Tag: Books

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 211

Day 211 –  Write because you must write

…

Why Write? The Untamed Truth About the Creative Urge

“If you want fame, be a prize fighter or a movie star. If you write, write because you must write.” – Sinclair Lewis

It’s a stark, uncompromising sentiment. In an era dominated by influencer culture, personal branding, and the relentless pursuit of going viral, this advice feels almost revolutionary—perhaps even a little discouraging at first glance.

We live in a world that practically worships visibility. Social media algorithms reward the loud, the flashy, and the prolific. Yet, true artists across the generations have continually reminded us that the engine of genuine literature cannot be fueled by the superficial desire for applause.

If you are picking up a pen or opening a blank document simply because you want people to know your name, you are playing the wrong game. Here is a deep dive into why true writing is an act of compulsion, not ambition, and why writing “because you must” is the only way to survive the page.

The Mirage of Literary Fame

Let’s address the elephant in the room: fame.

In the popular imagination, the writer’s life is often romanticised. We picture glittering book launches, glowing profiles in The New Yorker, packed readings, and the quiet satisfaction of shaping the cultural zeitgeist.

The reality is vastly different. Writing is, by its very nature, a solitary, gruelling, and largely unglamorous pursuit. It involves staring at a blinking cursor for hours, wrestling with self-doubt, rewriting the same paragraph seven times, and sending your deepest thoughts out into a vast, indifferent void.

If your primary motivation is fame, writing will inevitably break your heart. The publishing industry is notoriously fickle. Bestseller lists are crowded, trends shift overnight, and the correlation between literary merit and public recognition is notoriously weak.

Worse yet, chasing fame fundamentally alters what you write. When you write for an audience’s approval, you begin to self-censor. You write what is marketable, what is trendy, or what is palatable. You trade your authentic voice for algorithmic compliance. And in doing so, you lose the very thing that makes your writing worth reading in the first place.

What Does It Mean to “Write Because You Must”?

When the legendary author (or wise observer, as echoed in sentiments by writers from Bukowski to Orwell) suggests writing because you must, they are pointing to a psychological and emotional necessity.

Writing out of compulsion looks different. It is:

  • An itch that refuses to be scratched: It’s the story that wakes you up at 3:00 AM demanding to be told. It’s the observation about human nature that you can’t shake until you trap it in a sentence.
  • A method of survival: For many writers, putting words on a page isn’t a hobby; it is a way of processing grief, confusion, joy, and the chaotic experience of being alive. As Joan Didion famously wrote, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means.”
  • An involuntary reflex: You write not because you want to be a writer, but because not writing leaves you feeling hollow, anxious, and disconnected from yourself.

When you operate from this space of necessity, the external markers of success—book sales, follower counts, critical acclaim—become secondary. They are nice if they happen, but they are not the point. The point is the work itself.

The Freedom of the Compulsive Writer

Paradoxically, letting go of the desire for fame is the most liberating thing a writer can do.

When you write strictly because you must, you give yourself permission to fail. You give yourself permission to write a terrible first draft, to explore weird themes, and to tell stories that appeal to an audience of one: yourself.

  • You reclaim your voice: Without the pressure to please the masses, your prose becomes sharper, stranger, and more honest.
  • You build resilience: Rejection hurts, but it doesn’t destroy you. If a publisher passes on your manuscript, it stings—but you will keep writing anyway, because stopping was never really an option.
  • You find your true tribe: Ironically, readers can smell authenticity a mile away. The work that resonates the most deeply across generations is almost always the work that was written with utter disregard for market trends, born purely from an author’s urgent need to express a truth.

How to Know Why You Are Writing

Take a moment to check your creative pulse. Ask yourself honestly:

  • If no one ever read what I am writing right now, would I still write it?
  • Am I dreaming more about holding my published book, or more about solving the puzzle of the chapter I’m working on?
  • Does writing feel like a chore I endure for status, or a fire I have to tend to stay warm?

If your answers lean toward the former in each scenario, it’s time to recalibrate. Lower the stakes. Stop writing for the applause sign.

Final Thoughts: Answer the Call

If you want to be a celebrity, go audition for a reality show, start a viral TikTok channel, or train for the ring. There are much faster, more efficient ways to achieve fame than writing a novel.

But if there is a quiet, persistent voice inside you that demands expression—if stories form behind your eyes when you walk down the street, and if words are the only way you know how to make sense of this wild world—then pick up the pen.

