctor when Doc Adams was not there or in transit, and general factotum, was sitting beside the bed, knitting.

Nobody ever knew what she was knitting, and they never asked.

“You’re awake?”

I hoped I was recovering from a nightmare because my first thought was horrifying if it was true.

“Mary?”

“Doc couldn’t revive her.  I’m sorry, Evan.  Doc said she had taken a blow to the temple area, found an abrasion, went back to the accident site and found the rock.  Delayed reaction, or some such.”

“She’s dead?”

“Yes.  The police will be here soon and ask you some questions.  Routine, whatever that means.  Doc had her taken to the city hospital, and you will have to go and identify her, for the record.”

She put the knitting aside and stood.  “Doc told me it would not be a good idea if you drove anywhere, just for a day. It’s been a huge shock for you, for all of us.  Doc asked me to bring you, unless…”

“It’s fine.  I don’t think I could concentrate.  How is it possible…?”

“Simple things sometimes trump the more complex.  The odds are a million to one that she would fall and hit her head in that exact spot.  A billion to one even.  I can’t believe it myself.  None of us can.”

She continued with her checks, ticking boxes and making notes with the fountain pen that Mary had given her last Christmas.  They were old friends.  Angelina had known her long before I had, and they had their secrets.

“Can I go now?”

“Sorry.  No.  Not yet.  Have to monitor you for a half hour.  Doc’s orders.

…

I felt fine, but then what I thought I knew was not what Angelina was taught to expect.  Her medical training was extensive, proving a handy backup for the Doc.

He had asked her if she wanted to go to med school; he could arrange it, but she had shied away from fully committing because she wanted better.

What could be better than being a doctor?

I would be one in a heartbeat if I had the talent, but I did not.  I was destined to be an agricultural labourer, with no qualifications and no prospects.

What I couldn’t believe was a brilliant girl who could be anything she wanted, wanted to marry me and live in the village.  When she was not away being brilliant at her real job.

She explained it to me some time ago, but it was all double Dutch to me, well, some of it anyway.  I was a little smarter than I looked, and I think Mary knew, just decided not to rock the boat.

Her friends certainly thought I was just this farmer guy, punching above his weight.  It was true, if not unexpected.  She was the belle of the ball, the pick of the crop, and I ran last in the stakes for a date.

Until I saved her from one of the upper-class boys.  That day, I became her hero and their whipping boy.  Until one day it stopped.  Henry Turbot, son of the local laird, considered her his property because his parents owned everything, even us pathetic farm workers.

And then went about proving a point.

Until he disappeared.

The mystery of the missing Henry Turbot.  The police came and asked questions until they were satisfied I had nothing to do with his disappearance.  Apparently, according to some, there was a portal near the bakery building, painstakingly rebuilt when transferred from a local Stonehenge to the common.

Somehow, he had activated it and disappeared into the ether.  People preferred mumbo-jumbo to the truth;  he had disappeared to his grandmother’s in America. 

I was the luckiest man in the village.  Now I was the saddest.

…

It was painful to visit her in the big city hospital morgue.  It was her, she was dead, and I had half an hour before she was taken to the undertaker.

The funeral was in a few days.

She had no family, so there was no one to call.  We had no family, she was unable to have children because of a riding mishap when she was younger, and I was an only child of now deceased parents.

She had friends all through the village.  They were all devastated.  Most treated me with indifference, and now she was gone, as though I didn’t exist.

I rang her work, picking a number off her phone that oddly said work.  It was strange.

“Identification?”

“It’s Mary Antoinette Davis husband.  I’m calling to tell you she died yesterday.”

“Who is this?”

Didn’t they listen?  “I’ve already told you “

Silence for a moment.  “Wait.”

I waited.  For five minutes, then a woman answered, “Who is this?”

“The husband of Mary Davis.  I’m calling the number on her phone that says work. Who are you?”

“Irrelevant.  She’s dead.”

“Yesterday.  An accident.”

“And you are,”

“Her husband.”

“Of course.  Thank you.”

The line went dead.  I put the phone down, and a minute later it looked as if self-destructed.

What the hell…

What a strange bunch of people she worked for.  But what did I know about medical research and finding cures for complex maladies?  It was ironic that a medical condition other than a serious disease killed her.

