Tag: Books

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 198

Day 198 – Robert Heinlein’s five business habits for writers

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Master the Craft: 5 Business Habits of Robert A. Heinlein (And Why One is So Contested)

When people think of Robert A. Heinlein, they picture a grandmaster of science fiction. Alongside Isaac Asimov and Arthur C. Clarke, Heinlein was one of the “Big Three” writers who shaped the genre during its Golden Age, penning timeless classics like Starship Troopers, Stranger in Strange Land, and The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress.

However, Heinlein was more than just a visionary storyteller; he was a disciplined professional. Long before he became a household name, he treated writing not as a fragile artistic muse, but as a hard-nosed business.

In his famous essay “On the Writing of Speculative Fiction” (and later expanded in letters and his collection Grumbles from the Grave), Heinlein laid out five simple rules for writing success. They sound deceptively easy, but together, they form a rigorous boot camp for any aspiring author.

While four of these rules are widely accepted wisdom in the writing community, the third rule remains a fierce point of debate among authors, editors, and writing coaches to this day.

Let’s break down Heinlein’s five business rules, examine why they work, and dive into the controversy surrounding rule number three.

Heinlein’s 5 Rules for Writers

Heinlein stated these rules with trademark bluntness. If you want to make a living as a writer, he argued, you only need to follow these steps:

  1. You must write.
  2. You must finish what you start.
  3. You must refrain from rewriting except to editorial order. (The Contested One)
  4. You must put the work on the market.
  5. You must keep the work on the market until it is sold.

At a glance, this looks like a blueprint for industrial-scale content production. Let’s look at each one to understand the philosophy behind the master’s machine.

Rule 1: You must write.

It sounds painfully obvious, but millions of aspiring writers fail at the very first hurdle. They talk about writing, they think about writing, and they outline for years. Heinlein’s point is that a writer writes. Ideas are worthless until they hit the page. You cannot call yourself a writer based on your potential; you are only a writer based on your output.

Rule 2: You must finish what you start.

Half-written manuscripts sitting in a digital graveyard earn zero dollars and tell zero stories. Heinlein argued that writers who constantly abandon projects to start “better” ideas train themselves in the habit of quitting. Finishing a flawed book teaches you infinitely more than abandoning a brilliant premise at Chapter Three.

Rule 3: You must refrain from rewriting except to editorial order.

Cue the record scratch.

This is where the collective groan of the modern writing community echoes across the internet.

In Heinlein’s view, endlessly tweaking, polishing, and revising your own work is a trap—a form of procrastination disguised as perfectionism. He believed that the longer a manuscript sat on your desk, the colder it got, and the more likely you were to tinker it to death. Furthermore, if you are revising endlessly before selling, you aren’t producing new work. Write it, get it as right as you can the first time, and move on. Revise only when a paying editor tells you what needs to be fixed.

Why is this rule so contestible today? Modern creative writing culture is built on the altar of the revision. Today’s authors are told that “writing is rewriting,” and that the real magic happens in drafts two, three, and four (and beyond). Writers work with critique partners, developmental editors, and beta readers to refine pacing, deepen character arcs, and fix plot holes before ever submitting a manuscript to a publisher or self-publishing platform.

Critics of Heinlein’s third rule argue that:

  • Writing standards have changed: Readers and publishers expect a higher level of polish in a first submission today than they did in the mid-20th-century pulp magazine era.
  • Heinlein was a genetic anomaly: Heinlein famously claimed that his first drafts required virtually no corrections. Not every writer possesses the preternatural internal editor that Heinlein had.
  • Self-publishing demands quality control: In the indie publishing boom, authors act as their own publishers. If you don’t revise your work heavily before hitting “publish,” the reviews will be merciless.

The Defense of Rule 3: To be fair to Heinlein, his rule is often misunderstood. He wasn’t saying “turn in sloppy first drafts.” He was saying, “Trust your initial creative instinct, finish the book, and get it out the door.” He wanted writers to avoid the endless loop of self-doubt where a manuscript is trapped in revision purgatory for five years. For high-output authors (especially in genres like sci-fi, fantasy, and romance), over-editing can indeed be a profit-killing waste of time.