Don’t write for the claps. Don’t write for the bestseller lists. Write because you must. Everything else is just noise.

…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 211

Day 211 –  Write because you must write

…

Why Write? The Untamed Truth About the Creative Urge

“If you want fame, be a prize fighter or a movie star. If you write, write because you must write.” – Sinclair Lewis

It’s a stark, uncompromising sentiment. In an era dominated by influencer culture, personal branding, and the relentless pursuit of going viral, this advice feels almost revolutionary—perhaps even a little discouraging at first glance.

We live in a world that practically worships visibility. Social media algorithms reward the loud, the flashy, and the prolific. Yet, true artists across the generations have continually reminded us that the engine of genuine literature cannot be fueled by the superficial desire for applause.

If you are picking up a pen or opening a blank document simply because you want people to know your name, you are playing the wrong game. Here is a deep dive into why true writing is an act of compulsion, not ambition, and why writing “because you must” is the only way to survive the page.

The Mirage of Literary Fame

Let’s address the elephant in the room: fame.

In the popular imagination, the writer’s life is often romanticised. We picture glittering book launches, glowing profiles in The New Yorker, packed readings, and the quiet satisfaction of shaping the cultural zeitgeist.

The reality is vastly different. Writing is, by its very nature, a solitary, gruelling, and largely unglamorous pursuit. It involves staring at a blinking cursor for hours, wrestling with self-doubt, rewriting the same paragraph seven times, and sending your deepest thoughts out into a vast, indifferent void.

If your primary motivation is fame, writing will inevitably break your heart. The publishing industry is notoriously fickle. Bestseller lists are crowded, trends shift overnight, and the correlation between literary merit and public recognition is notoriously weak.

Worse yet, chasing fame fundamentally alters what you write. When you write for an audience’s approval, you begin to self-censor. You write what is marketable, what is trendy, or what is palatable. You trade your authentic voice for algorithmic compliance. And in doing so, you lose the very thing that makes your writing worth reading in the first place.

What Does It Mean to “Write Because You Must”?

When the legendary author (or wise observer, as echoed in sentiments by writers from Bukowski to Orwell) suggests writing because you must, they are pointing to a psychological and emotional necessity.

Writing out of compulsion looks different. It is:

  • An itch that refuses to be scratched: It’s the story that wakes you up at 3:00 AM demanding to be told. It’s the observation about human nature that you can’t shake until you trap it in a sentence.
  • A method of survival: For many writers, putting words on a page isn’t a hobby; it is a way of processing grief, confusion, joy, and the chaotic experience of being alive. As Joan Didion famously wrote, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means.”
  • An involuntary reflex: You write not because you want to be a writer, but because not writing leaves you feeling hollow, anxious, and disconnected from yourself.

When you operate from this space of necessity, the external markers of success—book sales, follower counts, critical acclaim—become secondary. They are nice if they happen, but they are not the point. The point is the work itself.

The Freedom of the Compulsive Writer

Paradoxically, letting go of the desire for fame is the most liberating thing a writer can do.

When you write strictly because you must, you give yourself permission to fail. You give yourself permission to write a terrible first draft, to explore weird themes, and to tell stories that appeal to an audience of one: yourself.

  • You reclaim your voice: Without the pressure to please the masses, your prose becomes sharper, stranger, and more honest.
  • You build resilience: Rejection hurts, but it doesn’t destroy you. If a publisher passes on your manuscript, it stings—but you will keep writing anyway, because stopping was never really an option.
  • You find your true tribe: Ironically, readers can smell authenticity a mile away. The work that resonates the most deeply across generations is almost always the work that was written with utter disregard for market trends, born purely from an author’s urgent need to express a truth.

How to Know Why You Are Writing

Take a moment to check your creative pulse. Ask yourself honestly:

  • If no one ever read what I am writing right now, would I still write it?
  • Am I dreaming more about holding my published book, or more about solving the puzzle of the chapter I’m working on?
  • Does writing feel like a chore I endure for status, or a fire I have to tend to stay warm?

If your answers lean toward the former in each scenario, it’s time to recalibrate. Lower the stakes. Stop writing for the applause sign.

Final Thoughts: Answer the Call

If you want to be a celebrity, go audition for a reality show, start a viral TikTok channel, or train for the ring. There are much faster, more efficient ways to achieve fame than writing a novel.

