Tag: Books

Writing about writing a book – Research

Day 23 – Psychological Warfare

The Summer of Love and the Psychology of War: Did Australia Train Its Soldiers to Hate?

The 1960s stand in stark historical contrast. On one hand, it was the era of the counter-culture, defined by the rallying cry of ‘peace and love.’ On the other hand, it was the brutal age of the Vietnam War, and for Australia, it was the era of conscription, where thousands of young men were pulled from their civilian lives and thrust into the machinery of combat.

This juxtaposition raises a profound question about the ethics and psychology of military training: If society preached peace, and conscripts were barely out of their teens, how did the Australian military prepare them psychologically for the act of killing?

The central, challenging question is this: Did the Australian government or the Defence Department leverage psychologists to devise systematic ways to deliberately instil a hatred of the enemy, making the ultimate act of combat—taking a life—easier?

The Barrier to Killing: Overcoming the Instinct for Peace

The belief that humans kill easily is a myth. Extensive psychological research, particularly notable work done by military historian Lieutenant Colonel Dave Grossman (author of On Killing), confirms that the vast majority of soldiers in historical conflicts actively resisted firing their weapons directly at the enemy.

The act of taking a human life runs counter to nearly all natural human social programming. For young Australian recruits in the 1960s—many drafted, living in a world listening to protest songs and demanding disarmament—this psychological barrier would have been immensely high.

The military’s challenge was not just to teach marksmanship, but to fundamentally rewire human moral and social instincts. This is where psychology, whether formally acknowledged or merely applied through rote training techniques, becomes crucial.

Hatred vs. Dehumanisation: The Military Psychology Playbook

While it’s difficult to find specific, declassified documents from the 1960s outlining “Operation Instil Hatred,” we know that modern military training across Western nations has long relied on psychological techniques to overcome combat inhibition.

The goal wasn’t always raw, emotional hatred—which can be unstable and distract the soldier—but rather efficient dehumanisation and conditioning.

1. Classical Conditioning and Repetition

The most immediate change soldiers faced was conditioning. Drill sergeants use relentless repetition, noise, and sleep deprivation to break down the civilian identity and replace it with a collective, obedient military identity.

In the 1960s, a major shift occurred in small-arms training. Rather than training soldiers to fire at static, circular targets, training transitioned to using human-shaped silhouettes that “fell down” when hit. This seemingly small change used operant conditioning to reward the action of shooting a human-like figure, dramatically reducing the psychological barrier to firing in actual combat. The enemy becomes a target, not a person.

2. The Power of Group Identity

Hatred for the enemy is often less effective than intense love and loyalty for the comrade. Training focuses on forging an unbreakable bond within the unit. When a soldier fires their weapon, they are often doing it less for political ideology and more to protect the person standing next to them.

Psychologists would certainly advise—or military training intuitively discovered—that fostering unit cohesion (the “us vs. them” mentality) is the strongest motivator in combat. The enemy is therefore characterised as the ultimate threat to the safety and survival of the cohesive unit.

3. The Absence of Individuality

In training environments, the enemy is rarely referred to by a human name or given complex motivations. Whether the enemy was a ‘Communist aggressor’ or simply the ‘digger’ standing opposite during a sparring match, they were stripped of individual humanity. This simplification makes the ethical boundary easier to cross.

It is highly likely that Australian Defence psychologists, or those advising the high command, recognised the necessity of these tactics. They may not have explicitly codified them under the banner of “instilling hatred,” but the practical application of military training achieves the same end: overcoming the inherent moral resistance to killing.

The Legacy of the Conscript

The young man of the 1960s, who went from listening to The Beatles to carrying an SLR rifle, was a product of intense psychological manipulation necessary for effective modern warfare.

If the Australian military used psychologists to find ways to make killing easier, they were not unique; they were simply engaging in the necessary, if ethically murky, requirements of running a modern fighting force. The goal was practical: to ensure that when facing life-or-death situations, the natural human urge to retreat or freeze was overridden by immediate, trained reaction.

The method was efficient; the result was often the same as if hatred had been explicitly taught. By dehumanising the objective (the ‘target’) and elevating the emotional bond with the unit (the ‘comrade’), the military ensured that the peace-and-love generation could, when duty called, pull the trigger.

The true legacy of this training lies with the veterans. For many, that psychological conditioning—designed to be effective and immediate—was incredibly difficult to undo upon returning home, contributing to the lifelong struggle of integrating the combat experience with the values of the society they were drafted to protect.

Writing a book in 365 days – 298/299

Days 298 and 299

Writing exercise – Using the most elaborate lie you have ever told, sell it to the reader

…

It was the sort of stuff spy novels had in abundance.

But it was my imagination, fueled by scores of those very same stories all rolled into one, that I used to explain why I was missing from school to classmates who thought I was the most boring and uninteresting person they had ever known.

I knew what they’d say, so I was going to take them on a journey, and in my childish mind, I was going to make it as believable as I could.

Of course, what a child imagines to be true and what actually is are two very different things.

But, like everything that ever happened to me, it didn’t start out as an opportunity to do the right thing; it was at the end of some very stinging barbs from Alistair Goodall, my tormentor and school bully.

…

I glared at him with all the hatred I could muster, which, considering he was a foot taller and about 50 pounds heavier than I, was really a waste of time.

