Tag: Charles Heath

One Last Look

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man?  Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required.  Instead Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.

After a near death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London, to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

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A new story …

I write about spies, washed out, worn out or thrown out.

It’s time for me to go on with my next book.

The first sentence of a novel is always the hardest. Like I guess many others, I sit and ponder what I’m going to write, whether it will be relevant, whether it will pull the reader into my world, and cause them to read on.

And that’s the objective, to capture the reader’s imagination and want to see what’s going to happen next.

The problem is, we have to set the scene.

Or do we?

Do we need to cover the who, what, where, and when criteria in that first sentence? Can we just start with edge of the seat suspense, like,

The first bullet hit the concrete wall about six inches above my head with a resounding thwack that scared the living daylights out of me. The second, sent on its way within a fraction of a second of the first found its mark, the edge of my shoulder, slicing through the material, and creasing skin and flesh. There was blood and then panic.

Milliseconds later my brain registered the near miss and sent the instruction: get down you idiot.

I hit the ground just as another bullet slammed into the concrete where my head had just been.

It can use some more work, less commas, perhaps shorter, sharper sentences to convey the urgency and danger.

Perhaps we could paint a picture of the main character.

He tentatively has the name of Jackson Galworthy. He has always aspired to be a ‘secret agent’ or ‘spy’ and but through luck more than anything else, he was given his opportunity. The problem is he failed his first test and failure means washing out of the program.

What had ‘they’ said? When the shit hits the fan, you need to be calm, cool, and collected. He’d been anything but.

Maybe we’ll flesh the character out as we go along.

OK, I just had another thought for an opening,

Light snow was still falling, past the stage where each flake dissolved as it hit the ground, and now starting to gather in white patches.

It was cold, very cold, and even with the three layers I still shivered.

What surprised me was the silence, but, of course, it was a graveyard beside an ancient church, and everyone who had attended the funeral service had left.

It was a short service for the few that came, and a shorter burial. No one seemed keen to hang around, not with the evening darkness and the snow setting in.

I stood, not far from the filled grave looking at it, but not looking at it. Was I expecting it’s occupant to rise again? Was I expecting forgiveness? I certainly didn’t deserve it.

The truth is, I was responsible for this person’s death, making a mistake a more seasoned professional might not, and the reason why I was shown the door. I had been given very simple instructions; protect this man at all costs.

It was going to be a simple extraction, go in, get the target, and get out before anyone noticed.

A pity then I was the only one who got that memo.

Any thoughts?

Thoughts, maybe – again

I can see how it is that a writer’s life can be a lonely one.

I’m often sitting in front of the computer screen, or in a large lounge chair with my trusty tablet computer, writing the words, or staring into space!

Sometimes the words don’t make any sense, sometime the thoughts leading to those words don’t make any sense.  Sometimes the most sensible person in the room is the cat.

I’m sure his thoughts are not a vague, or scrambled, or wrestling with the ploys of several stories on the go, getting locations right, getting characters to think and do their thing with a fair degree of continuity.

The cats world is one of which chair to lie on, where is that elusive mouse be it real or otherwise, and is this fool going to feed me, and please, please, don’t let it be the lasagna.  I am not that cat!

Unlike other professions there is no 9 to 5, no overtime, no point where you can switch off and move into leisure time.  Not while you are writing that next masterpiece.  It’s a steady sometimes frustrating slog where you can’t just walk away, have a great time, and come back and pick up where you left off.

Stories have to be written from beginning to end, not a bit here and a bit there.

It’s a bit like running a marathon.  You are in a zone, the first few miles are the hardest, the middle is just getting the rhythm and breathing under control, and then you hope you get to the end, because it can seem that you’ve been going forever and the end is never in sight.

But, when you reach the end, oh, isn’t the feeling one of pure joy and relief.

And, yes, perhaps you’ve just created another masterpiece!

Thoughts, maybe

I can see how it is that a writer’s life can be a lonely one.

I’m often sitting in front of the computer screen, or in a large lounge chair with my trusty tablet computer, writing the words, or staring into space!

Sometimes the words don’t make any sense, sometime the thoughts leading to those words don’t make any sense.  Sometimes the most sensible person in the room is the cat.

I’m sure his thoughts are not a vague, or scrambled, or wrestling with the ploys of several stories on the go, getting locations right, getting characters to think and do their thing with a fair degree of continuity.

