Days 151 and 152

My story so far…

..

The notion that I would be writing a book throughout this writing calendar seems at odds with the way I have approached writing books in the past.

About eight years ago, I started working on the writing of books using the NaNoWriMo method. That method, of course, does not demand that you write a book in the 30 days that make up November. What it asks you to do is try to write 50,000 words, which would make a reasonable-sized book.

To ‘win’ the prize, which is simply a certificate, all you have to do is write an average 1,667 words a day.

Not all that hard really.

Or is it more difficult than it seems?

When you are put under pressure, and have to find a plot, characters, twists and turns, and write that many words, it can finish up turning you into a mental wreck. What happens if you get ill, are called away for work, or experience some other calamity?

Despite what might or might not happen, over the past 12 years, I have managed to write 8 books, of between 50,500 words and 65,000 words. Since I’m one of those who fly by the seat of their pants, it suits me. For planners and prognosticators, you would need a couple of months before November to plan.

Writing this story, now with the working title of “A score to settle”, I’m taking the long road, thinking more about what I write, and not necessarily writing every day.

As with most of my novels, they start as a short story, which turns into a long short story, and then a novel, if the ideas keep coming.

This one, the protagonist, Alan, has been through a version of hell and comes out the other side in a hot tugid room in a seaside resort town in a pseudo-dictatorship country, run by an ever-cheerful president who is the face of the so-called benevolent ruling elite.

Behind the smiles and platitudes is the real leader, a general who runs the military and the secret police. It is a country where human rights abuses are suspected, but as with any propped-up government, people who matter tend to look the other way.

Introduce into this, the parameters for the story –

• A human rights conference, which is at odds with the perception of the country’s objectives

• A population that is beginning to stir, not openly revolt, but it is a work in progress

• A missing face of the last coup d’état, who disappeared shortly after the military took over

• The imminent return of the son of the missing leader to become the face of the next coup

• Circumstances that will work against the ruling elite making a coup possible

It’s not our protagonist’s problem; he is just there to ensure that the keynote speaker is protected, supposedly without them knowing he is there.

On a normal, routine-of-the-mill operation, it would be at best a five-day holiday in paradise.

And that’s where the fun starts…

It’s one of those situations, that time of life, after being at the edge, on the edge, and over the edge, that our protagonist wakes up and realises that his life is no life, that he had achieved nothing but fuel nightmares with the faces of those who had died, both friend and enemy over the years.

Not a time to start speculating on what might have been when he is about to step into the breech.

Then, of course, everything changes. An assistant arrives because he believes his boss had lost faith in him, the target changes from a man to a woman, one he had to mind five years before, in a mission that went sideways. He had to contend with a police chief who suddenly takes more than a passing interest in him, and discovers the whole country is a powder keg about to blow up in his face.

And that’s just after he accidentally meets a free spirit, the ubiquitous woman in white who, in a few short questions, can see into his very soul and question everything about himself.

Perhaps the near-death experience had primed him for such an event.

The worst thing about it, where he should have enjoyed that introspective time with her, his suspicious mind treats her, and everyone around him with suspicion and alarm, as he had been trained, and it’s perhaps the most soul-destroying truth.

He can never have a relationship or friendship, or anything, while he is doing his job.

And it’s day one of the operation.

But first things first … running in the background is another plot, fuelled by the anger of one man, hell bent on destroying the organisation he works for, and particularly its leader.

Not only will the perceived enemy of his target be looking for him too, but quite literally, his own people will be trying to assassinate him for the second time.

I have to say – this is a fun story to write.

More about my story

…

Could it be more of an epic romance than a sizzling spy story?

…

There is the woman in white

The mysterious, enigmatic woman who wanders into his life, fascinated by a man who does not act upon the signals she is sending.

What man could resist her allure?

He had to be up to one good.

Of course, in time, we learn that she is more than just a free spirit, that she has connections to several of the main players in ways that are surprising yet not.

She is one of the reasons why our main protagonist realises it’s time to take a step back and decide what is more important, working a job that is becoming more of a chore than a joy, or having a life.

And whether he really wants to exact the retribution that might or might not give him closure.

There is Amanda, the woman who derailed his career when he got too close.

It was like Icarus flying too close to the sun, and when it ended, it ended very badly, leaving visible scars and an impairment to his soul.

He discovered love and loss and had never recovered.

Now she was back, and on top of nursing a near-death experience, crossing her path was just one omen too many.

