Tag: Books

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 233

Day 233 – Brevity in writing

…

The Goldilocks Dilemma in Content Creation: How to Find Your Readers’ Sweet Spot

Let’s be honest: in the digital age, attention is the world’s most valuable currency.

Every time someone opens a browser, scrolls through social media, or checks their email inbox, they are bombarded with thousands of competing messages. Videos auto-play, notifications ping, and headlines scream for a fraction of a second of their day.

For writers, bloggers, and marketers, grabbing the reader’s attention is only half the battle. Keeping it is where the real war is fought.

This brings us to the eternal debate of the digital writing world: brevity. We are constantly told to keep it short, keep it punchy, and cut the fluff. But in our quest to be concise, are we starving our readers of the depth they actually crave? Is there a line where “short” turns into “shallow,” and “long” turns into “boring”?

Let’s explore the Goldilocks dilemma of content length—how to know what is too much, what is not enough, and how to keep your readers hooked right down to the final period.

The Death of the Attention Span (And Why It’s a Myth)

You’ve probably heard the statistic a dozen times: Humans now have an attention span of 8 seconds—shorter than a goldfish.

It’s a great soundbite, but it’s largely a myth. People don’t have inherently shorter attention spans today; rather, they have higher standards for what deserves their attention.

If a reader clicks on your article and immediately bounces back to Google, it’s rarely because the piece was too long. More often, it’s because the introduction was sluggish, the formatting was a wall of text, or the content failed to deliver on the promise of the headline.

When a reader is genuinely engaged, they will happily spend 10, 15, or 20 minutes reading a deeply reported, comprehensive piece. Conversely, if content is unengaging, even a 300-word blog post will feel like an eternity.

The goal isn’t necessarily to make your writing short. The goal is to make it effortless to consume.

When Is It “Not Enough”? (The Danger of Under-Delivering)

In the rush to respect the reader’s time, many creators swing too far in the direction of brevity. They strip away nuance, context, and personality, leaving behind a skeletal shell of information.

This is what we call the Wikipedia trap or thin content.

When your content isn’t enough, you run into three major problems:

  1. You sacrifice value: If a reader can find the exact same surface-level information in the first three results of a Google search, you haven’t given them a reason to stay.
  2. You lose authority: Short, superficial answers rarely build trust. Readers want to know why something is true, not just what is true. Depth demonstrates expertise.
  3. The “Unsatisfied Bounce”: Have you ever clicked an article, scrolled through a few vague paragraphs, and realised you learned absolutely nothing new? It’s frustrating. When content is not enough, it leaves the reader feeling cheated out of their time.

The Rule for Minimum Viable Length: Your piece should be only as long as it takes to completely solve the reader’s problem, answer their question, or deliver an emotional payoff. If you leave loose ends, you haven’t written enough.

When Is It “Too Much”? (The Danger of the Digital Dump)

On the flip side, we’ve all encountered the bloated blog post. You know the ones: 5,000 words of meandering prose that could easily have been summarised in 500 words.

Writers often fall into this trap for the wrong reasons—trying to hit arbitrary SEO word counts, over-explaining simple concepts, or simply falling in love with the sound of their own typing.

When your content is too much, the symptoms are glaring:

  • Fluff and padding: Using three adjectives where one would do; repeating the same point in different ways just to extend the paragraph.
  • Buried leads: Making the reader wade through a 500-word personal anecdote about your weekend before getting to the actual topic they searched for.
  • Cognitive overload: Hitting the reader with so much data, jargon, and unstructured thoughts that their brain simply shuts down.

Remember the cardinal rule of editing, famously attributed to writer Elmore Leonard (via Anton Chekhov): “Leave out the parts that readers skip.”

If a paragraph doesn’t move the narrative forward, answer a pressing question, or add distinct value, mercilessly cut it.

Finding the Sweet Spot: How to Keep Readers Hooked

So, how do you find the magical middle ground where length ceases to matter and engagement takes over? It comes down to a blend of structural psychology and empathetic writing.

1. Hook ‘Em Fast, Then Feed Them

Your introduction is the handshake. Make it firm, welcoming, and clear. Tell the reader immediately what they are going to get out of the piece. Once you’ve made that promise, dive straight into the substance without unnecessary throat-clearing.

2. Design for the Skimmer (Visual Rhythm)

Here’s a dirty little secret of the internet: People don’t read online—they scan.

Even the most dedicated readers use their eyes to preview a page before committing. If they see a massive, unbroken block of text, flight instincts kick in.

  • Use short paragraphs (1–3 sentences).
  • Utilise bold text for key takeaways.
  • Break up monotony with bullet points and numbered lists.
  • Include subheadings that act as signposts along the reader’s journey.

By creating visual rhythm, you make a long article feel short and manageable.

3. Match Length to Intent

Content length should always be dictated by the user’s intent.

  • If someone wants to know the current weather, a 2,000-word essay on meteorology is too much.
  • If someone wants to learn how to build a retirement portfolio from scratch, a 300-word summary is not enough.

Always ask yourself: What does the reader need to walk away with to feel satisfied? Give them exactly that, packaged as cleanly as possible.

The Bottom Line

Writing isn’t about hitting an arbitrary word count; it’s about choreography. It’s about taking a reader by the hand and leading them on a journey from point A to point B without losing them in the weeds or rushing them off the path.

Forget the obsession with being short. Forget the anxiety of needing to be long.

Instead, focus on being clear, valuable, and engaging. If you do that, your readers won’t care how long your article is—they’ll just be glad they stayed until the end.

What’s your take? Do you prefer bite-sized reads, or do you love sinking your teeth into long-form deep dives? Let’s discuss in the comments below!