Slipping and falling on a rock.

I thought no more of it and went down to the local pub.  Rex, one of the other farmers, asked me if I wanted to talk.  I didn’t, but perhaps a drink or two might have eased the pain.

Outside the pub, I arrived at the same time as a black Audi.  I don’t know why it caught my attention.  Perhaps it was the four men sitting in it.  Suits, big, men who’d seen a few bar fights.

They didn’t get out.  I went inside.

Rex was sitting at the side of the bar where we farmers say, away from the village folk.  Rex was nibbling at the remnants of a pork pie.  There were two large ales sitting in front of him.

I went over and sat.  He slid one over.

“You should be looking sadder,” he said without looking at me.  He was watching the door.

“I am.  I’m just hiding it well.”

The ale was not bad.  It was one the publican brewed himself.  He was getting better at it.  Rex and I were his Guinea pigs.

“Shell be missed.”

“Especially by me, Rex.”

“Damn horrible way to go.  It just goes to show we can all pop off at any moment.”

If been thinking about that, the randomness of it.  I’d also been reliving the event over and over in case I missed a detail, a sign that would tell me everything wasn’t alright.

There wasn’t any.

So, we talked.  People came, and people went, some who knew her, some who didn’t.  No one had a bad word to say about her.  Her friends, though, nodded but didn’t have anything to say.

If I could read minds, they’d probably be saying it was my fault she was dead.  If it came to that, they were probably right.  If she had not come home, it would never have happened.

It was, quite literally, my fault.

…

I left the pub after one too many drinks.  I didn’t drive, I walked, and I took the back path behind the pub that cut through the thicket and the bottom of Giles’ farm, two up from mine.

It was a public access path, and there had never been any trouble about it.  There was none tonight, except that as I approached our house, I saw two men walking towards the road, and a car drove off at speed.

That was unusual for these parts.

I went around the front, and when I got to the door, I could see it was ajar slightly.  I didn’t remember leaving it unlocked or partly open.

I pushed it open and looked in.  Someone had trashed the place, tossing everything out of cupboards, off shelves, off benches,  drawers emptied, seats slashed, and the stuffing ripped out.

In the other rooms, it was worse, clothes and belongings tossed everywhere, walls smashed in with gaping holes.

Someone had been looking for something and not found it.

I called the village constable.

…

Constable Jack Dwyer was close to retirement and ready to hang up his hat; that realisation, he said, was after trying to chase down a young offender on foot.

Neither the speed nor the stamina these days for the requirements of modern policing.

He was old school.

He arrived at the door where I was waiting outside, not wanting to contaminate the crime scene any more than I already had.

I watched all the police shows and knew the jargon.

“Evan.”

“Constable.”

“Jack, please.  You and Mary are friends.” 

He had a slight wheeze from the walk from the lane up to the door.

He peered in the door, and I heard a sharp intake of breath.  “What have we here?’  He pushed the door open further and took a few steps into the room.

I followed.

“When?”

“I came home a half hour ago, so it happened in the three hours before that.  I was at the pub.  Came home, this was what I found.”

“Touch anything?”

“Very little.”

“Anything missing?”

“Nothing obvious.  Why would people be looking in walls? That strikes me as not your average thief.”

“It does not.  I’ll call it in.  This is serious.”

“Do you think it might be something to do with Mary’s death.  She was a cutting-edge researcher, brought something home?”

He shrugged.  “Can’t say.  Let the experts work it out.  Above our collective pay grade, I think.”

He went back out onto the porch and made the call.

I took another look.  I tried to recall any episodes of the dramas I watched for similar incidents.  The best I could come up with; she was a spy and had secrets hidden away, on hand in case she had to run.

And then I laughed at the stupidity of that assessment.  She was a medical researcher.  Her work took her all over the world.  She was going to cure cancer.  We spoke about it often.  If anyone could, I knew it would be her.

When I came out of the bedroom, Jack was by the front door examining it, then looked at me, “Who has a key to the front door.”

“Both of us.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.  Why.”

“This door shows no signs of tampering.  It was opened with a key.”

Mine was in my pocket.  I had her bag, collected from the hospital when I identified her.  I fetched it from the car.  The key was on a key chain with other keys we shared.

“Both accounted for.”

He shrugged.  “Can you stay somewhere else for a few days?”