The cats world is one of which chair to lie on, where is that elusive mouse be it real or otherwise, and is this fool going to feed me, and please, please, don’t let it be the lasagna.  I am not that cat!

Unlike other professions there is no 9 to 5, no overtime, no point where you can switch off and move into leisure time.  Not while you are writing that next masterpiece.  It’s a steady sometimes frustrating slog where you can’t just walk away, have a great time, and come back and pick up where you left off.

Stories have to be written from beginning to end, not a bit here and a bit there.

It’s a bit like running a marathon.  You are in a zone, the first few miles are the hardest, the middle is just getting the rhythm and breathing under control, and then you hope you get to the end, because it can seem that you’ve been going forever and the end is never in sight.

But, when you reach the end, oh, isn’t the feeling one of pure joy and relief.

And, yes, perhaps you’ve just created another masterpiece!

 

Never say never

Well, that was what I said when I left the hospital the first time – never again.

Guess what?

Three days later I was being taken by ambulance back to the hospital.

I went to see my local GP about a cough that wouldn’t let me speak, and I was having a little trouble breathing.

OK, I was having a lot of trouble breathing, so it was straight on oxygen.

As you can imagine I hate hospitals.  It’s where a lot of people go to die, and, for a short time, lying in my bed in Emergency, listening to all the possibilities of what was wrong with me, I started to believe it was my time.

Don’t ever consent to a nasal swab, it’s like having ear buds shoved up your nose and into your brain.  It hurts like hell, and makes your eyes run like taps.  This after the nurse said I would only have momentary discomfort.

It was still hurting three days later.

When the X-rays came back it was confirmed I had pneumonia.  A comparison with an X-ray from my first visit showed clouds where my lungs were, whereas the previous one had none.

It was thought I may had acquired it in hospital the first time.

So trying to find the bug was going to be far more intensive and painful than it being just an ‘ordinary’ case of pneumonia.  These bugs were more resistant to treatment and harder to track down.

The bad news, I wasn’t going anywhere for at least a week, possibly more.

It took 9 days to get over it and be well enough to be discharged.  For the first few days I could not breath without oxygen, and for the first five, I could do little other than lie down or sit up in bed.  A walk to the shower or toilet, about 10 yards at best, exhausted me.

So there was little to do other than observe the medical staff and other patients.

Enough research to fill several pads.

And when I was well enough, I spent some time writing.

Never let it be said there isn’t a silver lining in at least one of those clouds!

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 re-writes, 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 and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Years, 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 their were apartment building, 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 center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of 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.

 

I’ve been missing …

I’ve learned a lot in the last few days about how badly you can screw up your life and not realize what’s happening until it’s almost too late.

Firstly, I’m taking a relatively small dose of methetrexate for psoriatic arthritis.  Things were good, well, as good as the can be, suffering the side effects because you are supposed to believe it’s controlling the problem.

Note: Psoriatic arthritis cannot be cured, only have its effects ‘managed’.  I have been on it for 15 months and to a degree it’s working.

The problems begin when you have other problems, and then it becomes a juggling act with all the pills that one has to take.

So, secondly, let’s assume that the medication regime for the first ailment, psoriatic arthritis is:

methetrexate

folic acid

panadol osteo (for pain management)

steroids, but only short term

Leflunomide (also for arthritis)

There’s the first problem, steroids work really well for arthritis.  Unfortunately the long term effect of using them is horrendous.

This leaves the second problem, pain management.  Panadol Osteo just doesn’t cut it.

This leaves you with generally with frequent periods of pain and the ugly side effects of dizziness in sunshine, constant nausea, and toilet problems.

But, for the really stupid, and believe me, I fit perfectly into that category, you can take Celebrex, a stronger form of ipbrufen, or you can take ipbrufen

It helps with the pain, but as I discovered, almost too late, it leads to acute kidney failure. Oh yes, and a lot of other unwanted problems.

Which brings us to thirdly, the fact I finished in hospital for quite a different reason altogether.

Methetrexate actually lessens the effectiveness of your immune system.  This can lead to all sorts of other complications and in my particular case, chest pain and short breath.

Several doctors considered this to be one of the side effects of methetrexate and reduced immune system leading to a respiratory infection.

I labored under the impression this was the problem this time but after three weeks I thought it was time to see a doctor.

An ECG and general check didn’t dispute this initial diagnoses, and for it I was put on a particular type of antibiotic.