Can he exercise this demon or will it, quite literally, be the death of him?

There is a spy sent to spy on a spy.

Teresa, just as broken as our protagonists, with a whole different set of demons to contend with.

A woman who had been described by many as the devil incarnate.

A woman who could tempt the devil into doing her bidding, sent to the one person who saw her only as an impediment to doing his job and as a punishment from his boss.

She was ostensibly there to act in any capacity he requires, and after a difficult beginning, it works.

Sort of.

Unfortunately, their demons have other ideas…

More about my story

…

Could it be more of an epic romance than a sizzling spy story?

…

There is the woman in white

The mysterious, enigmatic woman who wanders into his life, fascinated by a man who does not act upon the signals she is sending.

What man could resist her allure?

He had to be up to one good.

Of course, in time, we learn that she is more than just a free spirit, that she has connections to several of the main players in ways that are surprising yet not.

She is one of the reasons why our main protagonist realises it’s time to take a step back and decide what is more important, working a job that is becoming more of a chore than a joy, or having a life.

And whether he really wants to exact the retribution that might or might not give him closure.

There is Amanda, the woman who derailed his career when he got too close.

It was like Icarus flying too close to the sun, and when it ended, it ended very badly, leaving visible scars and an impairment to his soul.

He discovered love and loss and had never recovered.

Now she was back, and on top of nursing a near-death experience, crossing her path was just one omen too many.

Can he exercise this demon or will it, quite literally, be the death of him?

There is a spy sent to spy on a spy.

Teresa, just as broken as our protagonists, with a whole different set of demons to contend with.

A woman who had been described by many as the devil incarnate.

A woman who could tempt the devil into doing her bidding, sent to the one person who saw her only as an impediment to doing his job and as a punishment from his boss.

She was ostensibly there to act in any capacity he requires, and after a difficult beginning, it works.

Sort of.

Unfortunately, their demons have other ideas…

Day 150

Cliches

…

So, standard practice tells us that as writers we must avoid cliches at all costs.

It’s a great idea. Because you are writing to potentially a great many people, the notion that most of them will have no idea what you are talking about, or understand the relevance, it’s best not to leave them perplexed when they read something they don’t understand.

A great example of this was many years ago when I worked with a chap who was a recent immigrant from Russia. His English was reasonable, that is, he could speak in a manner I could understand, but there were times when he stopped, searching for the English equivalent.

I would have called it a quaint accent. Others would be less accommodating.

But…

I found that I tended to speak with a lot of English idioms and cliches, some of which he did not understand, and so I spent a lot of time translating them. He was not at all ashamed of not knowing them, but wanted to.

Thus, for a few months, I became an ESL teacher and found it quite amusing, especially when he told me what the Russian equivalents were. And, yes, Russians do have their own cliches, and we westerners cop a few really interesting ones.

And, yes, I use cliches in stories, or at least until the third draft when I realise that they don’t belong, and even when they last a little longer, the editor’s blue pencil gets them every time.

But, and there’s always a but…

What if your protagonist speaks in cliches?

Day 150

Cliches

…

So, standard practice tells us that as writers we must avoid cliches at all costs.

It’s a great idea. Because you are writing to potentially a great many people, the notion that most of them will have no idea what you are talking about, or understand the relevance, it’s best not to leave them perplexed when they read something they don’t understand.

A great example of this was many years ago when I worked with a chap who was a recent immigrant from Russia. His English was reasonable, that is, he could speak in a manner I could understand, but there were times when he stopped, searching for the English equivalent.

I would have called it a quaint accent. Others would be less accommodating.

But…

I found that I tended to speak with a lot of English idioms and cliches, some of which he did not understand, and so I spent a lot of time translating them. He was not at all ashamed of not knowing them, but wanted to.

Thus, for a few months, I became an ESL teacher and found it quite amusing, especially when he told me what the Russian equivalents were. And, yes, Russians do have their own cliches, and we westerners cop a few really interesting ones.

And, yes, I use cliches in stories, or at least until the third draft when I realise that they don’t belong, and even when they last a little longer, the editor’s blue pencil gets them every time.

But, and there’s always a but…

What if your protagonist speaks in cliches?

Day 149

Why does someone pick up a book?

…

It’s an interesting question, and I’m guessing that when you start writing, it’s not the first question that pops into your mind.

Why does a person go into a bookshop to buy a book?