“Of course.”

We went out, and I locked the door and gave him the key. 

“I’ll let you know when the forensics are done.  They should be here tomorrow.  Bad business, Mary going like that.  One in a billion, the Doc says.  I’m sorry for your loss.”

I thanked him, and he left.

I refused to believe this had anything to do with Mary’s death.

…

The funeral service was attended by everyone in the village and some from the surrounding villages.  There was no one out of place, or I didn’t recognise.

No one from her work turned up.  I had met some of her colleagues fleetingly, first names only and only briefly to the point where I wouldn’t recognise them again.

The rebuff from the telephone call still lingered, and the fact that the phone self-destructed, well, no explanation made it sound plausible.

It was a beautiful service, a tribute to the fact that everyone loved her.  I got to say a few words before I couldn’t.  Others were equally overcome by emotion.

It was a short trip from the church to the freshly dug grave, where another little service was conducted, and the coffin was lowered into the grave.

Flowers, dirt, done.  Handshakes, hugs,  muttered condolences and then nothing.  I was alone by the grave, staring down at what had been the love of my life.

Then my cell phone rang.

No name, no number.

“Hello?”

“Evan, Mary’s husband?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t go home.  Leave, now.  Don’t look back.”

“What?  Who is this?”

“I worked with Mary.  She was murdered.  They’re after me.  And now you.  They think we have it, but we don’t, and no one will believe us.  Run.  Now.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone.  That voice on the other end.  Near hysterical.

I stared down at the box in the grave.  “Just who the hell were you, Mary Antoinette Davis?”

The truth was, I didn’t know, and what I thought I knew wasn’t even remotely true.

In that moment, a montage of scenes popped into my head.  The knowing looks between friends, the nuances and double meanings of her conversations, the way the policeman, the doctor and the matron acted.  They all knew.

A loud bang that sounded very much like a gunshot came from behind me, and I jumped, almost slipping into the grave.

I ran.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I always wanted to rescue a damsel in distress – 6

Six

I was about to tell Emily not to open the door but for some reason, I simply stood there unable to do anything.  It was not shock or fear, but a hesitation.

Emily looked at me, perhaps for approval, then looked through the peephole in the door.

“Who is it,” I asked, finally finding a voice.

“I can’t see him clearly but it looks like the man in the pin-striped suit, that chap who got in the elevator with us.”

Why wasn’t I surprised.

“What should I do?” she asked when I hadn’t said anything.

I was not sure what to think, but from first appearances, he didn’t look like an assassin, or very dangerous, but what did I know about assassins?  Or dangerous people?  “Let me answer the door.  You stand just out of sight until we find out his intentions.”

“You don’t think…”

“I’m trying not to think right now, but please, just stand out of sight of the door, and have your phone set to call emergency, just in case.”

Another knock on the door, not impatient but nonetheless insistent, motivated her to do as I’d asked, and I took her place at the door.  When she was in place, I took a deep breath, exhaled, and then opened the door.

It was, indeed, the man from the elevator.  I decided attack was the best form of defence.  “You were in the elevator.  Give me one reason why you couldn’t speak to us then?”  It came out exactly as I’d intended, a harsh tone from someone who was annoyed.

“Forgive me, but I wasn’t sure that I had the right person.” A placatory tone.

“How did you know what room to come to?”  He hadn’t followed us, or at least I didn’t think so, but he could have discreetly kept an eye on us.

“I was told you would be here.”

“By whom?”  The only person who knew we would be here was Cecile, though she could not know when.

“Your friend said you would be here.”

“Which friend?”

I could see that he was now getting impatient, his expression changing from genial to annoyance. 

“We should not be discussing this in the hotel corridor.”

“Perhaps not, but I don’t trust you, and until you tell me what this is about, the hotel corridor is where you’re staying.  I’ll ask again, which friend?”

“Cecile Battersby of course.”

Right name, but it could still be a bluff.  Her name would be in the hotel computer system, information that could be bought by a clever adversary.

“Describe her.”

“Alas, I have not met her.  I have been sent as an intermediary.  This is a rather delicate matter, and not one that I wish to discuss in the hotel corridor.”

“Then I suggest you call me when you are in the open in plain view with other people place, but it will not be here, in this room until I’m satisfied I can trust you.”

