Tag: Books

Research for the writing of a thriller – 1

Background material used in creating a location, an explosive situation, and characters to bring it alive – the story – A Score to Settle

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The premise

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The Powder Keg Conference: When Irony Meets Incitement in the Republic of Azmar

The world of international politics often serves up a certain dish of absurdity, but occasionally, the ingredients align for a truly catastrophic meal. We are witnessing such a geopolitical culinary disaster right now, brewing in the fictional Republic of Azmar.

Azmar is, by all measures, a textbook example of modern authoritarianism: a military dictatorship, financially and politically shielded by a major superpower, and helmed by President General Kroll, a man whose personal wealth seems to increase inversely to his country’s freedoms. The regime’s human rights abuses—disappearances, rigged judiciary, suppression of dissent—are not simply allegations; they are an open, festering secret among global watchdog organizations.

And yet, this week, Azmar is throwing a party.

The Irony Convention

In a move that strains the very definition of chutzpah, the Kroll regime is hosting the Global Summit for Progressive Human Rights Advancement.

The contrast is dizzying. While political prisoners languish in overcrowded, secret facilities, the capital city has been scrubbed clean. Banners proclaiming “Justice Through Dialogue” hang from lampposts. The state-run media is ecstatic, broadcasting endless interviews about Azmar’s commitment to “international transparency.”

The goal, of course, is not dialogue. It is legitimization. The conference is a Potemkin Village, a meticulously constructed facade designed to convince foreign investors and, more importantly, the regime’s international patrons that Azmar is a stable, reforming nation.

And perhaps the most volatile element of this stagecraft? The roster of attendees.

The Ethical Tightrope Walk of the Keynote Speaker

The event has attracted truly renowned figures: Nobel Laureates, celebrated international lawyers, and veteran human rights defenders. These are people whose careers have been defined by fighting the very abuses Azmar exemplifies.

Why are they here? For some, it is the genuine belief that dialogue must occur, even with the devil. For others, it’s the hefty speaking fees and the promise of a global stage. Whatever the motivation, their presence offers the Kroll regime exactly what it craves: a veneer of institutional approval.

When a celebrated author stands at the podium, criticizing abstract concepts of oppression while simultaneously shaking hands with the architect of that oppression, the lines between principle and pragmatism blur dangerously. Their words, intended as a critique, are instead absorbed into the regime’s propaganda machine: “See? Even the world’s greatest thinkers endorse Azmar’s path forward.”

It is a tense, ethically compromised theatre. But the real drama is about to erupt just outside the conference hall.

The Return of the Ghost

For years, the domestic unrest in Azmar has been a low, continuous rumble—a simmering resentment against Kroll’s corruption and brutality. The memory of the previous government, the democratically elected administration deposed in the violent coup fifteen years ago, lingered like a ghost, kept alive only by hushed whispers.

That ghost has just materialized.

Simultaneously with the arrival of the international luminaries, news has swept through the Azmari underground that Elias Mendieta, the long-missing son of the deposed and disappeared president, has returned home.

Elias Mendieta represents everything President Kroll is not: legitimacy, democratic mandate, and the promise of a free Azmar. His return is not just political news; it is a profound symbolic act. It transforms simmering discontent into active incitement.

The Collision Course

The timing is either impossibly unlucky for President Kroll or perfectly calculated by Mendieta’s supporters.

Think about the dynamics now at play:

  1. Maximum Global Focus: The world’s major media outlets and human rights organizations are all focused on Azmar due to the conference.
  2. Maximum Internal Tension: The regime has poured all its resources into maintaining a facade of tranquility, meaning security forces are stretched and focused on keeping the peace in the capital’s diplomatic quarters.
  3. Maximum Ideological Threat: Elias Mendieta, the embodiment of popular resistance and democratic history, is now mobilizing supporters in the streets.

This is not a political confrontation that will play out in press releases. This is a dramatic, high-stakes collision.

If Mendieta attempts to make a dramatic public appearance, the regime faces an impossible choice:

  • Option A: Allow him to speak. This instantly delegitimizes the conference and risks igniting mass protests that could turn revolutionary.
  • Option B: Arrest or silence him violently. Doing so while Nobel Laureates are debating “the future of free expression” literally blocks away would shatter the carefully constructed facade and invite global condemnation, potentially forcing the major power propping up Kroll to finally step back.

The Republic of Azmar has prepared a gilded stage for a dialogue on human rights, but what is truly about to commence is a revolution.

What could possibly go wrong? Everything. And we are all watching the fuse burn down.

Third son of a Duke – The research behind the story – 1

All stories require some form of research, quite often to place a character in a place at a particular time, especially if it is in a historical context. This series will take you through what it was like in 1914 through 1916.

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What was the path an aristocratic son had to follow to become a commissioned officer in the armed services?

After the abolition of the purchase system in 1871, the path for an aristocratic son to become a commissioned officer still heavily favoured his social standing, despite being based officially on merit and examination. For the army, this typically involved attending elite public schools and then the Royal Military College at Sandhurst. For the Royal Navy, it meant entering training at a young age. 

The path to a commission in the British Army

1. Elite education at a public school:

  • Preparatory training: A military career was often decided early, with many boys attending elite public schools like  Eton ,  Harrow , or  Radley
  • Officer Training Corps (OTC): From the age of 13, public schools would operate Officers’ Training Corps units that groomed students specifically for military leadership.
  • “Character” over academics: While academic standards were needed for entry, the emphasis was placed on developing the “right character,” reinforcing the idea that officers came from a specific class. 

