Tag: Books

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 239

Day 239 – Finding those appreciative readers

…

The Sweet Sound of Appreciation: Why the Indie Writer’s Toughest Battle is Visibility

“There’s nothing like an appreciative word from a satisfied reader.” — Peter Mayle

For anyone who has ever poured their heart, soul, and countless sleepless nights into writing a book, Peter Mayle’s words hit home with piercing accuracy.

There is a unique, almost magical high that comes from hearing someone say, “I couldn’t put your book down,” or “Your characters stayed with me for days after I finished.” That single review, email, or social media comment makes every deleted chapter, every plot hole, and every moment of self-doubt entirely worth it. It’s the fuel that keeps the indie engine running.

Yet, for independent authors, there is a massive, often exhausting caveat to this joy.

As Mayle so eloquently noted, the appreciation is the reward. But the hard part—the mountain that every indie writer must scale—is simply getting that book out into the world so someone can actually read it in the first place.

Let’s talk about the invisible half of the indie publishing journey: the battle for visibility.

The Myth of “If You Build It, They Will Come”

In the traditional publishing model, authors often hand off their manuscript and let massive marketing machines, established distribution networks, and bookstore shelf-space do the heavy lifting.

In the indie world, you are the marketing machine.

When you hit “Publish” on Amazon KDP, IngramSpark, or Draft2Digital, a wave of profound relief washes over you. You did it! The book is live. You share the link on Facebook, tweet about it on X (formerly Twitter), and wait for the deluge of sales.

And then… crickets.

This is the harsh reality check every self-published author faces. The internet is a vast, deafeningly loud ocean, and a newly published indie book is a single drop of water. Without a traditional publishing house’s budget or pre-existing retail partnerships, the book won’t sell itself.

Suddenly, the writer has to pivot from being a creative artist to wearing a dozen unfamiliar hats:

  • The Social Media Manager: Building a brand, posting aesthetic reels, and engaging with a community.
  • The Media Buyer: Figuring out the labyrinthine worlds of Amazon Ads and Facebook Ads without burning a hole in their wallet.
  • The Publicist: Pitching book bloggers, podcast hosts, and reviewers who are already drowning in requests.
  • The Data Analyst: Staring at click-through rates, conversion percentages, and ranking algorithms trying to decode why book sales are fluctuating.

It’s an immense amount of unpaid, non-creative labour that happens after the manuscript is finished.

Why Discoverability is the Ultimate Indie Hurdle

Getting a book “out there” isn’t just about uploading a file to a retailer; it’s about discoverability.

  1. The Sea of Competition: Thousands of books are published every single day. Standing out requires an eye-catching cover, a compelling blurb, professional formatting, and zero grammatical errors. Even with all that, you still have to catch a reader’s eye.
  2. The Review Catch-22: Readers love reviews. They validate a book’s quality before buying. But to get reviews, people have to buy and read the book. Breaking this loop is one of the toughest challenges for a debut or mid-list indie author.
  3. Algorithm Anxiety: Amazon’s algorithm is the gatekeeper most indie authors obsess over. Understanding how to trigger “Also Boughts” and rank well in specific niche categories requires a mix of strategy, timing, and sheer luck.

The Joy Makes the Struggle Worthwhile

With all of these hurdles—the marketing costs, the algorithmic mysteries, the relentless hustle—why do indie authors keep doing it?

Because of what Peter Mayle talked about.

It’s the email from a stranger on the other side of the planet saying your story helped them through a tough week. It’s seeing a five-star review from a reader who “gets” the deeper themes you worked so hard to weave into the narrative.

Indie publishing is hard, gruelling work. It requires thick skin, business acumen, and an unshakeable belief in your own work. But when you finally bridge the gap between your hard drive and a reader’s nightstand, and that appreciative word finally comes in?

There truly is nothing like it.

Are you an indie writer currently fighting the visibility battle? What has been your biggest struggle (and your greatest triumph) in getting your book out into the world? Let’s chat in the comments below!