Ok, this has side effects like rashing in the sun and badly behaving with methetrexate.  Ok, let’s hope it works.

But just in case he order a particular blood test to see if there was any cardiac issues.  It came back abnormally high and I was told to drop everything a get to a hospital.

I did.

So I’m getting all these tests for the possibility I was going to have an imminent heart attack, I lying on a bed in the emergency department, almost having a heart attack from being given the news that because I had psoriatic arthritis exponentially increases the possibility of having one.

The echo-cardiogram said I was not having a cardiac event.   Investigation of the symptoms pointed towards angina, but with a few more unpronounceable words either side.

But that was, the doctor said, the least of my problems.  The next minute he says my blood test has come back advising I had acute kidney failure, my kidneys had stopped working.

That explained a lot.

So, here’s the thing.  Pill juggling is not something we lay people should contemplate.  There’s a reason why you are asked to consult your doctor before taking any different medicine, particularly if it isn’t a prescribed medicine.

I have learned by bitter experience.

Do not take ipbrufen or any of its friends if you are on methetrexate.  If you do it will destroy your kidneys.  I was lucky it was caught in time.

And also there was another medication I take for high blood pressure, has a component in it that doesn’t help your kidneys either.

It means of course that you need to have a regular review of your medication regime, and regular blood tests to make sure the pill combinations aren’t killing you.

As I said I’m lucky.

Except I now have a problem with angina and the remedies for this are far, far scarier than my psoriatic arthritis.

That is, until I finished up in hospital again several days later with a far more serious problem.

Pneumonia.

Thoughts, maybe

It should come as no surprise that democracy is alive and well.

It should also not come as a surprise to finally discover that every vote counts, that you as an individual can make a very large difference in an election outcome.

And for those who don’t vote in a country where voting is optional, well, there’s no complaining when the result of an election doesn’t go your way.

I’ve always believed my single vote counted for nothing.

Not any more.

Thoughts, maybe

I’ve been thinking ….

… and that could be a good thing or a bad thing.

An idea had popped into my head, fired up from seeing the news on television.  I don’t normally look at the news if I can help it because usually its all bad, deaths, fires, drugs, and worst of all, politics.

This item was the equivalent of a two paragraph ‘mention’ buried on page six of the newspaper.

It was the umpteenth variation of a common story, wife having an affair, wife murdered, and, after seeing so many American and English cop shows, assumed the husband would be the number one suspect, no children involved mercifully, but there was something else going on, something I thought I could read between the lines.

No names were mentioned.

I’m not sure why it captured my imagination, but it did, and it swirled around in my head for about a week.

Then, out came a pad and pen and I started to write.

I put myself in the place of the husband and tried to imagine what it was like.

It is a work in progress.

A week or so later, another small paragraph appeared on page five, getting closer to the front page.

No names still because I assume the relative had not been tracked down.

But this alluded to something else as being the cause, and it was the manner of the death that warranted further investigation.

My imagination went into overdrive.

Rest assured I’ll be scouring the papers for the next ‘clue’.

 

Thoughts, maybe

It has any number of names, from Leave of Absence to Vacation, but it is meant to be a time where you can rest and relax.

And by the time you finally get to go away, preferably somewhere as far from home as possible, you are sure ready for it.

Those long days at the office, the decisions, the deadlines, the endless pressure of having to achieve the impossible all melt away when you walk out the door, and what a feeling it is when you tell everyone, ‘I’m off on holidays, see you when I get back.’

As anyone will tell  you, it’s not wise to travel the next day if at all possible, because you need some time to decompress before tackling what sometimes can be an arduous getting to the final destination, especially if it is at a peak holiday period, or on planes where anything and everything can go wrong very quickly.

Been there done that.

We traveled the next day, nothing went wrong, and all is fine.

Except …

As a writer and having spent the last few months finishing off my last novel, I was looking forward to some down time.  The editor has the final draft, and I’m happy.

Then, as it always does, the best laid plans of mice and men …

It all comes unstuck.

Inspiration often comes out of left field; something happens, a piece in a newspaper, an item on TV, or just lying down staring at the ceiling, when ‘bang’  it hits you.

The start of a story, a theme that you can run with.

Damn.

I’ve been away for four days now and written seven chapters and the words will not stop.

If only …

Hey, what a great title for the story.

Sorry, got to get back to work!