2. Entry into a military college:

  • Sandhurst: Most aspiring infantry and cavalry officers would attend the 

Royal Military College (RMC) at Sandhurst

. Entry was competitive and primarily based on entrance examinations.

  • Woolwich: Those seeking commissions in the Royal Engineers or Royal Artillery—branches that never had a purchase system due to their specialised nature—had to graduate from the  Royal Military Academy at Woolwich

. 

3. Choosing a regiment and affording the lifestyle:

  • Social connections: Regimental officers retained the right to vet potential candidates, and social connections helped ensure entry into a prestigious unit, particularly the Guards or Household Cavalry.
  • Extracurricular costs: While the commission was no longer purchased, aristocratic officers were expected to maintain an expensive lifestyle. This included high mess bills and funding for activities like polo, which were far beyond the means of lower-class men.
  • Financial support: Despite a junior officer’s pay being modest, aristocratic families could afford to subsidise their sons, making it possible to serve in the most expensive regiments. 

The path to a commission in the Royal Navy

Unlike the army, the Royal Navy did not use the purchase system and was theoretically more meritocratic. However, patronage and wealth still played a significant role. 

1. Entering the service at a young age:

  • Cadet entry: Aspiring naval officers would join the service as young cadets, often around 12 years old. For the aristocracy, this could be arranged through familial connections.
  • Britannia Royal Naval College: From 1863, naval officer training was institutionalised through training ships and later at the  Royal Naval College, Dartmouth

. 

2. Training as a midshipman:

  • Practical experience: Following college, a cadet was appointed a midshipman and had to gain extensive practical experience at sea.
  • Patronage: Connections remained crucial, as a senior officer could take a young man under his wing. Many officers were reluctant to take on those without influential family connections. 

3. The Lieutenant’s examination:

  • Merit-based advancement: The most significant step was passing the “Lieutenant’s Examination,” a demanding test of nautical and mathematical knowledge. Failure meant a midshipman could remain without promotion indefinitely.
  • Post-exam placement: Even after passing, social connections were often necessary to secure an active posting, as there were always more qualified officers than available positions. 

Writing about writing a book – Research – 8

Background material used in researching the Vietnam was and various other aspects of that period

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Professional soldiers versus the conscripts or nashos

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The Digger and the Nasho: A Comparative Analysis of the Experiences of Regular and Conscripted Soldiers in the Australian Army Task Force, Vietnam

Abstract The Australian commitment to the Vietnam War (1962-1973) was uniquely characterised by the deployment of a large contingent of conscripted soldiers, known as “Nashos,” alongside the volunteer regulars of the professional Australian Army. A pervasive national myth suggests that these two groups were seamlessly integrated, sharing identical experiences, burdens, and fates. This paper challenges that homogenised view. Through an analysis of recruitment, training, unit deployment, operational roles, and the psychosocial experience of homecoming, it argues that while regulars and conscripts were indeed tactically integrated and performed with equal distinction, significant differences in pre-deployment conditioning, perceived military purpose, and post-war societal reception created a fundamentally distinct lived experience for each group. The paper concludes that the policy of tactical integration, while militarily sound, could not erase the profound underlying distinctions between the volunteer and the compelled soldier.

Keywords: Vietnam War, Australia, Conscription, National Service, Australian Army, Military History, Civil-Military Relations, Veterans

1. Introduction

Australia’s involvement in the Vietnam War remains one of the most contentious periods in the nation’s modern history. Central to this controversy was the Menzies government’s reintroduction of conscription in 1964 via the National Service Act 1964, which required twenty-year-old males to register for a lottery-style ballot (the “birthday ballot”). Those selected were obligated to undertake two years of continuous service, which included deployment to an overseas theatre of war, specifically Vietnam. Between 1965 and 1972, approximately 63,735 national servicemen were enlisted, of whom 15,381 served in Vietnam, constituting nearly 40% of all Australian troops deployed (Dennis et al., 2008).

The official military narrative, both at the time and in subsequent decades, emphasised the seamless integration of these conscripts, or “Nashos,” into the regular army. They wore the same uniform, trained in the same institutions, and fought alongside career soldiers in the same infantry sections and platoons. This led to a public perception of a monolithic “Digger” experience. However, a deeper historiographical examination reveals a more complex reality. This paper will argue that while the Australian Army Task Force (1ATF) successfully integrated conscripts and regulars at a tactical level for operational effectiveness, the two groups’ experiences were differentiated by fundamental factors: their reasons for being there, their career trajectories, their assignment to specific corps, their psychological framing of the conflict, and their vastly different receptions upon returning home.

2. Methodological Framework and Sources

This analysis employs a comparative historical methodology, drawing upon a range of primary and secondary sources. Primary sources include official government documents, unit war diaries, and personal narratives from veterans of both groups. Secondary sources comprise scholarly military histories, sociological studies on conscription, and psychological analyses of Vietnam veterans. The paper will structure its comparison across several key domains: recruitment and training, unit deployment and corps assignment, combat experience, and post-deployment life.

3. Recruitment and Training: The Volunteer and the Conscript

The initial and most profound difference lay in the state of mind upon entry into the military.

3.1 The Regular Soldier The regular army volunteer enlisted as a career choice. Motivated by factors including family tradition, a desire for adventure, economic opportunity, or a belief in the “Forward Defence” policy and the Domino Theory, the regular made a conscious decision to become a professional soldier (McNeill, 1984). Their training was part of a long-term investment in a military profession. They often had more time to absorb military culture and skills, progressing through a system designed to retain them for years.