Rule 4: You must put the work on the market.

A manuscript gathering dust in a drawer or a hidden folder on your desktop has a success rate of 0%. Heinlein was ruthless about this: a writer’s job doesn’t end when the typing stops. You have to submit the work to agents, publishers, or—in today’s landscape—platforms where readers can buy it. Fear of rejection keeps too many great stories locked away. Put the product on the shelf.

Rule 5: You must keep the work on the market until it is sold.

If magazine A rejects your short story, send it to magazine B. If publisher X passes on your novel, submit it to publisher Y (or self-publish it). Heinlein understood the statistics of the business. Rejection is rarely a definitive judgment of a story’s quality; often, it’s just a mismatch of taste, timing, or market trends. A professional writer keeps the inventory circulating until it finds a home.

How to Apply Heinlein’s Wisdom Today

You don’t have to agree with 100% of Heinlein’s advice to benefit from his core philosophy. Here is how you can synthesize his business habits for the modern writing era:

  • Treat writing like a job: Show up consistently. Word counts matter.
  • Embrace completion: Fight the urge to abandon projects when the initial dopamine rush fades. Push through the messy middle and type “The End.”
  • Find a balance on revisions: Respect modern standards of quality, but beware of “perfectionism paralysis.” Set a deadline for your edits, and once the book is strong, let it go into the world.
  • Detach your ego from rejection: Rejections aren’t personal failures; they are simply shipping expenses on the road to publication.

Final Thoughts

Robert A. Heinlein’s five rules remind us that writing is both an art and a business. While his third rule—avoiding major rewrites unless requested by an editor—remains a hot-button debate in writers’ circles, the underlying mindset is bulletproof: produce, finish, submit, and repeat.

What do you think? Can modern authors survive by following Heinlein’s strict “no rewriting” policy, or is rule number three a relic of a bygone era? Let us know your thoughts in the comments below!

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

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

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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.

What I learned about writing: What will happen to the hero?

The Novelist’s Secret: We’re Just As Curious As You Are

We all know the feeling. It’s midnight, the house is dark, and you are gripping the latest thriller, utterly unable to put it down. Your heart pounds, palms sweat, and the only certainty in the universe is the desperate need to know: Will the hero survive?

This is the glorious, undeniable suspense of the reader. We assume this thrill is exclusive to us—the consumers of the story.

But what if I told you that, sitting across the desk, hunched over a lukewarm cup of coffee and a blinking cursor, the person crafting the plot is often experiencing the very same, stomach-dropping curiosity?

The prevailing image of the novelist is that of an omniscient deity, a master architect meticulously placing every brick, knowing how the structure must inevitably fall. While some writers certainly embody this role—the celebrated “plotters”—the deepest, most resonant stories often emerge when the creator surrenders control and becomes, quite simply, the hero’s most dedicated and most anxious first reader.

The suspense of a novel is not only in the reader but also in the novelist, who is equally curious about what will happen to the hero. This is the great secret of discovery writing: The story is not written; it is uncovered.

The Myth of the Master Plan

For those who write by “discovery” (often affectionately termed “pantsers,” because they write by the seat of their pants), the process is less like following a blueprint and more like exploring a vast, uncharted cave. You have a flashlight (your protagonist’s core motivation) and a general direction, but you have no idea if the path ahead leads to a treasure chamber or a sudden, terrifying drop.

When a writer starts a story this way, the suspense is inherent in every word. Every time the protagonist is confronted with a choice, the author holds their breath, asking:

Will he take the risk, or play it safe?
Will she finally tell the truth, even though it ruins everything?
Is this conflict a dead end, or a pivot point?
This is not simple intellectual curiosity; it is a genuine, existential stake in the outcome. The novelist is betting their time, their craft, and the integrity of the entire manuscript on the hero making an organic, believable next move—a move the novelist themselves must wait to witness.

