Tag: Books

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.

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.

NANOWRIMO – November 2025 – Day 28

…

The Third Son of a Duke

…

This is where the war becomes real.

And the whole thing is replayed in his mind, to the point where…

Yes, and no.

He wakes in a hospital tent, a shadowy figure that is one of the nurses.

It’s odd, but I had written the basis of this part of the story right after he and Louise had their parting kiss on the Orama in Melbourne.  She has to disembark, he has to go to Queensland, and when either of them could have made excuses, neither did.

It was quite simple, sometime in the future, they would find each other if they were meant to be together.

After those last few days before departing for Egypt with Margaret, he knows who is the one for him, and although he doesn’t find her, curiously, he is always two steps behind, chasing a shadow; it is that belief that keeps him going, that last parting kiss that tells him he has to survive.

The shadow, a familiar face.

But you will have to read the story to find out who…

…

1880 words, for a total of 47150 words.

Writing a book in 365 days – 315

Day 315

Writing exercise – For once, they slept right through the air raid siren

…

For forty days and forty nights, it was not a replay of the flood that took Noah on a voyage to save the world’s animals, but a constant barrage of drones, missiles and artillery fire.

The anti-missile, anti-drone, anti-artillery fire mechanisms had been partially destroyed in the first wave of day one, and they’d been struggling ever since.

And it was not as if they were not giving as bad as they received.  Both countries were reeling from the constant barrage.

Whole cities were destroyed, vital infrastructure was badly damaged, and some of it was beyond repair.

No one knew when it was going to stop, and on the dawn of the forty-first day, there was a strange sound coming from above the bunker, where tens of thousands of frightened civilians had made a temporary home for themselves.

That strange sound?  Silence.

Of course, the enemy had done this before, stopping the barrage for a few hours, lulling them into a false sense of safety, the people going up into the daylight, only to have bombs rain down on them.

It was a cruel trick and one that would not be forgotten.  And this time, because of that experience, no one had any inclination to go outside.  Everyone down in the bunker knew someone in the group of over a thousand who had been killed.

The commanding officer of the facility and the five thousand soldiers at his disposal sat at the top of the long table in the conference room, looking at a wall-sized screen that showed a map of the battle lines and the approximate positions of enemy guns, drones and missile launching sites.

It was a state of utter destruction.

It was a vibrant, liveable city with elegant historic buildings and large well well-organised parkland.  Now it was a little more than a wasteland of ruins and craters.

The organising committee filled the rest of the chairs around the table.  They were the government for this facility, one of fifty throughout the city.

They were linked by radio communications, but there hadn’t been enough time to build tunnels or completely finish some of the bunkers.

The commander had just delivered the briefing authorised by the provisional government housed in Bunker 1, those left that hadn’t been killed in the initial strike, which targeted vital infrastructure and government buildings of those inside.

A strike without warning.

Then came the inevitable question.  “When will it be safe to go outside?”

The commander had deliberately omitted that part because, in his opinion, probably best left to a direct question, if anyone asked.

He had been hoping they wouldn’t.

“Not today, nor tomorrow.  Central Command think that it will recommence tomorrow or the next day, or when they see us outside.  They have satellite imagery.”

It was suspected and now confirmed.  It was first thought there were spies from within, but that had been finally discounted. 

“Do we?”

“The rocket that was launched to put it into orbit was sabotaged, so no.  We didn’t find out until the war started.  We were caught unawares in just about everything.”

“Politicians sleeping on the job,” a voice from the back of the room said.

The commander knew it was and let it go.  Everyone had an opinion with the benefit of hindsight.  Not sleeping, but deeply divided political parties made it impossible to progress.

He wondered what the remnants of those parties were thinking right now.  How much they could blame the other side for the mess they were in now.  It certainly wouldn’t be about how to resolve the mess.

“We elected them, so it’s as much our fault as it is theirs.  But, everyone, if you have some idea that will get us moving forward, I will pass it on to the Central Command.”

There were no suggestions.

“What the hell…”

That person who ridiculed the politicians was pointing at the screen.

Everyone looked at the figures coming over the rubble, in formation, looking for survivors.  Enemy soldiers who were expecting people to flee their bunkers in the absence of artillery fire.