3.2 The National Serviceman In stark contrast, the Nasho was compelled. His entry was not a choice but a result of statistical chance. While some accepted their fate with equanimity or even enthusiasm, many others felt resentment, anxiety, or a sense of profound injustice (Edwards, 1997). Their two-year service was a finite interruption to their civilian lives—university, apprenticeships, careers. This created a “tourist” mentality, a focus on surviving their 365-day operational tour and returning to “the World.” Their initial training at Scheyville or Puckapunyal, while intense, was accelerated, designed to produce a combat-ready infantryman in a matter of months, not a long-serving professional.

This divergence in motivation and temporal perspective created an underlying psychological schism. The regular was building a life; the Nasho was serving a sentence.

4. Unit Deployment and Corps Assignment: The Myth of Total Integration

While it is true that once in Vietnam, Nashos and regulars were mixed within units, their pathways to specific roles were not identical.

4.1 The Infantry: A Forced Integration The policy of the Army was to fully integrate national servicemen into regular battalions. A typical rifle company in 6RAR or 7RAR would be a mix of regular and conscripted soldiers. In the field, on patrol, and in contact with the enemy, no distinction was made. Promotion was based on merit and vacancy; many conscripts attained the rank of Corporal or even Sergeant, leading sections or platoons that contained regular soldiers (Coulthard-Clark, 2001). In the crucible of combat, the bond of “mateship” overwhelmingly superseded the distinction between volunteer and conscript. Survival depended on mutual trust and professional competence, not one’s method of enlistment.

4.2 The Corps Divide: Voluntary Skilled Roles However, a significant difference emerged in assignments to certain specialist corps. Technical support roles—in the Royal Australian Engineers (RAE), Royal Australian Signals (RASigs), Royal Australian Army Ordnance Corps (RAAOC), and Royal Australian Electrical and Mechanical Engineers (RAEME)—were overwhelmingly filled by regular soldiers (O’Keefe, 1994). These roles required long-term training and investment, making them unsuitable for a conscript on a two-year stint. A Nasho could not train for 12-18 months to be a signals technician only to have 6 months of useful service.

Conversely, the infantry and armour (tank and APC crews), which required robust numbers and where training could be completed relatively quickly, absorbed the vast majority of conscripts. This meant that while conscripts were fully integrated into the infantry, they were significantly underrepresented in the technical and logistical support corps. Consequently, the dangerous, relentless “grunt” work of patrolling and engaging the enemy in the jungles of Phuoc Tuy province fell disproportionately, though not exclusively, to a force that was 40-50% conscripted.

5. The Combat Experience: Shared Danger, Divergent Perspectives

In the operational area, the experience of danger was a great leveller. A bullet or mine did not discriminate between a volunteer and a conscript. Patrols, ambushes, and major battles like Long Tan (1966) and Coral-Balmoral (1968) were fought by integrated units. The primary identity in combat was that of the section, the platoon, and the battalion.

Yet, the psychological lens through which this experience was filtered differed. For the regular, this was his job, the culmination of his training, and a step in his career. For the Nasho, it was often an alien, terrifying ordeal to be endured until his DEROS (Date Eligible for Return from Overseas). Historian Peter Edwards notes that conscripts frequently expressed a more instrumental view of the war: their goal was not a grand strategic victory but the more immediate objective of keeping themselves and their mates alive until their tour ended (Edwards, 1997). This did not make them less effective soldiers, but it did colour their personal narrative of the conflict.

6. The Homecoming: The Deepening Divide

The most stark and damaging difference between the two groups manifested upon their return to Australia.

6.1 The Regular Soldier For the career soldier, returning to Australia often meant returning to the supportive, insular community of an army base. His professional identity was validated within his institution. He could continue his career, often with another posting, surrounded by colleagues who understood his experience.

6.2 The National Serviceman For the Nasho, the end of his tour meant an immediate and often brutal transition. He was discharged from the army, given a suit, a pay cheque, and sent back to a society that was deeply divided over the war he had just fought. He returned not to a military community but to a civilian one where his experience was either misunderstood or met with outright hostility. He was instructed not to wear his uniform in public to avoid abuse. The societal rejection felt by many Vietnam veterans was, therefore, a burden borne disproportionately by the conscripts, who were thrust back into the civilian world that had rejected the war (Jensen, 2021). They lacked the ongoing institutional support structure of the army, leaving many to process trauma and alienation alone.

7. Conclusion

The Australian Army’s policy of integrating regular soldiers and conscripts in Vietnam was an operational success. At the tactical level, in the infantry battalions that formed the backbone of 1ATF, the distinction between “Nasho” and “Digger” was largely irrelevant to the conduct of military operations. They fought together, bled together, and achieved together with equal valour and professionalism.

However, to claim their experiences were identical is a historical oversimplification. Their journeys were bookended by profound differences. The regular began his journey with a sense of purpose and choice; the conscript began his with compulsion and interruption. While they fought side-by-side, conscripts were funnelled into the direct combat arms in greater proportion, while regulars dominated the technical support roles. Finally, and most significantly, their wars ended in utterly different ways: the regular returned to the embrace of his profession, while the conscript was cast adrift into a fractious and often hostile society.

The experience of the Australian soldier in Vietnam was not monolithic. It was a spectrum defined, above all, by the nature of one’s service. Understanding the nuanced differences between the regular and the conscript is crucial not only for historical accuracy but also for appreciating the complex and enduring legacy of the Vietnam War for Australian veterans and the nation itself. The integration was real in the jungle, but the dichotomy of choice versus chance created two distinct strands of experience within the same formidable military force.