He had just told everyone within hearing range that my absence had simply been because I was too scared to come to school, because he had threatened to beat me up.

It was true, but I wasn’t going to let that be my defining moment. Instead, I blurted out, “The whole family had to go into hiding because of things my father knew, and his life was in danger.”

Yes, we had gone away, but it was to another country, where my mother’s parents lived, and they had been killed in an accident. It was quite sudden; my mother and sister had gone first, and then my father and I followed. He had difficulty getting away, and it had been a last-minute decision.

He had to come back, and despite my pleas to leave me with my mother, he dragged me back, oblivious to the predicament I was in with Alistair Goodall.

Goodall looked at me incredulously at first, then with a smile. “Good try, squirt. You almost had me believing it. Your dad an informer? My dad’s a cop, so I’ll ask him, but we both know what he’s going to say.” He took a step closer. I braced for impact.

But then, realising I was digging a bigger hole, one that I might not get out of, “Your dad wouldn’t have a clue about witness protection. It wouldn’t be witness protection if everyone knew about it. This is stuff beyond his pay grade.”

I remembered a TV show I had seen while away, about witness protection, and how it was supposed to be secret, but the witness was sold out by the bad guy’s man in the police force.

“My dad’s very important,” he said, his voice raised an octave, a sure sign he was losing this war of words.

“Then if you went home and started asking questions about witnesses who are supposed to be in protection, then he would lose his job, or worse, go to jail for blabbing secrets.”

“Your blabbing secrets.”

“You’re threatening to beat me up if I don’t tell you where I’ve been. Just threatening me into telling you is gonna get you into a heap of trouble. I suggest you let it go, and we keep this between us. Or can’t you keep secrets?”

“I can too.”

The whine in his voice told me that I had bested him, but for how long was a moot question. He was not going to keep this a secret.

…

The school term ended in an uneasy truce between Alistair and me, and the whole school broke for the summer holidays. It meant I could escape Alistair’s persecution, at least for a few weeks, time enough for the rest of the family to return, and a semblance of normalcy to return.

I had just about put the great lie out of my mind when Alistair turned up outside my house with a smug smile. That idea of keeping secrets was not one of his strong points.

“You’re really for it, now, squirt. My dad knows nothing about this crap story of yours. In fact, he copped a serve at work, and he’s coming around to put the pair of you straight.”

Damn. Why could the miserable twisted arse just let it go?

“You wanna be anywhere but here when he gets here.”

He walked off laughing, thinking he’d bought me a whole new world of pain.

My father was home for a week, which was a shame, because he was never home, always busy, too busy to be bothered with any of us. It would have been better if he hadn’t, or my mother was here, which she was not, still delayed in her return.

I spent a good hour trying to think of how I was going to get out of this one, but whatever I did, there was no chance I was not going to get a beating for this. Goodall was a copper, and although my father said he was a bully and a terrible excuse for a local plod, as he called him, he was still the law. Previous infractions I had been accused of were all true, and it had got me into trouble and a warning; there had better not be a next time.

This was the next time, and it was a doozy.

There was only one path I could go down.

My father was in his study when I went to look for him. He was always working on something, with books and charts all over the desk. I never asked, and he never volunteered what his job was, but I would have to ask one day.

I knocked on the door and waited a minute or two before he asked me to come in.

“Did I hear you talking to someone before?”

“Alistair Goodall, bully son of the local copper. As bad as his father, he uses him as a shield. I’d complain about him, but you keep saying I have to man up. There’s no manning up against the likes of him.”

I had considered whinging about the kid, but I knew my father wouldn’t accept that as trying hard enough to find my own solution, and it was useless telling him there wasn’t one.

He looked at. “Your mother said you were being bullied. Why didn’t you come and see me?”

“You’re never home, and you reckon I have to sort it out myself. Bit hard when he’s taller and heavier than I am. And I don’t think you’d appreciate me hitting him with a baseball bat.”

“Drastic but effective, no doubt, but not worth the jail time. Why are you telling me this?”

He wanted to know why I was away recently. I couldn’t tell him; he threatened to beat me up, so I made up a lie. The truth was too lame for a moron like him.”

“What lie?”

I told him and watched the already dark features go a lot darker.

“And you expected he wouldn’t take it to his father for confirmation?”

“Plods don’t get told anything, of course, he wouldn’t know, and even if it was true, no one from up the chain would share that with a fool like Goodall. Even I know that much.”

“How do you know all this stuff?”

“Reading. I’ve read a lot of books, seen films and TV shows. I know a lot of it is make-believe, but there have to be elements of it that are true. The point is that I told Alistair that it was a secret and asked him to keep it. I mean, in real circumstances, we would be trusting him, which you would think from all the bluster that he could. If it had been a test, he failed spectacularly. As for his father, sure, he would understand the nature of witness protection and the necessity for secrecy, so blabbing it to his superiors was wrong on so many levels. I’m sure they would have said they knew nothing about it, even if they did.”

My father thought about that for a minute, perhaps looking to point out the flaws in the logic, but I couldn’t see any.

“I don’t like Goodall. Got on my wrong side when he first became a Sergeant. Too smug by half, and, as you say, a bully who uses his position. You were wrong to lie. Now, go upstairs. I’ll deal with Goodall.”

…

I was sitting behind the wall at the top of the stairs, waiting for Goodall to come. I wondered if he would bring the toad Alistair with him.

