Writing a book in 365 days – 337

Day 337

Authors to study from the past

Mastering the Craft: Must-Read Authors from the 1940s and Beyond to Elevate Your Writing

When it comes to mastering the art of writing—whether it’s crafting intricate plots, developing multidimensional characters, or diving into profound themes—there are countless literary giants whose works serve as masterclasses in storytelling. Starting from the 1940s and moving backwards in time, these authors offer timeless lessons in style, structure, and substance. Here’s a curated list of authors and their works that can transform your approach to writing.


1. William Golding (1954) – Lord of the Flies

Lesson: Human Nature and Allegory
Golding’s Lord of the Flies is a masterclass in allegorical storytelling and psychological depth. By placing a group of boys on a deserted island, he peels back the veneer of civilisation to reveal primal instincts. For writers, Golding teaches how to use a microcosmic setting to explore universal themes like power, fear, and morality. His sparse yet brutal prose shows how simplicity can amplify tension and symbolism.


2. Evelyn Waugh (1945) – Brideshead Revisited

Lesson: Structure and Societal Critique
Waugh’s semi-autobiographical novel combines lush prose with a fragmented, reflective narrative. Brideshead Revisited is a lesson in balancing character development with thematic depth. Writers can learn how to weave personal introspection with societal critique (e.g., the decline of British aristocracy) and how to structure a narrative around memory and emotional resonance.


3. Graham Greene (1940s–1950s) – The Power and the Glory (1940), The Quiet American (1955)

Lesson: Moral Ambiguity and Pacing
Greene’s novels, set against politically turbulent backdrops, explore moral ambiguity with razor-sharp precision. In The Power and the Glory, he uses a flawed priest to ask, “What makes a man good?” Writers can study Greene’s lean, taut prose, his ability to build tension through understatement, and how to embed philosophical questions into action-driven plots.


4. John Steinbeck (1939–1952) – The Grapes of WrathEast of Eden

Lesson: Social Justice and Emotional Resonance
Steinbeck’s unflinching portrayal of the human condition, from the Joad family’s plight in The Grapes of Wrath to the complex family dynamics in East of Eden, teaches the power of empathy in storytelling. His ability to balance epic scope with intimate moments is a guide to creating narratives that are both socially relevant and emotionally gripping.


5. F. Scott Fitzgerald (1925) – The Great Gatsby

Lesson: Symbolism and Narrative Voice
Though published in the 1920s, Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby remains a touchstone for writers. Nick Carraway’s reflective narration and Gatsby’s glittering, tragic world showcase how symbolism (e.g., the green light, the Valley of Ashes) can anchor themes of aspiration and decay. His lyrical prose reminds us that language itself can be a character in the story.


6. Ernest Hemingway (1940s–1950s) – Across the River and into the Trees (1950)

Lesson: The Iceberg Theory
Hemingway’s famous “theory of omission” (hide the deeper meaning beneath the surface) is best learned by studying his sparse, understated prose. His 1950s works, while less celebrated, demonstrate how much can be said with minimal words. A lesson in restraint: show, don’t tell.


7. George Orwell (1949) – 1984

Lesson: Dystopian Storytelling and Warning Narratives
Orwell’s 1984 endures as a chilling exploration of authoritarianism and language manipulation. For writers, it’s a blueprint for constructing cautionary tales: how to create a world that feels grounded in reality, yet pushes the boundaries of imagination to provoke thought.


8. Virginia Woolf (1920s–1930s) – To the LighthouseMrs. Dalloway

Lesson: Stream of Consciousness and Subjective Time
Woolf’s modernist experiments with time and perspective teach writers how to capture the inner lives of characters. Her fluid narratives, like the fragmented days of Mrs. Dalloway, show how to blur the lines between external action and internal emotion.


9. Truman Capote (1960) – In Cold Blood

Lesson: Narrative Non-Fiction
Though published in the 1960s, Capote’s blend of journalism and novelistic technique in In Cold Blood redefined true crime. It’s a masterclass in pacing, interview-driven storytelling, and how to humanise even the most heinous characters.


10. Harper Lee (1960) – To Kill a Mockingbird

Lesson: Moral Courage in Character Development
Lee’s iconic novel, published in the early 1960s, is a case study in using a child’s perspective to critique systemic racism. Atticus Finch’s quiet moral authority and Scout’s growth illustrate how to embed ethical dilemmas into character arcs without sermonizing.


Conclusion: The Timeless Classroom of Literature

From Golding’s haunting allegories to Hemingway’s clipped prose, these authors offer a rich tapestry of techniques to inspire modern writers. Whether you’re drawn to the moral complexity of Greene, the symbolic depth of Fitzgerald, or the socio-political acuity of Orwell, reading backward from the 1940s is a journey into the heart of what makes storytelling enduring. So, dive in—your next story’s secret might be hidden in the pages of their masterpieces.