When Characters Take the Wheel

The moment a character truly comes alive is the moment they cease being a puppet for the writer’s agenda and become an autonomous force.

This is the thrilling, terrifying point of no return for the author. The character stops doing what the outline demands and starts doing what they would logically do, given their history, flaws, and desires.

Many authors describe this sensation. Characters rebel. They refuse to fall in love with the intended partner. They walked out of the room when they were supposed to deliver a crucial monologue. They exhibit an inconvenient, but utterly truthful, streak of self-sabotage that the author never planned.

When this happens, the novelist’s job shifts from creator to witness. We are no longer designing the journey; we are scrambling to keep up, racing down the page just to see how our heroes will resolve the mess they’ve just made.

This is the purest form of writerly suspense. We are tied to the narrative not just by obligation, but by a sudden, intense fear for our creation. Will this impulsive decision ruin the story? Or will it, astonishingly, unlock the one perfect plot twist we never saw coming?

The Unique Burden of the Author’s Suspense

The reader’s suspense is passive; it is the anticipation of consumption. The author’s suspense, however, is active; it is the anxiety of creation and execution.

An author’s curiosity isn’t just about what happens, but about how they are going to manage to write it convincingly.

If the hero is trapped in a burning building, the reader wonders: How will he get out?

The novelist wonders: How will he get out, and can I write that scene with enough detail, tension, and structural integrity that the whole book doesn’t collapse at this crucial moment?

The novelist’s curiosity is perpetually interwoven with the demands of craft. We are curious about the outcome, but we are also desperately curious about our own ability to deliver that outcome flawlessly. We are thrilled by the uncertainty, but burdened by the knowledge that we are responsible for making that uncertainty pay off.

The Beautiful Surrender

To create genuine suspense for the reader, the writer must first allow themselves to feel it. The greatest narratives are not those where the author is in total control, but those where the author has surrendered enough control to be genuinely surprised.

If the author already knows every character beat, every twist, and every final line, the writing process can become mechanical and stale—and that flatness will invariably translate to the finished page.

The writer who is slightly nervous, slightly unsure, and deeply invested in the fate of their protagonist is the writer who is pouring genuine, fresh energy into the text.

So the next time you are lost in a book, turning pages in a fever pitch of excitement, remember the person who wrote it. They may have been turning those internal pages just as quickly, hoping, fearing, and discovering the story right alongside you.

This shared curiosity—this simultaneous suspense binding creator and consumer—is perhaps the purest magic of the human-authored novel. It is the moment we realise that writing is not the act of manufacturing an inevitability, but the wondrous challenge of documenting a life that insists on being lived.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 197

Day 197 – Being Free to Choose

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Fearless Creation: Decoding Langston Hughes on Artistic Freedom and Courage

“An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose.” — Langston Hughes

Art is often romanticised as a peaceful sanctuary of self-expression. We picture the painter in a sunlit studio, the writer with a blank page waiting for inspiration, or the musician plucking chords in quiet solitude. But true art has never really been about comfort. It has always been about courage.

Few literary figures understood the dual burden of freedom and fear better than Langston Hughes. As a leading voice of the Harlem Renaissance, Hughes used his poetry, plays, and prose to capture the rhythm of jazz, the pain of segregation, and the enduring resilience of Black America. He didn’t just write about freedom; he practised it on the page.

In this powerful quote, Hughes separates the concept of artistic freedom from the courage required to execute it. Let’s dive deep into what this means for creators, innovators, and anyone trying to live an authentic life.

Part 1: “An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly…”

The first half of Hughes’s statement champions autonomy. On paper, freedom of choice sounds simple. As an artist, you decide your medium, your subject matter, your tone, and your audience. You hold the brush, the pen, or the microphone.