“What are they doing?”

“Looking for us.  Strange since they’re basically seeing what we’re seeing.”

Then, quite strangely, they started shooting in a manner that suggested they were firing at an enemy.

This went on for a minute, and then there was return fire, killing every person they could see on screen.  The commander counted about three hundred casualties.  Everyone but those who turned and ran also suffered the fate ,except they were shot in the back.

“That was dumb,” someone else said.

“Who was shooting back?  I didn’t see any of our men out there.”

There was a murmur of agreement around the table.

“What do you know that we don’t?”  The man who started the conversation.

“I assure you I am as in the dark as you are.”

On the table in front of the commander was a red phone.  It only rang when there was important news.

He let it ring three times before answering it, reciting his personal code, name and rank.  Then he listened for five minutes, said, “Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”  Then he replaced the receiver.

He looked around the table at the expectant faces.

“Apparently, what you just saw happened at every one of the fifty bunkers.  The enemy assumed we had come out and launched an attack.  A new technology was developed, but couldn’t be implemented until there was a respite.  It worked.  The enemy has requested a ceasefire and negotiated surrender.”

“Then we can finally leave this place.”

“When the Central Government verifies that the enemy is being truthful, which in the last hundred years has never been.  This could be another ploy on their part.  So, we’re staying inside until otherwise advised.”

No one was happy with that edict, but then, everyone knew the enemy could not be trusted.

…

The next seven days were of silence, and observing the empty landscape of what had been their city.

The enemy dead lay still, a reminder of a devastating waste of life, and to some a monument to the futility of war, fuelled by hatred.

People started considering what it was at the heart of the war, the ingrained hate instilled into every one of the two countries that used to be one nation and one lot of people.

A classic example of religion-fuelled hatred, the sort that divided families and eventually a nation.   There had been civil wars, but these were limited due to technology and a quickly depleted army.  Three times, nearly every male under the age of thirty on both sides had been wiped out.

Wives lamented the loss of their children, young women lamented the loss of viable husbands.  It was surprising that the population managed to grow after such events.

This time, the deaths of young men were way below those before, more because the current leaders had realised losing men was not an option, hence the remote weaponry.

It made the enemy’s hand-to-hand attack more of a mystery.  And not surprising that in losing so many, they would see the futility of such actions.

Enough lives had been lost.

…

There were daily updates.  The ridiculous demands, the negotiation tactics to get an unconditional surrender.

It was as if the losers honestly believed they were the winners.

And to the Commander, a peace that was too easily attained, and a capitulation that was far too quick.  He knew what the enemy could achieve if they tried harder, but for some reason, they were not interested.

For that reason, the Commander relayed his concerns, concerns that the Central Government ignored.

In the command room, he stood next to his 2IC, looking at the screen.  With the control unit in his hand, he switched views to each of the other 49 bunkers, and it looked the same.  Hundreds of dead enemy soldiers.

“It’s a trick,” the Commander said.  “I know it is.  Many years ago, there was a thing called the ‘Midnight Protocol’.  Few people were aware of it because it was believed to be folklore.”

“What is this Midnight Protocol?”

“If one side can’t win, everyone dies.  The leaders of both nations are cut from the same cloth, with the same beliefs.  We were once a single country and people who lived in peace.  That’s what they’re going to do.  Kill everyone.”

“How?”

“I don’t know the answer to that. We’ll have to wait and see.  Meanwhile, no one leaves.”

“They’re automatically unlocking the gates.  Everyone gets to leave.  They’ve all been celebrating.  They have no idea what’s going to happen to them.”

“I know you do.”

“I know I want to keep my people safe, and that’s what I intend to do.  Now, time to rejoin your family. It’s near curfew.”

Every night a ten, everyone was at home and ready for the end of the day.  Anyone caught out, without a good excuse, was punished.  It happened rarely.

This night would be different.  The end-of-the-day prayers were read, there was a short news bulletin, and then five minutes before the lighting was switched over to conservation mode.

Five minutes after that, the Commander pushed the blue button on the console in the small room to one side of the meeting hall.

