Tag: Challenge

It’s just another Sunday

Outside it’s sunny but cold. We have had better days, but winter has been struggling to get through about of reasonably warm weather. Now it’s going to hang around for a few days, before it’s gone forever. Well, till next year. Wednesday is predicted to be 27 degrees centigrade, and will no doubt be the start of a very long summer.

Of course, we were all dreading winter because of the possibility of a second wave of COVID 19, but in Queensland that didn’t happen. It was further south, in Victoria and New South Wales.

And, oddly, over the seas in New Zealand.

It put a dent in our travel plans because we were planning to go there as soon as the borders opened, but that’s gone by the wayside. They had it stamped out, lasting 102 days before it insidiously came back.

It’s nasty this virus. It apparently came over from China as part of a container of frozen chicken wings, the virus surviving in sub zero tempertures so that it can infect anyone who picks up an item. It got into the food distributor’s factory, and ran riot after that. One infection has turned into 40, and it’s likely to get worse before it gets better.

So, now we have to beware of imported frozen food, and there is a lot of that here, and more than likely, its all over the world as time, a hidden threat to everyone.

Perhaps its time to stop looking at the news, because it’s all depressing.

Instead, it’s time to go back to reading thrillers, starting with James Patterson.

I’ve lost the will to work on my latest book, mainly because the draft is finished but I don’t like some of what’s written, so I’ll let it sit for the time it takes to read a few of my favorite authorsg and see if I can draw some inspiration, or determination, from them.

Or maybe tomorrow I’ll feel different.

In a word: Nobody

This is sometimes how we must feel when overlooked or ignored, like a nobody.

And some people will treat you like a nobody, i.e someone who is just not important.

That’s just one use of the word.

Another might be…

Who did that to your room?

‘Nobody’ is the plaintiff reply.  The infamous Mr. Nobody.  We’ve never met him, but he’s always there.  And, what’s more, he seems to be able to be in more than one place at a time.

Then there’s that time when there’s nobody in the room, nobody agreed with me, hell, that happens all the time, and when I rang your phone nobody answered.

Nobody?  Was I expecting Mr. Nobody to answer?  Surely the response should have been, ‘and you didn’t answer’.

Of course, let’s not delve too deep here, lest we might find out something we didn’t want to know.

I went to your house last night, but nobody was home.

How is it we refer to the people whom we know live in that house as ‘nobody’.  Shouldn’t we be saying, ‘none of you was at home’?

It seems nobody is one of those words we often use in vain.

How do you fit an author’s biography into a few simple words?

Every year I come back to revisit this, and each year it becomes a harder issue to deal with.  All that’s recently changed is the number of characters you can use.

I’ve been trawling the endless collection of twitter descriptions provided by their users, noting that there is a restriction of 280 characters.

How do you sum yourself up in 280 characters?

I don’t think I can, so like everyone else, I tend to put down a few catchphrases, something that will draw followers.  I’m thinking the word ‘aspiring’ will be my catchword.

I’m aspiring to be a writer, or is that author?  Is there a difference, like for instance, one publishes eBooks on Amazon, one publishes hard copies in the traditional manner?

The thing is, I want to be different from everyone else.  The real fact of the matter is that I’m not.  Like every other writer, or author, I put words on paper, and some people will read them, and a whole lot of others won’t.

And it’s not because they don;t want to, it’s simply because they don’t know my work is pout there.

So, the question is, how the hell do I make myself heard?

Taking the tradition route, saying I’k a father, I have children, I have a long suffering but accommodation wife, that hours of shutting myself away is a necessity, but creates hardship on others, how an I different?

What is it about me that makes me different from anyone else?  Am I different, do I want to be different?  Certainly I want to be heard, so do I shout at the top of my vices from the top of the highest hill?

Perhaps it would be better if I was a retired policeman, a retired lawyer, a retired sheriff, a retired private investigator, a retired doctor, someone who had an occupation that was a rich mine of information from which to draw upon.

Retired computer programmers, supermarket shelf stackers, night cleaners, accounts clerks and general dogsbody s don’t quite cut the mustard.  A mundane life does a writer not make.