However, true artistic choice is constantly under siege. Creators face immense external pressures:

  • Market Demands: Algorithms, publishers, and galleries often reward what is familiar, marketable, and safe.
  • Societal Expectations: Audiences and critics often want artists to stay in their lane, repeating past successes rather than evolving.
  • Censorship: Throughout history—and continuing today—authorities and cultural gatekeepers actively attempt to restrict what artists are allowed to explore.

Hughes knew firsthand the pressure to conform. Writing in the mid-20th century, he was often told by critics (both white and Black) how a Black writer “should” portray the African American experience. Some wanted him to write respectable, uplifting propaganda; others wanted him to cater to white voyeurism.

Hughes rejected these boxes. He chose to write about the blues, the working class, the marginalised, and the joyful. He insisted on his right to choose his own canvas. But as he reminds us in the second half of his quote, having the right to choose is only half the battle.

Part 2: “…but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose.”

Here is where the quote transforms from a statement on liberty into a challenge on bravery.

You can have all the freedom in the world, but if you are paralysed by the fear of the consequences, that freedom is useless. Hughes suggests that the scariest part of being an artist isn’t the blank page—it’s the realisation of where your own creative instincts might lead you.

What happens when your choices lead you to:

  • Expose uncomfortable truths? (About society, politics, or your own family?)
  • Risk failure or ridicule? (Putting out a piece of work that completely misses the mark?)
  • Alienate your audience? (Challenging the very people who supported your previous work?)
  • Discover something dark within yourself? (Honest art requires confronting our own flaws, biases, and sorrows.)

Fear is the silent killer of originality. It whispers, “What will they think?” or “You’re going to get cancelled, mocked, or ignored.” To combat this, Hughes argues that an artist must cultivate a radical lack of fear toward their own potential. You must be willing to follow your muse down dark alleys, into political firestorms, or through experimental phases that defy logic.

Why This Quote Matters Beyond the Art World

You don’t have to be a published poet or a gallery-represented painter to live by Langston Hughes’s words. In a broader sense, we are all artists of our own lives.

Every day, we make choices about our careers, our relationships, our values, and our voices. We might have the theoretical freedom to change jobs, speak truth to power, or pursue an unconventional path, but we often hold ourselves back because we are terrified of what we might discover—or what others might say—if we actually follow through.

Hughes’s quote is a call to action for anyone feeling stuck:

  1. Claim your autonomy: Stop waiting for permission to pursue what matters to you.
  2. Face your internal resistance: Acknowledge that the fear of judgment or failure is normal, but refuse to let it dictate your output.
  3. Trust your instincts: Be brave enough to execute the ideas that scare you just a little bit. Usually, that’s where the magic is.

Final Thoughts

Langston Hughes lived his art fearlessly. He wrote about race in America with an unflinching honesty that infuriated bigots and challenged the status quo. He didn’t shy away from the difficult choices, and because of that, his voice echoes powerfully across generations.

Artistic freedom is a fragile gift, but it is powerless without courage. As you create, build, or simply try to navigate your own path today, remember Hughes’s wisdom. Choose what you want to do—and then, with zero hesitation, have the courage to actually do it.

What creative choices have you been hesitating to make out of fear? How do you overcome the pressure to conform in your work? Let us know in the comments below!

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365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 197

Day 197 – Being Free to Choose

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Fearless Creation: Decoding Langston Hughes on Artistic Freedom and Courage

“An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose.” — Langston Hughes

Art is often romanticised as a peaceful sanctuary of self-expression. We picture the painter in a sunlit studio, the writer with a blank page waiting for inspiration, or the musician plucking chords in quiet solitude. But true art has never really been about comfort. It has always been about courage.

Few literary figures understood the dual burden of freedom and fear better than Langston Hughes. As a leading voice of the Harlem Renaissance, Hughes used his poetry, plays, and prose to capture the rhythm of jazz, the pain of segregation, and the enduring resilience of Black America. He didn’t just write about freedom; he practised it on the page.

In this powerful quote, Hughes separates the concept of artistic freedom from the courage required to execute it. Let’s dive deep into what this means for creators, innovators, and anyone trying to live an authentic life.