Final Tip: As you explore these works, don’t just read—annotate, imitate, and experiment. The best writing lessons come when you let these authors’ voices influence your own unique style. Happy writing!

Writing a book in 365 days – 337

Day 337

Authors to study from the past

Mastering the Craft: Must-Read Authors from the 1940s and Beyond to Elevate Your Writing

When it comes to mastering the art of writing—whether it’s crafting intricate plots, developing multidimensional characters, or diving into profound themes—there are countless literary giants whose works serve as masterclasses in storytelling. Starting from the 1940s and moving backwards in time, these authors offer timeless lessons in style, structure, and substance. Here’s a curated list of authors and their works that can transform your approach to writing.


1. William Golding (1954) – Lord of the Flies

Lesson: Human Nature and Allegory
Golding’s Lord of the Flies is a masterclass in allegorical storytelling and psychological depth. By placing a group of boys on a deserted island, he peels back the veneer of civilisation to reveal primal instincts. For writers, Golding teaches how to use a microcosmic setting to explore universal themes like power, fear, and morality. His sparse yet brutal prose shows how simplicity can amplify tension and symbolism.


2. Evelyn Waugh (1945) – Brideshead Revisited

Lesson: Structure and Societal Critique
Waugh’s semi-autobiographical novel combines lush prose with a fragmented, reflective narrative. Brideshead Revisited is a lesson in balancing character development with thematic depth. Writers can learn how to weave personal introspection with societal critique (e.g., the decline of British aristocracy) and how to structure a narrative around memory and emotional resonance.


3. Graham Greene (1940s–1950s) – The Power and the Glory (1940), The Quiet American (1955)

Lesson: Moral Ambiguity and Pacing
Greene’s novels, set against politically turbulent backdrops, explore moral ambiguity with razor-sharp precision. In The Power and the Glory, he uses a flawed priest to ask, “What makes a man good?” Writers can study Greene’s lean, taut prose, his ability to build tension through understatement, and how to embed philosophical questions into action-driven plots.


4. John Steinbeck (1939–1952) – The Grapes of WrathEast of Eden

Lesson: Social Justice and Emotional Resonance
Steinbeck’s unflinching portrayal of the human condition, from the Joad family’s plight in The Grapes of Wrath to the complex family dynamics in East of Eden, teaches the power of empathy in storytelling. His ability to balance epic scope with intimate moments is a guide to creating narratives that are both socially relevant and emotionally gripping.


5. F. Scott Fitzgerald (1925) – The Great Gatsby

Lesson: Symbolism and Narrative Voice
Though published in the 1920s, Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby remains a touchstone for writers. Nick Carraway’s reflective narration and Gatsby’s glittering, tragic world showcase how symbolism (e.g., the green light, the Valley of Ashes) can anchor themes of aspiration and decay. His lyrical prose reminds us that language itself can be a character in the story.


6. Ernest Hemingway (1940s–1950s) – Across the River and into the Trees (1950)

Lesson: The Iceberg Theory
Hemingway’s famous “theory of omission” (hide the deeper meaning beneath the surface) is best learned by studying his sparse, understated prose. His 1950s works, while less celebrated, demonstrate how much can be said with minimal words. A lesson in restraint: show, don’t tell.


7. George Orwell (1949) – 1984

Lesson: Dystopian Storytelling and Warning Narratives
Orwell’s 1984 endures as a chilling exploration of authoritarianism and language manipulation. For writers, it’s a blueprint for constructing cautionary tales: how to create a world that feels grounded in reality, yet pushes the boundaries of imagination to provoke thought.


8. Virginia Woolf (1920s–1930s) – To the LighthouseMrs. Dalloway

Lesson: Stream of Consciousness and Subjective Time
Woolf’s modernist experiments with time and perspective teach writers how to capture the inner lives of characters. Her fluid narratives, like the fragmented days of Mrs. Dalloway, show how to blur the lines between external action and internal emotion.


9. Truman Capote (1960) – In Cold Blood

Lesson: Narrative Non-Fiction
Though published in the 1960s, Capote’s blend of journalism and novelistic technique in In Cold Blood redefined true crime. It’s a masterclass in pacing, interview-driven storytelling, and how to humanise even the most heinous characters.


10. Harper Lee (1960) – To Kill a Mockingbird

Lesson: Moral Courage in Character Development
Lee’s iconic novel, published in the early 1960s, is a case study in using a child’s perspective to critique systemic racism. Atticus Finch’s quiet moral authority and Scout’s growth illustrate how to embed ethical dilemmas into character arcs without sermonizing.