…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 233

Day 233 – Brevity in writing

…

The Goldilocks Dilemma in Content Creation: How to Find Your Readers’ Sweet Spot

Let’s be honest: in the digital age, attention is the world’s most valuable currency.

Every time someone opens a browser, scrolls through social media, or checks their email inbox, they are bombarded with thousands of competing messages. Videos auto-play, notifications ping, and headlines scream for a fraction of a second of their day.

For writers, bloggers, and marketers, grabbing the reader’s attention is only half the battle. Keeping it is where the real war is fought.

This brings us to the eternal debate of the digital writing world: brevity. We are constantly told to keep it short, keep it punchy, and cut the fluff. But in our quest to be concise, are we starving our readers of the depth they actually crave? Is there a line where “short” turns into “shallow,” and “long” turns into “boring”?

Let’s explore the Goldilocks dilemma of content length—how to know what is too much, what is not enough, and how to keep your readers hooked right down to the final period.

The Death of the Attention Span (And Why It’s a Myth)

You’ve probably heard the statistic a dozen times: Humans now have an attention span of 8 seconds—shorter than a goldfish.

It’s a great soundbite, but it’s largely a myth. People don’t have inherently shorter attention spans today; rather, they have higher standards for what deserves their attention.

If a reader clicks on your article and immediately bounces back to Google, it’s rarely because the piece was too long. More often, it’s because the introduction was sluggish, the formatting was a wall of text, or the content failed to deliver on the promise of the headline.

When a reader is genuinely engaged, they will happily spend 10, 15, or 20 minutes reading a deeply reported, comprehensive piece. Conversely, if content is unengaging, even a 300-word blog post will feel like an eternity.

The goal isn’t necessarily to make your writing short. The goal is to make it effortless to consume.

When Is It “Not Enough”? (The Danger of Under-Delivering)

In the rush to respect the reader’s time, many creators swing too far in the direction of brevity. They strip away nuance, context, and personality, leaving behind a skeletal shell of information.

This is what we call the Wikipedia trap or thin content.

When your content isn’t enough, you run into three major problems:

  1. You sacrifice value: If a reader can find the exact same surface-level information in the first three results of a Google search, you haven’t given them a reason to stay.
  2. You lose authority: Short, superficial answers rarely build trust. Readers want to know why something is true, not just what is true. Depth demonstrates expertise.
  3. The “Unsatisfied Bounce”: Have you ever clicked an article, scrolled through a few vague paragraphs, and realised you learned absolutely nothing new? It’s frustrating. When content is not enough, it leaves the reader feeling cheated out of their time.

The Rule for Minimum Viable Length: Your piece should be only as long as it takes to completely solve the reader’s problem, answer their question, or deliver an emotional payoff. If you leave loose ends, you haven’t written enough.

When Is It “Too Much”? (The Danger of the Digital Dump)

On the flip side, we’ve all encountered the bloated blog post. You know the ones: 5,000 words of meandering prose that could easily have been summarised in 500 words.

Writers often fall into this trap for the wrong reasons—trying to hit arbitrary SEO word counts, over-explaining simple concepts, or simply falling in love with the sound of their own typing.

When your content is too much, the symptoms are glaring:

  • Fluff and padding: Using three adjectives where one would do; repeating the same point in different ways just to extend the paragraph.
  • Buried leads: Making the reader wade through a 500-word personal anecdote about your weekend before getting to the actual topic they searched for.
  • Cognitive overload: Hitting the reader with so much data, jargon, and unstructured thoughts that their brain simply shuts down.

Remember the cardinal rule of editing, famously attributed to writer Elmore Leonard (via Anton Chekhov): “Leave out the parts that readers skip.”

If a paragraph doesn’t move the narrative forward, answer a pressing question, or add distinct value, mercilessly cut it.

Finding the Sweet Spot: How to Keep Readers Hooked

So, how do you find the magical middle ground where length ceases to matter and engagement takes over? It comes down to a blend of structural psychology and empathetic writing.

1. Hook ‘Em Fast, Then Feed Them

Your introduction is the handshake. Make it firm, welcoming, and clear. Tell the reader immediately what they are going to get out of the piece. Once you’ve made that promise, dive straight into the substance without unnecessary throat-clearing.

2. Design for the Skimmer (Visual Rhythm)

Here’s a dirty little secret of the internet: People don’t read online—they scan.

Even the most dedicated readers use their eyes to preview a page before committing. If they see a massive, unbroken block of text, flight instincts kick in.

  • Use short paragraphs (1–3 sentences).
  • Utilise bold text for key takeaways.
  • Break up monotony with bullet points and numbered lists.
  • Include subheadings that act as signposts along the reader’s journey.

By creating visual rhythm, you make a long article feel short and manageable.

3. Match Length to Intent

Content length should always be dictated by the user’s intent.

  • If someone wants to know the current weather, a 2,000-word essay on meteorology is too much.
  • If someone wants to learn how to build a retirement portfolio from scratch, a 300-word summary is not enough.

Always ask yourself: What does the reader need to walk away with to feel satisfied? Give them exactly that, packaged as cleanly as possible.

The Bottom Line

Writing isn’t about hitting an arbitrary word count; it’s about choreography. It’s about taking a reader by the hand and leading them on a journey from point A to point B without losing them in the weeds or rushing them off the path.

Forget the obsession with being short. Forget the anxiety of needing to be long.

Instead, focus on being clear, valuable, and engaging. If you do that, your readers won’t care how long your article is—they’ll just be glad they stayed until the end.

What’s your take? Do you prefer bite-sized reads, or do you love sinking your teeth into long-form deep dives? Let’s discuss in the comments below!

…

The 2am Rant: It’s market day…

These donuts are whole, with jam injected into them and are delicious.  You cannot stop at one, which is why you get five.

