Take all the paper out of the file, throw it up in the air, wait until it all lands on the floor, and then take the first piece of paper nearest to you to start.
Perhaps fate is being kind to me because the sheet had the word paranoia on it.
To begin the story, we need to paint a picture of a successful woman running a charitable offshoot that manages the money her inheritance had bequeathed to be used for charitable purposes.
Why not just hand it over to a proper charity and let them do the dirty work?
She did once and found most of it went to administration and very little landed in the hands of those who needed it.
There’s no problem with that except …
Her father thinks there are better things to do, and she has spent considerable time and effort to dissuade her from doing so.
Perhaps his ultimate motive is to get a hold of her money because his own investments are not exactly faring well with the changes he made years before and he does have a wealthy lifestyle and image to keep up.
Then there’s the problem with the mysterious illness she had contracted, making it difficult to work, and necessitates the employment of a new head to administer the charity while she finds out why she’s ill and then recovering.
Her mistake is trusting her father to find the right man.
Then there’s her children, twins, and trouble with a capital T.
The real problem I’d of course that the illness manifests itself in unpredictable ways making her behaviour erratic, her moments of lucidly shorter and her stays in care longer, and her paranoia that someone is trying to kill her slowly taking over.
Who can she trust?
Her lawyer friend, or is he?
Her best friend, who seems above boats?
Her father, who is more interested in his own life than hers?
The new manager has his own agenda and a lot of money to play with.
Her children hate her because she abandoned them to boarding schools.
The doctors keep telling her they can’t find anything wrong.
Or the private detective she had hired to deep dive into all her so-called friends’ lives and find someone who could tell her what was wrong with her.
Oh, and lastly, find her ex-husband Michael, the only man she ever really loved, and whom she now realises she pushed away.
That first chapter of setting the scene has just become five or six.
Our graduation yearbook billed our rivalry as one for the ages, one to watch over the forthcoming years when discoveries would be made, and reputations won or lost.
Jackson Jamieson, son of the famous, world-renowned Aristotle Jamieson who found the intact tomb of a previously unknown Egyptian Pharaoh in a period no one really knew about
Questions were still being asked about the veracity of the discovery.
That fame acquired by the father, rubbed off on the son and it didn’t matter whether he knew anything about Archaeology, having a degree and a father to work for and with, gave him the job that all of us fellow graduates would have given anything to have. Access to one of the greatest finds since Howard Carter and the tomb of Tutankhamun.
At the other end of the scale, I studied hard and learned everything there was to know about just about every Pharaoh. I didn’t have the renowned parent or be a part of any number of digs providing very valuable first-hand experience, just a few minor digs that gave the requisite equivalent for grading purposes, and probably wouldn’t get that all-important photograph.
Chalk and cheese.
That’s what Elizabeth Wilkins said. A fellow graduate, also of the study and knowledge variety, and although the object of Jackson Jamieson’s affections, and on the end of multiple offers to bask in his father’s glory, she chose me over fame.
Perhaps that was because she didn’t believe a word about the discovery. I hadn’t put that idea in her head. She, like I, had put the numbers through the archaeological wringer, and to her, like me, they didn’t add up.
I remember the first time we sat down together. I had admired her from afar, we had talked, but I didn’t think she knew I existed. It was after the third attempt on Jackson’s part to get her to accompany him to his father’s dig, a rare privilege he kept telling her, and she refused, more definitively this time.
It became heated, and I thought it best to step in before it became something else. It earned me a glowering look from Jackson, a slight he would never forget, and a haughty shove from Elizabeth and being told in no uncertain terms to mind my own business.
The next day, she came over and sat at my table. I thought it was to give me a second serve. I was shocked when she apologised. That was when she said, “Don’t you think it’s interesting he picked a date range that we have no definite data or history. I bet the name is an invention.”
“You have to admit the artefacts are fairly compelling.”
“What we’ve seen of them. They’re not releasing everything, just bits and pieces, while they fabricate the story around them. It’s like they are adjusting it to meet expectations.”
“Then you think it’s fake?”
“It’s Jackson Jameson. Everything about him and his father is fake. Some of the earlier artifacts he found, they’re as suspect as this whole Pharaoh thing. I know you think so, too.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. I’m just the poor man’s pathetic excuse for an archaeologist. It’s not as if we’re going to make a name for ourselves.”
