Tag: Books

Writing a book in 365 days – 275

Day 275

Poetry, again

…

The Necessary Madness: Why Poetry Demands a Certain Unsoundness of Mind

There are few pronouncements in literature as instantly arresting and delightfully unsettling as the suggestion that to truly engage with poetry—to write it, or even to enjoy it—requires “a certain unsoundness of mind.”

This quote, often attributed to the Romantic critic and essayist William Hazlitt (though sometimes debated), doesn’t just demand our attention; it challenges the very foundation of how we define sanity, rationality, and the purpose of art.

If the quote holds any truth, it suggests that the purest forms of human expression are found not in the center of logic, but on the fringes of accepted thought.

The Tyranny of the ‘Sound’ Mind

Before we celebrate this poetic madness, we must first define what the “sound mind” represents.

The ‘sound mind’ is the mind built for survival and efficiency. It is pragmatic, literal, and relentlessly focused on the material world. It asks: How does this benefit me? Is this efficient? What is the demonstrable return on investment? A sound mind appreciates a spreadsheet more than a sonnet.

Poetry, by its nature, is profoundly unsound. It is impractical. It sacrifices plain meaning for music, clarity for color, and the material for the transcendent. In the purely economic or rational sense, poetry is useless.

The poet, therefore, must reject the tyranny of the purely rational. They must be willing to stare at a blade of grass not as an element of photosynthesis, but as a small, green miracle demanding an ode. This ability to divert focus from the practical necessities of life to the consuming fire of feeling—this is the first hint of “unsoundness.”

The Poet as the Maximalist of Feeling

When we talk about the “unsoundness” necessary for poetry, we are generally not talking about pathology, but rather maximal sensitivity.

The poet is often someone who feels the world too intensely. They do not merely observe tragedy; they absorb it. They do not just see beauty; they are momentarily blinded by it. This heightened level of empathy and emotional responsiveness is exhausting, destabilizing, and deeply incompatible with the smooth running of mundane life.

To be a poet is to stand permanently outside the insulating wall of detachment that most people build to cope with existence. You must be vulnerable to the overwhelming sensory and emotional data the world constantly provides.

In this context, poetry becomes a necessary defense mechanism. It is the obsessive, painstaking labor of translating this overwhelming internal cacophony into structured sound. The rhyme, the meter, the perfect metaphor—these elements are not arbitrary decorations; they are the cage the poet builds to house their wild, excessive feelings.

Unsoundness is the Engine of Metaphor

Perhaps the greatest sign of poetic “unsoundness” is the absolute reliance on metaphor.

The logical mind deals strictly with A = A. The poetic mind insists that A = B, even when A and B share no literal qualities. It sees a lover’s eyes and calls them stars; it sees a city and calls it a sleeping animal.

This non-linear connection—this immediate leap across the chasm of logic—is the signature mental deviation required for the art form. The poet must briefly abandon empirical reality to create a new reality, one governed by emotional resonance rather than physics.

To create the brilliant, jarring imagery that defines great verse, the poet must be willing to let their mind wander into territory that the logical world deems nonsensical. They must embrace the illogical truth.

The Reader’s Necessary Leap

The quote states that even enjoying poetry demands this mental deviation. This is perhaps the more insidious and intriguing part of the claim.

If the poet is the architect of illogical truth, the reader must be willing to temporarily relocate their own mind to that space.

To truly enjoy a poem, you cannot read it primarily for information. You must allow yourself to be led away from the concrete ground you stand upon. The appreciation of poetry requires the reader to:

  1. Suspend Literal Meaning: To understand why the moon might weep or the wind might whisper secrets, we must momentarily sideline our rational understanding of astronomy and meteorology.
  2. Embrace Emotional Logic: We must prioritize the feeling the poem evokes over the fact it describes.
  3. Accept the Unexplained: We must allow the poem to exist outside the need for easy answers, recognizing that the beauty lies in the ambiguity.

In the brief time we spend with a stanza, we are happily infected by the poet’s particular brand of “madness.” We choose to be unsound, and in that fleeting moment of voluntary irrationality, we find profound emotional clarity.

A Celebration of Necessary Deviance

The history of poetry—from the romantic excess of Lord Byron to the stark, fragmented vision of Sylvia Plath—is littered with geniuses who struggled to align their profound internal lives with the demands of the pragmatic world.