…

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.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 238

Day 238 – Every book is an offering

…

Beyond the Debut: Why the Second Book Defines an Author (And Why Every Book is an Offering)

There is a romanticised myth in the literary world about the debut author. We celebrate the overnight success, the passion project nurtured for a decade in secret Google Docs, the breathless debut novel that finally breaks through into the world.

And it’s true: Everybody can write a good first book.

Before you gasp, let that settle. With enough time, raw life experience, obsessive editing, and sheer willpower, almost anyone who has a story in their heart can pull a debut novel out of the ether. It is a massive achievement, a testament to grit and creativity.

But as the old industry adage goes: An author is proven on the second book.

This transition—from a one-hit wonder of passion to a sustainable, evolving creator—is where the true journey of authorship begins. Coupled with the profound truth that every book is simply an offering, and you just wait to see who will accept it, we uncover the real philosophy of a writing life.

Let’s explore what it takes to survive the sophomore slump, why the second book matters so much, and how to release your work into the world with grace.

Part 1: The Myth of the First Book (and the Reality of the Second)

Why can everyone write a good first book? Because your debut is a reservoir. It is a collection of everything you’ve thought, felt, read, and experienced up until that exact point in your life. It has no deadline, no expectations, and no ghost of a previous work looking over its shoulder. It is pure, unadulterated self-expression.

Writing a first book is like shouting your truth into a canyon for the first time. It echoes wildly. It feels magnificent.

Then comes the contract. Or the independent publishing timeline. And suddenly, you have to do it again—only this time, under pressure.

The second book strips away the safety net of “beginner’s luck.”

  • The “Sophomore Slump” is psychological: Suddenly, you aren’t writing in a vacuum. You are acutely aware that someone is going to read this.
  • The well has been tapped: That first reservoir of accumulated life experiences? You used the best parts of it in Book One. Book Two requires you to dig deeper, think harder, and invent new wells.
  • The identity shift: Writing the first book makes you feel like a writer. Writing the second book makes you become a professional.

To prove yourself as an author, you have to show that you aren’t just a vessel for one good idea, but a wellspring of creativity. You have to prove you can master the craft when the initial adrenaline has worn off.

Part 2: Every Book is an Offering

Regardless of whether it’s your first book, your second, or your tenth, the act of publishing brings with it a terrifying vulnerability. We spend months or years bleeding onto the page, polishing the prose, and designing the cover. When we finally hit “publish” or send the manuscript to our publisher, we hold our breath, expecting the world to bow.

When it doesn’t—or when the reaction is mixed—it can crush us.

This is where reframing the mindset becomes essential: Every book is an offering.

Think of creation not as a transaction where you demand applause, sales, or critical acclaim, but as placing something on an altar. You craft it with love, skill, and reverence. You polish it until it shines. And then, you step back.

You do not control who walks past the altar. You do not control who picks it up, who scoffs at it, or who takes it home and treasures it forever.

  • Letting go of outcomes: When you view a book as an offering, the pressure shifts from “Will they love me?” to “Did I give my best?”
  • Finding your true readers: Not every offering is meant for every person. When you release a book, you are simply waiting to see who will accept it. The beauty of the modern literary landscape is that there is an audience for almost everything—if you are brave enough to offer it authentically.

Part 3: Navigating the Intersection of Craft and Acceptance

If the second book proves the author, and every book is an offering, how do we navigate the messy middle between writing the words and letting the world judge them?

  1. Write for the Reader on the Other Side: While the book is an offering, remember that offerings are meant to be received. As you write your second book, keep your ideal reader in mind—not as a critic, but as a companion. What gift are you preparing for them?
  2. Detach from the Metric of “Success”: Book One might sell a million copies, and Book Two might find a quiet, dedicated cult following. Both are valid. Success isn’t always a bestseller list; sometimes, success is simply the fact that the offering was made, received, and changed even one person’s life.
  3. Fall Back in Love with the Process: The cure for “second-book syndrome” is to stop looking at the mountain peak and focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Remember why you started writing in the first place, long before anyone was watching.

Final Thoughts: Keep Making Your Offerings

Everybody can write a good first book. But the ones who stay—the ones who build a legacy, a catalogue, and a true career—are the ones who face the blank page a second, third, and fourth time.