I could tell by his expression it was not the answer he was looking for.

He took out his cell phone.  “I assure you, you are in no danger from me, but if you insist.”

I gave him my number and he put it into his phone.

“You will be hearing from me soon.  Let’s hope she does not suffer because of this.”

With that cryptic remark, he left, and I closed the door.

“What do you think he meant by saying she might suffer?  Suffer what?”

“It’s just a means to try and scare us into doing something we might regret.  We have no idea who he was, or what he wanted, and I was certainly not going to let him into the room.  I’m sure we’ll soon find out.”

He might have been a public servant.  Don’t they wear pin-striped suits and carry umbrellas?

A stereotype, I thought, that everyone had of the British, but this one was lacking the third element, a bowler hat.

“Let’s wait and see.  But, in the meantime, since whoever he represents knows where we are, let’s get out of here, just in case.”

Her face registered the exact same fear level I was feeling. 

Once again, I found myself asking the impossible question, what had she got herself mixed up in?

I looked through the peep hole and saw that our section of the passage was clear.  I was taking a gamble that he’d left, and if the coast was clear, we would be leaving via the fire escape, just in case he had the elevators monitored.

I opened the door and looked up and down the corridor.  Clear.

To Emily, I said, “Let’s go.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

365 Days of writing, 2026 – My second novel 2

More about writing that second novel

…

The Weight of Expectation: Essentials to Initiate the Second Novel After the Euphoria of the First

Abstract
The transition from debut to second novel represents a critical juncture in a writer’s career. While the first novel is often born of unbridled passion and unexamined confidence, the second novel is typically forged under the weight of expectation, industry scrutiny, and personal doubt. This paper explores the psychological, practical, and professional essentials required to successfully initiate and sustain the second novel writing process. Drawing upon literary theory, authorial testimonies, cognitive psychology, and publishing industry research, I identify four core pillars—re-establishing creative autonomy, managing external expectations, leveraging narrative momentum, and redefining success—that are crucial for initiating the second project. This analysis offers a framework for writers navigating what is often a disorienting and emotionally taxing phase of their artistic development.

Keywords: second novel syndrome, authorial identity, creative process, writer’s block, literary career development, narrative continuity, authorial expectations

1. Introduction

The publication of a first novel is frequently described as a transformative milestone in a writer’s life—a culmination of years of labour, isolation, and aspiration. The emotional landscape accompanying this achievement is one of euphoria, validation, and often, a sense of arrival into the literary world. However, this high tide is frequently followed by a receding wave: the daunting prospect of beginning again. While the debut novel may emerge from a raw, unfiltered impulse sustained by dreams and obsessions, the second novel is frequently obstructed by the sediment of success: expectation, self-scrutiny, and the pressure to prove that the first work was not a fluke.

This paper investigates the essential conditions required to initiate the second novel once the initial euphoria of the debut has subsided. Grounded in both empirical research and anecdotal evidence from published authors, it proposes a structured approach for writers to re-engage with their creative practice. The transition from first to second novel is not merely a technical challenge but an existential and psychological passage. Thus, the essentials to begin again are multifaceted, requiring the writer to reconstruct identity, reframe success, and rekindle narrative desire.

2. The Psychological Burden of the Second Novel

The phenomenon colloquially termed “second novel syndrome” refers to the creative paralysis that afflicts many authors after the debut’s release. Research in cognitive psychology suggests that success, while gratifying, can disrupt intrinsic motivation—the internal drive that fuels sustained creative work (Amabile, 1996). According to Deci and Ryan’s Self-Determination Theory, intrinsic motivation is fueled by autonomy, competence, and relatedness. The debut novel often satisfies these needs through unstructured exploration. However, post-publication, these same needs may be compromised.

2.1 The Erosion of Creative Autonomy

Following publication, authors frequently report a diminished sense of creative autonomy. External agents—publishers, agents, critics, and readers—enter the writer’s internal sphere, shaping expectations about genre, style, and thematic continuity. A study conducted by the Authors Guild (2020) found that 68% of debut novelists felt increased pressure to replicate the success of their first book, with many confessing to self-censorship out of fear of disappointing stakeholders.