The quote, therefore, is not an insult or a diagnosis. It is a profound observation about the nature of creativity. The “unsoundness of mind” is simply the maximal awareness of the human condition—the courage to feel disproportionately and to articulate those feelings without filtering them through the gauze of acceptable, practical thought.

If sanity is defined by the refusal to look beyond the mundane, then thank heaven for the glorious, necessary unsoundness that gives us the words to describe the sublime.

What Do You Think?

Do you agree that a departure from strict logic is necessary to appreciate poetry? Who is your favorite poet whose work seems to thrive on this “unsoundness” of mind? Share your thoughts 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.

Writing a book in 365 days – 274

Day 274

The day the story found me

…

The Day the Story Found Me: From Struggle to Sudden Spark

Every writer knows it. That dull ache in the chest, the persistent whisper of doubt, the relentless battle with the blank page. For the struggling writer, it’s a daily grind, a Sisyphean task where the boulder of ambition is constantly rolling back down the hill of reality. Rejection letters pile up, the coffee runs cold, and the endless pursuit of the perfect word feels less like a passion and more like a cruel cosmic joke.

You’ve tried everything. Outlines, free writing, prompts, word sprints. You’ve haunted libraries, notebooks clutched tight, hoping for osmosis to spark some brilliance. You’ve watched other writers soar, their words effortless, their stories finding homes, while yours remain orphans, lingering in the digital ether or gathering dust in a forgotten drawer. The financial strain is real, the sacrifices profound, and the question echoes louder each day: Am I even good enough? Is this all just a delusion?

You’re tired. Bone-deep, soul-weary tired.

And then, it happens.

It rarely comes when you’re looking for it, certainly not when you’re diligently sitting at your desk, forcing words onto the page. No, it’s often in the liminal spaces: while staring out a rain-streaked window on a bus, stirring sugar into cheap coffee at a diner, or perhaps in the hazy, half-awake moments just before dawn.

A vision.

It might be a place you’ve never seen, yet feel instantly familiar – a cobblestone street under a sky of bruised purple, a forgotten lighthouse crumbling into the sea, a bustling market stall overflowing with exotic spices. Or perhaps it’s a scene: a hushed conversation in the shadows, a desperate chase through a moonlit forest, a quiet moment of profound grief or unexpected joy that punches you in the gut with its raw emotion.

Sometimes, it’s a person. A face in a crowd that catches your eye, not because they’re strikingly beautiful, but because their expression holds a story – a flicker of sadness, a mischievous glint, a world-weary sigh. Or a voice, a fragment of dialogue overheard, that resonates with a truth so deep, it feels like it was meant for you alone.

It’s not just an idea; it’s an insistence. It’s a spark that hits the kindling of your tired soul, and suddenly, everything snaps into focus. It’s vivid, overwhelming, and utterly, undeniably real. It demands attention, a story clamoring to be told through your fingers, your voice. It vibrates with life, a fully formed universe begging to be unleashed.

And, suddenly…

The quiet hum of doubt is drowned out by a roar of possibility. The blank page, once a terrifying void, transforms into an eager canvas. Your fingers, which moments ago felt heavy and useless, now fly across the keyboard, barely keeping pace with the torrent of words pouring from your mind. The characters, the settings, the plot twists – they aren’t being invented; they’re being uncovered, as if they’ve always existed, just waiting for you to find them.

The weariness vanishes, replaced by an electrifying surge of energy. Hours bleed into minutes, the outside world fading into a blurry background. The coffee grows cold again, but this time, you don’t notice. You are a conduit, a vessel, connected to something vast and ancient and utterly magical. The story isn’t a task; it’s a fever, a joyous obsession. You are no longer struggling; you are creating. You are finally the writer you always knew you could be, because the story, in all its raw, vibrant glory, has finally found you.

This is the writer’s miracle. The moment when persistence meets pure, unadulterated inspiration. It’s a testament to showing up, even when it feels pointless. Because sometimes, all it takes is one single, unforgettable vision to remind you why you started, and to finally set your wildest tales free.

Have you ever experienced a moment like this? Share your stories of sudden inspiration in the comments below!

Writing a book in 365 days – 274

Day 274

The day the story found me

…

The Day the Story Found Me: From Struggle to Sudden Spark

Every writer knows it. That dull ache in the chest, the persistent whisper of doubt, the relentless battle with the blank page. For the struggling writer, it’s a daily grind, a Sisyphean task where the boulder of ambition is constantly rolling back down the hill of reality. Rejection letters pile up, the coffee runs cold, and the endless pursuit of the perfect word feels less like a passion and more like a cruel cosmic joke.