But if there is a quiet, persistent voice inside you that demands expression—if stories form behind your eyes when you walk down the street, and if words are the only way you know how to make sense of this wild world—then pick up the pen.

Don’t write for the claps. Don’t write for the bestseller lists. Write because you must. Everything else is just noise.

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 55

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the Second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

…

We were not leaving the castle the way we had found it, but we would blame the Germans.  Carlo understood because he was the one who had selectively destroyed parts of it, but I knew after we’d gone, he would blame us.

When Carlo discovered the empty cells below in the dungeons, he and the boy went back outside and looked for them.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Wallace would have ordered them removed and executed because Meyer had been the objective and everything else was a distraction.

Two of Blinky’s soldiers were assigned to bring back Chiara.

Blinky and the rest of his men moved into better quarters and had their first real meal in a week.  We posted sentries, but I didn’t think any Germans would be coming to see what happened.  The sentries were more to tell us when Meyer and his escort arrived.

Blinky would then be the official escort for Meyer back to England.  A plane was on standby waiting for our signal.

Several hours after Carlo left, he returned with Martina and Johanneson, the latter looking very worse for wear.

The last of the traitors.

Carlo shoved him into a chair and bound him very tightly.

“We found the prisoners, all shot.  Fernando’s remnants killed them.  I will make it my business to find every last one of them.  What do you want to do with this traitor?”  He nodded in Johannesen’s direction.

Martina had slumped into a chair.  She still wore the very recent scars of a severe beating and was out on her feet.  Despite that, I got the impression she was glad to be alive.

“Was he responsible for anything that happened while you were in the cells?” I asked her.

“He saved me if that could be called an act of kindness.  He did nothing to save the others.”

“If you had a choice?”

“I’d shoot him.”

“Now hang on.  Since when did good Samaritans get punished?”  Johannesen was outraged.

I shrugged.  “You will be judged on past sins.”

Martina looked up.  “He was the leader of the group that destroyed the church.  It was our original headquarters, down in the basement.  We managed to get away, with a few injuries, but it took out our equipment and radio.”

“There,” he said.  “My intention was destroying infrastructure not lives.”

“Coincidental.”

I got up and walked over to Martina and gave her my gun.  “I’ve done enough killing for today.  Perhaps a small token of retribution for those lost.”

“Chiara?”

“She will be here shortly.  We found her just in time.”

“Thank God for that.”

I don’t think she had it in her to enjoy the moment she executed Johannesen, I don’t think it was worth celebrating a death, more lamenting the loss of yet another person in a war that seemed to be dragging on.

At least he accepted his fate and didn’t plead for his life.

It was mission accomplished.

Blinky’s radioman finally reconnected with Thompson and told him that we were awaiting the arrival of Meyer and that he could tell those up the pipeline it was safe to bring him to the village.  He would then signal when the plane was in the air.  Thompson was pleased enough to give me a ticket back to London.  All we had to do was collect Meyer.

That was Carlo and my job, and for the last time, I went back down into the village and waited.

I was not sure who was more relieved, Meyer or myself.  I’d met him once before the war, at a University in Hamburg where he was working on a top-secret project, and I was studying the archaeology of some old castles nearby.

I’d been tasked to find out what he was doing, my rather bright future in archaeology was never going to take off in those dark months that followed Chamberlain’s peace treaty.  Everyone but him seemed to know that war was inevitable.

He’d spent time telling me about the stars and planets, and how wonderful it would be to visit them one day in the not-too-distant future.  From that, we inferred that the Germans were working on space travel, though you never really could tell what they were up to.

It simply meant if things went bad, we needed to touch base every now and then with Meyer, which I did, in a friendly manner and never directly asking what he was up to.  That contact had paid off, and he had made contact asking me if it was possible to come live in England.

Thompson had been very pleased.

“Herr Atherton,” he said, rather relieved to see me.

“Herr Meyer.”

We shook hands, and then he hugged me like an old friend would.  “You came.”

“You asked.  I do my best?”

“We leave now?’

“We very definitely leave now.”

I left Carlo with the escorts to explain the new arrangements, far away from the castle, and I took Meyer back to the castle.  Along the way we talked, not of rockets and death, but of old times in Berlin, and how Germany used to be before this crazy person called Hitler had sent them down the path to self-destruction.

Perhaps, he said, one day he might be able to return.

I hoped I would not, not until the war ended, but that being a forlorn hope, not until I had a very long, well-earned rest.