Part 1: “An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly…”

The first half of Hughes’s statement champions autonomy. On paper, freedom of choice sounds simple. As an artist, you decide your medium, your subject matter, your tone, and your audience. You hold the brush, the pen, or the microphone.

However, true artistic choice is constantly under siege. Creators face immense external pressures:

  • Market Demands: Algorithms, publishers, and galleries often reward what is familiar, marketable, and safe.
  • Societal Expectations: Audiences and critics often want artists to stay in their lane, repeating past successes rather than evolving.
  • Censorship: Throughout history—and continuing today—authorities and cultural gatekeepers actively attempt to restrict what artists are allowed to explore.

Hughes knew firsthand the pressure to conform. Writing in the mid-20th century, he was often told by critics (both white and Black) how a Black writer “should” portray the African American experience. Some wanted him to write respectable, uplifting propaganda; others wanted him to cater to white voyeurism.

Hughes rejected these boxes. He chose to write about the blues, the working class, the marginalised, and the joyful. He insisted on his right to choose his own canvas. But as he reminds us in the second half of his quote, having the right to choose is only half the battle.

Part 2: “…but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose.”

Here is where the quote transforms from a statement on liberty into a challenge on bravery.

You can have all the freedom in the world, but if you are paralysed by the fear of the consequences, that freedom is useless. Hughes suggests that the scariest part of being an artist isn’t the blank page—it’s the realisation of where your own creative instincts might lead you.

What happens when your choices lead you to:

  • Expose uncomfortable truths? (About society, politics, or your own family?)
  • Risk failure or ridicule? (Putting out a piece of work that completely misses the mark?)
  • Alienate your audience? (Challenging the very people who supported your previous work?)
  • Discover something dark within yourself? (Honest art requires confronting our own flaws, biases, and sorrows.)

Fear is the silent killer of originality. It whispers, “What will they think?” or “You’re going to get cancelled, mocked, or ignored.” To combat this, Hughes argues that an artist must cultivate a radical lack of fear toward their own potential. You must be willing to follow your muse down dark alleys, into political firestorms, or through experimental phases that defy logic.

Why This Quote Matters Beyond the Art World

You don’t have to be a published poet or a gallery-represented painter to live by Langston Hughes’s words. In a broader sense, we are all artists of our own lives.

Every day, we make choices about our careers, our relationships, our values, and our voices. We might have the theoretical freedom to change jobs, speak truth to power, or pursue an unconventional path, but we often hold ourselves back because we are terrified of what we might discover—or what others might say—if we actually follow through.

Hughes’s quote is a call to action for anyone feeling stuck:

  1. Claim your autonomy: Stop waiting for permission to pursue what matters to you.
  2. Face your internal resistance: Acknowledge that the fear of judgment or failure is normal, but refuse to let it dictate your output.
  3. Trust your instincts: Be brave enough to execute the ideas that scare you just a little bit. Usually, that’s where the magic is.

Final Thoughts

Langston Hughes lived his art fearlessly. He wrote about race in America with an unflinching honesty that infuriated bigots and challenged the status quo. He didn’t shy away from the difficult choices, and because of that, his voice echoes powerfully across generations.

Artistic freedom is a fragile gift, but it is powerless without courage. As you create, build, or simply try to navigate your own path today, remember Hughes’s wisdom. Choose what you want to do—and then, with zero hesitation, have the courage to actually do it.

What creative choices have you been hesitating to make out of fear? How do you overcome the pressure to conform in your work? Let us know in the comments below!

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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.

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Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

What I learned about writing – The use of flashbacks

The Flashback Dilemma: Craft Tool or Narrative Crutch?

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

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

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

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

The Pitfalls of a Lazily Written Flashback

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

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

The Art of a Well-Constructed Flashback

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

Here’s what makes a flashback effective:

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

Conclusion: A Tool for the Master, Not the Apprentice

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

Before you insert a flashback, ask yourself:

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

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

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

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 196

Day 196 – Solving writing problems

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The Ultimate Writing Hack? Why Carl Reiner’s “Driving and Talking” Method Works (And How to Use It)

Picture this: Legend of comedy Carl Reiner is behind the wheel, cruising down the highway, carrying on a hilarious, animated conversation with… absolutely no one.