You’ve tried everything. Outlines, free writing, prompts, word sprints. You’ve haunted libraries, notebooks clutched tight, hoping for osmosis to spark some brilliance. You’ve watched other writers soar, their words effortless, their stories finding homes, while yours remain orphans, lingering in the digital ether or gathering dust in a forgotten drawer. The financial strain is real, the sacrifices profound, and the question echoes louder each day: Am I even good enough? Is this all just a delusion?

You’re tired. Bone-deep, soul-weary tired.

And then, it happens.

It rarely comes when you’re looking for it, certainly not when you’re diligently sitting at your desk, forcing words onto the page. No, it’s often in the liminal spaces: while staring out a rain-streaked window on a bus, stirring sugar into cheap coffee at a diner, or perhaps in the hazy, half-awake moments just before dawn.

A vision.

It might be a place you’ve never seen, yet feel instantly familiar – a cobblestone street under a sky of bruised purple, a forgotten lighthouse crumbling into the sea, a bustling market stall overflowing with exotic spices. Or perhaps it’s a scene: a hushed conversation in the shadows, a desperate chase through a moonlit forest, a quiet moment of profound grief or unexpected joy that punches you in the gut with its raw emotion.

Sometimes, it’s a person. A face in a crowd that catches your eye, not because they’re strikingly beautiful, but because their expression holds a story – a flicker of sadness, a mischievous glint, a world-weary sigh. Or a voice, a fragment of dialogue overheard, that resonates with a truth so deep, it feels like it was meant for you alone.

It’s not just an idea; it’s an insistence. It’s a spark that hits the kindling of your tired soul, and suddenly, everything snaps into focus. It’s vivid, overwhelming, and utterly, undeniably real. It demands attention, a story clamoring to be told through your fingers, your voice. It vibrates with life, a fully formed universe begging to be unleashed.

And, suddenly…

The quiet hum of doubt is drowned out by a roar of possibility. The blank page, once a terrifying void, transforms into an eager canvas. Your fingers, which moments ago felt heavy and useless, now fly across the keyboard, barely keeping pace with the torrent of words pouring from your mind. The characters, the settings, the plot twists – they aren’t being invented; they’re being uncovered, as if they’ve always existed, just waiting for you to find them.

The weariness vanishes, replaced by an electrifying surge of energy. Hours bleed into minutes, the outside world fading into a blurry background. The coffee grows cold again, but this time, you don’t notice. You are a conduit, a vessel, connected to something vast and ancient and utterly magical. The story isn’t a task; it’s a fever, a joyous obsession. You are no longer struggling; you are creating. You are finally the writer you always knew you could be, because the story, in all its raw, vibrant glory, has finally found you.

This is the writer’s miracle. The moment when persistence meets pure, unadulterated inspiration. It’s a testament to showing up, even when it feels pointless. Because sometimes, all it takes is one single, unforgettable vision to remind you why you started, and to finally set your wildest tales free.

Have you ever experienced a moment like this? Share your stories of sudden inspiration in the comments below!

Writing a book in 365 days – 273

Day 273

Writing Exercise

…

Wind back 22 years, 145 days, 15 hours, 17 minutes, and let’s not get down to seconds, but that was how long it had stuck in my mind, not for one minute letting it go.

When Angelique Bouvier dropped a note into the mailbox at home, telling me it was over. She did not say goodbye, she did not tell me she was leaving town, she just left me hanging.

She not only shocked me, but also just about everyone in our little town. We had known each other since we were five, went to grade school, middle school, and high school together, at at the end, we were going to the Prom, and then to college.

Or so I thought.

I arrived at her house in the hired limousine, willing to go the whole nine yards, as expected, only to find a completely empty house. No furniture, no people, nothing. Gone.

I was devastated. A lot of people were.

Wind on 22 years and 140 days, my life had just taken another turn, where I had just come home from the funeral of the woman I eventually married, once I could get past the grief. Annabel was, perhaps, more my counterpart because I knew I had been punching above my weight with Angelique. I did not have the sophistication, the languages, the grace or the knowledge she had, and more than once I felt her frustration at my provincial background.