Conclusion: The Timeless Classroom of Literature

From Golding’s haunting allegories to Hemingway’s clipped prose, these authors offer a rich tapestry of techniques to inspire modern writers. Whether you’re drawn to the moral complexity of Greene, the symbolic depth of Fitzgerald, or the socio-political acuity of Orwell, reading backward from the 1940s is a journey into the heart of what makes storytelling enduring. So, dive in—your next story’s secret might be hidden in the pages of their masterpieces.


Final Tip: As you explore these works, don’t just read—annotate, imitate, and experiment. The best writing lessons come when you let these authors’ voices influence your own unique style. Happy writing!

Writing a book in 365 days – 336

Day 336

Writing exercise – Everything she could see from the room she never left was beautiful.

It was Princess Elizabeth’s bright, sunny disposition that gave her the ability to see the good in everything.

Or so someone had said, a long time ago, so long she could not remember who said it or when it was.

What she did know was that it was good advice.

Why, when she knew that she might never leave that room, at the top of the north tower, the one that overlooked the gardens, the lake, the valley and then the sea.

On a good day, she thought, I could see forever.

On a bad day, not that there were many, she could just barely remember how she finished up in that room in the north tower.

But on the periphery of her memory was a story…

The Princess Matilda had arrived from a Kingdom across the ocean, a land they had never heard of before, seeking a Prince’s hand in marriage, and she was visiting the seven kingdoms that made up the realm.

Her kingdom was the last, and her brother Prince Joshua was seeking a Princess bride, and Matilda was perfect.

What they didn’t know was that Princess Matilda was not quite who she said she was.  It was not long before her brother became ill, and when none of the healers in the kingdom could save him, Princess Matilda told them of a prophecy that foretold of a great sickness that would spread through the realm, and that the only way it could be stopped was to ensure that Princess Elizabeth never left the castle.

Of course, no one believed it, not until people in the kingdom succumbed to the same ailment that the Prince was suffering from.

So, when the people started to die, the King had no choice.  The Princess Elizabeth was confined to a room in the north tower, and then people recovered.  No one knew why it was, only that her confinement had saved the people.

Some years passed before one day the Princess Matilda came to visit her.

She came into her room and sat down.  Elizabeth stayed by the windows.  It was only the second time she had been face-to-face with Matilda, who had deliberately stayed away from her.

“Are you not afraid you will get sick?”

She knew the reason why she was confined, but never understood why she was not sick herself.

“No.  It does not affect me.  In fact, you are not the reason people are getting sick.  That was just a spell I cast to make them believe you are the cause.”

Elizabeth did not understand why she would say that.  “A spell?”  She was equally unaware of witches and witchcraft, though it was said that witches once existed in the realm a very, very long time ago.

“Yes.  A spell.  It was necessary to do what I have done to make sure you do not cause trouble.”

“Why would you think that?  I have no intention of doing anything except marrying a Prince and living happily ever after.”

“That’s the problem.  If you marry a Prince and have children, they will become witches or warlocks, very powerful and dangerous sorcerers.  You were the last of the line, and we have to contain your powers.”

“I have no powers.”

“Not in this room.  It is a special room that keeps you from using any spells or exerting any influence.”

“Are you a witch?”

“A good witch, assigned by the Wizard to ensure we do not slip back into the old ways.  You will be here until you die.  So will I.”

“So I can never leave here?”

“No.”

Elizabeth thought that was harsh, and was going to say something, but then realised that a sudden, random thought just entered her head, one that told her there was a means to escape.

Not exactly how to, but that Princess Matilda knew, but wasn’t going to share.

“You cannot be killed, but you will eventually die.  When that happens, I will be free.  This is as much torture for me as it is for you.”

“It is not torture.  I have a comfortable room and a splendid view.  And I do not have to marry a horrible Prince.  What more could a princess ask for?”

Her cheery manner was too much for Matilda, and she left in a grumpy mood.

Many years passed.

Elizabeth realised that she was not aging as fast as her family members, or Princess Matilda.

Something else she noticed was the fact that outside the door to her room,  Princess Matilda looked quite old, as old as her brother, now the King of their kingdom, but inside the room, as old as her parents had been when she was first confined.  Elizabeth herself had hardly aged at all.

It was as if she had eternal youth.

And she was sure that was what angered Matilda.

Over the years, she had been working on how she was going to get to the secrets locked away in Matilda’s head.

At first, when she tried to read her mind, Matilda knew straight away.  Not that she said anything, so Elizabeth had to be smarter.

She practised reading the minds of those who walked in the gardens below, at first amazed that she could, considering Matilda told her her powers were useless in that room.