Do they like the idea of the tactile feel of the book in their hands? Do they like the idea of buying the hard-bound version with the hard covers, and the colourful jacket, or a full-size paperback or just the cheap small version for a lesser price, the read and then toss away?

Do they buy books, read them, put them on the bookshelf, and admire what they have read as an accomplishment?

Are they looking for entertainment, something to take their mind of the hum drum days of going to work, going home, going to work, going home, over and over?

Are they wanting to read about the life they would like to have rather than the life they actually have? Like seeing them single-handedly save the world from utter destruction, after or course, car chases, jumping out of helicopters, surviving a plane crash, and rescuing damsels by the half dozen?

Do they want to read about the romance that’s missing in their lives, to have that particular man or woman that just magically appears, and you can live happily ever after, after a few ups and downs of course.

Or are they simply looking for a reference book on cooking, space, do-it-yourself, or computers?

It’s how I worked out what readers want to read, because while I’m looking for books, I observe my fellow readers, sometimes even speak to them, and what they say is very illuminating. It’s fascinating to discover every reader is different.

My visits to the bookshop and firstly to seek out the bargains. Then I look for my favourite authors, and by association, my favourite genres. Then I look for books in my favourite genres, but I’m always open to anything else that might take my fancy. Hardbound books are a first preference, and full-size paperbacks are second.

Then, when I have read them, they go on the shelves, one of seven bookcases, in the library, which also doubles as my writing room.

Yes, it’s time to take a few moments away from your self-imposed exile in that dusty, draughty attic, and go meet some of those readers.

And prepare to be greatly surprised.

Day 149

Why does someone pick up a book?

…

It’s an interesting question, and I’m guessing that when you start writing, it’s not the first question that pops into your mind.

Why does a person go into a bookshop to buy a book?

Do they like the idea of the tactile feel of the book in their hands? Do they like the idea of buying the hard-bound version with the hard covers, and the colourful jacket, or a full-size paperback or just the cheap small version for a lesser price, the read and then toss away?

Do they buy books, read them, put them on the bookshelf, and admire what they have read as an accomplishment?

Are they looking for entertainment, something to take their mind of the hum drum days of going to work, going home, going to work, going home, over and over?

Are they wanting to read about the life they would like to have rather than the life they actually have? Like seeing them single-handedly save the world from utter destruction, after or course, car chases, jumping out of helicopters, surviving a plane crash, and rescuing damsels by the half dozen?

Do they want to read about the romance that’s missing in their lives, to have that particular man or woman that just magically appears, and you can live happily ever after, after a few ups and downs of course.

Or are they simply looking for a reference book on cooking, space, do-it-yourself, or computers?

It’s how I worked out what readers want to read, because while I’m looking for books, I observe my fellow readers, sometimes even speak to them, and what they say is very illuminating. It’s fascinating to discover every reader is different.

My visits to the bookshop and firstly to seek out the bargains. Then I look for my favourite authors, and by association, my favourite genres. Then I look for books in my favourite genres, but I’m always open to anything else that might take my fancy. Hardbound books are a first preference, and full-size paperbacks are second.

Then, when I have read them, they go on the shelves, one of seven bookcases, in the library, which also doubles as my writing room.

Yes, it’s time to take a few moments away from your self-imposed exile in that dusty, draughty attic, and go meet some of those readers.

And prepare to be greatly surprised.

Day 148

Could any of the classics inspire you?

…

Given that they were written in a different time, with different people, and far different circumstances, the logical answer would be no.

But, the real question is, had the human condition changed any?

Could we believe that people are still the same people, the same feelings, the same hatreds, the same biases, there’s still poor and rich, and probably somewhere a comfortable middle class.

The rich people still rule the world.

Politicians are still the same greedy, insensitive, uncaring, self serving asses they always have been and always will. Who wants to be a politician? No man or woman in his or her right mind would want, no decent man or woman that is.

Men still covet their neighbour’s wife, or anyone else’s for that matter, we still get jealous, and a certain group still murder other people for sometimes the stupidest of reasons.

Whether it is 1720, 1830, or 1940, it doesn’t matter. We might have moved from horse and cart to automobiles, from stagecoaches to Concord SSTs, thatch cottages to mansions, tinkers to supermarkets, and a life span that used to be 40, to now somewhere in our 80s, but people, the actual human beings, have not changed.

Not one iota.