But I thought she liked the idea of not being with someone as competitive, someone who could keep her grounded. I was wrong. Annabel convinced me of that, but not in a way that disparaged her rival, but that was Annabel. Friends with everyone, even her enemies. It was a testament that the whole town turned out at her funeral.

David and Jennifer were home, coming back from where they had started their adult lives, married and yet to start their own families. It was different now; they wanted to establish their careers first, then settle down. They would be around for the rest of the week and then gone.

It had been bearable with Annabel pottering about, but now she was gone, I was not looking forward to being alone in a great big house full of memories.

…

I took the children to the airport and saw them off. They promised to return soon, but promises I knew were easily broken. Work and life got in the way, and somehow time just passes, and the past slips into the ether. People come and people go, especially in small towns like ours, with little to keep them there.

Only three of those we went to school with remained, and only because they were the last generation of those who owned businesses, which one by one closed through lack of customers. People now went to the city just up the interstate, to malls that had everything cheaper.

I stopped in at the diner on the way back, one of the few places still thriving, for coffee and pie. Wilma, a fellow student and long-time resident, made the pies herself and still ran the diner with her children. Ray, her husband, had succumbed to cancer a few years back.

I sat on a stool, and she delivered a cup of coffee. “Pie?”

I nodded. When she returned, she put it in front of me, adding a dollop of cream.

“Kids on the way home?”

“Just dropped them off.”

“Back for Christmas?”

“They said so, but you know what it’s like. Big cities suck you into their vortex.”

She smiled. “You could always pay them a surprise visit.”

I could. Annabel was never in favour of surprising people, so we had not gone, not without asking first, and discovering they had always made other arrangements. She never let the disappointment show, but I knew it hurt her.

“Maybe, maybe not.”

She went away to tend another customer, then wandered back. She had been a good friend over the years, especially for Annabel during the worst time, after the diagnosis.

“See, your ex is splashed all over the internet.”

I never looked at the internet. That was Annabel’s thing. And Wilma always referred to Angelique as my ex. I guess she was, in a way.

“Annabel never mentioned it.”

“This is in the last few days.”

“Should I be interested?” I wasn’t, but I was just being polite.

“Maybe. She just got out of jail.”

…

I lie. I was always interested in the woman who could have destroyed my life. Where she went, who she met, what she did. And where she finished up.

Her life in a paragraph: she met the wrong man, willingly or otherwise, helping him to destroy a lot of lives, then he disappeared, and she was caught, and was paying for his crimes. He had set her up to take the fall, and take the fall she did. 20 years, 15 with parole. They let her out, and the woman I saw in the photos was nothing like the woman I once knew.

I didn’t feel sorry for her. Perhaps I should, but I didn’t.

A week later, I answered a knock on the door. I wasn’t going to because i knew who it would be.

“Hello, Eddie.”

That same voice, the one that sent shivers down my spine. Aged 40 years instead of the 20-odd that had passed. Prison could do that.

“Angel.”

I stayed behind the wire door, more than just a barrier between us.

“I came in person to apologise. It’s meaningless after all this time, but it was top of my list the moment I got out. I know you know where I’ve been, so I won’t insult your intelligence by lying.”

I wanted to ask the question, made up my mind if she turned up on my doorstep that I would ask her, and, now that she was here, that seemed irrelevant.

Instead, it slipped out. “Why?”

“We were hiding out in this place. My father and mother were criminals, and the day of the Prom, their past caught up with them. I was just collateral damage.”

“You didn’t have to follow in their footsteps.” OK, breaking all my promises to Annabel.

“It’s a story you would never believe, and again, not insulting your intelligence. Shit happened. Sometimes you’re so deep in the quicksand, there’s no getting out. I heard about Annabel, and I’m very sorry for your loss. I was happy when I heard you two got together. She was your perfect match, Ed, not me. Had we got together, you would have been collateral damage too.” She smiled wanly. “Job done. You won’t see me again.”

She turned away and started walking down the steps.

“I never got over what you did to me. I want to forgive you, but I just can’t.”

She stopped, turned around, and I could see the tears.

“I am truly sorry, Ed. I’ve had 22 years, 145 days, 15 hours, and,” She looked at her watch, “22 minutes to regret everything. I will never forgive myself. I could have told you what was going to happen, but I didn’t. I could have asked you to hide me away, but I didn’t. I knew what was going to happen and I did nothing about it.”