That wasn’t entirely true.

And as the years passed, she began to realise that she had some powers, and that it was possible to move objects, make objects appear or disappear, and make objects invisible.

She also realised that she could plant ideas into those people below, and get them to do her bidding.  It was not horrible things, she could not and would not want to harm anyone, but she did want to stop whatever it was Matilda was going to do.

She had finally realised that Matilda was not the good witch that she portrayed herself as, bur a bad witch, who slowly, over time, was turning the people against her brother. 

This culminated in Princess Matilda’s latest visit, the seventh anniversary of her confinement, the visits being once every ten years.

Matilda swept into the room and sat in her usual chair.

“You are looking old, Matilda,” she said, with no malice in her tone. 

Her bright and cheerful disposition annoyed Matilda

“You are fortunate I cannot kill you.”

To Elizabeth, it seemed an odd thing to say.  A clue perhaps that Matilda’s powers were waning.  She had felt a shift in the atmosphere of her room.

“That would be the act of a bad witch, which you claim you are not.”

“That is true.  Forget I said that.  There’s a blizzard coming, and we did not get enough grain in storage to last the winter.  It’s going to be hard.”

“You could use your powers to stop the storm.”

Matilda glared at her.  “What would you know of such things?”

“Just random thoughts.  My mother used to recite stories of the old days when a grand Wizard ruled the realm.”

Fairytales.  Of course.  Did she tell you of the bad things that happened to the good witches and warlocks?”

“I don’t believe there was good and bad then.  What there was, I believe, was greed, lust, and the desire for malevolent power.  Instead of sharing the wealth and goodness, some people wanted it all for themselves and made the people their slaves.  Is that not what is happening now?”

Matilda looked at her curiously.  “You know this how?”

“I can see.  I can hear the people who bring me things.  I can feel a change in the atmosphere.  It is hard not to feel the people’s pain.  You are planning something evil.  It is the only explanation.”

She stood suddenly, her cheeks flushed front anger.

“I am not.  We are preparing for the winter solstice sacrifice to the Gods so that we will survive this harsh weather.  Enough.”

She flounced out of the room, the door slammed shut, and the bolts were driven home.

Where Elizabeth should have been dismayed, she was not.  Her plan had succeeded far beyond her expectations.

She knew how to defeat Princess Matilda.

Having the know-how and exercising it were two entirely different things.

Elizabeth had to assume that if anything about her changed, Matilda, as a witch, would know.  After all, Elizabeth was now aware of Matilda, where she was, who she was with, and what she was doing.

More importantly, she now knew what she was thinking.

And that was what had her worried.

It had been a long, magical plan, because neither Matilda nor any of her fellow sorcerers were capable of killing, mailing, or stopping her except within the confines of a single room.

But what she discovered was that over time, the strength of the spell that kept her in that room weakened along with the caster.

Matilda had been relying on the fact that she would hold out longer than Elizabeth.  Elizabeth had considered whether there was simply another witch, younger and more powerfu,l to take Matilda’s place.

It was surprising to discover that Matilda was the last of her line, any line of consequence, and that they were the last two genuine witches.  There were others scattered throughout both kingdoms, but they were almost powerless, and more importantly, did not want to show their heritage.

So what was Matilda’s endgame?  If she survived, would she become the next Wizard, for surely the Wizard who had sent her had to be dead?

Or did she need Elizabeth to die and then usurp her power to rule?

Elizabeth had not been able to get a sense of what Matila’s plan was, just the means to escape the room.  After that, Elizabeth was not sure what she would or even could do.  Just breathe in the fresh mountain air, walk alongside the lake, and bask in the rays of the sun.

Instead, when she looked out over the kingdom, it was bleak, cold and very miserable.  It suddenly felt like everything had changed, and the realm, her realm, was different now.

She was suddenly tired and felt compelled to lie down and rest.

When she opened her eyes, she was not in her room, but in the middle of a field of flowers and grass, surrounded by the sounds and aromas of spring.

The sky was blue without a cloud, the sun shining but not too hot, the breeze gentle and soothing.

Was this the afterlife?

Had she died?

A child of about six or seven years old appeared, coming out of the grass, and seeing her, stopped and smiled.

“Hello, Elizabeth.  You have come to us at last?”

“Come to whom?”

“Your true family.  I am the youngest, you are the eldest.  You are seeking guidance, no?”

She hesitated, suddenly realising the girl was herself at that age.  “I think so.”