But this was Thompson we were talking about, and his favourite saying was ‘There’s no rest for the wicked’.

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2023

PI Walthenson’s second case – A case of finding the ‘Flying Dutchman’.

Known only to a few, there is a legend that a ship named the ‘Flying Dutchman’ left Nazi Germany in the last weeks of the war and set sail for America, escorted by U-boats, under a different name. Aboard was a trove of treasure and gold worth a ‘king’s ransom’.

It was said that it had been sent to a group of American Nazis to create the Fourth Reich at an appropriate time. Over the years, many expeditions off the coast had searched, but found no trace of the vessel or the treasure.

In other words, it was just a legend created to boost tourism.

…

Fast forward to 2024. Our intrepid private detective, Harry Walthenson, overhears a conversation at Grand Central Station. It was the oddness of the message that caught his attention. An investigation turned up nothing out of the ordinary, and he thinks no more about it.

Then Harry is kidnapped, interrogated, and asked questions over and over about a date and a place, why he went there, and when he could not give satisfactory answers, he was beaten half to death and left for dead on a rubbish heap. He was lucky that it was a living space for homeless men; otherwise, he would have died.

In the aftermath, he once again gives it no more thought.

…

After resolving his first case successfully, there’s no rest. Harry’s angry mother comes to his office and demands that he find out where his father has gone. She believes he has run off with a mistress, not for the first time.

Perhaps it was not the wisest decision she has made, because Harry promises to investigate, and adds that she might not like what he finds.

He soon discovered he does not like what he finds, that his father’s friends, a cabal formed at University, have two who are his mother’s current lovers, and another, a criminal blackmailing his father.

Felicity, now his partner, working on a different case, and trying to get answers, uncovers a crime family involved in guarding a disused warehouse on the docks, where she believes Harry had been taken for interrogation, and subsequently dumped nearby to die.

Why are they up to? What is so important that the empty warehouse needs guarding? Who is employing them?

Harry, following up on the death of the blackmailer, traces his death back to an enforcer employed by his grandfather. His mother’s grandfather was a pre-war industrialist who made his fortune in war munitions and shipbuilding.

He was also a member of the American Nazi party.

When Harry also discovers a logbook belonging to a so-called wartime Liberty ship the “Paul Revere” in brackets ‘Freiheitskämpfer’, hidden by his father, and written in a code that is not readily identifiable.

It is no longer a matter of a father who has run off with his mistress; it is a very frightened man in fear of his life, running from a group who will stop at nothing to get the logbook back. And when Harry discovers a family connection to the group, it becomes a race against time to decode the log and find his father before his grandfather does.

…

Coming soon: Harry Walthenson’s new adventure – A case of finding the ‘Flying Dutchman’

What I learned about writing – The Power of Language: Unleashing the Imagination

Anthony Burgess, the renowned English writer and critic, once said, “Language exists less to record the actual than to liberate the imagination.” These profound words highlight the dual nature of language, which not only serves as a tool for communication but also as a catalyst for creativity and imagination. In this blog post, we will delve into the concept of language as a liberator of the imagination, exploring its implications and significance in our daily lives.

The Limitations of Recording the Actual

Language is often seen as a means of recording and conveying information about the world around us. We use words to describe people, places, objects, and events, attempting to capture their essence and characteristics. However, as Burgess notes, language is not merely a passive recorder of reality. If it were, it would be limited to simply documenting facts and figures, without any room for interpretation, creativity, or innovation.

Liberating the Imagination

The true power of language lies in its ability to transcend the mundane and ordinary, to tap into our imagination and creativity. Through language, we can conjure up worlds, characters, and scenarios that are entirely fictional, yet eerily relatable. We can use words to evoke emotions, to paint vivid pictures, and to convey complex ideas and concepts. Language becomes a tool for self-expression, allowing us to channel our thoughts, feelings, and experiences into something tangible and meaningful.

The Role of Metaphor and Symbolism

One of the key ways in which language liberates the imagination is through the use of metaphor and symbolism. By comparing two seemingly unrelated things, we can create new meanings and associations, revealing hidden connections and patterns. Metaphors and symbols can transport us to new realms of understanding, enabling us to see the world from fresh perspectives. For example, when we describe a person as a “ray of sunshine,” we are not merely recording a fact, but rather using language to evoke a sense of warmth, happiness, and optimism.