The pounding on the door almost made my heart stop. My father took his time to answer the door, and then, “Sergeant Goodall, what do we owe the honour of this visit?” It was the most pleasant tone I’d ever heard my father use, to anyone.

“Mr. Laramie…” Goodall senior only had one level of speaking, loud and confrontational.

“Sergeant Goodall, there are two things I expect from any visitor who comes to my door: that the visitor address me in a civil tone, and not make their cases on my doorstep. Now, if you give me your word you will be civil, I will invite you in.”

He must have nodded because I heard footsteps and the door closed. His office was on the ground floor, up the passage. I would be able to hear them if the door to the office wasn’t closed.

“Now, Sergeant Goodall, what exactly is the problem?”

“Your son is telling preposterous lies.”

“You son is a bully, and my son fears going to school because of him. I think you should be attending to your son’s proclivities rather tan worry about what my son says. Most kids his age speak utter gibberish at the best of times.”

A moments silence before, “It;s not the fact it;s lies its the nature of the lie.”

“Oh. The fact that we were away. Well, there’s something else you should be admonishing that wretch of a child of yours for. My son told him the truth. and gave him a warning that it was not to be put about, in fact, as I understand it, he told your son that it was to be kept secret, and because he believed your son, being the son of a respectable policeman who understands the nature of these sorts of secrets, could keep it. The fact that he couldn’t keep that simple secret disappointed my son, disappointed me, and disappointed the people who arranged our sojourn, while some very nasty people were put away. They are, at the very least, extremely disappointed that you were poking around in matters that were way above your pay grade. If my son comes home any time in the new year complaining about your son, I will forget about being magnanimous this one time, in the hope you can address the issues you have; if he comes home with a complaint, all bets are off. Do I make myself clear?”

“He was not lying?”

“He was trying to avoid being beaten up by a thug, Goodall. He trusted your boy, and he let him down badly. This matter should not be discussed, here or anywhere, and I expect by the time you pass through my front door, the matter of our sojourn will be forgotten, and the problem with your child will be on the way to being resolved. Now, if that’s all….”

A few seconds later, I heard Goodall being bundled out the door, and it closed firmly behind him.

…

My father took a risk, but it paid off.

By the end of the summer holidays, Goodall had moved on to another station and taken his wretched son with him.

Goodall wasn’t the only bully at that school, but I learned a new way to deal with them, one that didn’t include elaborate lies. Those I saved for the stories I started writing.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 298/299

Days 298 and 299

Writing exercise – Using the most elaborate lie you have ever told, sell it to the reader

…

It was the sort of stuff spy novels had in abundance.

But it was my imagination, fueled by scores of those very same stories all rolled into one, that I used to explain why I was missing from school to classmates who thought I was the most boring and uninteresting person they had ever known.

I knew what they’d say, so I was going to take them on a journey, and in my childish mind, I was going to make it as believable as I could.

Of course, what a child imagines to be true and what actually is are two very different things.

But, like everything that ever happened to me, it didn’t start out as an opportunity to do the right thing; it was at the end of some very stinging barbs from Alistair Goodall, my tormentor and school bully.

…

I glared at him with all the hatred I could muster, which, considering he was a foot taller and about 50 pounds heavier than I, was really a waste of time.

He had just told everyone within hearing range that my absence had simply been because I was too scared to come to school, because he had threatened to beat me up.

It was true, but I wasn’t going to let that be my defining moment. Instead, I blurted out, “The whole family had to go into hiding because of things my father knew, and his life was in danger.”

Yes, we had gone away, but it was to another country, where my mother’s parents lived, and they had been killed in an accident. It was quite sudden; my mother and sister had gone first, and then my father and I followed. He had difficulty getting away, and it had been a last-minute decision.

He had to come back, and despite my pleas to leave me with my mother, he dragged me back, oblivious to the predicament I was in with Alistair Goodall.

Goodall looked at me incredulously at first, then with a smile. “Good try, squirt. You almost had me believing it. Your dad an informer? My dad’s a cop, so I’ll ask him, but we both know what he’s going to say.” He took a step closer. I braced for impact.

But then, realising I was digging a bigger hole, one that I might not get out of, “Your dad wouldn’t have a clue about witness protection. It wouldn’t be witness protection if everyone knew about it. This is stuff beyond his pay grade.”

I remembered a TV show I had seen while away, about witness protection, and how it was supposed to be secret, but the witness was sold out by the bad guy’s man in the police force.

“My dad’s very important,” he said, his voice raised an octave, a sure sign he was losing this war of words.

“Then if you went home and started asking questions about witnesses who are supposed to be in protection, then he would lose his job, or worse, go to jail for blabbing secrets.”

“Your blabbing secrets.”

“You’re threatening to beat me up if I don’t tell you where I’ve been. Just threatening me into telling you is gonna get you into a heap of trouble. I suggest you let it go, and we keep this between us. Or can’t you keep secrets?”

“I can too.”

The whine in his voice told me that I had bested him, but for how long was a moot question. He was not going to keep this a secret.

…

The school term ended in an uneasy truce between Alistair and me, and the whole school broke for the summer holidays. It meant I could escape Alistair’s persecution, at least for a few weeks, time enough for the rest of the family to return, and a semblance of normalcy to return.