Red was for self-destruction; if ever the bunker was overrun, a quick, painless death was better than the long, painful one the enemy would force upon the people. Blue, the one that put everyone to sleep for a specified period, in case the doomsday scenario was enacted.

Both sides had a doomsday scenario, one none ever hoped would be implemented.  It was this that the Commander knew the other side intended to adopt.

A fake peace.  Everyone is coming out to celebrate, and then everyone dies.

Not on his watch.

The button was pressed, then the black button was pressed, to double-lock the doors from the inside, so no one could get in or out.  It was two of three.  The last was for him.

He slept until the time the armistice was to be celebrated, going from bunker to bunker, watching the people emerge, join up with the enemy.  Families reuniting, the current government meeting their enemy counterparts, the shaking of hands.

Peace at last.

Until suddenly a single bomb fell on each of the bunker locations, or the evacuation areas outside the bunkers.  And, one by one, all the people were killed, the enemy and his countrymen alike.

He switched from bunker to bunker, all 49 of them, just as the air raid siren started.  A bit late, everyone was dead.  Even if it had gone off when the bombs first landed, it would have been too late.

His people had slept through it, not knowing what had happened.  Not knowing they were the last of both countries.

He pushed the last button.  The one that would suspend them all in stasis for a year.  A protocol very few knew about.

He had spoken about it with his other 49 bunker commanders, and none of the others believed it had been implemented.  They had searched for the control room and hadn’t found it.

Bunker 50, his bunker was the only one.  The last bunker to be built, and the one meant to house the government offices and politicians.  They had decided, very early on, to save themselves by taking the first bunker, not waiting until the end, and the irony of their selfishness was not lost on the Commander.

Sleep came slowly, and he was sure he was still laughing when he finally succumbed to that long and peaceful sleep.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 315

Day 315

Writing exercise – For once, they slept right through the air raid siren

…

For forty days and forty nights, it was not a replay of the flood that took Noah on a voyage to save the world’s animals, but a constant barrage of drones, missiles and artillery fire.

The anti-missile, anti-drone, anti-artillery fire mechanisms had been partially destroyed in the first wave of day one, and they’d been struggling ever since.

And it was not as if they were not giving as bad as they received.  Both countries were reeling from the constant barrage.

Whole cities were destroyed, vital infrastructure was badly damaged, and some of it was beyond repair.

No one knew when it was going to stop, and on the dawn of the forty-first day, there was a strange sound coming from above the bunker, where tens of thousands of frightened civilians had made a temporary home for themselves.

That strange sound?  Silence.

Of course, the enemy had done this before, stopping the barrage for a few hours, lulling them into a false sense of safety, the people going up into the daylight, only to have bombs rain down on them.

It was a cruel trick and one that would not be forgotten.  And this time, because of that experience, no one had any inclination to go outside.  Everyone down in the bunker knew someone in the group of over a thousand who had been killed.

The commanding officer of the facility and the five thousand soldiers at his disposal sat at the top of the long table in the conference room, looking at a wall-sized screen that showed a map of the battle lines and the approximate positions of enemy guns, drones and missile launching sites.

It was a state of utter destruction.

It was a vibrant, liveable city with elegant historic buildings and large well well-organised parkland.  Now it was a little more than a wasteland of ruins and craters.

The organising committee filled the rest of the chairs around the table.  They were the government for this facility, one of fifty throughout the city.

They were linked by radio communications, but there hadn’t been enough time to build tunnels or completely finish some of the bunkers.

The commander had just delivered the briefing authorised by the provisional government housed in Bunker 1, those left that hadn’t been killed in the initial strike, which targeted vital infrastructure and government buildings of those inside.

A strike without warning.

Then came the inevitable question.  “When will it be safe to go outside?”

The commander had deliberately omitted that part because, in his opinion, probably best left to a direct question, if anyone asked.

He had been hoping they wouldn’t.

“Not today, nor tomorrow.  Central Command think that it will recommence tomorrow or the next day, or when they see us outside.  They have satellite imagery.”

It was suspected and now confirmed.  It was first thought there were spies from within, but that had been finally discounted. 

“Do we?”