The Importance of Imagination in Human Experience

Imagination is a fundamental aspect of the human experience, enabling us to dream, to innovate, and to create. It is through imagination that we can envision new possibilities, challenge existing norms, and push the boundaries of what is thought possible. Language, as a liberator of the imagination, plays a vital role in this process, providing us with the tools to express ourselves, to communicate our ideas, and to bring our visions to life.

Conclusion

Anthony Burgess’s statement reminds us that language is not just a utilitarian tool but a powerful catalyst for creativity and imagination. By recognising the dual nature of language, we can harness its potential to liberate our imagination, to express ourselves authentically, and to create new worlds, characters, and scenarios. As we continue to navigate the complexities of the human experience, we must prioritise the imagination, using language as a tool to inspire, innovate, and bring our most fantastical ideas to life. In doing so, we can unlock the full potential of language and unleash the imagination that lies within us all.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 210

Day 210 – The magic that comes with an idea

…

Where Do Ideas Actually Come From? The Hidden Mechanics of Inspiration

We’ve all been there. You’re staring at a blank document, a pristine canvas, or a lump of clay, waiting for the lightning bolt. You want that magical Aha! moment—that sudden flash of brilliance where an entirely original concept materialises out of thin air.

We romanticise creativity as something ethereal. We talk about waiting for inspiration to strike, as if ideas are floating spirits looking for a host body.

Here is the truth, and it might sting a little: Ideas just don’t appear out of nowhere. They come from somewhere, even if you don’t know where.

You saw something. You heard something. You did something. Sometime, somewhere, somehow.

Understanding this invisible assembly line of thought is the key to unlocking consistent creativity. Let’s dive into the fascinating mechanics of where ideas actually come from and how you can harness the unseen forces shaping your mind.

The Myth of the Immaculate Conception of Ideas

In the creative world, the “Immaculate Conception” is the belief that a truly original idea is born in a vacuum, untouched by outside influence.

It simply doesn’t happen.

Human beings are not creators in the sense of making something out of absolute nothingness; we are combiners. As the late, great writer and podcaster Maria Popova often highlights, creativity is simply connecting things that haven’t been connected before.

Steve Jobs famously said, “Creativity is just connecting things. When you ask creative people how they did something, they feel a little guilty because they didn’t really do it, they just saw something. It seemed obvious to them after a while.”

Those “obvious” connections are built on a foundation of subconscious data collection.

The Subconscious Sponge: You Saw, You Heard, You Did

Every second of every day, your brain acts as a voracious sponge. Even when you aren’t actively working on a problem, your senses are recording the world around you:

  • What you saw: A peculiar shadow cast by a fire escape, a striking colour combination on a stranger’s jacket, the way light hits water in a puddle.
  • What you heard: A snippet of an overheard conversation on the subway, the rhythmic clicking of a train track, the cadence of a stranger’s laughter.
  • What you did: Tripped over a curb, burned your toast, took a different route home because of roadwork, read a biography on a 19th-century pirate.

You store these fragments in the vast archives of your subconscious. You forget about them. They get buried under grocery lists, work deadlines, and yesterday’s scrolling session on social media.

Then, weeks later, you sit down to write a story, design a logo, or solve a business problem, and boom—an idea appears. You think it’s magic. In reality, your brain quietly cross-referenced that peculiar shadow you saw three weeks ago with the rhythm of the train you heard yesterday, mashing them together into a brand-new concept.

The “Sometime, Somewhere, Somehow” Factor

Because the genesis of an idea is a delayed reaction, we rarely trace the breadcrumbs back to the source.

  • Sometime: The input might have happened ten minutes ago or ten years ago. A childhood memory can trigger a breakthrough in an adult’s architectural design.
  • Somewhere: It might not have happened at your desk. It probably happened in the shower, on a walk, while doing the dishes, or drifting off to sleep. (Ever wonder why the best ideas happen in the shower? It’s because your brain is finally relaxed enough to let the subconscious data bubble to the surface).
  • Somehow: The neural handshake—the moment two unrelated concepts lock together—happens entirely beneath the threshold of your conscious awareness.

How to Feed the Machine (Actionable Creativity)

If ideas are merely the byproduct of what you feed your brain, then the quality of your output depends entirely on the quality of your input. If you want better ideas, you have to upgrade your raw materials.