“Good.  Then it is time.  You cannot defeat the bad magic with good magic, as bad magic cannot defeat good.  You cannot cast a spell to defeat a spell, for magic cannot achieve what must be done. You cannot go forward; you can only go back, but not as far as you might think.  You must be polite, well-mannered, but firm.  You cannot use force and involve anyone else; it must be you and you alone.  It must be done at water’s edge when the skies are dark but aglow.  You have everything you need now, go!”

When she opened her eyes again, she was in her bedroom in the castle. 

It was a long time ago.

The door opened and Mary Anne, her younger sister, burst in, skipping across the stone floor and then leaping onto her bed.

She moved quickly before her sister landed on her.  That she had not missed in all the years in the north tower.

Then she realised she was not confined, but was back before Matilda had arrived at the castle.

“Has Princess Matilda arrived?”

“Who?”

“A prospective bride for your brother.”

“No.  Never heard of her. “

Elizabeth cast her mind back to the day Matilda arrived.  She came with a party of guardsmen, a prince and several knights in escort.

“Are we expecting anyone?”

“No.  Why would we?”

“A handsome prince may be coming to sweep me off my feet.  A princess can always hope, can’t she?”

“I’m hoping you’ll come a play with me.  I’d rather go pick flowers than learn how to use a longbow.  I mean, girls do not go hunting; they fight in battles.”

“Are we going to war with anyone?”

“No.  But that’s the point.”

“I will play with you after your lessons.”

Mary Anne made one of her many expressions, the one that said she was upset with her sister.

“I don’t like you any more.”  She climbed off the bed and walked slowly towards the door, waiting for her sister to call her back.

Elizabeth didn’t.  She was busy trying to remember the little girl’s riddle in her dream.

If it was a dream.

‘You can’t go forward, you can only go back, but not as far as you think’.

It was the time before Matilda’s arrival.

That meant she could stop her from coming.  Except, she couldn’t use magic.

What magic?

She had no magic.  She was not a witch, not like Matilda had kept telling her she was.  A bad witch?  She was not a bad person.  She could never be a bad person.

She looked around her room, and it was missing something.  Flowers.  There were always flowers in a vase by the windows.  Freshly picked and with the aromas of the gardens.

She closed her eyes, wished for flowers, opened her eyes and there was a vase of freshly picked flowers on the windowsill.

That was odd.  She shook her head.

Her personal handmaiden knocked on the door and came in with a vase, identical to the one already on the sill.

“Sorry.  Someone else has brought you flowers.”

“No.  Please.  Put them next to the others, and tell me, what day is it?”

The girl rearranged the two vases, then turned around.  Four moons to your birthday, Princess.  There is going to be a great celebration with people from all over the realm.  Are you excited?”

She should be, but she wasn’t.  She remembered that Matilda arrived the day before the celebration, and all but ruined it for her.

Two moons then to try and remember and figure out what the riddle meant.

“Thank you, yes.  Very excited.  I presume the dressmaker will be along shortly.”

“Indeed.  We are all waiting anxiously to see it.  It is going to be the talk of the banquet hall.”

Not if history repeats itself.

“Thank you, Louisa, that will be all for the time being.”

She had magic, but she could not use it.  She had come back to the time before Matilda had arrived.  She had to find some way of diverting her from coming to the kingdom, but she could not do it herself, because Matilda knew who she was.  But she was the only one who could do it.

And what else was there?  It must be when the sky is dark but aglow.  What did that mean?

She was distracted the whole time the dressmakers were trying to finish fitting the dress.  Louisa was right, it was going to be the highlight of the banquet, only this time she was not going to stumble on the bottom step.

Unless Matilda cast a spell and made her trip.

Used to sneaking out at night, Elizabeth waited until the castle was quiet and went to the stables, where her horse was saddled and ready.

The sky was cloudy, and the moon was hidden, making it very dark.  Albert, the stable boy, was waiting and ready to go with her, even though she had asked him not to.

It was not worth the King’s wrath, so he rode with he,r or he followed her discreetly, but he was going.

She sighed.  It took an hour to reach the waters edge, part of a cove that stretched as far as she could see, the moon having intermittently perked out to light the way.

It was a restricted area for the people, the King reserving it as a private bathing spot.  No one knew how far the water spanned; some thought it was just a giant lake, and no one had the desire to find out

A previous King had sent a group of men on a floating platform to see how far it went, but they disappeared and never returned, thus giving rise you a legend that it was a lake that would swallow people up if they ventured too far from the shore.

Then, while standing just back from the water coming towards her in ripples, the moon came out and reflected off the water.

Aglow.

So she had to be here when the moon was out.  Did that mean Matilda arrived here by following the moon glowing on the water?

“It’s an omen.”  Albert appeared beside her.

“What is?”

“The moon on the water.  It is said to happen when a disaster is about to strike.”