“Ancient Egypt is not the only place we can make a discovery. You just have to be patient and trust your instincts. And forget about Jackson Jamieson. I have.”
I was sitting at the desk in a large bookstore doing the umpteenth signing of my father’s best-selling thriller.
I did not get to pursue the life I wanted. Instead, I extrapolated existing findings into stories that could be true after twisting the facts to suit the story.
And yes, one was the discovery of a previously unknown Pharaoh. That was the story that got the ball rolling.
It was a tiring but necessary part of being a successful author. Or so I was told. We were near the end of the tour, and I couldn’t wait for it to be over.
I’d got to the end of the queue and was hoping it was the last. I looked at my watch and sighed.
“It can’t be that bad?”
I looked up. Elizabeth Wilkins. Seven years older and more beautiful than ever. We had dallied for a month or so, but then she got an invitation to a project in the Caribbean, her pet subject Pirates.
It was the subject of her Theseus, and I was considering it as the subject of my next book. In fact, I was seriously considering taking a break and going to look for her.
Great minds and all that.
“I’ve missed you.”
“Not that much, apparently. No 1 best-selling author, hobnobbing with the likes of James Patterson? Who’d have thought.”
“I couldn’t make a living out of it, so I took up journalism, thought I’d do some investigative pieces, and then while digging around the Jamieson discovery I got an idea for a story. And as they say, the rest is history.”
“He tried stopping publication.”
“Closer to the truth than he expected? Maybe, but no one put two and two together, and I left out quite a bit so I wouldn’t get sued.”
“But you got to the truth?”
“No. They still haven’t released anything to definitely prove or disprove the discovery. Seven years of milking a cash cow. Enough for two generations to bask in glory and live like kings. Good luck to them. Enough about them. What have you been doing?”
“Buy me dinner and I’ll tell you.”
It was an offer too good to refuse.
It was an amazing dinner, a romantic stroll back to the hotel where she chose to stay in my suite rather than her small airless box in Queens, as she described it, and rekindled a flame that had not been extinguished over time.
And continued for another three days, because my agent had forgotten to tell me about three more book signings, all of which were made more bearable with Elizabeth opting to come with me.
She, like me, was surprised at the number of people interested in fictional Archaeology, so much so, that she began to tell me about the site she had found and was hoping would be her Aristotle Jamieson moment. It was all very low-key, and she had not shared the results of her finds with anyone but our old Archaeology professor, the only person she felt she could trust, and now me.
I was honoured she included me on that very small list. But there was an ulterior motive, and I should have recognised the signs. Perhaps I didn’t want to because of the way our relationship was developing.
It was dinner on the last day, and we were discussing my next book. I told her I always had a story in the planning stages rather than after a hiatus having to come up with another outline. Publishers were always nervous about the next book, especially when it was a best-selling series.
But I was curious…
“Pirate treasure. A fabled treasure belonging to a minor pirate that no one really believes exists, but where there are endless references.”
“And I assume you could pick any island in the Caribbean where this treasure could be found.”
“Almost, but not quite. The clues are there if you now know where to look.”
“And you think you know where it is?”
“I think I do, yes, and it could be a brilliant idea for a story, teasing out details as the dig progresses, not only a journalistic account of the actual finds but in the research it would save you.”
That’s when the penny dropped. “And you believe I would want to do this because…”
“The university pulled my funding, and I thought…”
Perhaps my expression belied my thoughts, and I had to ask, trying to keep the disappointment out of my tone, and probably failing. “I hope you didn’t just spend the last three days with me because you need money.” It needed to be said, no matter how bluntly put. I think she knew that was coming.
“No. And I’ll be honest, I don’t want what we have, now, to end. I didn’t want to put you in this position and wasn’t going to ask, not after our time together, but in the spirit of being honest, when I saw you were here, I did come up with the idea that I would ask you if you would be interested. Why do you think it took so long to summon the courage to even raise the subject?”
She was right. If she was simply mercenary, she would not have waited so long knowing it was more rather than less likely I’d say no.
“You could simply ask? I thought you knew me better than that.”
“Like I said, I intended to, but seeing you again and how you looked at me, and knowing that I had hurt you leaving the way I did, I couldn’t. I’m sorry. I’m making a mess of things, again, aren’t I?”
She could have if I was not feeling the way I did about her. She hadn’t been faking her emotions or her feelings.
“Why did they stop the funding? It didn’t amount to a lot as I recall.”