Here is how you can weaponise this psychological phenomenon to become a more creative thinker:

1. Expand Your Input Diet

If you only consume content from your specific industry, your ideas will look like everyone else’s in your industry. To get truly novel ideas, read outside your niche. Watch foreign films, visit art museums, study botany, listen to genres of music you hate. Fill your subconscious with diverse, unusual ingredients.

2. Carry a Capture Tool Everywhere

Because ideas are slippery and often stem from fleeting moments (“you saw something, you heard something”), you need to catch them before they sink back into the mud of your subconscious. Whether it’s a Moleskine notebook, the notes app on your phone, or a voice recorder, build a habit of capturing fragments.

3. Give Your Brain Empty Space

Your subconscious cannot connect the dots if you never stop talking long enough for the dots to touch. Constant stimulation—scrolling, podcasts, background TV—chokes creativity. Boredom is not the enemy of productivity; it is the incubator of genius. Go for walks without your headphones. Stare out the window. Let your mind wander.

Conclusion: Respect the Process

The next time an incredible idea hits you, don’t just pat yourself on the back for being a genius. Appreciate the invisible machinery at work. Thank the stranger whose unusual coat you saw last Tuesday, the podcast you half-listened to on a road trip last year, and the quiet walk that gave your brain the space to connect the dots.

Ideas don’t just appear out of thin air. They are the echoes of your lived experience, waiting for the right moment to transform into something new.

So, go out there, pay attention, and feed your mind well. You never know what you’ll make with it later.

…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 210

Day 210 – The magic that comes with an idea

…

Where Do Ideas Actually Come From? The Hidden Mechanics of Inspiration

We’ve all been there. You’re staring at a blank document, a pristine canvas, or a lump of clay, waiting for the lightning bolt. You want that magical Aha! moment—that sudden flash of brilliance where an entirely original concept materialises out of thin air.

We romanticise creativity as something ethereal. We talk about waiting for inspiration to strike, as if ideas are floating spirits looking for a host body.

Here is the truth, and it might sting a little: Ideas just don’t appear out of nowhere. They come from somewhere, even if you don’t know where.

You saw something. You heard something. You did something. Sometime, somewhere, somehow.

Understanding this invisible assembly line of thought is the key to unlocking consistent creativity. Let’s dive into the fascinating mechanics of where ideas actually come from and how you can harness the unseen forces shaping your mind.

The Myth of the Immaculate Conception of Ideas

In the creative world, the “Immaculate Conception” is the belief that a truly original idea is born in a vacuum, untouched by outside influence.

It simply doesn’t happen.

Human beings are not creators in the sense of making something out of absolute nothingness; we are combiners. As the late, great writer and podcaster Maria Popova often highlights, creativity is simply connecting things that haven’t been connected before.

Steve Jobs famously said, “Creativity is just connecting things. When you ask creative people how they did something, they feel a little guilty because they didn’t really do it, they just saw something. It seemed obvious to them after a while.”

Those “obvious” connections are built on a foundation of subconscious data collection.

The Subconscious Sponge: You Saw, You Heard, You Did

Every second of every day, your brain acts as a voracious sponge. Even when you aren’t actively working on a problem, your senses are recording the world around you:

  • What you saw: A peculiar shadow cast by a fire escape, a striking colour combination on a stranger’s jacket, the way light hits water in a puddle.
  • What you heard: A snippet of an overheard conversation on the subway, the rhythmic clicking of a train track, the cadence of a stranger’s laughter.
  • What you did: Tripped over a curb, burned your toast, took a different route home because of roadwork, read a biography on a 19th-century pirate.

You store these fragments in the vast archives of your subconscious. You forget about them. They get buried under grocery lists, work deadlines, and yesterday’s scrolling session on social media.

Then, weeks later, you sit down to write a story, design a logo, or solve a business problem, and boom—an idea appears. You think it’s magic. In reality, your brain quietly cross-referenced that peculiar shadow you saw three weeks ago with the rhythm of the train you heard yesterday, mashing them together into a brand-new concept.

The “Sometime, Somewhere, Somehow” Factor

Because the genesis of an idea is a delayed reaction, we rarely trace the breadcrumbs back to the source.

  • Sometime: The input might have happened ten minutes ago or ten years ago. A childhood memory can trigger a breakthrough in an adult’s architectural design.
  • Somewhere: It might not have happened at your desk. It probably happened in the shower, on a walk, while doing the dishes, or drifting off to sleep. (Ever wonder why the best ideas happen in the shower? It’s because your brain is finally relaxed enough to let the subconscious data bubble to the surface).
  • Somehow: The neural handshake—the moment two unrelated concepts lock together—happens entirely beneath the threshold of your conscious awareness.