One decision can change your life. Completely.

“Where will you go?”

“Probably hell. I don’t deserve anything less.”

I shook my head. Annabel would be annoyed with me, not because of what I was thinking of doing, but because I had behaved the way I had.

I opened the door. “You can stay here until you figure it out. It’s hell of a different kind, so you’ll feel right at home.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 273

Day 273

Writing Exercise

…

Wind back 22 years, 145 days, 15 hours, 17 minutes, and let’s not get down to seconds, but that was how long it had stuck in my mind, not for one minute letting it go.

When Angelique Bouvier dropped a note into the mailbox at home, telling me it was over. She did not say goodbye, she did not tell me she was leaving town, she just left me hanging.

She not only shocked me, but also just about everyone in our little town. We had known each other since we were five, went to grade school, middle school, and high school together, at at the end, we were going to the Prom, and then to college.

Or so I thought.

I arrived at her house in the hired limousine, willing to go the whole nine yards, as expected, only to find a completely empty house. No furniture, no people, nothing. Gone.

I was devastated. A lot of people were.

Wind on 22 years and 140 days, my life had just taken another turn, where I had just come home from the funeral of the woman I eventually married, once I could get past the grief. Annabel was, perhaps, more my counterpart because I knew I had been punching above my weight with Angelique. I did not have the sophistication, the languages, the grace or the knowledge she had, and more than once I felt her frustration at my provincial background.

But I thought she liked the idea of not being with someone as competitive, someone who could keep her grounded. I was wrong. Annabel convinced me of that, but not in a way that disparaged her rival, but that was Annabel. Friends with everyone, even her enemies. It was a testament that the whole town turned out at her funeral.

David and Jennifer were home, coming back from where they had started their adult lives, married and yet to start their own families. It was different now; they wanted to establish their careers first, then settle down. They would be around for the rest of the week and then gone.

It had been bearable with Annabel pottering about, but now she was gone, I was not looking forward to being alone in a great big house full of memories.

…

I took the children to the airport and saw them off. They promised to return soon, but promises I knew were easily broken. Work and life got in the way, and somehow time just passes, and the past slips into the ether. People come and people go, especially in small towns like ours, with little to keep them there.

Only three of those we went to school with remained, and only because they were the last generation of those who owned businesses, which one by one closed through lack of customers. People now went to the city just up the interstate, to malls that had everything cheaper.

I stopped in at the diner on the way back, one of the few places still thriving, for coffee and pie. Wilma, a fellow student and long-time resident, made the pies herself and still ran the diner with her children. Ray, her husband, had succumbed to cancer a few years back.

I sat on a stool, and she delivered a cup of coffee. “Pie?”

I nodded. When she returned, she put it in front of me, adding a dollop of cream.

“Kids on the way home?”

“Just dropped them off.”

“Back for Christmas?”

“They said so, but you know what it’s like. Big cities suck you into their vortex.”

She smiled. “You could always pay them a surprise visit.”

I could. Annabel was never in favour of surprising people, so we had not gone, not without asking first, and discovering they had always made other arrangements. She never let the disappointment show, but I knew it hurt her.

“Maybe, maybe not.”

She went away to tend another customer, then wandered back. She had been a good friend over the years, especially for Annabel during the worst time, after the diagnosis.

“See, your ex is splashed all over the internet.”

I never looked at the internet. That was Annabel’s thing. And Wilma always referred to Angelique as my ex. I guess she was, in a way.

“Annabel never mentioned it.”

“This is in the last few days.”

“Should I be interested?” I wasn’t, but I was just being polite.

“Maybe. She just got out of jail.”

…

I lie. I was always interested in the woman who could have destroyed my life. Where she went, who she met, what she did. And where she finished up.

Her life in a paragraph: she met the wrong man, willingly or otherwise, helping him to destroy a lot of lives, then he disappeared, and she was caught, and was paying for his crimes. He had set her up to take the fall, and take the fall she did. 20 years, 15 with parole. They let her out, and the woman I saw in the photos was nothing like the woman I once knew.

I didn’t feel sorry for her. Perhaps I should, but I didn’t.

A week later, I answered a knock on the door. I wasn’t going to because i knew who it would be.

“Hello, Eddie.”

That same voice, the one that sent shivers down my spine. Aged 40 years instead of the 20-odd that had passed. Prison could do that.