I had just about put the great lie out of my mind when Alistair turned up outside my house with a smug smile. That idea of keeping secrets was not one of his strong points.

“You’re really for it, now, squirt. My dad knows nothing about this crap story of yours. In fact, he copped a serve at work, and he’s coming around to put the pair of you straight.”

Damn. Why could the miserable twisted arse just let it go?

“You wanna be anywhere but here when he gets here.”

He walked off laughing, thinking he’d bought me a whole new world of pain.

My father was home for a week, which was a shame, because he was never home, always busy, too busy to be bothered with any of us. It would have been better if he hadn’t, or my mother was here, which she was not, still delayed in her return.

I spent a good hour trying to think of how I was going to get out of this one, but whatever I did, there was no chance I was not going to get a beating for this. Goodall was a copper, and although my father said he was a bully and a terrible excuse for a local plod, as he called him, he was still the law. Previous infractions I had been accused of were all true, and it had got me into trouble and a warning; there had better not be a next time.

This was the next time, and it was a doozy.

There was only one path I could go down.

My father was in his study when I went to look for him. He was always working on something, with books and charts all over the desk. I never asked, and he never volunteered what his job was, but I would have to ask one day.

I knocked on the door and waited a minute or two before he asked me to come in.

“Did I hear you talking to someone before?”

“Alistair Goodall, bully son of the local copper. As bad as his father, he uses him as a shield. I’d complain about him, but you keep saying I have to man up. There’s no manning up against the likes of him.”

I had considered whinging about the kid, but I knew my father wouldn’t accept that as trying hard enough to find my own solution, and it was useless telling him there wasn’t one.

He looked at. “Your mother said you were being bullied. Why didn’t you come and see me?”

“You’re never home, and you reckon I have to sort it out myself. Bit hard when he’s taller and heavier than I am. And I don’t think you’d appreciate me hitting him with a baseball bat.”

“Drastic but effective, no doubt, but not worth the jail time. Why are you telling me this?”

He wanted to know why I was away recently. I couldn’t tell him; he threatened to beat me up, so I made up a lie. The truth was too lame for a moron like him.”

“What lie?”

I told him and watched the already dark features go a lot darker.

“And you expected he wouldn’t take it to his father for confirmation?”

“Plods don’t get told anything, of course, he wouldn’t know, and even if it was true, no one from up the chain would share that with a fool like Goodall. Even I know that much.”

“How do you know all this stuff?”

“Reading. I’ve read a lot of books, seen films and TV shows. I know a lot of it is make-believe, but there have to be elements of it that are true. The point is that I told Alistair that it was a secret and asked him to keep it. I mean, in real circumstances, we would be trusting him, which you would think from all the bluster that he could. If it had been a test, he failed spectacularly. As for his father, sure, he would understand the nature of witness protection and the necessity for secrecy, so blabbing it to his superiors was wrong on so many levels. I’m sure they would have said they knew nothing about it, even if they did.”

My father thought about that for a minute, perhaps looking to point out the flaws in the logic, but I couldn’t see any.

“I don’t like Goodall. Got on my wrong side when he first became a Sergeant. Too smug by half, and, as you say, a bully who uses his position. You were wrong to lie. Now, go upstairs. I’ll deal with Goodall.”

…

I was sitting behind the wall at the top of the stairs, waiting for Goodall to come. I wondered if he would bring the toad Alistair with him.

The pounding on the door almost made my heart stop. My father took his time to answer the door, and then, “Sergeant Goodall, what do we owe the honour of this visit?” It was the most pleasant tone I’d ever heard my father use, to anyone.

“Mr. Laramie…” Goodall senior only had one level of speaking, loud and confrontational.

“Sergeant Goodall, there are two things I expect from any visitor who comes to my door: that the visitor address me in a civil tone, and not make their cases on my doorstep. Now, if you give me your word you will be civil, I will invite you in.”

He must have nodded because I heard footsteps and the door closed. His office was on the ground floor, up the passage. I would be able to hear them if the door to the office wasn’t closed.

“Now, Sergeant Goodall, what exactly is the problem?”

“Your son is telling preposterous lies.”

“You son is a bully, and my son fears going to school because of him. I think you should be attending to your son’s proclivities rather tan worry about what my son says. Most kids his age speak utter gibberish at the best of times.”

A moments silence before, “It;s not the fact it;s lies its the nature of the lie.”

“Oh. The fact that we were away. Well, there’s something else you should be admonishing that wretch of a child of yours for. My son told him the truth. and gave him a warning that it was not to be put about, in fact, as I understand it, he told your son that it was to be kept secret, and because he believed your son, being the son of a respectable policeman who understands the nature of these sorts of secrets, could keep it. The fact that he couldn’t keep that simple secret disappointed my son, disappointed me, and disappointed the people who arranged our sojourn, while some very nasty people were put away. They are, at the very least, extremely disappointed that you were poking around in matters that were way above your pay grade. If my son comes home any time in the new year complaining about your son, I will forget about being magnanimous this one time, in the hope you can address the issues you have; if he comes home with a complaint, all bets are off. Do I make myself clear?”

“He was not lying?”

“He was trying to avoid being beaten up by a thug, Goodall. He trusted your boy, and he let him down badly. This matter should not be discussed, here or anywhere, and I expect by the time you pass through my front door, the matter of our sojourn will be forgotten, and the problem with your child will be on the way to being resolved. Now, if that’s all….”