References

  • Coulthard-Clark, C. (2001). The Encyclopaedia of Australia’s Battles. Allen & Unwin.
  • Dennis, P., Grey, J., Morris, E., Prior, R., & Bou, J. (2008). The Oxford Companion to Australian Military History (2nd ed.). Oxford University Press.
  • Edwards, P. (1997). A Nation at War: Australian Politics, Society and Diplomacy during the Vietnam War 1965-1975. Allen & Unwin.
  • Jensen, P. (2021). The Long Return: Australian Vietnam Veterans and their Endless War. NewSouth Publishing.
  • McNeill, I. (1984). The Team: Australian Army Advisers in Vietnam 1962-1972. Australian War Memorial.
  • O’Keefe, B. (1994). Medicine at War: Medical Aspects of Australia’s Involvement in Southeast Asia 1950-1972. Allen & Unwin.

Writing a book in 365 days – 318

Day 318

The use of flashbacks

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The Flashback Dilemma: Craft Tool or Narrative Crutch?

Ah, the flashback. That sudden warp in the narrative, pulling us from the present action into a scene from the past. For some readers, it’s a thrilling unravelling of mystery and character. For others, it’s a jarring interruption, a moment to sigh and wonder if the story will ever get back on track.

So, is the use of flashbacks good writing or bad writing? The short answer, like with most literary devices, is: it depends entirely on how it’s executed.

A flashback, by its very nature, is a pause in the forward momentum of your story. This pause can be a powerful strategic move, deepening the reader’s understanding and enriching the narrative tapestry. Or, it can be a clumsy misstep that derails the plot and tests your reader’s patience.

Let’s break down the difference between a lazily written and a well-constructed flashback.

The Pitfalls of a Lazily Written Flashback

A lazy flashback is often a symptom of one of two things: a writer struggling to convey information, or a writer avoiding present conflict.

  1. The Information Dump: This is perhaps the most common offender. The writer needs to inform the reader about a character’s past, a world detail, or a previous event, but instead of weaving it organically into the current narrative, they simply stop the action and insert a lengthy, undigested chunk of backstory.
    • How it feels to the reader: “Why am I being told this now? Does this really matter? Can we get back to what was happening?” It breaks immersion and feels like exposition masquerading as a scene.
    • Example: A character is about to face a dragon, and suddenly, we get three pages detailing their entire childhood trauma with kittens, completely unrelated to dragons or their immediate fear.
  2. Avoiding Present Conflict: Sometimes a writer introduces a flashback not because it’s crucial to the immediate scene, but because they’re unsure how to resolve or advance the current plot point. It’s a way to hit the “pause” button on a difficult scene.
    • How it feels to the reader: Frustrating. It feels like the story is treading water, or deliberately holding back for no good reason. The tension dissipates.
  3. Lacks a Clear Trigger or Purpose: A lazy flashback often appears out of nowhere, without a clear sensory trigger (a smell, a song, a phrase) or a strong narrative reason tied to the present moment. It just… happens.
  4. Telling, Not Showing: These flashbacks often recount events rather than immersing the reader in them. They summarise, rather than allow the reader to experience the past as if it were happening now.

The Art of a Well-Constructed Flashback

A well-constructed flashback is a precision tool, used sparingly and with surgical intent. It doesn’t halt the story; it deepens it, providing vital context that reshapes the reader’s understanding of the present.

Here’s what makes a flashback effective:

  1. Purpose-Driven and Relevant: Every successful flashback serves a clear, immediate purpose for the current narrative.
    • Context: It provides a crucial piece of information that makes the current events, character motivations, or mystery suddenly click into place.
    • Character Development: It reveals the origins of a character’s present fears, desires, strengths, or flaws, adding layers to their personality. Instead of telling us a character is brave, we see a past event that forged that bravery.
    • Mystery/Suspense: It offers a tantalising clue, a half-remembered moment that hints at a larger secret, building tension and propelling the reader forward to discover more.
    • Dramatic Irony: The reader gains knowledge that the present-day characters don’t have, intensifying the stakes.
  2. Seamless Integration and Clear Transitions: An excellent flashback is often triggered organically. A scent, a sound, a familiar face, a particular phrase – something in the present moment pulls the character (and the reader) back to the past. The transition should be clear, too, whether through distinct paragraph breaks, italics, or a narrative device.
  3. Concise and Focused: Like any good scene, a flashback should only include what’s absolutely necessary. It’s not an excuse for extraneous detail. It’s a snapshot, not a whole album.
  4. Impact on the Present: The most crucial element: a good flashback changes the reader’s perception of the present story. When the flashback ends, the reader should return to the main narrative with new information, a deeper emotional connection, or a shifted perspective that makes the current events more resonant. It should propel the story forward, not bog it down.
  5. Engaging as a Scene: Treat your flashback like any other critical scene. It should have its own mini-arc, vivid details, sensory descriptions, and emotional resonance. It shouldn’t feel like a summary.

Conclusion: A Tool for the Master, Not the Apprentice

Flashbacks are neither inherently good nor bad writing. They are a powerful, but dangerous, narrative device. In the hands of a skilled writer, they can unlock profound understanding, build unbearable tension, and imbue characters with incredible depth. In the hands of a novice, they can be a clunky, confusing obstacle.

Before you insert a flashback, ask yourself:

  • Why now? Why can’t this information be revealed through dialogue, internal thought, or action in the present?
  • What vital purpose does this serve for the current story?
  • Will it clarify or confuse?
  • Will it deepen character or merely delay plot?