To a passing driver, he might look like he’s lost his marbles. But to the creative genius behind The Dick Van Dyke Show and The 2000 Year Old Man, he was hard at work. Reiner famously relied on a peculiar yet powerful writing technique to solve his thorniest narrative problems: driving around and talking out loud to himself.

It sounds eccentric. But is it actually a viable method for tackling writer’s block, structuring plots, and developing dialogue? And more importantly—will it work for you?

Let’s pull back the hood on this unconventional writing strategy, explore the science behind why it works, and look at how you can apply it to your own writing process.

The Carl Reiner Method: How a Legend Solved Story Problems

Carl Reiner wasn’t just a writer; he was a master of comedic timing and narrative pacing. But even comedy legends hit walls. When a scene felt flat, a joke lacked punch, or a plot point refused to click, Reiner didn’t just stare blankly at a blinking cursor. He got in his car.

In the car, free from the physical constraints of a desk and the glaring pressure of a blank page, Reiner would talk to himself. He would pitch lines, argue both sides of an argument, act out character reactions, and narrate action sequences out loud. By the time he got back home, the problem was usually solved.

He wasn’t alone in this. Countless creators, from novelists to screenwriters, swear by the power of vocalisation. But why is a method usually reserved for eccentric commuters actually a goldmine for productivity?

The Science of Out-Loud Thinking: Why Talking to Yourself Cures Writer’s Block

It turns out that talking to yourself in a moving vehicle isn’t just a quirky habit—it’s a neurological cheat code. Here is why the Reiner method is so effective:

1. It Engages the Auditory Loop

When we write, our internal monologue moves fast—often too fast. We skip over logic gaps because our brains instinctively fill in what we mean to say, rather than what is actually on the page.

When you speak your ideas out loud, you force your brain to process them through the auditory loop. Hearing your words in real-time allows you to immediately catch clunky dialogue, pacing issues, and tonal inconsistencies. If a sentence makes you stumble while saying it aloud, your reader is going to stumble over it, too.

2. The Cognitive Offloading of Driving

Why do our best ideas happen in the shower, on a walk, or behind the wheel? Psychologists call this cognitive offloading.

Driving is a largely procedural task that requires just enough low-level brainpower to keep your hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road. This occupies the part of your brain prone to overthinking and anxiety (the default mode network), leaving your subconscious mind free to make wild, creative connections.

3. Activating Performance and Persona

Writing can feel sterile. Sitting at a keyboard is a sedentary, introverted act.

Speaking aloud, however, is a performance. When you talk out loud as your characters, you step into their shoes. You feel the cadence of their speech, the heat of their anger, or the charm of their wit. It shifts your brain from “analyst mode” to “storyteller mode.”

Will It Work for You? (Pros and Cons)

While this method worked wonders for Carl Reiner, every writer’s brain is wired differently. Let’s weigh the benefits and potential drawbacks.

The Pros:

  • Instant Dialogue Polish: Hearing words spoken aloud is the ultimate litmus test for natural-sounding dialogue.
  • Beats Writer’s Block: Movement and vocalisation break the hypnotic, paralysing trance of staring at a blank screen.
  • Multitasking Creativity: You are turning “dead time” (commuting, running errands) into productive ideation time.

The Cons:

  • Distraction Risks: Safety first! If talking through a complex plot point causes you to miss your exit or run a red light, pull over.
  • Transcription Friction: Unlike typing, you can’t easily capture spontaneous brilliance unless you have a voice recorder running (more on that later).
  • Self-Consciousness: If you live in a dense urban area or drive a convertible, you might feel a bit silly yelling at your dashboard.