“What sort of disaster?”

“Well, if we fail to provide the Gods a proper sacrifice, they get angry and send a warning.  We haven’t made a proper sacrifice for 99 moons, and it is said that on the 100th, failure to do so will bring on a severe punishment.”

“Where?”

“Here.  This area is not usually covered in water; it is a dry, sandy area where nothing grows and smells very bad.  It’s why no one comes here.  You can see over there,” he was pointing to a flat rock formation at the base of a cliff, “the place where sacrifices are made.  You don’t want to be there in two days.”

It didn’t make sense.  If Matilda had been there at the time, why hadn’t she been at the mercy of the Gods?

“Doesn’t that make it dangerous for anyone?”

“No.  Just the designated sacrifice, or a member of the Royal family, like yourself, who is why they are there for the ceremony, then move to higher ground.”

“So if I were there, then…”

“You would not want to be there.  No one has ever survived a sacrifice, which is why it was stopped when the King ascended the throne.  You’d best stay away from this place.”

She remained on the shore for a few minutes, looking out past the shoreline until the moon disappeared once again behind the clouds.

She was faced with a difficult decision.  Stay in the castle and let the bad witch take control of her kingdom, or sacrifice herself to save it.  Either way, her future was bleak.

She had a very difficult decision to make.

All day, she spent her time strolling around the gardens, drinking in the summery sounds and aromas.  It was her most favourite season of the year.

In the castle, preparations were well underway for the banquet in her honour the following day, and she had just had the last fitting of the dress.

Just the oohs and aahs of the hand maidens were enough to know it would be memorable and talked about for a long time after the banquet.

If she survived the night’s adventure.

It was an agonising decision, but it was not worth the trouble to her brother, her people, or to accede to the bad witch’s whims.

It would end tonight, one way or another.

As she had two nights before, she got as far as the stable before she was joined by Albert.  Predictably, he tried to convince her not to go to the Cove, but her mind was made up.  He could come or stay, but she was not going to be responsible for what might happen to him.

He didn’t understand why she wanted to be at the sacrificial site, when it might cause her death, but it didn’t stop him from going with her.

They left the horses at the top of the cliff and headed towards the sacrificial rock.

When the clouds cleared, and the moon came out, its shimmering light on the water led straight to the rock.  She took up a position near the rock and waited.

Then, after an hour or so, she saw a ship come into sight and sail slowly towards the rock.  As it got closer, she could see people on the deck.  Not far from shore, a boat was launched over the side, and a group climbed down into it.

Elizabeth could see one person covered in a robe, and guessed that it would be Princess Matilda.

When the boat reached the shore, men jumped out and pulled the boat closer.  Another boat had been launched, and more people followed.

The robed person came ashore, and Elizabeth came down to greet them.

“This is a surprise.  I did not expect there would be a reception party.”  Matilda removed the bonnet of the cape she was wearing.

“This is not a welcoming party.  It is a warning.  You should leave now.”

In the distance, up in the sky from where the ship had come, forks of light lit up the sky, showing swirling clouds.

The men who had accompanied Matilda were looking at the sky apprehensively.

“What is happening?” Matilda asked.

“It is the 100th moon, after the last sacrifice.  We did not perform the proper ritual, and I believe the Gods are angry with us.  You must leave now if you wish to avoid the Gods’ punishment.”

“That is nonsense.  You cannot still believe in pagan rituals, such as sacrificing anything for the so-called Gods’ favour.”

The forks of light came closer, this time bringing very loud noises.  Elizabeth had heard these noises before, as had many odd the people of her kingdom, and they to be a sign of imminent danger.

She was glad Albert had gone back up the cliff face.

“You should leave now.”

“Don’t be silly.  Who are you, anyway?”

Behind her, the rest of the landing party had come ashore.  There were about 20 people or more.  The same number as those who had arrived the last time, or was it the same time?  Elizabeth was confused.

“I am Princess Elizabeth.  I know who you are, and I know why you have come, and I have given you every opportunity to save yourselves, and you declined.  I am no longer responsible for what happens next.”

As Matilda went to reply, a gust of wind came from the water and splashed everyone.  The forks of light were much closer and were instantly followed by the loud noise.

The wind began to howl, and then, as Elisabeth looked out over the water, she could see a wall of water coming towards them.

Matilda had just seen the horrified expression on Elizabeth’s face and turned.

It was too late.

Elizabeth closed her eyes and moments later was swept into the wall, along with the ship, the boats, and everyone on the shore.

It was a new day, and when Elizabeth woke, she was in her bed.

Not long after, she heard soft footsteps coming across the stones and then being joined under the covers.

Mary Anne, her sister.