Perhaps I need a ‘killer biography’.  Does it mean that I have to be a ‘killer’?

Anything has to be better than the self-confession above, and it begs the question, should we try to embellish our personal history in order to make ourselves more appealing?

All very good questions which deserve really good answers.  The pity of it is no one wants to address them.

So maybe it’s time I take a leaf out of the book of one of my characters, and become larger than like, be the character that people want to read about, the one that translators them from their everyone mundane life, if only for a few short hours.  AS a writer, perhaps I simply want to be something, someone other than myself.

And there you have it, in a nutshell, why I write.

Writing about writing a book – Day 31

I’ve been toiling away in the attic putting the pieces together, and continuing to get the story written.

This means I’ve almost got Chapter 2 somewhere near the first draft, or maybe second. I didn’t expect it would take this long, but most authors, I suppose, take a year, or more, to write a book.

It’s been hot in the attic and making it hard to think let alone write, but it is a good background for the steamy jungles of Southeast Asia, and it has given me a few more ideas for the background sequences.

I’ll share one or two of those next.

In the meantime, so far so good.

The following is the first musings of what Chapter 2 might read like:

The first sign of anything amiss was the three police cars outside the building, parked awkwardly on the plaza in front of the building. Their lights were still flashing, and several policemen were standing near them, talking.

As I went through the front revolving door I could see several uniformed and plainclothes police in the lobby. Two were by the door, perhaps to prevent someone from leaving, one on the desk with two of the building security guards, and another near the elevator lobby.

Temporary barriers had been erected, funneling everyone through a narrow gap, where building security was checking ID cards and building passes, both of which I handed to one of the guards. These men were new, I hadn’t seen them before, and, when I took a closer look, saw they were from a different security company.

I guess with the shooting of Richardson, our management had decided the existing building security was not good enough. These new men looked a lot tougher if the number of visible tattoos on each were anything to go by, the sort of men I’d call mercenaries or ex-soldiers.

One of them gave me a good look, at my face to see if it was the same as that looking back at him on the ID card. It was not a good photo of me, and it was no surprise he was having difficulty. I’d cut my hear, I was wearing glasses, and I have the makings of a three-day beard.

I had not intended to shave while I was on holiday, and, given the urgent nature of the recall, had no time to do so before coming into the office. Benton could have warned me of the new security arrangements, but it did not surprise me he didn’t.

He called over a friend, not by turning and motioning to him, but talking into his collar communication device. It was rather pointless, the man he spoke to was no more than 20 feet away. He checked me versus the ID photo and let me pass. Perhaps his eyesight was better.

In the elevator heading up to my floor, 18, I had a few moments to consider the implications. New security meant trouble. It had happened once before, and it caused all manner of trouble for me and my staff. We had been locked out of the server room then.

The elevator jerked to a stop, and the doors opened. Everything looked quiet. I could not see any police or security personnel. But waiting for me in the lobby was Benton’s personal assistant, waiting to tell me that Benton had been dragged off to an emergency meeting, one, she said, that involved share prices or stock exchange announcements. I could not make sense of what she was saying, because his hysteria had become hers. The events of the morning so far had traumatized both of them.

I smiled, trying to be my usual charming self, and then wrote a message on a scrap of paper, and gave it to her to give to him when he returned from wherever he had gone. I was quite sure it was not a meeting. She reminded me Aitchison was still waiting to see me, and then walked off.

I turned and pressed the ‘up’ button, and the doors to the elevator car I’d stepped out of opened. I stepped in, pressed the button for 59, and the doors closed. Once again I was alone with my thoughts in an elevator. I had just enough time to realize that the investigation into Richardson must be more serious than first thought if the police were still here in numbers.

I thought I might visit the 17th floor after seeing Aitchison, and see what was happening. A decision was still pending when the doors opened, and I stepped out into ‘Fantasyland’.
It was the unofficial nickname we mortals from the lower floors called the Executive levels. They were the top three in the 60 story building. The mortals lived on levels 17 through 22.

This level housed all the Assistant General Managers. We had six. Aitchison was the AGM – Security. Goldstein, who was waiting in the lobby for an elevator, was the AGM – Administration. He was a surly chap near the age of retirement and spent more time on holiday than in the office. Preparing for retirement some said. Others were less charitable.