“The rocket that was launched to put it into orbit was sabotaged, so no.  We didn’t find out until the war started.  We were caught unawares in just about everything.”

“Politicians sleeping on the job,” a voice from the back of the room said.

The commander knew it was and let it go.  Everyone had an opinion with the benefit of hindsight.  Not sleeping, but deeply divided political parties made it impossible to progress.

He wondered what the remnants of those parties were thinking right now.  How much they could blame the other side for the mess they were in now.  It certainly wouldn’t be about how to resolve the mess.

“We elected them, so it’s as much our fault as it is theirs.  But, everyone, if you have some idea that will get us moving forward, I will pass it on to the Central Command.”

There were no suggestions.

“What the hell…”

That person who ridiculed the politicians was pointing at the screen.

Everyone looked at the figures coming over the rubble, in formation, looking for survivors.  Enemy soldiers who were expecting people to flee their bunkers in the absence of artillery fire.

“What are they doing?”

“Looking for us.  Strange since they’re basically seeing what we’re seeing.”

Then, quite strangely, they started shooting in a manner that suggested they were firing at an enemy.

This went on for a minute, and then there was return fire, killing every person they could see on screen.  The commander counted about three hundred casualties.  Everyone but those who turned and ran also suffered the fate ,except they were shot in the back.

“That was dumb,” someone else said.

“Who was shooting back?  I didn’t see any of our men out there.”

There was a murmur of agreement around the table.

“What do you know that we don’t?”  The man who started the conversation.

“I assure you I am as in the dark as you are.”

On the table in front of the commander was a red phone.  It only rang when there was important news.

He let it ring three times before answering it, reciting his personal code, name and rank.  Then he listened for five minutes, said, “Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”  Then he replaced the receiver.

He looked around the table at the expectant faces.

“Apparently, what you just saw happened at every one of the fifty bunkers.  The enemy assumed we had come out and launched an attack.  A new technology was developed, but couldn’t be implemented until there was a respite.  It worked.  The enemy has requested a ceasefire and negotiated surrender.”

“Then we can finally leave this place.”

“When the Central Government verifies that the enemy is being truthful, which in the last hundred years has never been.  This could be another ploy on their part.  So, we’re staying inside until otherwise advised.”

No one was happy with that edict, but then, everyone knew the enemy could not be trusted.

…

The next seven days were of silence, and observing the empty landscape of what had been their city.

The enemy dead lay still, a reminder of a devastating waste of life, and to some a monument to the futility of war, fuelled by hatred.

People started considering what it was at the heart of the war, the ingrained hate instilled into every one of the two countries that used to be one nation and one lot of people.

A classic example of religion-fuelled hatred, the sort that divided families and eventually a nation.   There had been civil wars, but these were limited due to technology and a quickly depleted army.  Three times, nearly every male under the age of thirty on both sides had been wiped out.

Wives lamented the loss of their children, young women lamented the loss of viable husbands.  It was surprising that the population managed to grow after such events.

This time, the deaths of young men were way below those before, more because the current leaders had realised losing men was not an option, hence the remote weaponry.

It made the enemy’s hand-to-hand attack more of a mystery.  And not surprising that in losing so many, they would see the futility of such actions.

Enough lives had been lost.

…

There were daily updates.  The ridiculous demands, the negotiation tactics to get an unconditional surrender.

It was as if the losers honestly believed they were the winners.

And to the Commander, a peace that was too easily attained, and a capitulation that was far too quick.  He knew what the enemy could achieve if they tried harder, but for some reason, they were not interested.

For that reason, the Commander relayed his concerns, concerns that the Central Government ignored.

In the command room, he stood next to his 2IC, looking at the screen.  With the control unit in his hand, he switched views to each of the other 49 bunkers, and it looked the same.  Hundreds of dead enemy soldiers.

“It’s a trick,” the Commander said.  “I know it is.  Many years ago, there was a thing called the ‘Midnight Protocol’.  Few people were aware of it because it was believed to be folklore.”

“What is this Midnight Protocol?”

“If one side can’t win, everyone dies.  The leaders of both nations are cut from the same cloth, with the same beliefs.  We were once a single country and people who lived in peace.  That’s what they’re going to do.  Kill everyone.”