Writing is an act of supreme courage. It is standing in the marketplace of ideas, holding out a piece of your soul, and whispering, “I made this for you.”

So, write the difficult second book. Embrace the fear. Make your offering, place it gently on the altar of the world, and wait with an open heart to see who reaches out to accept it.

Are you working on a debut, staring down the intimidating second book, or somewhere further along the journey? Share your thoughts and experiences in the comments below!

…

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the Past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The Birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus, the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all rewrites, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally, it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Year’s, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening, we were out late and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow; it was cold and wet, and apartment buildings were shimmering in the street light, and I thought, “This is the place where my main character will live”.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went, so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller Centre is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy man with few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

…

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 238

Day 238 – Every book is an offering

…

Beyond the Debut: Why the Second Book Defines an Author (And Why Every Book is an Offering)

There is a romanticised myth in the literary world about the debut author. We celebrate the overnight success, the passion project nurtured for a decade in secret Google Docs, the breathless debut novel that finally breaks through into the world.

And it’s true: Everybody can write a good first book.

Before you gasp, let that settle. With enough time, raw life experience, obsessive editing, and sheer willpower, almost anyone who has a story in their heart can pull a debut novel out of the ether. It is a massive achievement, a testament to grit and creativity.

But as the old industry adage goes: An author is proven on the second book.

This transition—from a one-hit wonder of passion to a sustainable, evolving creator—is where the true journey of authorship begins. Coupled with the profound truth that every book is simply an offering, and you just wait to see who will accept it, we uncover the real philosophy of a writing life.

Let’s explore what it takes to survive the sophomore slump, why the second book matters so much, and how to release your work into the world with grace.

Part 1: The Myth of the First Book (and the Reality of the Second)

Why can everyone write a good first book? Because your debut is a reservoir. It is a collection of everything you’ve thought, felt, read, and experienced up until that exact point in your life. It has no deadline, no expectations, and no ghost of a previous work looking over its shoulder. It is pure, unadulterated self-expression.

Writing a first book is like shouting your truth into a canyon for the first time. It echoes wildly. It feels magnificent.

Then comes the contract. Or the independent publishing timeline. And suddenly, you have to do it again—only this time, under pressure.

The second book strips away the safety net of “beginner’s luck.”

  • The “Sophomore Slump” is psychological: Suddenly, you aren’t writing in a vacuum. You are acutely aware that someone is going to read this.
  • The well has been tapped: That first reservoir of accumulated life experiences? You used the best parts of it in Book One. Book Two requires you to dig deeper, think harder, and invent new wells.
  • The identity shift: Writing the first book makes you feel like a writer. Writing the second book makes you become a professional.

To prove yourself as an author, you have to show that you aren’t just a vessel for one good idea, but a wellspring of creativity. You have to prove you can master the craft when the initial adrenaline has worn off.

Part 2: Every Book is an Offering

Regardless of whether it’s your first book, your second, or your tenth, the act of publishing brings with it a terrifying vulnerability. We spend months or years bleeding onto the page, polishing the prose, and designing the cover. When we finally hit “publish” or send the manuscript to our publisher, we hold our breath, expecting the world to bow.

When it doesn’t—or when the reaction is mixed—it can crush us.

This is where reframing the mindset becomes essential: Every book is an offering.

Think of creation not as a transaction where you demand applause, sales, or critical acclaim, but as placing something on an altar. You craft it with love, skill, and reverence. You polish it until it shines. And then, you step back.

You do not control who walks past the altar. You do not control who picks it up, who scoffs at it, or who takes it home and treasures it forever.

  • Letting go of outcomes: When you view a book as an offering, the pressure shifts from “Will they love me?” to “Did I give my best?”
  • Finding your true readers: Not every offering is meant for every person. When you release a book, you are simply waiting to see who will accept it. The beauty of the modern literary landscape is that there is an audience for almost everything—if you are brave enough to offer it authentically.

Part 3: Navigating the Intersection of Craft and Acceptance

If the second book proves the author, and every book is an offering, how do we navigate the messy middle between writing the words and letting the world judge them?