He nodded in my direction as we passed, I came out of the elevator car, he went in. The doors closed behind me and I let the silence envelop me.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

In a word: Keep

Yes, this is an easy one.

I want to keep the car.  Especially if it’s a Lamborghini and it didn’t cost $500,000.

This form of the word simply means to hang on to something, or up the proper definition, to have or retain possession of

Paring it with other words is where it gets complicated.

For instance,

Keepings off, make sure that the ball doesn’t get into someone else’s possession.

Keep it to yourself, yes, here’s your chance to become the harbinger of secrets and not tell anyone else.  Not unless a lot of money is involved, or a Lamborghini.

You guessed it, the car is the running joke on this post.

How about, keep a low profile, been there tried that, it’s a lot harder than you think.

What about keeping your cards close to your chest, yes, this had both a literal and figurative meaning which makes it sort of unique.

That might follow the second definition, to continue, or cause to continue a particular state.

Another way of using keep is by delaying or stopping someone from doing something or getting somewhere; ie, I was kept waiting at the doctor’s surgery because he was late.

There are any number of examples of using the word keep in tandem with other words

One that specifically doesn’t relate to all the former examples, is simply the word keep.

What is it?

Usually the strongest part of the castle, and the last to fall in an attack.

At least, that was the theory.

We’re cleaning up for some renovations…

It’s a terrible job. Especially when you’ve been in the house for over 40 years, and over 15 since the last time we did a paint refresh.

The last time we simply moved the cupboards, shelves, and cabinets, not daring to look in and see what we had accumulated over the years.

And, now, someone said we might as well start getting rid of the junk before we have to downsize and/or move into an old folks home.

Just to say, here, now, the COVID 19 pandemic has brought to light a lot of damning details about old folks homes and how badly the residents are treated, and how easily it is for viruses to get in, and kill so many old people.

Before COVID they had a chance, at least, to live a few years longer. COVID in a lot of those cases has snuffed out their lives.

Now, I don;t want to become just another statistic, a life that in the end meant nothing other than a distressing mess the government should have fixed and didn’t, and nothing will happen on the other side because there will be too many other problems to fix in the post COVID world.

Enough rant.

SO, we started today. I bought so moving boxed and put some together, that being a trial in itself. Those sticky tape dispensers never quite work the same as they do in those YouTube videos.

Have you noticed that too?

Anyway, boxes constructed, time for a tea break over, we started with the photographs in frames.

Did you ever notice how quickly they disintegrate? It has been off and on, nearly forty years for the oldest, and ten for the youngest. Precious few photos of the boys as they were growing up because we have all that on slides, now buried somewhere in the roof, and mostly of the grandchildren.

There were some of the house before the last major renovation, photos of our children before they had their current partners, and it’s always interesting to reflect back on each being, at one time, the love of their life.

Romance was as tricky as it was in our day, except for the constraints of movement. in our day a parent took up, or public transport, we didn’t have cars, or money for that matter, like the kids today.

So, nostalgia crept in, and vbery little cleaning got done.

Perhaps tomorrow.

Writing about writing a book – Day 30

I’m having fun with chapter one.

Can you reach a point where you are never satisfied with what you’ve written?

What more can I say?

It’s time to go to work and make Benson squirm.  Pity, it’s only make-believe because in real life there were several people I would have liked to put to the sword.

Is that a variation of those who cannot do teach, i.e. those who cannot do, write about it?

 

I took the bus rather than drove.  At that hour of the morning, the traffic would be bad, and there would be no parking spaces left.  And I was using public transport more and more, have become accustomed to the convenience.  Time to read the paper, or a good book, or just dream about a different life.

This morning I thought about Ellen.  I hadn’t for a while, but that might have been fueled by the arrival of the divorce papers she wanted me to sign.  I’d had my time to be angry, and disappointed, she’d said, and she was right.  It was time to move on.

And she had stuck by me through thick and thin, coming back from overseas service a basket case after nine months in a POW camp, after a war that was more horrible than anyone could imagine.  Two mental breakdowns, periods of indolence and lassitude, leaving her to bring up the girls on her own.  I had not been a great father, and much less a husband.