“How?”

“I don’t know the answer to that. We’ll have to wait and see.  Meanwhile, no one leaves.”

“They’re automatically unlocking the gates.  Everyone gets to leave.  They’ve all been celebrating.  They have no idea what’s going to happen to them.”

“I know you do.”

“I know I want to keep my people safe, and that’s what I intend to do.  Now, time to rejoin your family. It’s near curfew.”

Every night a ten, everyone was at home and ready for the end of the day.  Anyone caught out, without a good excuse, was punished.  It happened rarely.

This night would be different.  The end-of-the-day prayers were read, there was a short news bulletin, and then five minutes before the lighting was switched over to conservation mode.

Five minutes after that, the Commander pushed the blue button on the console in the small room to one side of the meeting hall.

Red was for self-destruction; if ever the bunker was overrun, a quick, painless death was better than the long, painful one the enemy would force upon the people. Blue, the one that put everyone to sleep for a specified period, in case the doomsday scenario was enacted.

Both sides had a doomsday scenario, one none ever hoped would be implemented.  It was this that the Commander knew the other side intended to adopt.

A fake peace.  Everyone is coming out to celebrate, and then everyone dies.

Not on his watch.

The button was pressed, then the black button was pressed, to double-lock the doors from the inside, so no one could get in or out.  It was two of three.  The last was for him.

He slept until the time the armistice was to be celebrated, going from bunker to bunker, watching the people emerge, join up with the enemy.  Families reuniting, the current government meeting their enemy counterparts, the shaking of hands.

Peace at last.

Until suddenly a single bomb fell on each of the bunker locations, or the evacuation areas outside the bunkers.  And, one by one, all the people were killed, the enemy and his countrymen alike.

He switched from bunker to bunker, all 49 of them, just as the air raid siren started.  A bit late, everyone was dead.  Even if it had gone off when the bombs first landed, it would have been too late.

His people had slept through it, not knowing what had happened.  Not knowing they were the last of both countries.

He pushed the last button.  The one that would suspend them all in stasis for a year.  A protocol very few knew about.

He had spoken about it with his other 49 bunker commanders, and none of the others believed it had been implemented.  They had searched for the control room and hadn’t found it.

Bunker 50, his bunker was the only one.  The last bunker to be built, and the one meant to house the government offices and politicians.  They had decided, very early on, to save themselves by taking the first bunker, not waiting until the end, and the irony of their selfishness was not lost on the Commander.

Sleep came slowly, and he was sure he was still laughing when he finally succumbed to that long and peaceful sleep.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

NANOWRIMO – November 2025 – Day 27

…

The Third Son of a Duke

…

By now, the idea of finding Louise is but a distant memory.

A week in the second and third lines, after coordinating with the Air Corps and going on several observation runs, taking photos, ironically with a German camera, and getting shot at from the ground by the enemy, a meeting with the artillery group and a plan hatched, one that could not be guaranteed to work, everything is set in place.

It is close to Christmas of 1916, and in the two years since he parted with Penelope, his life had changed so much that he had become a totally different person.  Would that have happened if he had stayed home?  No.

Would that have happened if he had not met Rose, or Louise, or Margaret, to name a few, on the ship?  No.

Had there not been a war, well, he would still be rotting away in those musty chambers with the cobweb-covered cadavers called senior partners.

Hunched into a corner of a trench with several others, waiting for the inevitable whistle, listening to the artillery fire going over their heads, and the odd returning fire exploding nearby, it was remarkable how quickly one became accustomed to what was business as usual.

A stalemate.

Waiting for the moment when a theory would be tested.

And cheat death.

…

2155 words, for a total of 45270 words.

Writing a book in 365 days – 314

Day 314

The happy ending debate

…

The Happy Ending Debate: Is It All About Where You Stop the Story?

We’ve all been there. Lost in a book, glued to a screen, investing our emotions in characters and their journeys. As the story nears its end, a quiet hope stirs within us: Please, let them be happy. We crave resolution, comfort, and the satisfaction of knowing that, in this fictional world at least, good triumphs and love prevails.