So, go and read a few of those classic novels, Charles Dickens, T.S. Eliot, George Eliot, Jane Austen, Leo Tolstoy, Laurence Sterne, just to name a few.

Check out what people were doing 200, 300 years ago, and if you read between the lines, you’re going to find they are no different to us. They just dress funny and talk funny, but then so do we, these days.

Scary, isn’t it?

Day 148

Could any of the classics inspire you?

…

Given that they were written in a different time, with different people, and far different circumstances, the logical answer would be no.

But, the real question is, had the human condition changed any?

Could we believe that people are still the same people, the same feelings, the same hatreds, the same biases, there’s still poor and rich, and probably somewhere a comfortable middle class.

The rich people still rule the world.

Politicians are still the same greedy, insensitive, uncaring, self serving asses they always have been and always will. Who wants to be a politician? No man or woman in his or her right mind would want, no decent man or woman that is.

Men still covet their neighbour’s wife, or anyone else’s for that matter, we still get jealous, and a certain group still murder other people for sometimes the stupidest of reasons.

Whether it is 1720, 1830, or 1940, it doesn’t matter. We might have moved from horse and cart to automobiles, from stagecoaches to Concord SSTs, thatch cottages to mansions, tinkers to supermarkets, and a life span that used to be 40, to now somewhere in our 80s, but people, the actual human beings, have not changed.

Not one iota.

So, go and read a few of those classic novels, Charles Dickens, T.S. Eliot, George Eliot, Jane Austen, Leo Tolstoy, Laurence Sterne, just to name a few.

Check out what people were doing 200, 300 years ago, and if you read between the lines, you’re going to find they are no different to us. They just dress funny and talk funny, but then so do we, these days.

Scary, isn’t it?

Day 147

Writing Exercise

…

We sat across the table, with six feet of air between us, staring each other down, like the old days when we tried outstaring each other.

Usually I lose, but not today.

There was nothing at stake here but pride, and over the last thirty-two years, I had mine trodden on, beaten out of me, and have people proclaim in no uncertain terms it would be my downfall.

My downfall had been the cruelty dealt me by an unforgiving and monstrous father, and equally as monstrous sister, every bit her father.

The lawyer at the end of the table didn’t want to be there.

I didn’t want to be here; only someone had to stop the evil witch from destroying everything my mother had created for us, and the world around us.

“You’re pathetic.” It was the tenth time she’d said it.

“You are a monster.” It was the first time I used it, but it was water off a duck’s back.

She would claim she’d heard worse, and I would believe her. I was not the only one who thought she had gone down the wrong path.

“Jesus, Henry, is that the best you can do?”

“No. But you don’t bring out the big guns until you have to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just sign the papers and consign the building and contents to the historical society. It was mother’s wish and we will be adhering to it.”

I had a brief moment, back in her room, on her deathbed, holding my hand and telling me that the house should not under any circumstances go to anyone but the historical society. That had been in her will, but our father had contested it and won. Now, he was consigning it to a bunch of country club charlatans who wanted a hotel, spa, and golf course.

I’d worked out a deal with the historical society, and as beneficiaries, all we had to do was sign it over. Harriet wanted to sell it, take her half, and go on a first-class tour of the world, among other things.

“She was as pathetic as you are. She had no idea what the worth of the place was, and how it would help us.”

“It won’t help you. Whatever you get, you’ll have spent in a year. Do the right thing. It’ll be the only thing left of Mother to remember her.”

“She wasn’t a mother to me.”

“You weren’t a daughter to her.”

She stood up suddenly, and the chair fell backwards with a crash. “Then I’ll see you in court.”

“You go out that door, I will, but not in the way you would imagine.” I stood too. “Please. I dare you.”

A dare would do the job. It was time for the big guns.

She crossed to the door and had her hand on the handle. The lawyer was looking out the window. He knew what was coming and didn’t want to be a witness.

“What have you got up your sleeve?”

I looked up my sleeve. “An arm. Why do you ask?”

She came back and sat down. Then her manner completely changed. Yes, I’d seen that before. My father was very good at playing the game; he might not know what was going on, but in the end, he’d wheedle it out of you.

Harriet was no different. Except this time, I was immune. It was my mother’s affairs, and she was watching over me.

“What have you got up your sleeve, young Henry?” The same tone and manner as my father, in fact, it was like looking at and listening to him.

“Clue: 2022.”

“You were a bigger nincampoop then than you are now. So?”

Clue: Fry.”