A few seconds later, I heard Goodall being bundled out the door, and it closed firmly behind him.

…

My father took a risk, but it paid off.

By the end of the summer holidays, Goodall had moved on to another station and taken his wretched son with him.

Goodall wasn’t the only bully at that school, but I learned a new way to deal with them, one that didn’t include elaborate lies. Those I saved for the stories I started writing.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

NANOWRIMO – November 2025 – Day 11

…

The Third Son of a Duke

…

So we are getting the back stories for a few of the passengers, a group forms, of which our protagonists are part of; my grandmother is there, but only as a floating member. I have given her a role that gels with the protagonist as a friend, though more aloof than the others.  As the son of a Duke, and therefore of aristocratic bearing, he and my grandmother will act as chaperones for the other girls who attach themselves to the group that gathers in the lounge.

He will prefer her as a companion while the likes of Louise tend to make a more romantic impact.  But, as one might expect of the time, he is uncertain of his arrangement with the arranged marriage, so he cannot commit to anything other than a respectable friendship, which he makes quite plain from the outset.

He is not looking for romance.  Others might be.

I also have a look at the reasons why so many disaffected young women are leaving England for a new life in Australia, far from the poverty, and worse, class distinction, the lack of opportunities for women, and the lack of acceptable husbands, not that they are looking.  There are also aspects of societal expectation that a woman doesn’t work and is meant to have children and look after their husbands.

This is a period where the unwritten rule of what society believes is a woman’s place in society is taking a beating, and women want more from their lives.  After all, suffragettes are fighting for electoral equality; at least in Australia, these girls will have a vote. 

…

1455 words, for a total of 16835 words.

Writing a book in 365 days – My Story 45

More about my story – What about a sequel?

…

Beyond ‘The End’: When Your First Novel Whispers ‘Sequel!’

They say everyone has one novel in them. That singular, definitive story waiting to be told. And if you’re deep in the trenches of writing that very first book – or perhaps just emerging, blinking, from the final draft – you know the magnitude of that achievement. It’s a mountain climbed, a world birthed, a dream realised.

But what if, as you type those triumphant final words, your story doesn’t feel quite… finished? What if your characters still have unresolved arcs, your world still hums with unexplored corners, and a new conflict is already brewing on the distant horizon?

This is the siren call of the sequel, the whisper of a series, beckoning you beyond “The End.” And the question isn’t if it will happen, but how you decide when your definitive first novel should become the definitive first step in a much larger journey.

The Organic Unfurling: When Ideas Spark Early

Sometimes, the seed of a series is planted before you even write chapter one. You might be world-building, and realise your magic system is too complex for a single adventure. Or you create a cast of characters so rich, you know their individual journeys can’t possibly culminate in one book.

This is the beauty of organic discovery. As you plot, you might hit a snag and realise a subplot isn’t fitting, but it would make a fantastic central conflict for a future story. Or you leave a minor mystery unsolved, not out of oversight, but with the deliberate thought: “That’s for book two.”

Key signs it might be more than a standalone (even early on):

  • Vast World-Building: Your setting feels like a continent, not just a town. There are untouched cultures, unvisited lands, or deep historical layers begging exploration.
  • Complex Character Arcs: Your protagonist’s journey is profound, but you can see clear paths for growth beyond this initial conflict. Or a compelling secondary character deserves their own spotlight.
  • Lingering Questions/Plot Threads: You’ve wrapped up the central conflict of Book 1, but there are larger societal issues, ancient prophecies, or personal vendettas that naturally spill over.

The Post-Draft Revelation: When Your Story Demands More

Often, the realization hits after you’ve finished the first draft – or even after a round of revisions. You might be reading through, feeling proud, and suddenly a new idea sparks. “What if X happened next?” “How would Y react to Z now?”

This is a beautiful moment, because it means you’ve built something robust enough to inspire more. Your subconscious is telling you there’s still creative gold in that particular mine.

How to approach this post-draft revelation:

  1. Does Book 1 Stand Alone? This is crucial. A “definitive first novel” must feel complete in itself. The central conflict should be resolved, and the protagonist should have achieved a significant milestone. Don’t write a cliffhanger just because you might write a sequel. Future books should deepen the experience, not fix the first one.
  2. Brainstorm the Arc: Dedicate a session (or several) to mapping out potential sequels. What’s the new central conflict? How have your characters changed? What new challenges do they face? This isn’t about writing, just exploring.
  3. Check for Crossover Appeal: Does the core premise of your first novel have enough appeal to sustain multiple stories? Are there fresh angles to explore, or would you merely be repeating yourself?
  4. Listen to Your Gut: Does the thought of continuing fill you with excitement or dread? While writing is always hard work, the initial spark for a series should feel invigorating.

Why Stop at One? The Power of “More”

The adage “everyone has one novel in them” is true. But the idea that you should only write one is a self-imposed limitation. If your imagination is already conjuring new adventures in the same world, if your characters are clamouring for more development, why stifle that creative energy?

A series allows for:

  • Deeper World Exploration: To truly immerse readers in a rich, complex world.
  • Rich Character Development: To show growth, setbacks, and evolving relationships over a longer timeline.
  • Unfolding Grand Narratives: To tackle epic conflicts or explore complex themes that simply can’t be contained in a single volume.