I remembered that argument word for word.

I could see the looks of pain in the girl’s faces.

I remembered the hug, the kiss on the cheek, the tears.  It had not been out of hate, but a necessity.  For her and the children.  Until I found some lasting peace, they were better off at arm’s length.  Away from the arguing, the silences, the absences.

And disappointment.

After she left I tried to get my life in order.  Drugs, professional help, alcohol, meditation, then work.

Over ten years ago, it took a year, perhaps a little more before sanity returned.

She did not.

By then I knew she had found someone else, a mystery man, whom neither she would tell me who, and the girls honestly didn’t know.  She’d promised that much, any new man in her life would not get to meet the girls.  And she would tell me, and then when she was ready.

Then, suddenly, the children were no longer children but young adults and out in the world on their own, and I had become more a banker than a father, an observer rather than a participant, and it was as if we were more like ships passing in the night.  And overnight, the ships had sailed to the other side of the world.

My own fault, of course, and a bit late now to change history.  I could see Ellen’s influence over them, her prejudices and dislikes, and their contempt, like their mother, for me, simmering beneath the surface, but in fairness to them, I really hadn’t been much of a help as a parent should be.

And now I was getting my life back in order, perhaps I could try and make it up to them, and that first meeting, with them and Ellen, nearly a month ago, had been a step in the right direction.  They’d agreed to see me again, without her, during the holidays, which had now arrived.  All I had to do was make the call, and get on a plane.

This mess I was heading into, it would not take long.  I pulled out my phone and after searching for a travel agent near where I worked, I made an appointment to see about going overseas.

She had spoken to me about the divorce papers several days ago, alternately pleading with, and then abusing, me.  There had been some very strong language in the conversation, words I’d thought her incapable of using, but I confess, finally, I didn’t really know her all that well anymore.

Since then I had been calling her to arrange a meeting.  She had not yet replied.  With some distance to go before I reached the office, I tried calling her again.  I was almost glad when she didn’t answer.

 

I never realized just how hard it was to revise and re-write, and how much time it takes.

Perhaps that’s why first novels take so long to write!

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

Past conversations with my cat – 90

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This is Chester.

He’s not looking forward to being in quarantine.

Yes, he’s been keeping up with the latest developments regarding the Coronavirus, but like many, he doesn’t seem to think it will affect him.

After all, he says smugly, there hadn’t been one recorded instance of a cat getting the Coronavirus.

Of course, he’s right, but I still search for a searing reply.

That may be, but what if they’re not reporting cat infections so as not to alarm the cat population?

Aha, got him with that one.  He ponders that for a moment or two.  I decided to add fuel to the fire.

Apparently, dogs can contract the virus, but after reporting one, there hadn’t been any more.  What if they’re not telling anyone that more dogs have contracted the virus so owners and pets don’t get alarmed.

A reply quick as a flash, Dogs get everything that’s going around.  We cats are more resilient.

Until you get cat flu.  Yes, my nana’s cat got cat flu and it killed him in 2 days.  This virus is a much deadlier form of flu.

A suitable look of concern crossed his face.

Maybe I’ll stay indoors for the duration.  It’s not as if you’re going to let me roam the streets any time soon.

Maybe I will, I say.  Perhaps it is time I started letting you out from time to time.

A shake of the head.

We’ll revisit this when the crisis has passed, he says getting up and walking off, tail flicking in annoyance.

One to me, none to him.  Yes!!!

Writing about writing a book – Day 29

It is hard sometimes to keep the lid on what might be called justification of your position in a company where there are many naysayers, and little support from those who are supposed to be working together towards a single conclusion.

Not work against you, or to have their own agenda, not only in furthering their career on the back of your mistakes but take the credit for all your hard work.

Every company has them.

I’ve worked in a few where this has happened, but the deciding factor of whether they’re successful or not is when they have to stand on their own two feet when the source of their reputed good work suddenly is unavailable, and the shit hits the proverbial fan.

What is it called?  Art imitates life.