They are like the donuts I used to get from the Dandenong market when I was a child.  Back then, nearly 60 years ago, I used to go every Tuesday to get fruit and vegetables, and sometimes clothes, because there were other stalls selling useful household items.

Back then we used to get donuts, and for a long time, I had never managed to get back when the market was open to relive those childhood memories.

This trip we do.

The Dandenong Market had changed considerably since the last time I remember it.  The building where my eldest son used to play basketball has been turned into a market for meat, fish, and food stalls.

It has grown to be about ten times the size it used to be, making it seem like a difficult task to find the donut van, but we entered by the right entrance, and there it was.

And the donuts?

They were exactly as I remembered.

While we’re in the area, we also made a trip to the Springvale market.  When I lived in Victoria, there was no such market; this had only been around since the immigrant Vietnamese have made their home in Springvale, and in places, it reminds you of similar markets in Singapore, Hong Kong, or China.

It was a fascinating half-hour of wandering around, almost feeling like you are somewhere in Southeast Asia.

With markets like these, who would really need a supermarket?  And a bonus?  The street food.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 232

Day 232 – The Hollywood writer mentality

…

“I’m a Hollywood Writer, So I Put on My Sports Jacket and Take Off My Brain”: Deconstructing Ben Hecht’s Ultimate Industry Satire

“I’m a Hollywood writer, so I put on my sports jacket and take off my brain.”

If you’ve ever spent more than forty-eight hours in a writers’ room, felt the soul-crushing despair of a studio note that asks you to “make the protagonist more likable while also making them entirely unhinged,” or watched a masterpiece get sliced into digital confetti by a focus group, that quote hits you right in the solar plexus.

It is sharp, cynical, hilarious, and dripping with the kind of world-weary exhaustion that only a true veteran of the studio system could muster.

The man behind the quip? Ben Hecht.

Often called the “Shakespeare of Hollywood,” Hecht was a legendary screenwriter, playwright, and journalist who helped shape the Golden Age of cinema. He won the very first Academy Award for Best Original Story (for 1927’s Underworld), wrote or co-wrote stone-cold classics like His Girl Friday, Scarface, and Notorious, and quietly doctored dozens of scripts without credit (including polishing Gone with the Wind).

Yet, despite his immense success and undeniable genius, Hecht maintained a notoriously love-hate relationship with the motion picture industry. His famous sports jacket quote is more than just a snappy punchline; it is a profound commentary on the commodification of art, the absurdity of the studio system, and the psychological armour required to survive as a creative in Tinseltown.

Let’s unpack what Hecht meant, why it still resonates today, and what modern writers can learn from his cynical wisdom.

The Uniform of Compromise: What the Sports Jacket Represents

To understand Hecht’s joke, you have to look at the visual language of Hollywood.

In Hecht’s era—and largely still today—the film industry was a place of stark contrasts. On one side stood the suits: the studio moguls, the producers, and the executives who viewed movies not as high art, but as an assembly-line manufacturing process. On the other side stood the artists: the directors, actors, and writers who often viewed themselves as tortured visionaries.

By joking that he puts on a “sports jacket”—traditionally a casual, slightly corporate, uniform-of-convenience piece of menswear—to “take off his brain,” Hecht is performing a brilliant piece of psychological self-defense.

He is acknowledging the transactional nature of his work. A sports jacket says, “I’m professional enough to take your money, but I’m detached enough not to break my heart when you ruin my scene.”

Putting on the jacket is the physical ritual of putting on the work persona. It is the moment the artist steps out of the realm of pure imagination and enters the boardroom, where imagination is often treated as a liability rather than an asset.

Why Hollywood Demands You “Take Off Your Brain”

Why would a Pulitzer-winning, brilliantly gifted wordsmith feel the need to check his brain at the studio gate?

Because commercial filmmaking—at its worst—is hostile to genuine intellect and originality. Hecht understood a fundamental truth of the studio system: executives rarely want a thinker; they want an obedient problem-solver.

When Hecht implies he takes off his brain, he’s pointing out several classic industry traps:

  1. The Homogenization of Art: Studio notes have a way of filing down the sharp edges of a story until it fits neatly into a demographic-friendly box. If you keep your brain fully engaged, you’ll fight for every nuanced character beat. If you take your brain off, you just nod, smile, and change the third act so the dog doesn’t die.
  2. The Illusion of Effort: In Hollywood, there is often an inverse relationship between how hard you think and how happy the studio is. If you overcomplicate a plot with deep thematic resonance, the executives get confused. And confused executives give terrible notes.
  3. Self-Preservation: Caring too much in Hollywood is a fast track to an ulcer. Hecht was prolific because he treated screenwriting with a certain professional detachment. He knew that pouring your entire soul into a 120-page document only to have a 24-year-old development executive say, “Can we add a talking animal?” is a recipe for madness.

Ben Hecht: The Ultimate Hollywood Mercenary

To truly appreciate the quote, you have to look at Hecht’s paradoxical career.

Hecht was no hack. He was a literary titan. Before moving to Hollywood, he was a star reporter for the Chicago Daily News and a novelist whose books were banned for being too racy. He co-wrote The Front Page, one of the greatest stage comedies about journalism ever produced.

Yet, Hecht had no romantic illusions about the movies. He once famously said of Hollywood: “It’s a place where people die of nostalgia for a place they never were.”

He went to Hollywood explicitly for the money. He famously knocked out scripts with terrifying speed, paid off his debts, bought a luxurious lifestyle, and funded his political activism (including working tirelessly behind the scenes to rescue European Jews during the Holocaust).

Hecht’s sports jacket quote encapsulates his mercenary philosophy. He viewed screenwriting as a trade—a very lucrative, highly entertaining trade, but a trade nonetheless. He kept his “real” brain—his literary soul—reserved for his novels, plays, and journalism, while happily taking studio checks to punch up gangster flicks and screwball comedies.