How to Adapt the Reiner Method for Your Writing Routine

You don’t need to lease a luxury sedan to reap the benefits of Carl Reiner’s favourite writing hack. Here is how you can integrate the “drive and talk” method into your workflow—safely and effectively:

1. Use the “Voice Memo” Safety Net

Never try to rely on memory alone. Before you put the car in drive, open a voice-recording app on your phone (or use a dedicated dictaphone) and mount it securely. Treat your car like a mobile podcast studio. Ramble, argue, pitch, and brainstorm freely, knowing it’s all being captured.

2. Go with a Prompt or Problem

Don’t just get in the car and hope for inspiration. Define your mission before you turn the ignition. For example: “How do I get Character A from the diner to the crime scene without it feeling forced?” or “Let’s workshop the argument between the spouses in Chapter 4.” Give your subconscious a specific target.

3. Roleplay Both Sides

Reiner was famous for playing multiple parts. If you are struggling with a scene between two characters, play both of them. Switch your pitch, adopt different accents, and let them have a verbal sparring match. You’ll often find that the characters will organically steer the scene in a direction you hadn’t planned—and that direction is usually the right one.

4. No Car? No Problem (The “Walk and Talk”)

If you don’t drive, don’t worry. The principle remains the same: movement plus vocalisation. Pop in some wireless earbuds, turn on your voice recorder app, and go for a brisk walk around your neighbourhood. (Bonus: Walking outdoors is also scientifically proven to boost creative output).

The Verdict: Give Your Writing a Voice

Carl Reiner proved that great comedy—and great writing in general—isn’t always born in absolute silence. Sometimes, it’s forged at 45 miles per hour, fueled by caffeine, road signs, and a writer talking animatedly to themselves.

If you are feeling stuck on a plot hole or your dialogue is feeling wooden, stop staring at the screen. Step away from the desk, grab your voice recorder, and take a drive. Your inner Carl Reiner is waiting to take the wheel.

Have you ever tried talking out loud to solve a creative problem? Let us know your favourite unconventional writing hacks in the comments below!

…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 196

Day 196 – Solving writing problems

…

The Ultimate Writing Hack? Why Carl Reiner’s “Driving and Talking” Method Works (And How to Use It)

Picture this: Legend of comedy Carl Reiner is behind the wheel, cruising down the highway, carrying on a hilarious, animated conversation with… absolutely no one.

To a passing driver, he might look like he’s lost his marbles. But to the creative genius behind The Dick Van Dyke Show and The 2000 Year Old Man, he was hard at work. Reiner famously relied on a peculiar yet powerful writing technique to solve his thorniest narrative problems: driving around and talking out loud to himself.

It sounds eccentric. But is it actually a viable method for tackling writer’s block, structuring plots, and developing dialogue? And more importantly—will it work for you?

Let’s pull back the hood on this unconventional writing strategy, explore the science behind why it works, and look at how you can apply it to your own writing process.

The Carl Reiner Method: How a Legend Solved Story Problems

Carl Reiner wasn’t just a writer; he was a master of comedic timing and narrative pacing. But even comedy legends hit walls. When a scene felt flat, a joke lacked punch, or a plot point refused to click, Reiner didn’t just stare blankly at a blinking cursor. He got in his car.

In the car, free from the physical constraints of a desk and the glaring pressure of a blank page, Reiner would talk to himself. He would pitch lines, argue both sides of an argument, act out character reactions, and narrate action sequences out loud. By the time he got back home, the problem was usually solved.

He wasn’t alone in this. Countless creators, from novelists to screenwriters, swear by the power of vocalisation. But why is a method usually reserved for eccentric commuters actually a goldmine for productivity?

The Science of Out-Loud Thinking: Why Talking to Yourself Cures Writer’s Block

It turns out that talking to yourself in a moving vehicle isn’t just a quirky habit—it’s a neurological cheat code. Here is why the Reiner method is so effective:

1. It Engages the Auditory Loop

When we write, our internal monologue moves fast—often too fast. We skip over logic gaps because our brains instinctively fill in what we mean to say, rather than what is actually on the page.