  1. Write for the Reader on the Other Side: While the book is an offering, remember that offerings are meant to be received. As you write your second book, keep your ideal reader in mind—not as a critic, but as a companion. What gift are you preparing for them?
  2. Detach from the Metric of “Success”: Book One might sell a million copies, and Book Two might find a quiet, dedicated cult following. Both are valid. Success isn’t always a bestseller list; sometimes, success is simply the fact that the offering was made, received, and changed even one person’s life.
  3. Fall Back in Love with the Process: The cure for “second-book syndrome” is to stop looking at the mountain peak and focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Remember why you started writing in the first place, long before anyone was watching.

Final Thoughts: Keep Making Your Offerings

Everybody can write a good first book. But the ones who stay—the ones who build a legacy, a catalogue, and a true career—are the ones who face the blank page a second, third, and fourth time.

Writing is an act of supreme courage. It is standing in the marketplace of ideas, holding out a piece of your soul, and whispering, “I made this for you.”

So, write the difficult second book. Embrace the fear. Make your offering, place it gently on the altar of the world, and wait with an open heart to see who reaches out to accept it.

Are you working on a debut, staring down the intimidating second book, or somewhere further along the journey? Share your thoughts and experiences in the comments below!

…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 237

Day 237 – Writing Exercise

…

While I loved the idea of pulling off the impossible, something I had managed with pure blind luck three out of five times in the past, the latest invitation, printed in Gothic lettering on a parchment card with gold trimmings, arrived via a secure link on my notepad computer at 3.33am.

“Table 7. Seven subjects. Zero truth. Secure the Accord. 7 pm today.”

Just because I took a job that mediated compulsive liars, pathological diplomats, and corporate executives that couldn’t spell ‘ethics’, the employers asked me back again.

And again.

And then today, in a private back room in The Brass Lantern. 7 pm. Seven compulsive liars, seven people chosen to tell me exactly what I wanted to hear, seven subjects that were going to promise the impossible. They all wanted the contract, to sign that Accord.

None of them realised the most untrustworthy person in that room was me.

…

Each of the seven were already at the table, having left the one chair at the top of the table for me. I did not bring anything other than a dummy folder with blank paper in it, and a single piece of paper, the Accord. Each of the seven watched me pull the eighth chair, look at it, then remain standing.

It was a reflex thing, an instant decision based on the nervous twitch on the fellow at the end of the table.

My mouth was dry, my heart beating faster, as I looked at each one in turn;

To my left was Dr Aris Thorne, a disgraced geneticist whose hands shook; whether it was too much caffeine or the rumoured Parkinson’s was debatable; he had promised once that he could cure cancer in a month, given the resources. He had the lab and the knowledge to do good rather than manufacture street-grade drugs for the cartel.

Next to him was Mara, a neon-haired syndicate courier who bragged that she could smuggle a blue whale across the Sahara in a briefcase; albeit under the influence of several snorts of cocaine. She had a worldwide distribution network second to none.

Beside her was an ex-politician, Louis Betmead, defending indecency charges, who leapt from the fire into the corporate world. He still held a lot of sway with his former colleagues.

Next was Andrea Wills, computer programmer selling rogue code on the dark web, and lately an AI Ethicist reportedly worshipping silicon gods. Or the other way around, no one was quite sure. She could create the program that could make or break the system.

On the other side of the table, making me nervous, was an arms dealer, Francisco Antonelli, who reputedly had a heart of gold, or that was what he told everyone who would listen. He transacted all of his deals in gold bullion. His soldiers could enforce peace rather than create havoc.

Next to him was Simone, one name only, a mystic selling enlightenment in half-gram doses to a never-ending supply of fools. She had a sales network more sophisticated than any legitimate business.

And, last but not least, Dan the journalist, a man who had seen more action in war zones than any soldier alive, and had told me once he had not slept since the Berlin Wall fell. I believed him. He looked as though he had taken some of Simone’s enlightenment. He could write the story that saved the world rather than report on it burning down.

They were all an unwitting link in a chain we needed to make the Accord happen.

I had met each and every one of them once or twice over the past seven years, memories I wanted to forget.