The Modern Relevance: Does the Sports Jacket Still Fit?

Nearly a century after Hecht’s heyday, his cynical wisdom is more relevant than ever.

Today’s writers face an even more algorithm-driven landscape. Writers’ rooms are increasingly corporatised, IP (Intellectual Property) is king, and “brand synergy” often trumps narrative logic.

If you talk to working writers in streaming or franchise-heavy feature films today, they will tell you that Hecht’s ritual is alive and well. It might not be a literal sports jacket—today, it might be slipping on a pair of noise-cancelling headphones before a Zoom call with twenty executives, or adopting a cheerful tone of voice while secretly plotting how to subtly sneak your thematic message past the censors.

Wearing the metaphorical sports jacket today means learning how to separate your identity from your output. It means realising that a corporate note telling you to “add more action to the first ten minutes” isn’t a personal indictment of your artistic integrity; it’s just the weather in Los Angeles.

How to Wear the Jacket Without Losing Your Mind

Is Hecht’s quote a counsel of despair? Not necessarily. In fact, for modern creatives, it can be deeply liberating.

Here is how you can channel the spirit of Ben Hecht without selling out completely:

  • Protect Your “Real” Brain: Like Hecht, keep a creative sanctuary for yourself. Write the indie script, pen the personal essay, paint the canvas, or build the passion project where no studio notes can reach you.
  • Treat It Like a Job (Because It Is): When you put on your professional hat, remember that commercial writing is a collaborative, service-oriented art form. Sometimes, you just need to write the car chase, collect the check, and go home.
  • Cultivate Professional Detachment: Don’t fall in love with your first draft—or your fifth. Be willing to kill your darlings before an executive does it for you with a chainsaw.
  • Keep Your Sense of Humour: Hollywood is inherently ridiculous. If you can’t laugh at the absurdity of a notes meeting where three people debate the emotional arc of a CGI raccoon, you won’t survive the town.

Final Thoughts

Ben Hecht’s quip about the sports jacket and the brain is ultimately a survival manual disguised as a punchline. It reminds us that navigating the commercial art world requires a delicate balance: enough professional savvy to play the game, and enough self-awareness not to let the game consume your soul.

So, the next time you log on to a painfully corporate notes call, or stare blankly at a feedback document that asks you to “change the genre from thriller to romantic comedy by tomorrow morning,” just smile, zip up your metaphorical sports jacket, and remember the words of the great Ben Hecht.

Just keep your real brain safe where they can’t touch it.

What’s the most absurd studio note or feedback you’ve ever received? How do you protect your creative soul while working in commercial media? Let’s talk about it in the comments below!

…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 232

Day 232 – The Hollywood writer mentality

…

“I’m a Hollywood Writer, So I Put on My Sports Jacket and Take Off My Brain”: Deconstructing Ben Hecht’s Ultimate Industry Satire

“I’m a Hollywood writer, so I put on my sports jacket and take off my brain.”

If you’ve ever spent more than forty-eight hours in a writers’ room, felt the soul-crushing despair of a studio note that asks you to “make the protagonist more likable while also making them entirely unhinged,” or watched a masterpiece get sliced into digital confetti by a focus group, that quote hits you right in the solar plexus.

It is sharp, cynical, hilarious, and dripping with the kind of world-weary exhaustion that only a true veteran of the studio system could muster.

The man behind the quip? Ben Hecht.

Often called the “Shakespeare of Hollywood,” Hecht was a legendary screenwriter, playwright, and journalist who helped shape the Golden Age of cinema. He won the very first Academy Award for Best Original Story (for 1927’s Underworld), wrote or co-wrote stone-cold classics like His Girl Friday, Scarface, and Notorious, and quietly doctored dozens of scripts without credit (including polishing Gone with the Wind).

Yet, despite his immense success and undeniable genius, Hecht maintained a notoriously love-hate relationship with the motion picture industry. His famous sports jacket quote is more than just a snappy punchline; it is a profound commentary on the commodification of art, the absurdity of the studio system, and the psychological armour required to survive as a creative in Tinseltown.

Let’s unpack what Hecht meant, why it still resonates today, and what modern writers can learn from his cynical wisdom.

The Uniform of Compromise: What the Sports Jacket Represents

To understand Hecht’s joke, you have to look at the visual language of Hollywood.

In Hecht’s era—and largely still today—the film industry was a place of stark contrasts. On one side stood the suits: the studio moguls, the producers, and the executives who viewed movies not as high art, but as an assembly-line manufacturing process. On the other side stood the artists: the directors, actors, and writers who often viewed themselves as tortured visionaries.

By joking that he puts on a “sports jacket”—traditionally a casual, slightly corporate, uniform-of-convenience piece of menswear—to “take off his brain,” Hecht is performing a brilliant piece of psychological self-defense.

He is acknowledging the transactional nature of his work. A sports jacket says, “I’m professional enough to take your money, but I’m detached enough not to break my heart when you ruin my scene.”

Putting on the jacket is the physical ritual of putting on the work persona. It is the moment the artist steps out of the realm of pure imagination and enters the boardroom, where imagination is often treated as a liability rather than an asset.

Why Hollywood Demands You “Take Off Your Brain”

Why would a Pulitzer-winning, brilliantly gifted wordsmith feel the need to check his brain at the studio gate?

Because commercial filmmaking—at its worst—is hostile to genuine intellect and originality. Hecht understood a fundamental truth of the studio system: executives rarely want a thinker; they want an obedient problem-solver.