If you can answer these questions with conviction, then by all means, employ the flashback. Just ensure it’s a finely crafted key, not a blunt instrument, to unlock the true potential of your story.

What are your thoughts on flashbacks? Do you have a favourite example of a story that uses them masterfully, or one that fumbled the ball? Share your insights in the comments below!

Writing a book in 365 days – 318

Day 318

The use of flashbacks

…

The Flashback Dilemma: Craft Tool or Narrative Crutch?

Ah, the flashback. That sudden warp in the narrative, pulling us from the present action into a scene from the past. For some readers, it’s a thrilling unravelling of mystery and character. For others, it’s a jarring interruption, a moment to sigh and wonder if the story will ever get back on track.

So, is the use of flashbacks good writing or bad writing? The short answer, like with most literary devices, is: it depends entirely on how it’s executed.

A flashback, by its very nature, is a pause in the forward momentum of your story. This pause can be a powerful strategic move, deepening the reader’s understanding and enriching the narrative tapestry. Or, it can be a clumsy misstep that derails the plot and tests your reader’s patience.

Let’s break down the difference between a lazily written and a well-constructed flashback.

The Pitfalls of a Lazily Written Flashback

A lazy flashback is often a symptom of one of two things: a writer struggling to convey information, or a writer avoiding present conflict.

  1. The Information Dump: This is perhaps the most common offender. The writer needs to inform the reader about a character’s past, a world detail, or a previous event, but instead of weaving it organically into the current narrative, they simply stop the action and insert a lengthy, undigested chunk of backstory.
    • How it feels to the reader: “Why am I being told this now? Does this really matter? Can we get back to what was happening?” It breaks immersion and feels like exposition masquerading as a scene.
    • Example: A character is about to face a dragon, and suddenly, we get three pages detailing their entire childhood trauma with kittens, completely unrelated to dragons or their immediate fear.
  2. Avoiding Present Conflict: Sometimes a writer introduces a flashback not because it’s crucial to the immediate scene, but because they’re unsure how to resolve or advance the current plot point. It’s a way to hit the “pause” button on a difficult scene.
    • How it feels to the reader: Frustrating. It feels like the story is treading water, or deliberately holding back for no good reason. The tension dissipates.
  3. Lacks a Clear Trigger or Purpose: A lazy flashback often appears out of nowhere, without a clear sensory trigger (a smell, a song, a phrase) or a strong narrative reason tied to the present moment. It just… happens.
  4. Telling, Not Showing: These flashbacks often recount events rather than immersing the reader in them. They summarise, rather than allow the reader to experience the past as if it were happening now.

The Art of a Well-Constructed Flashback

A well-constructed flashback is a precision tool, used sparingly and with surgical intent. It doesn’t halt the story; it deepens it, providing vital context that reshapes the reader’s understanding of the present.

Here’s what makes a flashback effective:

  1. Purpose-Driven and Relevant: Every successful flashback serves a clear, immediate purpose for the current narrative.
    • Context: It provides a crucial piece of information that makes the current events, character motivations, or mystery suddenly click into place.
    • Character Development: It reveals the origins of a character’s present fears, desires, strengths, or flaws, adding layers to their personality. Instead of telling us a character is brave, we see a past event that forged that bravery.
    • Mystery/Suspense: It offers a tantalising clue, a half-remembered moment that hints at a larger secret, building tension and propelling the reader forward to discover more.
    • Dramatic Irony: The reader gains knowledge that the present-day characters don’t have, intensifying the stakes.
  2. Seamless Integration and Clear Transitions: An excellent flashback is often triggered organically. A scent, a sound, a familiar face, a particular phrase – something in the present moment pulls the character (and the reader) back to the past. The transition should be clear, too, whether through distinct paragraph breaks, italics, or a narrative device.
  3. Concise and Focused: Like any good scene, a flashback should only include what’s absolutely necessary. It’s not an excuse for extraneous detail. It’s a snapshot, not a whole album.
  4. Impact on the Present: The most crucial element: a good flashback changes the reader’s perception of the present story. When the flashback ends, the reader should return to the main narrative with new information, a deeper emotional connection, or a shifted perspective that makes the current events more resonant. It should propel the story forward, not bog it down.
  5. Engaging as a Scene: Treat your flashback like any other critical scene. It should have its own mini-arc, vivid details, sensory descriptions, and emotional resonance. It shouldn’t feel like a summary.

Conclusion: A Tool for the Master, Not the Apprentice

Flashbacks are neither inherently good nor bad writing. They are a powerful, but dangerous, narrative device. In the hands of a skilled writer, they can unlock profound understanding, build unbearable tension, and imbue characters with incredible depth. In the hands of a novice, they can be a clunky, confusing obstacle.

Before you insert a flashback, ask yourself:

  • Why now? Why can’t this information be revealed through dialogue, internal thought, or action in the present?
  • What vital purpose does this serve for the current story?
  • Will it clarify or confuse?
  • Will it deepen character or merely delay plot?

If you can answer these questions with conviction, then by all means, employ the flashback. Just ensure it’s a finely crafted key, not a blunt instrument, to unlock the true potential of your story.

What are your thoughts on flashbacks? Do you have a favourite example of a story that uses them masterfully, or one that fumbled the ball? Share your insights in the comments below!

NANOWRIMO – November 2025 – Day 30

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The Third Son of a Duke

…

As is the requirement. The words had reached the target.  There are more than 50,000, but I use this as a round number.  It’s more like 60,000, and will probably be more because I’m yet to flesh out the tango that our protagonist and Louise have on the way to Port Said

Dance is so much more expressive than words, but these two have words, and at the end, a smouldering look passes between them, one that transcends words and, if truth be known, could have set the dancefloor on fire.