So, as you nurture that definitive first novel, remember to keep an ear open. Does your story hum with untold tales? Do your characters beckon you towards new horizons? If so, embrace the possibility. Your definitive first novel might just be the definitive first step into a much larger, more thrilling literary journey. Why write one when you have a whole universe waiting to unfurl?

Writing a book in 365 days – My Story 45

More about my story – What about a sequel?

…

Beyond ‘The End’: When Your First Novel Whispers ‘Sequel!’

They say everyone has one novel in them. That singular, definitive story waiting to be told. And if you’re deep in the trenches of writing that very first book – or perhaps just emerging, blinking, from the final draft – you know the magnitude of that achievement. It’s a mountain climbed, a world birthed, a dream realised.

But what if, as you type those triumphant final words, your story doesn’t feel quite… finished? What if your characters still have unresolved arcs, your world still hums with unexplored corners, and a new conflict is already brewing on the distant horizon?

This is the siren call of the sequel, the whisper of a series, beckoning you beyond “The End.” And the question isn’t if it will happen, but how you decide when your definitive first novel should become the definitive first step in a much larger journey.

The Organic Unfurling: When Ideas Spark Early

Sometimes, the seed of a series is planted before you even write chapter one. You might be world-building, and realise your magic system is too complex for a single adventure. Or you create a cast of characters so rich, you know their individual journeys can’t possibly culminate in one book.

This is the beauty of organic discovery. As you plot, you might hit a snag and realise a subplot isn’t fitting, but it would make a fantastic central conflict for a future story. Or you leave a minor mystery unsolved, not out of oversight, but with the deliberate thought: “That’s for book two.”

Key signs it might be more than a standalone (even early on):

  • Vast World-Building: Your setting feels like a continent, not just a town. There are untouched cultures, unvisited lands, or deep historical layers begging exploration.
  • Complex Character Arcs: Your protagonist’s journey is profound, but you can see clear paths for growth beyond this initial conflict. Or a compelling secondary character deserves their own spotlight.
  • Lingering Questions/Plot Threads: You’ve wrapped up the central conflict of Book 1, but there are larger societal issues, ancient prophecies, or personal vendettas that naturally spill over.

The Post-Draft Revelation: When Your Story Demands More

Often, the realization hits after you’ve finished the first draft – or even after a round of revisions. You might be reading through, feeling proud, and suddenly a new idea sparks. “What if X happened next?” “How would Y react to Z now?”

This is a beautiful moment, because it means you’ve built something robust enough to inspire more. Your subconscious is telling you there’s still creative gold in that particular mine.

How to approach this post-draft revelation:

  1. Does Book 1 Stand Alone? This is crucial. A “definitive first novel” must feel complete in itself. The central conflict should be resolved, and the protagonist should have achieved a significant milestone. Don’t write a cliffhanger just because you might write a sequel. Future books should deepen the experience, not fix the first one.
  2. Brainstorm the Arc: Dedicate a session (or several) to mapping out potential sequels. What’s the new central conflict? How have your characters changed? What new challenges do they face? This isn’t about writing, just exploring.
  3. Check for Crossover Appeal: Does the core premise of your first novel have enough appeal to sustain multiple stories? Are there fresh angles to explore, or would you merely be repeating yourself?
  4. Listen to Your Gut: Does the thought of continuing fill you with excitement or dread? While writing is always hard work, the initial spark for a series should feel invigorating.

Why Stop at One? The Power of “More”

The adage “everyone has one novel in them” is true. But the idea that you should only write one is a self-imposed limitation. If your imagination is already conjuring new adventures in the same world, if your characters are clamouring for more development, why stifle that creative energy?

A series allows for:

  • Deeper World Exploration: To truly immerse readers in a rich, complex world.
  • Rich Character Development: To show growth, setbacks, and evolving relationships over a longer timeline.
  • Unfolding Grand Narratives: To tackle epic conflicts or explore complex themes that simply can’t be contained in a single volume.

So, as you nurture that definitive first novel, remember to keep an ear open. Does your story hum with untold tales? Do your characters beckon you towards new horizons? If so, embrace the possibility. Your definitive first novel might just be the definitive first step into a much larger, more thrilling literary journey. Why write one when you have a whole universe waiting to unfurl?

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

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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.

NANOWRIMO – November 2025 – Day 10

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The Third Son of a Duke

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Yesterday we were talking about the social mores of the day, and so I did a little research…

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Setting Sail for Adventure: Decorum and Debauchery in Second Class, 1914

The modern cruise ship, with its all-you-can-eat buffets and poolside revelry, often conjures images of an exuberant, perhaps even uninhibited, youth. It’s easy to imagine young adults embracing a spirit of “live for the moment” on a contemporary voyage. But what about their ancestors, embarking on a similar, albeit far more arduous, journey a century ago? Specifically, what were the acceptable social norms for young people travelling in second class from England to Australia in 1914, and how might they have comported themselves, a world away from today’s cruise ship scene?

The very idea of “acceptable social norms” in 1914 is a stark contrast to our contemporary understanding. Society was far more rigid, with deeply ingrained expectations regarding behaviour, dress, and social interaction, especially for young, unmarried individuals. The journey from England to Australia, often a voyage lasting weeks and involving significant time in close quarters, would have been a microcosm of these societal standards.