When Hecht implies he takes off his brain, he’s pointing out several classic industry traps:

  1. The Homogenization of Art: Studio notes have a way of filing down the sharp edges of a story until it fits neatly into a demographic-friendly box. If you keep your brain fully engaged, you’ll fight for every nuanced character beat. If you take your brain off, you just nod, smile, and change the third act so the dog doesn’t die.
  2. The Illusion of Effort: In Hollywood, there is often an inverse relationship between how hard you think and how happy the studio is. If you overcomplicate a plot with deep thematic resonance, the executives get confused. And confused executives give terrible notes.
  3. Self-Preservation: Caring too much in Hollywood is a fast track to an ulcer. Hecht was prolific because he treated screenwriting with a certain professional detachment. He knew that pouring your entire soul into a 120-page document only to have a 24-year-old development executive say, “Can we add a talking animal?” is a recipe for madness.

Ben Hecht: The Ultimate Hollywood Mercenary

To truly appreciate the quote, you have to look at Hecht’s paradoxical career.

Hecht was no hack. He was a literary titan. Before moving to Hollywood, he was a star reporter for the Chicago Daily News and a novelist whose books were banned for being too racy. He co-wrote The Front Page, one of the greatest stage comedies about journalism ever produced.

Yet, Hecht had no romantic illusions about the movies. He once famously said of Hollywood: “It’s a place where people die of nostalgia for a place they never were.”

He went to Hollywood explicitly for the money. He famously knocked out scripts with terrifying speed, paid off his debts, bought a luxurious lifestyle, and funded his political activism (including working tirelessly behind the scenes to rescue European Jews during the Holocaust).

Hecht’s sports jacket quote encapsulates his mercenary philosophy. He viewed screenwriting as a trade—a very lucrative, highly entertaining trade, but a trade nonetheless. He kept his “real” brain—his literary soul—reserved for his novels, plays, and journalism, while happily taking studio checks to punch up gangster flicks and screwball comedies.

The Modern Relevance: Does the Sports Jacket Still Fit?

Nearly a century after Hecht’s heyday, his cynical wisdom is more relevant than ever.

Today’s writers face an even more algorithm-driven landscape. Writers’ rooms are increasingly corporatised, IP (Intellectual Property) is king, and “brand synergy” often trumps narrative logic.

If you talk to working writers in streaming or franchise-heavy feature films today, they will tell you that Hecht’s ritual is alive and well. It might not be a literal sports jacket—today, it might be slipping on a pair of noise-cancelling headphones before a Zoom call with twenty executives, or adopting a cheerful tone of voice while secretly plotting how to subtly sneak your thematic message past the censors.

Wearing the metaphorical sports jacket today means learning how to separate your identity from your output. It means realising that a corporate note telling you to “add more action to the first ten minutes” isn’t a personal indictment of your artistic integrity; it’s just the weather in Los Angeles.

How to Wear the Jacket Without Losing Your Mind

Is Hecht’s quote a counsel of despair? Not necessarily. In fact, for modern creatives, it can be deeply liberating.

Here is how you can channel the spirit of Ben Hecht without selling out completely:

  • Protect Your “Real” Brain: Like Hecht, keep a creative sanctuary for yourself. Write the indie script, pen the personal essay, paint the canvas, or build the passion project where no studio notes can reach you.
  • Treat It Like a Job (Because It Is): When you put on your professional hat, remember that commercial writing is a collaborative, service-oriented art form. Sometimes, you just need to write the car chase, collect the check, and go home.
  • Cultivate Professional Detachment: Don’t fall in love with your first draft—or your fifth. Be willing to kill your darlings before an executive does it for you with a chainsaw.
  • Keep Your Sense of Humour: Hollywood is inherently ridiculous. If you can’t laugh at the absurdity of a notes meeting where three people debate the emotional arc of a CGI raccoon, you won’t survive the town.

Final Thoughts

Ben Hecht’s quip about the sports jacket and the brain is ultimately a survival manual disguised as a punchline. It reminds us that navigating the commercial art world requires a delicate balance: enough professional savvy to play the game, and enough self-awareness not to let the game consume your soul.

So, the next time you log on to a painfully corporate notes call, or stare blankly at a feedback document that asks you to “change the genre from thriller to romantic comedy by tomorrow morning,” just smile, zip up your metaphorical sports jacket, and remember the words of the great Ben Hecht.

Just keep your real brain safe where they can’t touch it.

What’s the most absurd studio note or feedback you’ve ever received? How do you protect your creative soul while working in commercial media? Let’s talk about it in the comments below!

…

The 2am Rant: How about this for a plotline?

No matter how hard you try, how seamless, on paper the plan is, the odds are something will go wrong. That is not to say I am a fatalist, or a glass half empty kind of traveler, because most of the trips I have planned, and taken, have been relatively painless.

Except our good luck had to finally run out.

It was not a matter of bad planning; it was just one of those times when events didn’t quite go according to plan. It happens.

For instance, the simple objective was to get from Brisbane in Australia to Florence in Italy. There is no direct flight. Booking on an airline site is a horrendous experience, fares are ridiculously high, and there is no accommodating stopovers.

This is a trip that only a travel agent can handle.

The objective, travel to London via Hong Kong, or Singapore, or any medium distant airport, then on to London, or Paris, or where-ever, then to Florence. No overnight stopover, staying in a hotel, not this time, in either of Hong Kong or London.

Simple.

Not.

It was as horrendous for the agent as it was navigating the airline’s internet site. It was not something that could be done, sitting opposite her as she deftly navigated the highways and byways of the travel system on her computer. This was a longer, more intricate job.

Two days later she had the solution for the Brisbane, Hong Kong, London, and thence Florence trip. It would require a stay of 10 hours in Hong Kong, the connections didn’t align according to price constraints, and then a 14 hour layover in London as flights to Florence were not aligned either. All well and good. Cathay Pacific for the trip to London and Vueling Airlines for the Florence leg. At least we would arrive in Florence at a reasonable hour, about 6pm.