“It’s your big day, Lizzy.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.  But just a little sad.  There was a storm last night, the Gods’ wrath for disobeying their command for a sacrifice.  They took away our lake and replaced it with rocks and sand.”

“That can’t be all that bad.  No one ever visited it, not since Papa stopped the sacrifices.”

“That is true.  Anyway, you have the banquet, and perhaps you may meet a nice Prince.  Mama has invited at least three.”

Elizabeth sighed.  It could be worse.  She might still be locked up in the north tower.  Now that was an odd thought.  Whatever made her think of that?

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 336

Day 336

Writing exercise – Everything she could see from the room she never left was beautiful.

It was Princess Elizabeth’s bright, sunny disposition that gave her the ability to see the good in everything.

Or so someone had said, a long time ago, so long she could not remember who said it or when it was.

What she did know was that it was good advice.

Why, when she knew that she might never leave that room, at the top of the north tower, the one that overlooked the gardens, the lake, the valley and then the sea.

On a good day, she thought, I could see forever.

On a bad day, not that there were many, she could just barely remember how she finished up in that room in the north tower.

But on the periphery of her memory was a story…

The Princess Matilda had arrived from a Kingdom across the ocean, a land they had never heard of before, seeking a Prince’s hand in marriage, and she was visiting the seven kingdoms that made up the realm.

Her kingdom was the last, and her brother Prince Joshua was seeking a Princess bride, and Matilda was perfect.

What they didn’t know was that Princess Matilda was not quite who she said she was.  It was not long before her brother became ill, and when none of the healers in the kingdom could save him, Princess Matilda told them of a prophecy that foretold of a great sickness that would spread through the realm, and that the only way it could be stopped was to ensure that Princess Elizabeth never left the castle.

Of course, no one believed it, not until people in the kingdom succumbed to the same ailment that the Prince was suffering from.

So, when the people started to die, the King had no choice.  The Princess Elizabeth was confined to a room in the north tower, and then people recovered.  No one knew why it was, only that her confinement had saved the people.

Some years passed before one day the Princess Matilda came to visit her.

She came into her room and sat down.  Elizabeth stayed by the windows.  It was only the second time she had been face-to-face with Matilda, who had deliberately stayed away from her.

“Are you not afraid you will get sick?”

She knew the reason why she was confined, but never understood why she was not sick herself.

“No.  It does not affect me.  In fact, you are not the reason people are getting sick.  That was just a spell I cast to make them believe you are the cause.”

Elizabeth did not understand why she would say that.  “A spell?”  She was equally unaware of witches and witchcraft, though it was said that witches once existed in the realm a very, very long time ago.

“Yes.  A spell.  It was necessary to do what I have done to make sure you do not cause trouble.”

“Why would you think that?  I have no intention of doing anything except marrying a Prince and living happily ever after.”

“That’s the problem.  If you marry a Prince and have children, they will become witches or warlocks, very powerful and dangerous sorcerers.  You were the last of the line, and we have to contain your powers.”

“I have no powers.”

“Not in this room.  It is a special room that keeps you from using any spells or exerting any influence.”

“Are you a witch?”

“A good witch, assigned by the Wizard to ensure we do not slip back into the old ways.  You will be here until you die.  So will I.”

“So I can never leave here?”

“No.”

Elizabeth thought that was harsh, and was going to say something, but then realised that a sudden, random thought just entered her head, one that told her there was a means to escape.

Not exactly how to, but that Princess Matilda knew, but wasn’t going to share.

“You cannot be killed, but you will eventually die.  When that happens, I will be free.  This is as much torture for me as it is for you.”

“It is not torture.  I have a comfortable room and a splendid view.  And I do not have to marry a horrible Prince.  What more could a princess ask for?”

Her cheery manner was too much for Matilda, and she left in a grumpy mood.

Many years passed.

Elizabeth realised that she was not aging as fast as her family members, or Princess Matilda.

Something else she noticed was the fact that outside the door to her room,  Princess Matilda looked quite old, as old as her brother, now the King of their kingdom, but inside the room, as old as her parents had been when she was first confined.  Elizabeth herself had hardly aged at all.

It was as if she had eternal youth.

And she was sure that was what angered Matilda.

Over the years, she had been working on how she was going to get to the secrets locked away in Matilda’s head.

At first, when she tried to read her mind, Matilda knew straight away.  Not that she said anything, so Elizabeth had to be smarter.

She practised reading the minds of those who walked in the gardens below, at first amazed that she could, considering Matilda told her her powers were useless in that room.

That wasn’t entirely true.

And as the years passed, she began to realise that she had some powers, and that it was possible to move objects, make objects appear or disappear, and make objects invisible.