“We were just talking about you,” Dr Thorne said when my eyes came back to him. “We all agreed. You are the only one with the vision to see the big picture. Whatever you need from me, it’s yours.”

“I can write an expose that will bring down the Domino cartel by morning,” the journalist said. It was clear he was as high as the proverbial kite.

I had no doubt every single one of them was reading my micro expressions, practised for hours in front of a mirror, tailoring their pitch to offer me the moon on a silver platter.

The thing is, each and every one of them was connected in a way that could give me the global ceasefire, but I could not ask them for it because they would offer me a utopia they couldn’t deliver.

I didn’t sit down; I pulled out a cigarette lighter and set fire to the dummy file and held it until the fire caught, then dropped it into the rubbish bin behind me.

The table went dead silent; the smiles froze.

“What are you doing?” The politician was the first out of his torpor.

“I’m burning the agenda,” I said, mt voice flat and cold, and entirely devoid of hope. “Which is good because I hate all of you. Every single one of you is a fraud, a hack, or a liability. Thorne, your genome therapy is a parlour trick; Mara, you couldn’t smuggle a cold in a blizzard; and Dan, your article will be pulped before it hits the printing presses.

I looked back at the last flames consuming the paper before dying down to embers.

“I don’t want your promises; I don’t want your lies. I want you to look at the ashes of that agenda and then tell me the one thing you are incapable of doing, because if you offer me the impossible, I’m walking out that door, and letting the whole world burn with it.”

For five agonising seconds I could see each one of them re-evaluating their position. I’m sure their bosses said to promise the world, but not what they could really do unless pushed to the absolute limit.

The doctor muttered, “I can’t guarantee the lab won’t explode or let loose a pandemic virus.”

Mara: “My couriers are compromised.” She crossed her arms defensively, dropping the smooth-talking persona. “Half of them are working for Interpol, and the other half I can’t trust as far as I could kick them.”

“My editors are cowards,” the journalist muttered, staring at his hands. “They’ll kill the story the moment the advertisers call to boycott them if it’s published.”

One by one, the impossible promises were rescinded, replaced with an ugly, fragile truth: the fact that they all relied on the others, without actually saying it out loud. They confessed their weaknesses, their failures, the logistical nightmares, and their limitations. Just not their dependence.

When the last member’s voice stopped, the room felt light. No one was trying to outdo the others.

It was a start.

I pulled that single sheet of paper out of my pocket, a bare-bones, brutally realistic draft of an Accord that factored in human error, market corruption, and political cowardice.

I held it up. “Good. Now we’ve established what we can’t do; let’s sign the only thing we can do.”

Each one wrote what they could do, then signed.

Thorne promised to create the antidote to reverse the effect of the pandemic he had unwittingly caused

Wills would lend her AI farm to help create a lasting antidote, and digitise the sales and distribution channels

Simone would lend her sales network as the top level of the distribution chain

Mara would repurpose her couriers to link with Simone’s sales network, and distribute the product

Antonelli would lend his army of mercenaries to protect everyone involved in manufacture and distribution

Bitmead would get his political colleagues to create the necessary legislation to make it legal, and use diplomatic channels to get the rest of the world onside.

Dan would not write about the world burning down, but to inform the world that a solution will be found and distributed as soon as possible.

Each one had a vital part in the Accord. Each one depended on the other.

Each one needed to show that they were cooperating because if there had been no Accord, they would have been arrested and thrown into a dark hole. They just didn’t know that was the last resort, though I knew at least three of them were at the top of a ‘most wanted’ list. It may have been hinted to them that signing the Accord was an incentive to have their names moved down quite a few places.

Whatever the motivation, it was a start.

Whether it lasted, whether I would have to step back into this room and start again, that remained to be seen. And if they did cooperate and work for the betterment of mankind rather than line their own pockets – and that was a big if – no one would be more surprised than me.

But…

I did what they wanted. One piece of paper, seven signatures. A signed Accord. And finally, hope.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 237

Day 237 – Writing Exercise

…

While I loved the idea of pulling off the impossible, something I had managed with pure blind luck three out of five times in the past, the latest invitation, printed in Gothic lettering on a parchment card with gold trimmings, arrived via a secure link on my notepad computer at 3.33am.