On paper, it was the most practical solution in the circumstances.

Reality proved it to be something else entirely.

At Brisbane airport, we were given boarding passes for the flights through to London, but by some quirk of fate had our baggage checked through to Florence. How this could be done without boarding passes for the London to Florence flight was a surprise. Back in Brisbane, the check-in person told us she could not give us a boarding pass for the London to Florence leg because the system would not issue it. We could she said, get it easy enough when we arrived in London.

The first leg went smoothly enough, though we did not realize until we got on the plane that it stopped over in Cairns for an hour or so. This was not a problem, just made the time between Brisbane and Hong Kong longer than we anticipated.

In Hong Kong, we had no trouble getting into the lounge I’d booked. The problem came with the interpretation of using the bathroom facilities, and it took several hours before we finally realized that the bathroom facilities were not part of the lounge but operated independently and you had to book your place. By that time there were a large number of people ahead of us (who obviously knew the problems associated with these facilities) and it annoyed me that the lounge staff did not mention it when we arrived.

The Hong Kong to London leg was as all long haul flights are. We knew what to expect, and arrived in London around 6 am. We arrived at terminal three and the lounge we’d booked was in terminal three. All we needed was a boarding pass to get in.

Oops.

That was not the case.

Because we could not get back into terminal three without a forward boarding pass we had to exit and go through customs and immigration. We were told that the only way to get a boarding pass for the Florence flight was to go to the airline counter.

The problem was Vueling did not have an airline counter.

This is where tempers started to flare. 7:30 in the morning, no means of getting into the lounge which we had paid a lot on money for, and no one in the terminal being helpful.

The Vueling web site was impossible to use.

The telephone number rang out.

At this point, I was beginning to believe the airline didn’t exist and we had been ripped off.

Only by a quirk of fate, reading the departures board, did I see a flight for Vueling leaving at 10 am, with the check-in counter displayed.

By this time we had spent two very frustrating hours and I was nothing short of angry.
At the gate, the head of the check-in counter, a representative of Vueling was surprised we had any problems, particularly in Brisbane, but happily issued the boarding passes.

When we mentioned the baggage she advised us it was lucky we did, otherwise it would have gone missing. She took the tag numbers and sorted that problem out.

The airline, it seems, is well respected, and based on the service I received, I had to say I agreed

The problem was back in Brisbane with an inexperienced check in person.

There was only one problem in getting to the lounge, now four hours later than we had advised, the fact we had to go back through customs, and in doing so, the duty-free that we had brought from Hong Kong was now outside the limits allowed, and the customs staff were adamant despite the circumstances we could not take it with us. $400 worth of goods finished up in the bin.

It would be true to say that day the customs staff at Heathrow were not the best ambassadors for their country, and one, in particular, would be best doing service elsewhere where human contact was not a requirement. As for the others, they were as helpful as they could be, but rules unfortunately were rules.

At last, rather distressed over the duty-free, and the lateness of our arrival at the lounge, there was no possibility of getting a short sleep before going to Florence. At least we did not have the same problems using the bathroom facilities, our room I’d book had them included in the room.

We rested, and figured nothing else could go wrong.

Not. Again!

The plane was advertised to leave London at about 3 pm. We left the lounge expecting to get to the gate on time. We checked on the departure board for the flight to get the gate number, only to see a notice ‘delayed’. When that delay passed 5 pm, two hours later, we decided to go to the counter and find out what was happening.

Only to find there was no airline counter. Again!

We asked at least a dozen people, including the special helpers the airport who there is plenty of signage to say to go to if you have a problem, but not one of them knew where the counter was or who was looking after the affairs of the airline. By this time other irate passengers of the delayed flight were massing, also seeking answers. One discovered who the agent was, and we descended on the counter as a large group.

The first person I saw at the counter was the woman who had checked us in that morning. For her, it had been a long day, and it was getting longer.

The problem, the plane had been delayed on an earlier leg, yes it would be arriving, having just left the lat airport, and we would be embarking about 7:30. For our trouble, we got a meal voucher, and at least we could have a reasonably good dinner.

The plane arrived, we embarked, the service was good and the people on board as cheerful as they could be given the delays and the discontented passengers.

We arrived in Florence just before midnight, our driver to take us to the hotel was waiting for us, and the hotel upgraded us to a very nice room.

All in all a harrowing journey, but at the end, basically a six-hour delay, and two very tired, but happy people. And we were in Florence, in summer. What more could anyone want?

What I learned about writing: Even my Grandmother’s eerie house was fuel for the imagination

The Highway to Yesterday: When Progress Paves Over Memory

There’s a phrase we hear often: “the march of progress.” It conjures images of innovation, growth, and moving forward. And often, it’s a good thing, bringing advancements that improve our lives. But sometimes, this relentless march brings with it a different kind of change – one that paves over the past, transforming what we held dear into something unrecognizable.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately, prompted by a landscape that used to be… something else entirely.

I remember a time, long ago now, when ‘country’ truly meant country. Our holidays at my grandmother’s house, nestled just outside Melbourne, were expeditions into a different world. The drive itself was part of the magic. A comfortable half-hour journey, winding through stretches of open farmland, punctuated by small, charming towns – Beaconsfield, Officer, Berwick – each an oasis amidst the green. Today? That same route is a continuous sprawl of houses, a testament to metropolitan expansion, where those ‘oases’ are now just another indistinguishable part of the urban fabric.