The shift from writing for oneself to writing for an audience introduces what Csikszentmihalyi (1996) identifies as “inner conflict” in the creative process. When the writer becomes simultaneously the producer and the critic of their work—monitoring every choice for market receptivity—the flow state essential to sustained storytelling may dissipate.

2.2 The Crisis of Authorial Identity

With the debut, the individual is anointed “a novelist.” This new identity, though celebrated, can be burdensome. As Bakhtin (1981) noted, authorship is not a monolithic self but a dialogic process shaped by internal and external voices. The debut may have been written under the guise of anonymity or obscurity, but the second is written within the shadow of recognition. The author must now negotiate who they are as a writer: Are they the voice of the first novel? The voice the industry expects? Or someone still evolving?

This crisis of identity often leads to creative hesitation. As Zadie Smith observes in her essay “Fail Better” (2012), “You’ve never had a harder job than when it’s time to write the second book. You have a whole world of expectations now, including your own.” The writer’s internal critic, once manageable, now speaks with multiple voices—those of agents, reviewers, fans—amplifying self-doubt.

3. The Four Essentials to Initiate the Second Novel

While the challenges are significant, they are not insurmountable. Based on interviews with published authors and analysis of successful second novels, this paper identifies four essential components that facilitate the initiation and progress of the second project.

3.1 Re-establishing Creative Autonomy

The first essential is the reclamation of creative agency. This requires deliberate separation from external pressures and a return to the writer’s intrinsic motivation. Several authors achieve this by adopting a “draft zero” mentality—a private, exploratory draft exempt from review or evaluation.

Haruki Murakami, known for his disciplined writing routine, describes writing his second novel in a similar way to the first: alone, in silence, with no public announcements or deadlines imposed. This isolation allows the writer to experiment freely, without concern for reception. Establishing a private writing space—physical or mental—recreates the conditions that allowed the debut to flourish.

Additionally, writers may benefit from shifting their relationship with time. Rather than setting outcome-driven goals (“finish the novel by X date”), process-oriented goals (“write 500 words daily, without judgment”) support autonomy and mitigate pressure. In this way, the act of writing itself becomes the reward, not the publication.

3.2 Managing External Expectations

Expectations—both explicit and implied—are inevitable. The second essential, therefore, is not the elimination of expectations but their strategic management.

Writers must cultivate what Brené Brown (2010) calls “boundaries of belonging” in creative work. This includes clear communication with agents and publishers about creative intent, as well as emotional detachment from early reviews or sales figures. Several authors, such as Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, have spoken candidly about refusing to read reviews during the writing of their second books to preserve mental space.

Moreover, authors should acknowledge that audience expectations are mutable. Literary markets evolve, and readers often welcome growth and experimentation. The second novel need not be a retread of the first. Toni Morrison’s second novel, Sula, diverged significantly from the domestic realism of The Bluest Eye, embracing a more mythic, nonlinear structure. Its success demonstrates that risk, when grounded in artistic integrity, can be rewarded.

3.3 Leveraging Narrative Momentum

The third essential is the strategic use of narrative momentum—using insights from the first novel to inform, but not dictate, the second.

Many writers experience a disconnect between their debut and subsequent work, fearing that the magic of the first was unrepeatable. However, the process of completing a novel provides invaluable narrative intelligence: knowledge of structure, voice, pacing, and revision. This “tacit knowledge” (Polanyi, 1966) forms a foundation upon which the second work can be built.

Authors may harness this momentum by identifying the core thematic or emotional engine of their first novel and exploring its inverse or expansion. For instance, if the debut centred on loss, the second might explore forgiveness. If it was rooted in realism, the second could embrace fabulism. This continuity of inquiry—what novelist Rachel Cusk calls “the pursuit of a single question across books”—provides coherence without constriction.

Additionally, repurposing unused material from the debut’s drafts or notebooks can ignite the second project. Many authors discover that secondary characters or peripheral settings from the first novel contain underdeveloped potential. These fragments can serve as seeds for new narratives, easing the anxiety of beginning from nothing.

3.4 Redefining Success

The fourth essential is a recalibration of the writer’s definition of success. The debut is often judged by external metrics: acquisition, reviews, awards, sales. However, these benchmarks are insufficient for sustaining the writing process, particularly when embarking on the second novel.