“Table 7. Seven subjects. Zero truth. Secure the Accord. 7 pm today.”

Just because I took a job that mediated compulsive liars, pathological diplomats, and corporate executives that couldn’t spell ‘ethics’, the employers asked me back again.

And again.

And then today, in a private back room in The Brass Lantern. 7 pm. Seven compulsive liars, seven people chosen to tell me exactly what I wanted to hear, seven subjects that were going to promise the impossible. They all wanted the contract, to sign that Accord.

None of them realised the most untrustworthy person in that room was me.

…

Each of the seven were already at the table, having left the one chair at the top of the table for me. I did not bring anything other than a dummy folder with blank paper in it, and a single piece of paper, the Accord. Each of the seven watched me pull the eighth chair, look at it, then remain standing.

It was a reflex thing, an instant decision based on the nervous twitch on the fellow at the end of the table.

My mouth was dry, my heart beating faster, as I looked at each one in turn;

To my left was Dr Aris Thorne, a disgraced geneticist whose hands shook; whether it was too much caffeine or the rumoured Parkinson’s was debatable; he had promised once that he could cure cancer in a month, given the resources. He had the lab and the knowledge to do good rather than manufacture street-grade drugs for the cartel.

Next to him was Mara, a neon-haired syndicate courier who bragged that she could smuggle a blue whale across the Sahara in a briefcase; albeit under the influence of several snorts of cocaine. She had a worldwide distribution network second to none.

Beside her was an ex-politician, Louis Betmead, defending indecency charges, who leapt from the fire into the corporate world. He still held a lot of sway with his former colleagues.

Next was Andrea Wills, computer programmer selling rogue code on the dark web, and lately an AI Ethicist reportedly worshipping silicon gods. Or the other way around, no one was quite sure. She could create the program that could make or break the system.

On the other side of the table, making me nervous, was an arms dealer, Francisco Antonelli, who reputedly had a heart of gold, or that was what he told everyone who would listen. He transacted all of his deals in gold bullion. His soldiers could enforce peace rather than create havoc.

Next to him was Simone, one name only, a mystic selling enlightenment in half-gram doses to a never-ending supply of fools. She had a sales network more sophisticated than any legitimate business.

And, last but not least, Dan the journalist, a man who had seen more action in war zones than any soldier alive, and had told me once he had not slept since the Berlin Wall fell. I believed him. He looked as though he had taken some of Simone’s enlightenment. He could write the story that saved the world rather than report on it burning down.

They were all an unwitting link in a chain we needed to make the Accord happen.

I had met each and every one of them once or twice over the past seven years, memories I wanted to forget.

“We were just talking about you,” Dr Thorne said when my eyes came back to him. “We all agreed. You are the only one with the vision to see the big picture. Whatever you need from me, it’s yours.”

“I can write an expose that will bring down the Domino cartel by morning,” the journalist said. It was clear he was as high as the proverbial kite.

I had no doubt every single one of them was reading my micro expressions, practised for hours in front of a mirror, tailoring their pitch to offer me the moon on a silver platter.

The thing is, each and every one of them was connected in a way that could give me the global ceasefire, but I could not ask them for it because they would offer me a utopia they couldn’t deliver.

I didn’t sit down; I pulled out a cigarette lighter and set fire to the dummy file and held it until the fire caught, then dropped it into the rubbish bin behind me.

The table went dead silent; the smiles froze.

“What are you doing?” The politician was the first out of his torpor.

“I’m burning the agenda,” I said, mt voice flat and cold, and entirely devoid of hope. “Which is good because I hate all of you. Every single one of you is a fraud, a hack, or a liability. Thorne, your genome therapy is a parlour trick; Mara, you couldn’t smuggle a cold in a blizzard; and Dan, your article will be pulped before it hits the printing presses.

I looked back at the last flames consuming the paper before dying down to embers.

“I don’t want your promises; I don’t want your lies. I want you to look at the ashes of that agenda and then tell me the one thing you are incapable of doing, because if you offer me the impossible, I’m walking out that door, and letting the whole world burn with it.”