And yet, there is just one kiss between them the whole voyage.

It’s a story that sees the awakening of the man our protagonist is to become.

It is a story of a girl who was treated badly, wronged desperately, and left no choice but to flee.

It had my grandmother on a ship of hopeful women, wanting to change their lives for the better with a new start and better opportunities in a new land.

For some, it is heading into a storm, for others, more of the same.  Each learns that to become something different, they must change everything they know, and that is to them a lifetime of being told what to do, where to go, and what their life would consist of.

And it’s a story of wate, of human life, and the reasons when all said and done, hardly make sense to any of those who survived, those who considered themselves lucky, and then, others who don’t.

There was going to be no more wars.

It was the war to end all wars.

21 years later, they were all back at it again, having learned nothing.

Writing a book in 365 days – 317

Day 317

What we give up to write

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The Unnecessary Sacrifices: What We Really Give Up To Pursue Our Trade

The narrative of the struggling artisan is deeply ingrained in our culture. The solitary writer fueled by instant coffee, the entrepreneur sleeping on their office floor, the painter eating cold beans for dinner—we romanticise the idea that true devotion requires extreme hardship.

We constantly ask ourselves: What must I tell myself I can do without in order to ply my trade?

This line of questioning often leads us to scrutinise the basic necessities of life. Do we cut food? Do we wear patched clothes? Do we forgo self-care?

The truth, however, is far more subtle and far more strategic. If your trade is a marathon, sacrificing your fuel (physical, intellectual, or emotional) is not devotion—it’s self-sabotage. To thrive, we must learn the difference between necessary austerity and counterproductive deprivation.

Here is a professional perspective on what is truly shed when we commit to our craft, and what must absolutely be protected.

1. Shedding the Myth of Monetary Deprivation

The common wisdom suggests we must sacrifice the big three: food, clothes, and looking good.

If we are being honest, very few successful professionals or skilled tradespeople literally starve themselves or wear rags. What we sacrifice isn’t the necessity itself, but the performative consumption surrounding it.

Food: Quality Over Spectacle

We don’t give up food; we give up time-consuming dining experiences and expensive ingredients that don’t increase our productivity.

The sacrifice is the elaborate lunch hour, the $15 artisanal coffee every morning, or the weekend spent trying complicated new recipes. We trade the gourmet for the pragmatic, optimising our diet for consistent energy and focus. The decision isn’t “Should I eat?” it’s “Does this meal purchase me another hour of high-quality work?”

Clothes and Appearance: Utility Over Status

The sacrifice here is not looking presentable; it is the need to impress onlookers and the time spent shopping for trends.

The dedicated professional often adopts a uniform—a set of clothes that are comfortable, reliable, and require zero decision-making energy in the morning (the classic example of Steve Jobs’ turtlenecks or Mark Zuckerberg’s grey t-shirts). This is a strategic sacrifice of bandwidth. We give up the mental effort of fashion tracking and external validation so that our finite focus can be diverted entirely to the work itself.

2. Protecting the Intellectual Engine

The most dangerous question posed by the hustle culture mindset is whether we must give up books and writing to survive.

For the modern professional—be they a coder, a writer, a consultant, or a marketer—these are not luxuries; they are fundamental operating costs.

If your trade requires cognitive skill, problem-solving, or communication, sacrificing these inputs is akin to a carpenter giving up their hammer.

Books and Reading: Fueling the Engine

We cannot afford to stop learning. When we are deep in the trenches of a trade, reading books—whether they are technical manuals, industry reports, or even great fiction—is the only way to fill the well of knowledge needed to stay competitive.

The real sacrifice is often mindless entertainment: binge-watching television that contributes nothing to our professional growth, or endlessly scrolling validated social media feeds. We trade passive consumption for active learning.

Writing: Sharpening the Tool

Whether you write code, marketing copy, or detailed client briefs, writing is how we clarify thought, document processes, and communicate value. Giving up personal writing, journaling, or even drafting non-work-related essays inhibits our ability to structure complex ideas.

The sacrifice is not the act of writing; it is the expectation of perfectionism in every draft. We sacrifice the time spent trying to make the first sentence flawless so that we can get the crucial idea down quickly and move forward.

3. The True Sacrifices: Time, Comfort, and Bandwidth

When we are truly committed to a trade, the things that disappear are not our fundamental needs, but the luxurious buffers we previously relied upon. These are the real opportunity costs:

1. The Buffer of Time

The biggest sacrifice is spontaneity and unstructured time.

If you are serious about your craft, your schedule becomes deliberately rigid. You sacrifice the freedom to say “yes” to every last-minute social invitation, because that time has already been allocated to deep work, administration, or necessary rest. This is often misunderstood as anti-social behaviour, but it is actually the strategic protection of your workflow.

2. The Comfort of Stability

The trade requires a willingness to live closer to the edge of failure. You sacrifice the comfort of guaranteed outcomes.

Every new project, every pitch, every innovative attempt carries a genuine risk of falling short. This trade demands emotional resilience and the sacrifice of the secure, predictable path for one that offers significant growth but zero guarantees.

3. The Need for External Validation

Finally, we sacrifice the energy spent chasing approval.

When you are intensely focused on the quality of your output, you stop trying to manage the fickle opinions of others. This is where the sacrifice of “looking good” truly comes into play—not physically, but professionally. We stop sacrificing genuine progress for the sake of public performance.

The Wise Exchange

The commitment to a trade is not a vow of destitution; it is a vow of strategic alignment.