But it was Grandma’s house that truly held the enchantment. A rambling, grand old place on extensive grounds, it was a universe waiting to be explored. Gardens, multiple garages overflowing with forgotten treasures, a huge workshop – it was a child’s paradise. One Christmas, my brother and I, armed with a sense of adventure and a few rusty tools, decided to become archaeological explorers. We unearthed a magnificent fountain, hidden beneath years of overgrowth, clearly once the centerpiece of a grand display. It felt like discovering our very own secret garden, complete with a sprawling, mysterious fernery.

Then there were the internal explorations. A whole wing of bedrooms, each a time capsule. I recall an ancient iron bedstead, so high off the ground we had to climb into it, easily a century old. And in another, the faint, lingering presence of my Uncle – a formidable, towering man whom, in our youthful imaginations, we first mistook for an ogre straight out of a Grimm’s fairy tale. The way his heavy footsteps would ‘clomp’ through the silent house after dark still sends a shiver of delicious apprehension down my spine.

But the march, as it always does, continued. And today, all of it is gone. That sprawling house, those secret gardens, the workshop, the echoes of my uncle’s footsteps – replaced. Not by new homes, not by another suburb, but by the relentless concrete and asphalt of a multi-lane highway, carving an alternate coastal route between Melbourne and Sydney. The very ground where those precious memories were made now carries the weight of countless cars, indifferent to the history beneath their tires.

All that remains are the vivid, precious memories of a time that will never return. They are treasures far more valuable than any physical object, etched permanently in the mind’s eye.

The march of progress is inevitable. It brings necessary change, growth, and sometimes, undeniable improvements. But it also exacts a cost, often unseen by those building the future. It’s a powerful reminder to cherish the present, to imbue the places we love with meaning, and to hold onto the stories that define us, because one day, they might be all that’s left.

And for me? It’s provided a rich soil, a fertile ground, for a whole new pile of stories, waiting to be told.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 231

Day 231 – Writing in the first person

…

The Power of “I”: Unlocking the Advantages of the First-Person Novel

When you crack open a novel and the very first word you read is “I,” an unspoken social contract is formed between you and the narrator. You aren’t just an observer looking down from a cloud; you are strapped directly into the passenger seat of someone else’s mind.

First-person point of view (POV) is one of the most intimate and enduring tools in a writer’s arsenal. From classic masterpieces like The Catcher in the Rye and Jane Eyre to modern psychological thrillers like Gone Girl, the “I” narrator has the power to grip readers and refuse to let go.

If you’re an aspiring author trying to decide which POV to use, or a passionate reader wondering why certain books feel so visceral, understanding the advantages of the first-person novel is essential.

Let’s dive deep into the unique strengths of the first-person perspective and why it continues to dominate bestseller lists.

1. Unmatched Intimacy and Emotional Resonance

The single greatest advantage of the first-person novel is proximity. In first-person, there is no filter between the character’s internal emotional landscape and the reader.

  • Direct Access to Thoughts: We don’t just see characters cry; we hear the frantic, self-deprecating, or hopeful loops playing in their heads as they wipe away the tears.
  • Instant Empathy: Even if a narrator makes terrible choices, experiencing their motivations, fears, and heartbreaks firsthand makes them deeply human. We understand why they do what they do, even if we don’t agree with it.

This level of intimacy creates a profound bond. Readers often finish a great first-person novel feeling like they have just said goodbye to a real-life friend.

2. A Distinct, Unforgettable Voice

In a crowded literary marketplace, voice is everything. First-person narrative allows authors to showcase a character’s unique personality not just through their actions, but through how they speak and think.

Think of Holden Caulfield’s cynical, slang-heavy cadence in The Catcher in the Rye, or Humbert Humbert’s hyper-articulate, manipulative prose in Lolita. The narrator’s voice becomes the music of the book.

  • Rhythm and Diction: A weary detective, a sarcastic teenager, and a medieval peasant will all describe a rainy Tuesday differently. First-person forces the writing to be utterly specific to that character’s worldview, elevating the prose and making the storytelling infinitely more textured.

3. The Power of the Unreliable Narrator

One of the most thrilling narrative devices available in fiction is the unreliable narrator—and it only truly works in the first person.

Because we are locked inside one character’s perspective, we are vulnerable to their biases, blind spots, delusions, or outright lies.

  • Building Suspense: When a narrator is convinced of something that the reader slowly realises is false, the tension skyrockets.
  • The “Aha!” Moment: Twists hit harder in first-person because the reader has been actively complicit in believing the narrator’s deception. Think of Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl, where Nick and Amy Dunne’s conflicting first-person accounts keep readers guessing until the very end.

4. Heightened Suspense and Stakes

When the protagonist is the one telling the story, a very specific rule applies: They survived long enough to tell the tale.

While this might seem like a spoiler (we know the protagonist doesn’t die in chapter three), it actually heightens suspense in clever ways.

  • The “How” Over the “If”: Instead of wondering if the character will survive, the reader wonders how they possibly escaped the nightmare they are currently describing.
  • Subjective Danger: Because we only know what the narrator knows, we are ambushed by plot twists right alongside them. If they can’t see the killer sneaking up behind them in the dark, neither can we.

5. Built-In Focus and Streamlined Pacing

Third-person multi-POV novels can sometimes suffer from narrative bloat as authors jump between five different subplots across different continents. First-person acts as a natural anchor.

  • Laser-Focused Narrative: Everything in a first-person novel filters through the protagonist’s experiences. If they aren’t there to witness it, it doesn’t happen (unless they hear about it secondhand). This keeps the plot tight, fast-paced, and intensely focused on the core conflict.
  • Character-Driven Plots: First-person naturally prioritises internal growth and psychological transformation over sprawling world-building, making it the go-to choice for character-driven stories.