Benton is the proverbial leader who takes credit, but when it comes to the crunch, can’t pull the rabbit out of the hat.

I guess in writing this little piece, I was subconsciously getting back at someone from a real, but now distant, past.

Perhaps there might be a little more about one of the places I worked cropping up from time to time.

It’s not so much writing about what you know, but writing about what happened, and what you might have wanted to happen.  Invariably it never did, because these credit takers are a cunning lot, and sometimes lay the foundations for getting out from under when there is a disaster.

Unfortunately, I’ve been there too.

It’s called cutting your nose off to spite your face.

Be that as it may, I let this little vent run and see where it goes.

 

It was my responsibility since I’d recommended it and then won the support of management over his objections, and following that it had become a point of continual contention, a petty war neither of us was going to win.

I tried to keep the joy out of my voice.  He’d also vetoed my recommendation for a full-time network engineer as my alternative, making my job become single point sensitive.  There was no one to replace me if anything went wrong.

“Sounds like you’re having fun.”  I had to work hard to keep the amusement out of my tone.

“Fun nothing.”  His tone was reaching that exasperation point.  “There is no one else.”

“Why did you approve my holiday if I can’t have one?” I’d stretch his patience just a little more.

“You promised me the network was stable.”

“It is, and has been for the last six months.  I’ve said so in my last six-monthly reports.  You have been reading them, haven’t you?”

Silence.  It said all I needed to know.

I had a choice sentence to deliver, but an ignominious thought popped into my head.  He could probably use this against me, and would if I gave him the opportunity.  Perhaps I should shelve my differences with him for this morning.

Aside from that, there was a shooting, and we didn’t get one of those every day.  Not that it would probably amount to very much.  During the previous week, the office grapevine had been working overtime on the rumor Richardson was having a relationship with one of the ladies in the Accounts department.  It was just the sort of scandal the data entry staff thrived on.

A shooting and a network failure.  I didn’t know which was worse.  Perhaps if it was Benton they’d shot, there might be some justice…

I decided not to argue with him.  “Give me an hour.”

“Half.  Aitchison wants to see you.”

Werner Aitchison was head of Internal Security and a man who took his job seriously.  Enough, that is, to annoy my staff, and me.  He was ex-military intelligence, so ‘they’ said, but he appeared to me like a man out of his depth in this new age of communications.  Computers had proliferated in our company over the last few years, and the technology to go with them spiraling out of control.

We dealt in billions via financial transactions processed on computers, computers which, we were told often enough, was insecure, and easily taken control of outside their environment.  Aitchison was paranoid, and rightly so, but he had a strange way of going about his business.  He and I had butted heads on many occasions, and we may have had our disagreements, but we were good friends and colleagues outside work.

Just in case Benton was accusing me, I said, as sincerely as I could, “I didn’t do it.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.  He has requested a meeting with you at 10 am.  You will be there.”

“I said I would come in to look at the problem.  I didn’t say I was staying.”

“Let me know when you get in.”  That was it.  No ifs.  No buts.  Just a simple, ‘Let me know…’

I seriously considered ignoring him, but somewhere within me, there was that odd sense of loyalty.  Not to Benton, not to the Company, but to someone else, the man who had given me the job in the first place, who had given me every opportunity.

I was doing it for him and would tell him.

When I found out who it was!

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

Delving into the inspirational photo bin…

I found this…


So near and yet so far.

What I found was the moon out in the late afternoon, a phenomenon that might happen on a regular basis, but this one of the few times I’ve seen it.

So, what kind of inspiration does this bring to mind?

A chance to fly to the moon?  Move into the future, and, out one afternoon staring into space, you see the moon, but don’t think anything of it.

Until you come home, and on the TV there’s an add for trips to the moon, a lunar holiday, a chance to stay in a five-star hotel, perhaps catch the launching of a supply ship to Mars, or a round of moon golf?

And what if, on the way to the moon, something goes wrong?

Or better still, after you’ve landed, there’s a murder, and you’re the only qualified detective?

Not original, but a quirky story with endless possibilities, with the possibility that the blood spatter, is floating in space, with the victim, in a room with no atmosphere?

I can feel a story coming on!