The professional does not ask, “What must I suffer through?” but rather, “What non-essential things are draining the time, energy, and resources I need to excel?”

Stop sacrificing your intellectual fuel (books, learning) and your physical fuel (health, decent food). Instead, identify and eliminate the silent drains: the distraction, the excessive consumerism, the need for immediate gratification, and the fear of saying “no.”

Ply your trade, but do so from a position of strength, not starvation. Sacrifice wisely, or risk burning out before the real work ever begins.

Writing a book in 365 days – 317

Day 317

What we give up to write

…

The Unnecessary Sacrifices: What We Really Give Up To Pursue Our Trade

The narrative of the struggling artisan is deeply ingrained in our culture. The solitary writer fueled by instant coffee, the entrepreneur sleeping on their office floor, the painter eating cold beans for dinner—we romanticise the idea that true devotion requires extreme hardship.

We constantly ask ourselves: What must I tell myself I can do without in order to ply my trade?

This line of questioning often leads us to scrutinise the basic necessities of life. Do we cut food? Do we wear patched clothes? Do we forgo self-care?

The truth, however, is far more subtle and far more strategic. If your trade is a marathon, sacrificing your fuel (physical, intellectual, or emotional) is not devotion—it’s self-sabotage. To thrive, we must learn the difference between necessary austerity and counterproductive deprivation.

Here is a professional perspective on what is truly shed when we commit to our craft, and what must absolutely be protected.

1. Shedding the Myth of Monetary Deprivation

The common wisdom suggests we must sacrifice the big three: food, clothes, and looking good.

If we are being honest, very few successful professionals or skilled tradespeople literally starve themselves or wear rags. What we sacrifice isn’t the necessity itself, but the performative consumption surrounding it.

Food: Quality Over Spectacle

We don’t give up food; we give up time-consuming dining experiences and expensive ingredients that don’t increase our productivity.

The sacrifice is the elaborate lunch hour, the $15 artisanal coffee every morning, or the weekend spent trying complicated new recipes. We trade the gourmet for the pragmatic, optimising our diet for consistent energy and focus. The decision isn’t “Should I eat?” it’s “Does this meal purchase me another hour of high-quality work?”

Clothes and Appearance: Utility Over Status

The sacrifice here is not looking presentable; it is the need to impress onlookers and the time spent shopping for trends.

The dedicated professional often adopts a uniform—a set of clothes that are comfortable, reliable, and require zero decision-making energy in the morning (the classic example of Steve Jobs’ turtlenecks or Mark Zuckerberg’s grey t-shirts). This is a strategic sacrifice of bandwidth. We give up the mental effort of fashion tracking and external validation so that our finite focus can be diverted entirely to the work itself.

2. Protecting the Intellectual Engine

The most dangerous question posed by the hustle culture mindset is whether we must give up books and writing to survive.

For the modern professional—be they a coder, a writer, a consultant, or a marketer—these are not luxuries; they are fundamental operating costs.

If your trade requires cognitive skill, problem-solving, or communication, sacrificing these inputs is akin to a carpenter giving up their hammer.

Books and Reading: Fueling the Engine

We cannot afford to stop learning. When we are deep in the trenches of a trade, reading books—whether they are technical manuals, industry reports, or even great fiction—is the only way to fill the well of knowledge needed to stay competitive.

The real sacrifice is often mindless entertainment: binge-watching television that contributes nothing to our professional growth, or endlessly scrolling validated social media feeds. We trade passive consumption for active learning.

Writing: Sharpening the Tool

Whether you write code, marketing copy, or detailed client briefs, writing is how we clarify thought, document processes, and communicate value. Giving up personal writing, journaling, or even drafting non-work-related essays inhibits our ability to structure complex ideas.

The sacrifice is not the act of writing; it is the expectation of perfectionism in every draft. We sacrifice the time spent trying to make the first sentence flawless so that we can get the crucial idea down quickly and move forward.

3. The True Sacrifices: Time, Comfort, and Bandwidth

When we are truly committed to a trade, the things that disappear are not our fundamental needs, but the luxurious buffers we previously relied upon. These are the real opportunity costs:

1. The Buffer of Time

The biggest sacrifice is spontaneity and unstructured time.

If you are serious about your craft, your schedule becomes deliberately rigid. You sacrifice the freedom to say “yes” to every last-minute social invitation, because that time has already been allocated to deep work, administration, or necessary rest. This is often misunderstood as anti-social behaviour, but it is actually the strategic protection of your workflow.

2. The Comfort of Stability

The trade requires a willingness to live closer to the edge of failure. You sacrifice the comfort of guaranteed outcomes.

Every new project, every pitch, every innovative attempt carries a genuine risk of falling short. This trade demands emotional resilience and the sacrifice of the secure, predictable path for one that offers significant growth but zero guarantees.

3. The Need for External Validation

Finally, we sacrifice the energy spent chasing approval.

When you are intensely focused on the quality of your output, you stop trying to manage the fickle opinions of others. This is where the sacrifice of “looking good” truly comes into play—not physically, but professionally. We stop sacrificing genuine progress for the sake of public performance.

The Wise Exchange

The commitment to a trade is not a vow of destitution; it is a vow of strategic alignment.

The professional does not ask, “What must I suffer through?” but rather, “What non-essential things are draining the time, energy, and resources I need to excel?”

Stop sacrificing your intellectual fuel (books, learning) and your physical fuel (health, decent food). Instead, identify and eliminate the silent drains: the distraction, the excessive consumerism, the need for immediate gratification, and the fear of saying “no.”