Redefining success in terms of process—the consistency of practice, the honesty of expression, the courage to experiment—builds resilience. As poet Mary Oliver writes, “Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” This ethos redirects focus from outcome to observation and expression.

Furthermore, embracing the possibility of failure is critical. Samuel Beckett’s famous dictum—“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”—encapsulates the mindset required. The second novel may not achieve the same reception as the first, but it may possess greater artistic maturity. Writers who view their careers as an evolving body of work, rather than a series of isolated products, are more likely to persevere.

4. Case Studies: Lessons from Established Authors

4.1 Zadie Smith
Smith’s debut, White Teeth (2000), was a cultural phenomenon. Her second novel, The Autograph Man (2002), received more polarised reviews. In interviews, Smith admitted to feeling “crippled by expectation” and attempting to write something deliberately different, which led to mixed results. However, her subsequent novels (On Beauty, NW) reflect a more confident, personal voice. Smith’s trajectory illustrates that the second novel—however imperfect—is a necessary step in the maturation of voice.

4.2 Celeste Ng
Ng’s debut, Everything I Never Told You, was critically acclaimed. For her second novel, Little Fires Everywhere, she consciously returned to themes of family and identity but expanded her narrative scope. Ng credits a structured writing schedule and sustained research as key to initiating the second book. She also limited her engagement with social media and reviews during the writing process, preserving mental space.

4.3 Ocean Vuong
After the success of On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, Vuong described entering a period of creative silence. He did not begin his second novel immediately, instead allowing himself time to “unlearn” the habits of the first. His approach emphasises patience and the acceptance of nonlinear productivity—redefining starting not as a singular event but as a gradual re-immersion.

5. Practical Recommendations for Writers

To initiate the second novel, writers should consider the following steps:

  • Create a “pre-draft” ritual: Freewrite, journal, or sketch characters without aiming for a formal narrative.
  • Establish a writing sanctuary: Designate a time and space free from digital distractions and external input.
  • Set process goals: Focus on consistent output (e.g., 30 minutes/day) rather than word count or chapter completion.
  • Engage in parallel reading: Study novels that challenge or inspire—especially those unlike the debut.
  • Seek peer support: Join a writing group composed of other mid-career authors who understand the transition.
  • Delay external sharing: Resist the urge to share early drafts with agents or editors until a full draft is complete.
  • Embrace imperfection: Grant permission for the second novel to be messy, exploratory, or even “bad” in early stages.

6. Conclusion

The initiation of the second novel is less about technical preparation and more about psychological reorientation. The euphoria of the first publication must give way to a more mature, deliberate creative practice—one grounded in resilience, self-awareness, and artistic integrity. While external pressures and internal doubts are inevitable, the essentials for beginning again lie in reclaiming autonomy, managing expectations, channelling narrative momentum, and redefining success on one’s own terms.

The second novel is not a repetition but a recommitment—to the craft, to the voice, and to the self as a writer. It is in this commitment that the writer transcends the anxiety of the aftermath and re-enters the fertile silence from which stories are born. As Virginia Woolf reminds us in A Room of One’s Own, “Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.” The writer of the second novel must, above all, learn to mind their own inner compass. In doing so, they do not merely survive the aftermath of success—they evolve beyond it.

References

  • Amabile, T. M. (1996). Creativity in Context. Westview Press.
  • Authors Guild. (2020). Survey of Published Authors. New York: Authors Guild.
  • Bakhtin, M. M. (1981). The Dialogic Imagination. University of Texas Press.
  • Brown, B. (2010). The Gifts of Imperfection. Hazelden.
  • Csikszentmihalyi, M. (1996). Creativity: Flow and the Psychology of Discovery and Invention. HarperCollins.
  • Deci, E. L., & Ryan, R. M. (1985). Intrinsic Motivation and Self-Determination in Human Behavior. Springer.
  • Oliver, M. (2004). Long Life: Essays and Other Writings. Da Capo Press.
  • Polanyi, M. (1966). The Tacit Dimension. University of Chicago Press.
  • Smith, Z. (2012). “Fail Better.” The New York Review of Books, 59(15).
  • Woolf, V. (1929). A Room of One’s Own. Hogarth Press.

(Note: Additional primary and secondary sources include interviews from The Paris Review, The Guardian, and literary podcasts such as “Otherppl with Brad Listi.”)