Potential Pitfalls to Keep in Mind

While the advantages are powerful, writing in the first person comes with unique challenges:

  • The “Head-Hopping” Restriction: You cannot show scenes where the protagonist is absent.
  • The “I-Ego” Problem: If your narrator is too passive, whiny, or unlikable without being fascinating, readers will drop the book fast.
  • Information Limits: It can be difficult to naturally reveal things the narrator wouldn’t reasonably know.

However, in the hands of a skilled writer, these limitations often force creative solutions that make the story even stronger.

Conclusion: Is First-Person Right for Your Next Read—or Your Next Book?

The first-person novel is more than just a stylistic choice; it is an immersive experience. It transforms reading from a passive activity into a deeply empathetic, psychological journey. Whether you are looking to get lost in a complex character study, unravel a twisty mystery, or feel the raw electricity of a unique literary voice, the “I” narrator delivers like no other POV can.

Are you a writer planning your next project, or a reader with a favourite first-person novel? Let us know your thoughts in the comments below!

…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 231

Day 231 – Writing in the first person

…

The Power of “I”: Unlocking the Advantages of the First-Person Novel

When you crack open a novel and the very first word you read is “I,” an unspoken social contract is formed between you and the narrator. You aren’t just an observer looking down from a cloud; you are strapped directly into the passenger seat of someone else’s mind.

First-person point of view (POV) is one of the most intimate and enduring tools in a writer’s arsenal. From classic masterpieces like The Catcher in the Rye and Jane Eyre to modern psychological thrillers like Gone Girl, the “I” narrator has the power to grip readers and refuse to let go.

If you’re an aspiring author trying to decide which POV to use, or a passionate reader wondering why certain books feel so visceral, understanding the advantages of the first-person novel is essential.

Let’s dive deep into the unique strengths of the first-person perspective and why it continues to dominate bestseller lists.

1. Unmatched Intimacy and Emotional Resonance

The single greatest advantage of the first-person novel is proximity. In first-person, there is no filter between the character’s internal emotional landscape and the reader.

  • Direct Access to Thoughts: We don’t just see characters cry; we hear the frantic, self-deprecating, or hopeful loops playing in their heads as they wipe away the tears.
  • Instant Empathy: Even if a narrator makes terrible choices, experiencing their motivations, fears, and heartbreaks firsthand makes them deeply human. We understand why they do what they do, even if we don’t agree with it.

This level of intimacy creates a profound bond. Readers often finish a great first-person novel feeling like they have just said goodbye to a real-life friend.

2. A Distinct, Unforgettable Voice

In a crowded literary marketplace, voice is everything. First-person narrative allows authors to showcase a character’s unique personality not just through their actions, but through how they speak and think.

Think of Holden Caulfield’s cynical, slang-heavy cadence in The Catcher in the Rye, or Humbert Humbert’s hyper-articulate, manipulative prose in Lolita. The narrator’s voice becomes the music of the book.

  • Rhythm and Diction: A weary detective, a sarcastic teenager, and a medieval peasant will all describe a rainy Tuesday differently. First-person forces the writing to be utterly specific to that character’s worldview, elevating the prose and making the storytelling infinitely more textured.

3. The Power of the Unreliable Narrator

One of the most thrilling narrative devices available in fiction is the unreliable narrator—and it only truly works in the first person.

Because we are locked inside one character’s perspective, we are vulnerable to their biases, blind spots, delusions, or outright lies.

  • Building Suspense: When a narrator is convinced of something that the reader slowly realises is false, the tension skyrockets.
  • The “Aha!” Moment: Twists hit harder in first-person because the reader has been actively complicit in believing the narrator’s deception. Think of Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl, where Nick and Amy Dunne’s conflicting first-person accounts keep readers guessing until the very end.

4. Heightened Suspense and Stakes

When the protagonist is the one telling the story, a very specific rule applies: They survived long enough to tell the tale.

While this might seem like a spoiler (we know the protagonist doesn’t die in chapter three), it actually heightens suspense in clever ways.

  • The “How” Over the “If”: Instead of wondering if the character will survive, the reader wonders how they possibly escaped the nightmare they are currently describing.
  • Subjective Danger: Because we only know what the narrator knows, we are ambushed by plot twists right alongside them. If they can’t see the killer sneaking up behind them in the dark, neither can we.

5. Built-In Focus and Streamlined Pacing

Third-person multi-POV novels can sometimes suffer from narrative bloat as authors jump between five different subplots across different continents. First-person acts as a natural anchor.

  • Laser-Focused Narrative: Everything in a first-person novel filters through the protagonist’s experiences. If they aren’t there to witness it, it doesn’t happen (unless they hear about it secondhand). This keeps the plot tight, fast-paced, and intensely focused on the core conflict.
  • Character-Driven Plots: First-person naturally prioritises internal growth and psychological transformation over sprawling world-building, making it the go-to choice for character-driven stories.

Potential Pitfalls to Keep in Mind

While the advantages are powerful, writing in the first person comes with unique challenges:

  • The “Head-Hopping” Restriction: You cannot show scenes where the protagonist is absent.
  • The “I-Ego” Problem: If your narrator is too passive, whiny, or unlikable without being fascinating, readers will drop the book fast.
  • Information Limits: It can be difficult to naturally reveal things the narrator wouldn’t reasonably know.

However, in the hands of a skilled writer, these limitations often force creative solutions that make the story even stronger.

Conclusion: Is First-Person Right for Your Next Read—or Your Next Book?

The first-person novel is more than just a stylistic choice; it is an immersive experience. It transforms reading from a passive activity into a deeply empathetic, psychological journey. Whether you are looking to get lost in a complex character study, unravel a twisty mystery, or feel the raw electricity of a unique literary voice, the “I” narrator delivers like no other POV can.

Are you a writer planning your next project, or a reader with a favourite first-person novel? Let us know 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.