But should every story culminate in a neat, tidy, and unequivocally happy ending? And more profoundly, is the ‘happiness’ of an ending simply a matter of where the author chooses to draw the final curtain?

The Allure of the Sunny Conclusion

There’s no denying the power and appeal of a happy ending. They offer:

  • Escapism: Life is often messy and unpredictable. Stories with joyous resolutions provide a much-needed mental break, a reminder that things can turn out well.
  • Hope: They validate our belief in perseverance, the triumph of good over evil, and the idea that our own struggles might eventually lead to brighter days.
  • Satisfaction: A happy ending can feel like a reward for the emotional investment we’ve made, a pleasant closure to a captivating experience.

From classic fairy tales to blockbuster rom-coms, these endings serve a vital purpose, leaving us with a warm feeling and a sense that balance has been restored.

The Unflinching Gaze of Reality

However, limiting all narratives to happy conclusions would be a disservice to the vast spectrum of human experience. Sometimes, stories need to:

  • Reflect Reality: Life isn’t always fair, and not every conflict resolves harmoniously. Stories that acknowledge pain, loss, and unresolved tension can be incredibly powerful and resonant.
  • Provoke Thought: Tragic or ambiguous endings often linger longer in the mind, prompting deeper reflection on themes, choices, and consequences.
  • Offer Catharsis: Witnessing a character’s journey through suffering, even if it doesn’t end happily, can be a form of emotional release and understanding for the audience.
  • Teach and Warn: Some stories serve as cautionary tales or explorations of the darker sides of humanity, and a happy ending would undermine their core message.

Think of literary classics, historical dramas, or poignant independent films – their power often lies in their refusal to sugarcoat the human condition.

The Art of the Final Frame: Where Do You Stop?

This brings us to the most intriguing part of the debate: Is a happy ending simply a matter of narrative framing?

Consider this: Is a character’s failure truly the end, or is it merely the lowest point before a potential rise? Is a bittersweet goodbye truly sad, or is it a necessary step towards individual growth and new beginnings?

  • Life is Continuous: In reality, our stories don’t stop. A “happy ending” might just be a moment of respite before the next challenge, and a “tragic ending” could be the catalyst for profound change in others.
  • The Power of Hope: An ending doesn’t have to be happy to be hopeful. A character might face immense loss, but the final scene could show them finding a glimmer of purpose, taking a first step towards healing, or inspiring others to carry on. This isn’t happiness in the traditional sense, but it offers forward momentum.
  • The Reader’s Imagination: Sometimes, an author intentionally leaves an ending open, trusting the audience to imagine what comes next. What feels unresolved to one person might feel like an invitation for possibility to another. The “end” of the story is merely where the author stops narrating; the characters’ lives, in our minds, continue.
  • Satisfying vs. Happy: A story can have a satisfying ending without being strictly happy. It can be satisfying because it feels earned, logical, and true to the characters and themes, even if it’s painful or melancholic.

Crafting the Right Conclusion

Ultimately, whether a story should have a happy ending isn’t a universal rule, but a deliberate choice. It depends on:

  • The Genre: Rom-coms and fairytales thrive on happiness; noir and tragedies demand a different tone.
  • The Story’s Purpose: Is it meant to uplift, entertain, challenge, or reflect?
  • The Characters’ Journeys: Does a happy ending feel organic and earned, or forced and unrealistic, given what the characters have endured and become?

So, should every story have a happy ending? Probably not. But should every story offer some form of resolution, be it hopeful, cathartic, or thought-provoking? Absolutely.

The true magic lies in the storyteller’s ability to know precisely where to stop, leaving us not necessarily with boundless joy, but with a feeling that the journey was complete, meaningful, and true – even if the sun isn’t shining quite so brightly in that final frame.

What do you think? Do you prefer happy endings, or do you find more satisfaction in realistic or even tragic conclusions? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

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

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

It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.

…

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

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

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

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

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

Writing a book in 365 days – 314

Day 314

The happy ending debate

…

The Happy Ending Debate: Is It All About Where You Stop the Story?

We’ve all been there. Lost in a book, glued to a screen, investing our emotions in characters and their journeys. As the story nears its end, a quiet hope stirs within us: Please, let them be happy. We crave resolution, comfort, and the satisfaction of knowing that, in this fictional world at least, good triumphs and love prevails.