“They were just cutting the smaller projects, and mine just happened to be one of them. Like I said. The clues are there, but I haven’t been interpreting them correctly. I’ve made some small finds and I know there’s more, they just didn’t see it progressing. It’s just me and several local archaeologists now, and we’re taking a break. I was hoping that you would come back with me, and help, perhaps share some of the glory.”
It was a tempting offer. I had visited several sites but never got an invitation to stay. And it was Elizabeth, and it would allow us to work and be together in close contact. Those sorts of situations always bring out both the best and worst in people and are a good indication of whether you could live together in a relationship, although it was a little early to contemplate that.
“How much?”
“Last year it was about fifty thousand dollars, mostly living expenses, some wages for help, and permit fees.”
“I would get exclusive publication rights if you found anything?”
“Yes. And another best-selling novel from tagging along for the ride. It’s a win-win for both of us.”
“Then I think I’m now funding an archaeological dig.”
This book has finally come back from the Editor, so this month it is going to get a second revision, a second draft for the editor, and beta readers.
…
In all of the goings-on, with Zoe chasing down old acquaintances in Bucharest, then moving on to Yuri, then Olga, we forget that Isobel and Rupert are on her trail, with Sebastian in tow.
It’s not so much Sebastian in charge anymore, not after going rogue and shooting his boss and John’s mother, an act that Rupert witnesses after following Sebastian on the hunch that he was up to something.
Rupert realizes that Worthington still presents a major problem, and on the basis that Worthington is going to realize it’s not Zoe shooting at him, Worthington has to be taken off the chessboard.
Unfortunately, he has to enlist Sebastian to get a crew together to kidnap him and take him to a safe house.
Meanwhile, Isobel, with a computer in hand, takes up vigil at the hospital with John’s mother, pretending she is her daughter. There she tracks Zoe via her cell phone to an address in Zurich.
Then, miraculously John’s cell phone reappears and is active long enough for her to get a location, and see that a 96-second phone call is made to a phone in Zurich, Zoe’s.
Then it disappears again.
Isobel then calls Zoe and gives her the address. It’s a short call.
Calls to Sebastian and Rupert mobilize them, and everyone is on their way to John’s location.
NANOWRIMO has once again stuck up on me, and April is just around the corner.
While it is not the writing month, I always like to look at a story I’ve been puddling with over the last year and see if, in the month allocated, I can flesh out the story from the myriad of ideas and snippets that accumulate.
These accumulations live in folders some thicker than others, and yes, quite a lot of the material resides on paper, actual paper.
There’s about five or six on the pending box, so I pull out the top one.
Yes, that will do.
It’s a story that I started in the middle, though at the time when the ideas were flowing, it was the start. The fact I did some shuffling meant that I got a few new ideas and started writing Blackstone’s which in turn became the basis for what would become the start of the story.
So, that being the case, the story runs ..
In the beginning the backstop to the main character, her life, her work, her friends and acquaintances, her enemies, and the mounting problems that make her life and work difficult.
The second part, her ex-husband of many years ago, got a message from the grave and went in to sort out the mess that was created by her sudden and until death.
Then there’s the investigation, and the detective involved, created with the intention as all authors must have in the back of their minds, to star in another story later in.
As you can see, it’s all part of a long and complicated process in my sometimes bitter and twisted mind.
Oreti village, Pukawa Bay, North Island, New Zealand
On the southern tip of Lake Taupo
Our first morning there, a Saturday. Winter. Cold. And a beautiful sunrise.
This was taken from the balcony, overlooking the lake.
The sun is just creeping up over the horizon
It gradually gets lighter, and then the sun breaks free of the low cloud
It lights up the balcony
And the trees just beyond, a cascade of colorful ferns.
It looks like its going to be a fine day, our first for this trip, and we will be heading to the mountains to see snow, for the first time for two of our granddaughters.
This book has finally come back from the Editor, so this month it is going to get a second revision, a second draft for the editor, and beta readers.
…
In all of the goings-on, with Zoe chasing down old acquaintances in Bucharest, then moving on to Yuri, then Olga, we forget that Isobel and Rupert are on her trail, with Sebastian in tow.
It’s not so much Sebastian in charge anymore, not after going rogue and shooting his boss and John’s mother, an act that Rupert witnesses after following Sebastian on the hunch that he was up to something.