“What? Fish and chips. Have you gone completely mad?”

“Clue: $20,000,000.”

A flicker. Fry was the accountant she employed to syphon twenty million dollars out of the business account, ostensibly to invest in the Fry and Walter Capital Investment Fund in 2022, as part of a tax dodge. Instead, it went into an offshore account in her name, while the paperwork covered the tracks. Then in 2024, we received advice that the Fry and Walter Capital Investment Fund had crashed, and the investors were left out of pocket. Convenient for her. Hardly a blip on the horizon for the business.

Except it looks like she’s spent it all, and is now back for more. Except, I had a visit the week before from some very nasty people telling me if I didn’t pay up her debts, to the tune of ten million and rising at the rate of one million a month, then someone was going to get hurt.

No smart ass reply. Yet.

“Last clue: Benny. I’m sure you are aware of who Benny is, grating voice, several prominent scars, no manners whatsoever.”

“When?” A whisper.

“Last week. Came to my house. Scared the living shit out of Willie. What happened to the twenty million you stole three years ago? No one can spend twenty million in two years.”

“I have a lifestyle and image to maintain.”

“Tell me how that can happen after Benny and his friend cut you up into twenty pieces and drop them into the sewer?”

“Is that what he threatened?”

“No, that’s what I told him I would do to you when I saw you next. What the hell do you think he was going to say?”

“Just sell the place, give me my share, and I’m in the wind. You won’t see me again.”

“No. You’ll sign the papers to hand this place over to the historical society, I will pay the debt, and you will surrender yourself to the police.”

“Hell will freeze over first. I got away with that free and clear. No one knows.”

“I do.”

“And I’ll make sure no one else does. I thought you might have done something like this. Rhonda told me you were acting strange and asking all these stupid questions. Well, I took out some insurance, just in case.”

I looked over at the lawyer. “You can leave now. You don’t want to be here until after we’ve sorted this out. By the side entrance.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice.

“Now,” I said, “You can try to do your worst.”

She picked up her cell phone and speed-dialled a number. Nothing happened.

“There’s no service in this room.”

She got up and went over to the door and opened it. A second later, she slammed it shut and turned around.

“What have you done?”

“I told Benny we were settling your debt today, one way or another. I had your boyfriend and his mates arrested, attempting to kidnap one of my children. That’s low even for you, Harriet. You’ve been under surveillance for the last three months, but not by me. You seem to have some terrible enemies on both sides of the law. By the way, Dad knew you took the money. He thought it showed initiative. So did I actually.”

“I’m happy to go to the police and tell them you were the one who did it. My name is not on any of the paperwork.”

“No. That was a deft touch. Fry took a little convincing before he told us what you did. Any more surprises up your sleeve, Harriet?”

Yes, one. A gun. In her handbag. A gun that she pointed at me.

“So,” she said, “This is how this is going to go. We are going to sign the resort deal, and I’m going to leave with it, and you’re not going to stop me.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll do what I’ve always done, and sign for you. You have the easiest signature to forge, Henry.”

The last piece of the puzzle, and the confession I needed. “But if you can’t take it, then I know I can’t either.”

“What?”

“It’s what my mother told my father just before he killed her. I was there, by the way, by accident. I had no idea what she meant, but apparently he did. The thing is, I killed him, and he died before she did, outlasting him by a day and a half. And now you have to die.”

It was hardly a sound, just a plop that could not be heard outside the room. Behind me, the shadow materialised into a human shape. My mother. She had not been killed, just badly wounded. She was not going to suddenly reappear now Harriet was gone; that was never her plan. The monsters were dead, and she could retire to a shack in the Bahamas. The business was mine.

I went over to Harriet, now a crumpled heap on the floor. Dead. It was not my sister; she had been murdered and substituted three years ago. We knew it wasn’t her because my sister would not have stolen twenty million, but that aside, Harriet was her father’s daughter, but with a little more compassion.

A nod to Benson, my mother’s bodyguard, who was also hiding in the room, and he took Harriet away, leaving the room empty except for the papers on the desk. I signed the historical society document, first as Harriet and then as myself, and called the lawyer back in. He checked the signatures and then countersigned as a witness.

Then I went out and handed Benny a check for his debt, with the threat that if I saw him again, it would be the last time he saw me. Benson saw them out. Given all that had happened in the last three months, Mother and I needed a holiday.

In a little shack in the Bahamas.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025