Ply your trade, but do so from a position of strength, not starvation. Sacrifice wisely, or risk burning out before the real work ever begins.

NANOWRIMO – November 2025 – Day 29

…

The Third Son of a Duke

…

There will be an epilogue and a reunion of the original Oroma passengers, all back in England more by coincidence than by design.

That part of the story that involves my grandmother, she went back to England in 1954, the year after I was born.  I speculate who it might be that she visited. I suspect my brother, who went back to England many times to talk to those relatives of ours that we know about, and to the near relatives of my grandmother, who have some idea of who she talked to out in Australia.

My grandfather, who labelled himself a salesman on his record, both leaving Australia and returning, made me instantly think of him as one of those snake oil salesmen.  My grandmother put her profession as home duties.

She was much more than that, and I hope she rose above that mundanity, because she was once an adventuress. 

It is a fascinating meeting between them, after all those years.

Life for all of them has presented challenges, and it will highlight some of them.

At least when they returned home, women had finally been given the vote, but to a certain extent, nothing had really changed.  In the fifties, women were still expected to have children and run houses and look after husbands.  I suspect for a few, those husbands, if any, were in for a very bad shock.

..

2850 words, for a total of 50000 words.

Writing a book in 365 days – 316

Day 316

The unexpected detour

…

The Unexpected Detour: Trading Familiar Fame for Fresh Inspiration

We are creatures of habit, especially when those habits have led to success. When we find our niche—that specific genre, that particular skill set, that familiar market where our reputation is solid—we settle in. We build our brand around it, we become known for it, and we reap the rewards of what I like to call “pout fame”—the reputation we tirelessly poured ourselves into earning.

But what happens when the GPS suddenly recalculates? What happens when a project falls through, a client demands a skill you rarely use, or a personal experience shoves you, politely or otherwise, onto an entirely different path?

The detour is mandatory. The question is: do you treat it as a road bump or a reconnaissance mission?

The Comfort (and Constraint) of the Known Road

For a professional writer, artist, or entrepreneur, the familiarity of the known path is powerful. If you are the established authority on historical fiction, stepping sideways to write a children’s book feels like a monumental risk or, worse, a waste of time. If you’re a renowned brand strategist, taking a temporary gig managing a local community centre seems completely off-brand.

We cling to our niche because it represents safety, predictability, and income. We fear that if we take our focus off the main product, the audience will forget us, or worse, perceive us as unfocused.

The irony is that this commitment to the familiar eventually becomes the most fertile ground for creative drought. When you do the same thing in the same way for too long, the machine might keep moving, but the spark fades. You are solving the same problems, using the same mental muscles, and drawing from the same well of inspiration.

This is precisely why the unintentional interlude is a gift.

The Power of the Accidental Assignment

The unexpected detour forces you to use different muscles. It is a creative palette cleanser.

Perhaps you, known for gritty memoirs, suddenly find yourself ghostwriting a guide on sustainable gardening. Perhaps your expertise in complex data architecture leads you to a temporary volunteer role organising a major arts festival. These interludes are not your core business, so the pressure is different, the stakes feel lower, and that pressure release is key to unlocking new thought patterns.

When you are led down another path, two crucial things happen:

1. You Gain New Data Sets

Every experience, especially those outside our comfort zone, feeds the creative core. The language you learn while writing about gardening might provide the perfect metaphor for a struggling relationship in your next memoir. The logistical problem-solving required for the arts festival might provide a brilliant structural framework for your next white paper.

The inspiration you gain from the detour is often fuel for your established genre—just in a subtler, richer form. It’s not about abandoning your genre; it’s about making your genre deeper.

2. You Break the Creative Feedback Loop

Our brains love efficient pathways. When we write in a genre (or work in a field) for years, we develop grooves. The unintentional interlude yanks the needle out of the groove. It forces you to think like a beginner again, look up new terminology, and engage with a world that doesn’t operate by your established rules. This struggle is where innovation resides.

The Crossroad: Take It or Take a Holiday?

The core question remains: When this unexpected inspiration strikes, do you embrace it completely, or is the detour simply a sign that you need a vacation?

Often, we frame creative exploration as a necessary rest. We believe that if we aren’t focusing on our ‘main thing,’ we must be taking a holiday. But this is a false dichotomy.

The Creative Detour is a Form of Necessary Rest.

If the unexpected path genuinely energises you, if it sparks ideas and makes you feel excited about the act of creating again—take it.

This is not a distraction; it is an investment in creative renewal. The mistake is equating productive time only with the activities that directly generated your “pout fame.” The new path might not lead to immediate income in your usual stream, but it will prevent the greater cost: burnout and creative stagnation.

If the detour feels like a chore, if it drains you, or if the new inspiration feels thin and forced—then you need a holiday. You need genuine downtime, silence, and recovery.

The differentiator is always energy. Does this unexpected road drain your reserves or replenish them?

Permission to Deviate

The most successful creators rarely stay tethered to a single, narrow output. They allow themselves to be influenced by the tangential, the accidental, and the unfamiliar. They treat their career not as a single railway line, but as a vast, interconnected landscape.

So, the next time life or work pushes you onto an unpaved road—whether you were led willingly or otherwise—don’t resist the scenery. Don’t immediately try to navigate back to the familiar highway just because it’s faster.

Look out the window. Collect the data. Listen to the new language.

The greatest inspiration for your next masterpiece might not be found in the genre you dominate, but in the unintentional interlude that showed you the world through brand new eyes. Take the inspiration. The holiday can wait until the tank is actually empty.