But should every story culminate in a neat, tidy, and unequivocally happy ending? And more profoundly, is the ‘happiness’ of an ending simply a matter of where the author chooses to draw the final curtain?

The Allure of the Sunny Conclusion

There’s no denying the power and appeal of a happy ending. They offer:

  • Escapism: Life is often messy and unpredictable. Stories with joyous resolutions provide a much-needed mental break, a reminder that things can turn out well.
  • Hope: They validate our belief in perseverance, the triumph of good over evil, and the idea that our own struggles might eventually lead to brighter days.
  • Satisfaction: A happy ending can feel like a reward for the emotional investment we’ve made, a pleasant closure to a captivating experience.

From classic fairy tales to blockbuster rom-coms, these endings serve a vital purpose, leaving us with a warm feeling and a sense that balance has been restored.

The Unflinching Gaze of Reality

However, limiting all narratives to happy conclusions would be a disservice to the vast spectrum of human experience. Sometimes, stories need to:

  • Reflect Reality: Life isn’t always fair, and not every conflict resolves harmoniously. Stories that acknowledge pain, loss, and unresolved tension can be incredibly powerful and resonant.
  • Provoke Thought: Tragic or ambiguous endings often linger longer in the mind, prompting deeper reflection on themes, choices, and consequences.
  • Offer Catharsis: Witnessing a character’s journey through suffering, even if it doesn’t end happily, can be a form of emotional release and understanding for the audience.
  • Teach and Warn: Some stories serve as cautionary tales or explorations of the darker sides of humanity, and a happy ending would undermine their core message.

Think of literary classics, historical dramas, or poignant independent films – their power often lies in their refusal to sugarcoat the human condition.

The Art of the Final Frame: Where Do You Stop?

This brings us to the most intriguing part of the debate: Is a happy ending simply a matter of narrative framing?

Consider this: Is a character’s failure truly the end, or is it merely the lowest point before a potential rise? Is a bittersweet goodbye truly sad, or is it a necessary step towards individual growth and new beginnings?

  • Life is Continuous: In reality, our stories don’t stop. A “happy ending” might just be a moment of respite before the next challenge, and a “tragic ending” could be the catalyst for profound change in others.
  • The Power of Hope: An ending doesn’t have to be happy to be hopeful. A character might face immense loss, but the final scene could show them finding a glimmer of purpose, taking a first step towards healing, or inspiring others to carry on. This isn’t happiness in the traditional sense, but it offers forward momentum.
  • The Reader’s Imagination: Sometimes, an author intentionally leaves an ending open, trusting the audience to imagine what comes next. What feels unresolved to one person might feel like an invitation for possibility to another. The “end” of the story is merely where the author stops narrating; the characters’ lives, in our minds, continue.
  • Satisfying vs. Happy: A story can have a satisfying ending without being strictly happy. It can be satisfying because it feels earned, logical, and true to the characters and themes, even if it’s painful or melancholic.

Crafting the Right Conclusion

Ultimately, whether a story should have a happy ending isn’t a universal rule, but a deliberate choice. It depends on:

  • The Genre: Rom-coms and fairytales thrive on happiness; noir and tragedies demand a different tone.
  • The Story’s Purpose: Is it meant to uplift, entertain, challenge, or reflect?
  • The Characters’ Journeys: Does a happy ending feel organic and earned, or forced and unrealistic, given what the characters have endured and become?

So, should every story have a happy ending? Probably not. But should every story offer some form of resolution, be it hopeful, cathartic, or thought-provoking? Absolutely.

The true magic lies in the storyteller’s ability to know precisely where to stop, leaving us not necessarily with boundless joy, but with a feeling that the journey was complete, meaningful, and true – even if the sun isn’t shining quite so brightly in that final frame.

What do you think? Do you prefer happy endings, or do you find more satisfaction in realistic or even tragic conclusions? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the type of clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’ but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

The was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him was not the concierge, and instead brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position and then made a clunk when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the life lobby, only in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over the the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

© Charles Heath – 2018-2025