How to Feed the Machine (Actionable Creativity)

If ideas are merely the byproduct of what you feed your brain, then the quality of your output depends entirely on the quality of your input. If you want better ideas, you have to upgrade your raw materials.

Here is how you can weaponise this psychological phenomenon to become a more creative thinker:

1. Expand Your Input Diet

If you only consume content from your specific industry, your ideas will look like everyone else’s in your industry. To get truly novel ideas, read outside your niche. Watch foreign films, visit art museums, study botany, listen to genres of music you hate. Fill your subconscious with diverse, unusual ingredients.

2. Carry a Capture Tool Everywhere

Because ideas are slippery and often stem from fleeting moments (“you saw something, you heard something”), you need to catch them before they sink back into the mud of your subconscious. Whether it’s a Moleskine notebook, the notes app on your phone, or a voice recorder, build a habit of capturing fragments.

3. Give Your Brain Empty Space

Your subconscious cannot connect the dots if you never stop talking long enough for the dots to touch. Constant stimulation—scrolling, podcasts, background TV—chokes creativity. Boredom is not the enemy of productivity; it is the incubator of genius. Go for walks without your headphones. Stare out the window. Let your mind wander.

Conclusion: Respect the Process

The next time an incredible idea hits you, don’t just pat yourself on the back for being a genius. Appreciate the invisible machinery at work. Thank the stranger whose unusual coat you saw last Tuesday, the podcast you half-listened to on a road trip last year, and the quiet walk that gave your brain the space to connect the dots.

Ideas don’t just appear out of thin air. They are the echoes of your lived experience, waiting for the right moment to transform into something new.

So, go out there, pay attention, and feed your mind well. You never know what you’ll make with it later.

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 54

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the Second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

…

When Carlo stopped, I was out of breath and gasping.  We all were.  The smoke was getting more intense.  At times it had made navigation almost impossible.

In front of us were more trees, but these looked different to those we had passed through.  I watched Carlo walk back and forth a few yards each way, then disappear into the bushes.  A minute later he put his head out and said, “This way.”

We followed him.  It was a hidden entrance down to a drain that was quite deep and headed back towards the castle one way and into the forest the other.

If the fire kept up by tomorrow the cover would be gone.

It was still a hard walk through the bushes, but we made it to a wireframe and door with a lock on it.  It looked ancient as if it hadn’t been used in decades, even longer.

Carlo produced a rather odd looking key and unlocked it.  I would have thought it was rusted shut, but appearances were deceptive.  The lock was almost new.

But the gate had not been used for a long time and it took Carlo a few minutes to force it to open.  It had rusted shut.  When it did finally move, it was with a very loud screeching sound.

We filed in and he relocked it.  Anyone thinking they heard something and came to investigate; it would end up on the other side of the gate.

So far so good.

For a moment I was back in my element, the archaeologist exploring caves, a wooden fire torch lighting the way, dampness underfoot, and the trickling of water down the walls.  All around the dankness from continual dampness.

It was easy the pretend if only for a few minutes I had not been caught up in the war, that I was on a quest for lost treasure, hidden away at the end of a labyrinth.

The reality was we were quite literally in an ancient sewer and the original builders of the castle had used an underground waterway to tap into to remove waste.  It was far more effective than modern systems and used the earth’s own ecology.

Inside the castle, the places where the waste used to drop down into the waterway had been covered over by trapdoors that were still there, and that was how we were going to gain access, through rooms that were no longer used.

We were going in via four access points, two men at each door, and mine with one of Blinkys men would be going into the area where the soldiers were camping to mop up whatever the bombs left behind, before closing off an exit.

Carlo had reserved the last one for himself and the boy, where he hoped to find Wallace and the new German commander.

Our cue to move: the bombs going off.

We just had time to get to the point and lower the trapdoors. Then climb up onto the floor and wait by the door.  From the other side, Carlo said, anyone in the castle would only see a continuation of the wall panelling.

We made it with seconds to spare.

We were closest to the bombs and the percussive effect was disorientating for a few seconds before we pushed through the door and into the smoke and dust raised by the explosions.