When you speak your ideas out loud, you force your brain to process them through the auditory loop. Hearing your words in real-time allows you to immediately catch clunky dialogue, pacing issues, and tonal inconsistencies. If a sentence makes you stumble while saying it aloud, your reader is going to stumble over it, too.

2. The Cognitive Offloading of Driving

Why do our best ideas happen in the shower, on a walk, or behind the wheel? Psychologists call this cognitive offloading.

Driving is a largely procedural task that requires just enough low-level brainpower to keep your hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road. This occupies the part of your brain prone to overthinking and anxiety (the default mode network), leaving your subconscious mind free to make wild, creative connections.

3. Activating Performance and Persona

Writing can feel sterile. Sitting at a keyboard is a sedentary, introverted act.

Speaking aloud, however, is a performance. When you talk out loud as your characters, you step into their shoes. You feel the cadence of their speech, the heat of their anger, or the charm of their wit. It shifts your brain from “analyst mode” to “storyteller mode.”

Will It Work for You? (Pros and Cons)

While this method worked wonders for Carl Reiner, every writer’s brain is wired differently. Let’s weigh the benefits and potential drawbacks.

The Pros:

  • Instant Dialogue Polish: Hearing words spoken aloud is the ultimate litmus test for natural-sounding dialogue.
  • Beats Writer’s Block: Movement and vocalisation break the hypnotic, paralysing trance of staring at a blank screen.
  • Multitasking Creativity: You are turning “dead time” (commuting, running errands) into productive ideation time.

The Cons:

  • Distraction Risks: Safety first! If talking through a complex plot point causes you to miss your exit or run a red light, pull over.
  • Transcription Friction: Unlike typing, you can’t easily capture spontaneous brilliance unless you have a voice recorder running (more on that later).
  • Self-Consciousness: If you live in a dense urban area or drive a convertible, you might feel a bit silly yelling at your dashboard.

How to Adapt the Reiner Method for Your Writing Routine

You don’t need to lease a luxury sedan to reap the benefits of Carl Reiner’s favourite writing hack. Here is how you can integrate the “drive and talk” method into your workflow—safely and effectively:

1. Use the “Voice Memo” Safety Net

Never try to rely on memory alone. Before you put the car in drive, open a voice-recording app on your phone (or use a dedicated dictaphone) and mount it securely. Treat your car like a mobile podcast studio. Ramble, argue, pitch, and brainstorm freely, knowing it’s all being captured.

2. Go with a Prompt or Problem

Don’t just get in the car and hope for inspiration. Define your mission before you turn the ignition. For example: “How do I get Character A from the diner to the crime scene without it feeling forced?” or “Let’s workshop the argument between the spouses in Chapter 4.” Give your subconscious a specific target.

3. Roleplay Both Sides

Reiner was famous for playing multiple parts. If you are struggling with a scene between two characters, play both of them. Switch your pitch, adopt different accents, and let them have a verbal sparring match. You’ll often find that the characters will organically steer the scene in a direction you hadn’t planned—and that direction is usually the right one.

4. No Car? No Problem (The “Walk and Talk”)

If you don’t drive, don’t worry. The principle remains the same: movement plus vocalisation. Pop in some wireless earbuds, turn on your voice recorder app, and go for a brisk walk around your neighbourhood. (Bonus: Walking outdoors is also scientifically proven to boost creative output).

The Verdict: Give Your Writing a Voice

Carl Reiner proved that great comedy—and great writing in general—isn’t always born in absolute silence. Sometimes, it’s forged at 45 miles per hour, fueled by caffeine, road signs, and a writer talking animatedly to themselves.

If you are feeling stuck on a plot hole or your dialogue is feeling wooden, stop staring at the screen. Step away from the desk, grab your voice recorder, and take a drive. Your inner Carl Reiner is waiting to take the wheel.

Have you ever tried talking out loud to solve a creative problem? Let us know your favourite unconventional writing hacks in the comments below!

…

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

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

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

It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.

…

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

They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable 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.