Second Class in 1914: A Different Kind of Journey

First class, of course, was the domain of the wealthy and aristocratic, with its own set of gilded rules. But second class, while not as opulent, still offered a degree of comfort and privacy that distinguished it from steerage. Passengers in second class were generally of the middle and upper-middle classes – professionals, skilled tradespeople, and those with respectable means. The expectation was that they would carry themselves with a degree of decorum befitting their social standing.

For young women, the norms were particularly stringent:

  • Chaperonage: Unmarried young women were rarely expected to travel unaccompanied. If they were travelling alone, it was usually for a specific, respectable purpose, like joining family or taking up employment as a governess. Even then, they would have been expected to be discreet and avoid drawing undue attention. If travelling with friends of a similar age, a more senior female relative or acquaintance would ideally be present to offer guidance and supervision.
  • Dress: Modesty was paramount. Dresses would be long-sleeved and ankle-length, with high necklines. Even for leisure, elaborate hats and gloves might be worn for meals or time spent on deck. Casual wear as we know it simply didn’t exist.
  • Social Interaction: Interactions with young men would have been carefully managed. Polite conversation was acceptable, but prolonged or overly familiar interactions would have been frowned upon. Any hint of romantic entanglement would have been a serious matter, potentially impacting a young woman’s reputation and future prospects. Flirtation, if it occurred, would have been subtle and masked by propriety.
  • Activities: While there would have been opportunities for socializing on deck, activities would have been more sedate. Reading, embroidery, letter writing, and quiet conversation would have been common. Group card games or board games might have been played, but always with an air of polite engagement.

For young men, the expectations, while perhaps slightly less restrictive than for women, were still substantial:

  • Respect and Deference: Young men were expected to show respect to their elders and to ladies. Overt displays of bravado or boisterous behaviour would have been considered ill-mannered.
  • Dress: Formal attire was often the norm for dinner, even in second class. Suits, ties, and smart shoes would be expected.
  • Activities: While they might have engaged in more active pursuits on deck, such as deck quoits or walking, they would still have maintained a civil demeanour. Engaging in gambling or heavy drinking would have been seen as unsavoury.
  • Interactions with Women: As with young women, interactions would have been governed by politeness. Overtures towards unmarried women would have been inappropriate and could lead to social ostracisation for both parties.

A Hypothetical Voyage: England to Australia in 1914

So, if those same young people who might now be “perpetually drunk and promiscuous” on a modern cruise were instead on a 1914 voyage from England to Australia in second class, what would their experience likely have been?

Instead of loud music and raucous parties, imagine:

  • Quiet Evenings on Deck: Young women might be found seated with their companions, perhaps engaged in conversation or a quiet game of cards, while young men stroll nearby, exchanging polite greetings.
  • Respectful Pursuits: Reading novels, writing letters home detailing the voyage, or perhaps learning a new skill like sketching the passing scenery. Evenings might involve listening to a fellow passenger play the piano or attending a small, organised lecture.
  • Carefully Navigated Social Circles: Any developing friendships would be nurtured within the watchful gaze of chaperones or the implicit understanding of societal expectations. A stolen glance or a whispered conversation might be the extent of any budding romance.
  • A Sense of Purpose: This was not a holiday for most. Many were emigrating for a new life, seeking opportunities, or reuniting with family. The journey itself was a significant undertaking, often involving a considerable financial and emotional investment. This inherent seriousness would have tempered any inclination towards frivolous behaviour.

What about the “drunk and promiscuous” aspect?

While alcohol was certainly available and consumed, the levels of public intoxication seen on some modern cruises would have been highly scandalous. Drunkenness would have been seen as a sign of poor breeding and lack of self-control. Promiscuity would have been even more damaging, carrying severe social repercussions for all involved. The fear of gossip and the potential ruin of one’s reputation would have been a powerful deterrent.

In essence, the young passengers of 1914 second class were confined by a much stricter social contract. Their interactions would have been characterised by restraint, politeness, and a keen awareness of their social standing and future prospects. While a spark of youthful exuberance might have still flickered, it would have been expressed through more subtle means – perhaps a shared laugh during a formal dinner, a spirited debate on deck, or the shy exchange of a dance card at a rare shipboard social event. It was a world where decorum reigned, and the consequences of transgressing those norms were far more severe than a few disapproving glances on a modern cruise.

…

So our interactions might be a little less rigid, but it will be with a lot of the guidelines in place. My grandmother, being about 25, would have been more the chaperone type those those younger, and the ship’s staff would have ensured the men behaved.

Writing a book in 365 days – 297

Day 297

Passive V Active voice

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From Mire to Might: Your Blueprint for Conquering Passive Voice and Forging Powerful Prose

Ah, the passive voice. It’s the literary equivalent of that comfy old couch you sink into – sometimes it feels just right, but often it leaves you feeling a bit… flabby. As writers, we all know it exists. We’ve read the rules, seen the examples. Yet, like a sneaky saboteur, it still manages to creep into our drafts without us even realizing it. One minute you’re flowing, the next you’re rereading a paragraph and thinking, “Wait, who’s actually doing this action?”

The struggle is real. Training ourselves to consistently choose active voice isn’t about memorizing rules; it’s about rewiring our writing instincts. It’s about pulling ourselves out of that linguistic mire before we’ve even completely sunk. So, how do we practice this art, consciously and effectively? Let’s dive in.