As the dust settled, we could see dead soldiers, and mess everywhere.  If a soldier was still alive, we shot them, systematically picking our way through the debris.  I counted thirty-one dead by the time we reached the other side, the other exit from the space.

In the distance, we could hear sporadic gunfire coming from other parts of the castle, and then, after taking up our position, near the tank, we waited.

Three soldiers came bursting out of the exit and we shot them too..

Ten minutes later Carlo yelled out, “It’s me, don’t shoot.”  Then he stepped out the door.  “It is done.”

The castle was ours.

“You wish to speak to your old commander before I execute him?

“Wallace?”

He nodded.

“Sure”

I followed him into the castle and walked through familiar passageways and rooms, much had not changed in a long time.

Wallace and the new commander were tied up in the dining room.  The remnants of a meal and several empty bottles of wine were on the table.

Wallace watched me from the doorway until I stood before him.

“I knew it was a mistake letting you go.  Jackerby was convinced you were a stupid fool who would unwittingly lead us directly to the resistance.  I told him you were cleverer than you looked.”

“And yet…”

“Perhaps I was tired of people like you being killed needlessly.  What just happened, that was a waste of human life.”

“I didn’t start the war, and for the record, I didn’t want any part of it.  Unfortunately, higher authorities deemed otherwise, and here I am.  This is not a victory to savour.”

“A victory nonetheless.”

I shrugged.  “It didn’t have to be like this, but at least we’ve weeded out a few more traitors.”

“Then no point asking for mercy?”

“No.”

With that said Carlo executed both men.

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2023

“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

What I Learned About Writing – The Ultimate Test: Reading Your Own Work as a Reader

As writers, we’ve all been there – pouring our hearts and souls into a project, painstakingly crafting each sentence, and meticulously editing every detail. But once we’ve finally completed our masterpiece, there’s a crucial step that many of us often overlook: reading it as a reader, not as a writer.

This concept may seem simple, but it’s a game-changer. By setting aside our writer’s hat and donning the reader’s cap, we can gain a fresh perspective on our work and determine whether it truly resonates with our target audience. The idea is straightforward: if we, as writers, find our own work enjoyable and engaging, then it’s likely that our readers will too. But if we struggle to get through our own content, then it’s back to the drawing board.

Why Reading as a Reader Matters

When we read our own work as writers, we’re often too close to the material. We’re familiar with the plot twists, character arcs, and themes, and we know exactly what we’re trying to convey. But readers don’t have this insider knowledge. They’re approaching our work with a blank slate, and it’s our job to draw them in and keep them engaged.

By reading our work as a reader, we can experience it in the same way that our audience will. We can identify areas where the pacing is slow, the dialogue is clunky, or the exposition is too dense. We can pinpoint moments where we’re confused, bored, or disconnected from the story. And we can make adjustments accordingly.

The Benefits of Reading as a Reader

So, what can we gain from reading our own work as a reader? Here are just a few benefits:

  1. Improved pacing: By reading our work from a reader’s perspective, we can identify areas where the story drags or feels rushed. We can make adjustments to the pacing to keep our readers engaged.
  2. Tighter writing: Reading our work as a reader helps us to eliminate unnecessary words, phrases, and scenes. We can streamline our writing and make every sentence count.
  3. Increased tension and suspense: By experiencing our story as a reader, we can identify moments where the tension and suspense are lacking. We can add twists and turns to keep our readers on the edge of their seats.
  4. Better character development: Reading our work as a reader helps us to see our characters through fresh eyes. We can add depth, nuance, and complexity to our characters, making them more relatable and believable.

The Ugly Truth: When It’s Not Enjoyable

But what happens when we read our work as a reader and it’s just not enjoyable? What if we find ourselves skipping sentences, zoning out, or worse, falling asleep? Well, that’s when the real work begins.

It’s time to take a step back, reassess our project, and make significant changes. This might involve rewriting entire sections, reworking our plot, or even scrapping our manuscript altogether. It’s a tough pill to swallow, but it’s better to face the music now than to publish a subpar work that fails to resonate with our readers.

Conclusion

Reading our own work as a reader is a crucial step in the writing process. It allows us to experience our story in a new way, identify areas for improvement, and make adjustments to create a more engaging and enjoyable read. So, take the time to sit down, read your work as a reader, and be honest with yourself. If it’s enjoyable, then you’re on the right track. But if not, don’t be afraid to go back to the drawing board and try again. Your readers will thank you.