Rupert realizes that Worthington still presents a major problem, and on the basis that Worthington is going to realize it’s not Zoe shooting at him, Worthington has to be taken off the chessboard.
Unfortunately, he has to enlist Sebastian to get a crew together to kidnap him and take him to a safe house.
Meanwhile, Isobel, with a computer in hand, takes up vigil at the hospital with John’s mother, pretending she is her daughter. There she tracks Zoe via her cell phone to an address in Zurich.
Then, miraculously John’s cell phone reappears and is active long enough for her to get a location, and see that a 96-second phone call is made to a phone in Zurich, Zoe’s.
Then it disappears again.
Isobel then calls Zoe and gives her the address. It’s a short call.
Calls to Sebastian and Rupert mobilize them, and everyone is on their way to John’s location.
As I was last year, I’m hard at work getting 26 stories done
And I have to ask myself, why?
It is a great deal of work to write 26 stories of about 2,000 words in 30 days, but I have managed to do it for the last two years.
It takes a lot of people a month, sometimes, to write just 2,000 words.
Others will tell you they get 500 to 2,000 words down every day, but sometimes the quality or the relevance is sometimes questionable.
Over the last two years, I’ve been rather slack, and the desire to sit down and write has taken a back seat. On the whole, I’ve been feeling rather lazy and would rather find something else to do.
However, the last three months have seen an attitude readjustment, and I’m writing again more than one book at a time, and a series of episodic stories.
It seems my mind functions better when it has to juggle a lot of different stories.
So, look out, sometimes a character from one will turn up in another.
A bit like where FBI, FBI Most Wanted, and FBI International use the same characters across the three series, something I think is called a ‘crossover’.
Oreti village, Pukawa Bay, North Island, New Zealand
On the southern tip of Lake Taupo
Our first morning there, a Saturday. Winter. Cold. And a beautiful sunrise.
This was taken from the balcony, overlooking the lake.
The sun is just creeping up over the horizon
It gradually gets lighter, and then the sun breaks free of the low cloud
It lights up the balcony
And the trees just beyond, a cascade of colorful ferns.
It looks like its going to be a fine day, our first for this trip, and we will be heading to the mountains to see snow, for the first time for two of our granddaughters.
If it’s a bad day, then the answer to that is nothing. Looking at a bare wall is like examining the whys and wherefores of writer’s block.
Some days the ideas just can’t find their way to the surface. Other days, they come out of left field, and some, well, you have to wonder where they came from.
For instance…
There is that eternal device in stories that fuels many a story, how does a person get murdered in a room with no windows, a single door, and it is locked from the inside, with the key in the lock.
The simple answer, there has to be a hatch, in the floor or in the wall.
Yes, there’s a secret panel – or on thorough checking, there is not. But there has to be, and so we just about pull the wall apart looking for the secret entrance.
Maybe if there were shelves in front of the wall, we could have the classic shelf door.
Is it possible that the murderer could somehow pass through the wall? We could have people postulating that the killer was able to rearrange their molecules so he or she could pass through.
Scientifically impossible.
But, there again, we are writing fiction. Anything is possible.
I like my idea better, the killer arrived in a time machine. I’ve often wondered just how much damage we could do if we could travel in time, backwards or forwards, but the more I think about it, time travel could only be into the past, because the future hasn’t been written yet.
So that’s my premise, as the main character, as the detective. The story is trying to convince everyone else, and that I’m not stark staring mad.
There’s nothing like a mass of ice to start thinking about the Titanic.
Come to think of it, there are so many sayings that use the Titanic as an expression of disaster, it’s impossible to imagine that an icescape could be a thing of beauty.
Of course, being stuck on the ice is probably the worst thing that could happen to you.
Firstly, if you were to fall overboard on a cruise in icy water you probably wouldn’t have much time before you froze to death.
If you were flying over the ice and the plane came down, and if you are that lucky you survived the plane crash, being exposed to the cold outside without adequate clothing will have the same effect.
If you decide that doing a stint as a scientist at one of the Antarctica scientific stations is something you would consider, perhaps a little practice in icy conditions and freezing cold would be required.
We visited the replica of the Mawson hut that was on Antarctica, when we were in Hobart last year, and it was interesting. Although rather primitive, it had a recording of the sounds of the wind and snow in the background and that would have driven me nuts after a day.
And yet, it must be interesting working down there.
Story wise though, Alistair McLean wrote the definitive story, Ice Station Zebra, one I suggest you read.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 