Why Bother? A Quick Reminder of Active Voice’s Superpowers

Before we get to the “how,” let’s quickly refresh why active voice is so crucial for powerful writing:

  • Clarity: It leaves no doubt about who or what is performing the action.
  • Directness: It cuts straight to the point, avoiding unnecessary words.
  • Impact: It feels stronger, more confident, and more authoritative.
  • Engagement: It draws the reader in, making your sentences more dynamic.
  • Conciseness: It often shortens sentences, tightening your prose.

In short, active voice breathes life and energy into your words.

Your Training Regimen: Exercises to Forge Active Voice Habits

This isn’t about shaming; it’s about sharpening. Here’s how to build your active voice muscle.

1. The “Be” Test & The “By Whom/What” Test (Your Detector Tools)

First, you need to be able to spot the passive voice.

  • The “Be” Test: Look for forms of the verb “to be” (is, am, are, was, were, be, being, been) followed by a past participle (a verb usually ending in -ed or -en).
    • Example: “The report was written by Jane.” (was + written)
    • Example: “Mistakes were made.” (were + made)
    • Important Note: Not every “to be” verb indicates passive voice, but it’s a huge flag to investigate.
  • The “By Whom/What” Test: If you can add “by [someone/something]” after the verb without the sentence becoming nonsensical, it’s likely passive.
    • Example: “The decision was made (by the committee).” ✅ Passive
    • Example: “She is happy (by her dog).” ❌ Not passive

Practice Drill: Go through a recent piece of your writing. With a highlighter (digital or physical), mark every instance where you see a “be” verb + past participle, and then apply the “by whom/what” test. Don’t correct yet – just identify. This trains your eye.

2. The “Who’s Doing What?” Drill (Rewiring Your Brain)

Once you’ve identified a passive sentence, your next step is to consciously find the actor and make them the star.

  • Step A: Find the Action. What is the main action taking place?
  • Step B: Find the Actor. Who or what is performing that action? (This might be hidden in a “by” phrase or completely absent).
  • Step C: Reconstruct. Make the actor the subject of the sentence, followed by the active verb, and then the object.
    • Passive: “The novel was written by a young author.”
    • Action: “written”
    • Actor: “a young author”
    • Active: “A young author wrote the novel.”
    • Passive: “Numerous errors were found during the review.”
    • Action: “found”
    • Actor: (Not explicitly stated, but implied: the reviewers)
    • Active: “The reviewers found numerous errors during the review.” (Or, if the reviewers are truly irrelevant, consider rephrasing entirely: “The review revealed numerous errors.”)

Practice Drill: Take all those highlighted passive sentences from your previous exercise. Now, rewrite each one into active voice. Focus on making the actor explicit and the verb direct. Do this rapidly, like a quick-fire exercise, to build speed and instinct.

3. The “Passive Purge” Editing Round (Systematic Correction)

When you’re drafting, don’t stop the flow to correct passive voice. Get your ideas down. The dedicated passive voice editing round comes after the initial draft.

  • First Pass: Write freely.
  • Second Pass (or later): Go through your entire draft specifically looking for passive constructions. Treat it like a scavenger hunt. Tools like Grammarly or ProWritingAid can help flag them, but don’t just accept their suggestions blindly – understand why it’s passive and actively choose the best active alternative.

Practice Drill: Schedule a “Passive Purge” session for every piece of writing you produce for the next month. Make it a non-negotiable step in your editing process. The more you consciously identify and correct, the more your brain will start to flag it during the drafting stage.

4. Read Aloud (The Auditory Test)

Passive voice often sounds clunky, wordy, and indirect. Reading your work aloud forces you to hear the rhythm and flow (or lack thereof).

Practice Drill: Whenever you’re unsure about a sentence, read it aloud. If it sounds circuitous or less energetic than it could be, chances are a passive construction is lurking. Then, try rephrasing it actively and read that version aloud too. The difference in impact will often be stark.

5. Don’t Be a Zealot (Embrace the Nuance)

While active voice is generally stronger, passive voice does have its place. The goal isn’t to eradicate it entirely, but to use it consciously and strategically, not accidentally.

When passive is okay (or even preferred):

  • When the actor is unknown or unimportant: “The email was sent at midnight.” (Who sent it isn’t the point.)
  • When you want to emphasize the action or the recipient of the action over the actor: “The groundbreaking discovery was made in 2023.”
  • When you want to deliberately avoid naming the actor (for political or diplomatic reasons): “Mistakes were made.”
  • To vary sentence structure: Sometimes a passive sentence can provide a welcome rhythm change, if used sparingly.

Practice Drill: For every passive sentence you choose to keep, briefly note down why. This reinforces your understanding of its strategic uses and prevents it from being a crutch.

The Long Game: Consistency is Key

Training yourself to default to active voice is like building any other muscle – it requires consistent effort. You’ll stumble, you’ll miss things, and sometimes, a passive sentence will genuinely slip through. That’s okay. The goal isn’t perfection, but progress.

Make these drills a regular part of your writing routine. The more you consciously engage with identifying and transforming passive constructions, the deeper that active voice habit will embed itself. Soon, you’ll find yourself not just pulling yourself out of the mire, but steering clear of it altogether, forging prose that is undeniably powerful, clear, and impactful.

Now, go forth and write brilliantly, actively!

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

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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