For five agonising seconds I could see each one of them re-evaluating their position. I’m sure their bosses said to promise the world, but not what they could really do unless pushed to the absolute limit.

The doctor muttered, “I can’t guarantee the lab won’t explode or let loose a pandemic virus.”

Mara: “My couriers are compromised.” She crossed her arms defensively, dropping the smooth-talking persona. “Half of them are working for Interpol, and the other half I can’t trust as far as I could kick them.”

“My editors are cowards,” the journalist muttered, staring at his hands. “They’ll kill the story the moment the advertisers call to boycott them if it’s published.”

One by one, the impossible promises were rescinded, replaced with an ugly, fragile truth: the fact that they all relied on the others, without actually saying it out loud. They confessed their weaknesses, their failures, the logistical nightmares, and their limitations. Just not their dependence.

When the last member’s voice stopped, the room felt light. No one was trying to outdo the others.

It was a start.

I pulled that single sheet of paper out of my pocket, a bare-bones, brutally realistic draft of an Accord that factored in human error, market corruption, and political cowardice.

I held it up. “Good. Now we’ve established what we can’t do; let’s sign the only thing we can do.”

Each one wrote what they could do, then signed.

Thorne promised to create the antidote to reverse the effect of the pandemic he had unwittingly caused

Wills would lend her AI farm to help create a lasting antidote, and digitise the sales and distribution channels

Simone would lend her sales network as the top level of the distribution chain

Mara would repurpose her couriers to link with Simone’s sales network, and distribute the product

Antonelli would lend his army of mercenaries to protect everyone involved in manufacture and distribution

Bitmead would get his political colleagues to create the necessary legislation to make it legal, and use diplomatic channels to get the rest of the world onside.

Dan would not write about the world burning down, but to inform the world that a solution will be found and distributed as soon as possible.

Each one had a vital part in the Accord. Each one depended on the other.

Each one needed to show that they were cooperating because if there had been no Accord, they would have been arrested and thrown into a dark hole. They just didn’t know that was the last resort, though I knew at least three of them were at the top of a ‘most wanted’ list. It may have been hinted to them that signing the Accord was an incentive to have their names moved down quite a few places.

Whatever the motivation, it was a start.

Whether it lasted, whether I would have to step back into this room and start again, that remained to be seen. And if they did cooperate and work for the betterment of mankind rather than line their own pockets – and that was a big if – no one would be more surprised than me.

But…

I did what they wanted. One piece of paper, seven signatures. A signed Accord. And finally, hope.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

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 and 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.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 236

Day 236 – In a world ruled by fiction

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Inventing Reality: Why J.G. Ballard’s Warning Matters More Than Ever in the Age of Fiction

“We live in a world ruled by fictions of every kind—mass merchandising, advertising, politics, popular psychology, and so on. It is our job as writers to invent reality. For better or for worse, we are the creators of the reality of the 20th [and 21st] century.” — J.G. Ballard

In 1971, British visionary J.G. Ballard made a startling observation about the trajectory of human culture. Long before the advent of social media algorithms, deepfakes, 24-hour news cycles, and virtual reality, Ballard understood a fundamental truth: humanity no longer experiences raw reality. Instead, we navigate a labyrinth of manufactured narratives, corporate mythologies, and political spectacle.

Ballard argued that because the “real” world had been entirely overwritten by fictions, the traditional role of the novelist—to simply mirror society—was dead. Writers could no longer afford to be passive observers. To make sense of the world, they had to become active participants in the construction of a new reality.

Decades later, as we grapple with “fake news,” curated digital identities, and hyper-reality, Ballard’s manifesto feels less like a literary theory and more like a survival guide.

Here is an exploration of what Ballard meant, how his thesis manifests today, and why the job of the writer is more crucial—and subversive—than ever.

The Architecture of Illusion: How We Live in Fictions

Take a moment to look around you. Almost everything you interact with on a daily basis is underpinned by a fiction.