“Angel.”

I stayed behind the wire door, more than just a barrier between us.

“I came in person to apologise. It’s meaningless after all this time, but it was top of my list the moment I got out. I know you know where I’ve been, so I won’t insult your intelligence by lying.”

I wanted to ask the question, made up my mind if she turned up on my doorstep that I would ask her, and, now that she was here, that seemed irrelevant.

Instead, it slipped out. “Why?”

“We were hiding out in this place. My father and mother were criminals, and the day of the Prom, their past caught up with them. I was just collateral damage.”

“You didn’t have to follow in their footsteps.” OK, breaking all my promises to Annabel.

“It’s a story you would never believe, and again, not insulting your intelligence. Shit happened. Sometimes you’re so deep in the quicksand, there’s no getting out. I heard about Annabel, and I’m very sorry for your loss. I was happy when I heard you two got together. She was your perfect match, Ed, not me. Had we got together, you would have been collateral damage too.” She smiled wanly. “Job done. You won’t see me again.”

She turned away and started walking down the steps.

“I never got over what you did to me. I want to forgive you, but I just can’t.”

She stopped, turned around, and I could see the tears.

“I am truly sorry, Ed. I’ve had 22 years, 145 days, 15 hours, and,” She looked at her watch, “22 minutes to regret everything. I will never forgive myself. I could have told you what was going to happen, but I didn’t. I could have asked you to hide me away, but I didn’t. I knew what was going to happen and I did nothing about it.”

One decision can change your life. Completely.

“Where will you go?”

“Probably hell. I don’t deserve anything less.”

I shook my head. Annabel would be annoyed with me, not because of what I was thinking of doing, but because I had behaved the way I had.

I opened the door. “You can stay here until you figure it out. It’s hell of a different kind, so you’ll feel right at home.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

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

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

It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.

…

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

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

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

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

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

Writing a book in 365 days – 272

Day 272

Coffee, Crumbs, and Creativity: The Writer’s Fuel Dilemma

There’s a specific kind of alchemy that happens when you’re truly in the writing zone. Words flow, ideas connect, and the world outside the screen (or notebook) fades into a hazy, unimportant blur. It’s a magical, almost spiritual state where the story dictates the pace and you’re merely its conduit.

But let’s be honest, that magic often comes at a cost, doesn’t it?

The Sustenance Struggle

For many of us, the quest for sustained creative output inevitably clashes with the very human need for sustenance. The ubiquitous cup of coffee, the endless mug of tea – these become less a beverage and more a life support system. We sip, we type, we chase the next sentence, convinced that stopping for something as mundane as a meal will shatter the fragile spell.

The thought of breaking that momentum, of stepping away from a scene that’s finally unravelling just right, for a sandwich or a proper dinner, feels like artistic treason. We tell ourselves we don’t have time. We can’t interrupt the process. The words are right there.

The Inevitable Crash

This fierce dedication, while admirable in its intensity, is a double-edged sword. Our brains, despite their boundless capacity for imagination, are still physical organs. They run on glucose, not just caffeine and sheer willpower. Our bodies, too, require fuel and rest.

So, what happens? We push through. We ignore the growling stomach, the flickering headache, the creeping brain fog. We power through on adrenaline and the rapidly diminishing returns of our stimulant of choice. Until, of course, the well dries up.

The words blur. The plot holes yawn. The characters suddenly feel flat. That vibrant spring of inspiration suddenly looks suspiciously like a dry puddle. We drop from exhaustion, or are forced to stop because the mental engine has finally sputtered out. The creative fire is banked, not because the ideas are gone, but because the vessel carrying them is depleted.

Refueling for the Long Haul

It’s in this forced pause that the deeper sustenance often arrives. Sleep isn’t just downtime; it’s vital processing time. It’s where your subconscious untangles plot knots, brews new ideas from disparate elements, and recharges the very batteries you’ve drained. Perhaps dreams, those wild, untamed narratives of our minds, become fertile ground for unexpected inspiration, offering a fresh perspective when you finally return to the page.

The lesson? Nurturing your body isn’t a distraction from your craft; it’s an integral part of it. Think of fueling yourself not as an interruption, but as an investment into longer, more productive, and ultimately more enjoyable writing sessions.