  • Money is a collective fiction—a piece of paper or digital code that holds value only because we agree it does.
  • Brands sell us fictions of identity, belonging, and happiness, convincing us that a specific pair of sneakers or smartphone will fundamentally alter who we are as people.
  • Politics has long traded policy for narrative, where electability is performance art, and truth is treated as a flexible commodity.

Ballard didn’t view these fictions merely as harmless lies; he saw them as powerful, active forces reshaping human psychology. In novels like Crash, High-Rise, and The Atrocity Exhibition, he explored how modern technology and media blur the line between the artificial and the authentic until the artificial becomes our lived experience.

When the boundaries dissolve, the people living inside the illusion no longer know what is real. This is the condition Ballard diagnosed, and it is the exact landscape we inhabit today.

Why Traditional Realism is Broken

For centuries, the primary goal of fiction was mimesis—holding a mirror up to nature. Authors like Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, and Leo Tolstoy documented the social structures, moral dilemmas, and daily rhythms of their times with pinpoint accuracy.

However, Ballard argued that nineteenth-century realism was no longer equipped to handle the twentieth century (let alone the twenty-first). How do you write a realistic novel about a world where the President of the United States communicates via late-night social media posts, where artificial intelligence can write poetry, and where billions of people spend hours a day interacting with people who don’t exist?

If a writer simply writes a traditional, kitchen-sink drama today, they are ignoring the elephant in the room: the overwhelming, suffocating presence of media and manufactured myth.

To write realistically about the modern world, a writer has to acknowledge that we are drowning in fictions. This is why Ballard leaned into the surreal, the clinical, and the provocative. He used heightened, bizarre fictions to puncture the mundane fictions of everyday life.

“It is Our Job as Writers to Invent Reality”

What did Ballard mean when he said writers must invent reality?

He didn’t mean writers should lie, nor did he mean they should retreat into escapist fantasy. Instead, he meant that because our cultural reality is artificial, constructed by marketers and politicians, writers have a duty to construct better, truer, or more revealing counter-fictions.

A great writer acts as a diagnostic physician for the cultural psyche. By inventing extreme scenarios, speculative futures, or surreal narratives, fiction exposes the invisible mechanisms holding our society together.

Consider how visionary science fiction and speculative fiction have “invented” our current reality:

  • William Gibson coined the term “cyberspace” and anticipated the internet age in Neuromancer long before most people owned a computer.
  • George Orwell mapped out the mechanics of surveillance capitalism and state propaganda in 1984.
  • Margaret Atwood drew from existing patriarchal structures to invent the chillingly plausible world of The Handmaid’s Tale.

These authors did not simply record the world; they diagnosed it by inventing fictions that revealed deeper, unspoken truths. They exposed the matrix by building a better map of it.

The Writer’s Duty in the Age of Algorithms

Today, Ballard’s call to action takes on an urgent new meaning. We are no longer just consumers of fiction—we are its products. Algorithms feed us custom-tailored realities designed to keep our attention, polarise our views, and monetise our anxieties.

In this landscape, propaganda is automated, and mass delusion is industrialised.

If we surrender the invention of reality entirely to tech monopolies, politicians, and advertisers, our cultural imagination shrivels. This is why the creative act of writing is an act of resistance.

When a writer sits down to craft a story, a poem, or a novel, they are refusing the pre-packaged narratives handed down by the culture industry. They are carving out a space of radical imagination, forcing readers to pause, question their assumptions, and see the world through a completely new lens.

Conclusion: Writing the World Anew

J.G. Ballard challenged writers to step out of the shadows of passive storytelling and take responsibility for the psychological architecture of their era.

We do not live in a neutral world. We live in a world saturated with manufactured desires, political mythologies, and digital illusions. To accept this passively is to be shaped by it. But to write against it—to dissect the illusions and invent new, more honest realities—is the ultimate calling of the modern writer.

The fiction of the world is loud, relentless, and persuasive. It is up to writers to be louder, stranger, and truer.

What are your thoughts on Ballard’s manifesto? How do you see modern fiction reflecting—or fighting against—the manufactured realities of today? Let us know 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 that 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 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.

There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping 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 he was not the concierge, and instead he 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, then clunked 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 lift lobby, only what was 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 to 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