  • Pre-emptive Power: Before you dive deep, have a proper meal or at least a substantial snack. Think protein and complex carbs to avoid that precipitous sugar crash.
  • Hydrate Smarter: Water is your brain’s best friend. Keep a bottle within reach and sip regularly.
  • Strategic Breaks: A five-minute stretch, a quick walk to the kitchen for that piece of fruit, genuinely stepping away for a meal – these aren’t breaks from writing, they’re part of a sustainable writing practice. They allow your subconscious to work, your eyes to rest, and your body to refuel.
  • Listen to Your Body: Learn to recognize the early signs of fatigue and hunger. Don’t wait until you’re crashing to address them.

So, next time you feel that familiar pull into the writing vortex, pause for a moment. Ask yourself: Is my body fueled? Is my mind sustained? Because the most brilliant stories are often born not just from passion, but from the well-being that allows that passion to truly flourish.

How do you navigate the delicate dance between creative flow and basic needs? Share your tips for staying nourished and inspired in the comments below!

…

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

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

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

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

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

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

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

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

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

“Name of guest, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

© Charles Heath – 2018-2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 272

Day 272

Coffee, Crumbs, and Creativity: The Writer’s Fuel Dilemma

There’s a specific kind of alchemy that happens when you’re truly in the writing zone. Words flow, ideas connect, and the world outside the screen (or notebook) fades into a hazy, unimportant blur. It’s a magical, almost spiritual state where the story dictates the pace and you’re merely its conduit.

But let’s be honest, that magic often comes at a cost, doesn’t it?

The Sustenance Struggle

For many of us, the quest for sustained creative output inevitably clashes with the very human need for sustenance. The ubiquitous cup of coffee, the endless mug of tea – these become less a beverage and more a life support system. We sip, we type, we chase the next sentence, convinced that stopping for something as mundane as a meal will shatter the fragile spell.

The thought of breaking that momentum, of stepping away from a scene that’s finally unravelling just right, for a sandwich or a proper dinner, feels like artistic treason. We tell ourselves we don’t have time. We can’t interrupt the process. The words are right there.

The Inevitable Crash

This fierce dedication, while admirable in its intensity, is a double-edged sword. Our brains, despite their boundless capacity for imagination, are still physical organs. They run on glucose, not just caffeine and sheer willpower. Our bodies, too, require fuel and rest.

So, what happens? We push through. We ignore the growling stomach, the flickering headache, the creeping brain fog. We power through on adrenaline and the rapidly diminishing returns of our stimulant of choice. Until, of course, the well dries up.

The words blur. The plot holes yawn. The characters suddenly feel flat. That vibrant spring of inspiration suddenly looks suspiciously like a dry puddle. We drop from exhaustion, or are forced to stop because the mental engine has finally sputtered out. The creative fire is banked, not because the ideas are gone, but because the vessel carrying them is depleted.

Refueling for the Long Haul

It’s in this forced pause that the deeper sustenance often arrives. Sleep isn’t just downtime; it’s vital processing time. It’s where your subconscious untangles plot knots, brews new ideas from disparate elements, and recharges the very batteries you’ve drained. Perhaps dreams, those wild, untamed narratives of our minds, become fertile ground for unexpected inspiration, offering a fresh perspective when you finally return to the page.

The lesson? Nurturing your body isn’t a distraction from your craft; it’s an integral part of it. Think of fueling yourself not as an interruption, but as an investment into longer, more productive, and ultimately more enjoyable writing sessions.

  • Pre-emptive Power: Before you dive deep, have a proper meal or at least a substantial snack. Think protein and complex carbs to avoid that precipitous sugar crash.
  • Hydrate Smarter: Water is your brain’s best friend. Keep a bottle within reach and sip regularly.
  • Strategic Breaks: A five-minute stretch, a quick walk to the kitchen for that piece of fruit, genuinely stepping away for a meal – these aren’t breaks from writing, they’re part of a sustainable writing practice. They allow your subconscious to work, your eyes to rest, and your body to refuel.
  • Listen to Your Body: Learn to recognize the early signs of fatigue and hunger. Don’t wait until you’re crashing to address them.

So, next time you feel that familiar pull into the writing vortex, pause for a moment. Ask yourself: Is my body fueled? Is my mind sustained? Because the most brilliant stories are often born not just from passion, but from the well-being that allows that passion to truly flourish.

How do you navigate the delicate dance between creative flow and basic needs? Share your tips for staying nourished and inspired in the comments below!

…