She also realised that she could plant ideas into those people below, and get them to do her bidding.  It was not horrible things, she could not and would not want to harm anyone, but she did want to stop whatever it was Matilda was going to do.

She had finally realised that Matilda was not the good witch that she portrayed herself as, bur a bad witch, who slowly, over time, was turning the people against her brother. 

This culminated in Princess Matilda’s latest visit, the seventh anniversary of her confinement, the visits being once every ten years.

Matilda swept into the room and sat in her usual chair.

“You are looking old, Matilda,” she said, with no malice in her tone. 

Her bright and cheerful disposition annoyed Matilda

“You are fortunate I cannot kill you.”

To Elizabeth, it seemed an odd thing to say.  A clue perhaps that Matilda’s powers were waning.  She had felt a shift in the atmosphere of her room.

“That would be the act of a bad witch, which you claim you are not.”

“That is true.  Forget I said that.  There’s a blizzard coming, and we did not get enough grain in storage to last the winter.  It’s going to be hard.”

“You could use your powers to stop the storm.”

Matilda glared at her.  “What would you know of such things?”

“Just random thoughts.  My mother used to recite stories of the old days when a grand Wizard ruled the realm.”

Fairytales.  Of course.  Did she tell you of the bad things that happened to the good witches and warlocks?”

“I don’t believe there was good and bad then.  What there was, I believe, was greed, lust, and the desire for malevolent power.  Instead of sharing the wealth and goodness, some people wanted it all for themselves and made the people their slaves.  Is that not what is happening now?”

Matilda looked at her curiously.  “You know this how?”

“I can see.  I can hear the people who bring me things.  I can feel a change in the atmosphere.  It is hard not to feel the people’s pain.  You are planning something evil.  It is the only explanation.”

She stood suddenly, her cheeks flushed front anger.

“I am not.  We are preparing for the winter solstice sacrifice to the Gods so that we will survive this harsh weather.  Enough.”

She flounced out of the room, the door slammed shut, and the bolts were driven home.

Where Elizabeth should have been dismayed, she was not.  Her plan had succeeded far beyond her expectations.

She knew how to defeat Princess Matilda.

Having the know-how and exercising it were two entirely different things.

Elizabeth had to assume that if anything about her changed, Matilda, as a witch, would know.  After all, Elizabeth was now aware of Matilda, where she was, who she was with, and what she was doing.

More importantly, she now knew what she was thinking.

And that was what had her worried.

It had been a long, magical plan, because neither Matilda nor any of her fellow sorcerers were capable of killing, mailing, or stopping her except within the confines of a single room.

But what she discovered was that over time, the strength of the spell that kept her in that room weakened along with the caster.

Matilda had been relying on the fact that she would hold out longer than Elizabeth.  Elizabeth had considered whether there was simply another witch, younger and more powerfu,l to take Matilda’s place.

It was surprising to discover that Matilda was the last of her line, any line of consequence, and that they were the last two genuine witches.  There were others scattered throughout both kingdoms, but they were almost powerless, and more importantly, did not want to show their heritage.

So what was Matilda’s endgame?  If she survived, would she become the next Wizard, for surely the Wizard who had sent her had to be dead?

Or did she need Elizabeth to die and then usurp her power to rule?

Elizabeth had not been able to get a sense of what Matila’s plan was, just the means to escape the room.  After that, Elizabeth was not sure what she would or even could do.  Just breathe in the fresh mountain air, walk alongside the lake, and bask in the rays of the sun.

Instead, when she looked out over the kingdom, it was bleak, cold and very miserable.  It suddenly felt like everything had changed, and the realm, her realm, was different now.

She was suddenly tired and felt compelled to lie down and rest.

When she opened her eyes, she was not in her room, but in the middle of a field of flowers and grass, surrounded by the sounds and aromas of spring.

The sky was blue without a cloud, the sun shining but not too hot, the breeze gentle and soothing.

Was this the afterlife?

Had she died?

A child of about six or seven years old appeared, coming out of the grass, and seeing her, stopped and smiled.

“Hello, Elizabeth.  You have come to us at last?”

“Come to whom?”

“Your true family.  I am the youngest, you are the eldest.  You are seeking guidance, no?”

She hesitated, suddenly realising the girl was herself at that age.  “I think so.”

“Good.  Then it is time.  You cannot defeat the bad magic with good magic, as bad magic cannot defeat good.  You cannot cast a spell to defeat a spell, for magic cannot achieve what must be done. You cannot go forward; you can only go back, but not as far as you might think.  You must be polite, well-mannered, but firm.  You cannot use force and involve anyone else; it must be you and you alone.  It must be done at water’s edge when the skies are dark but aglow.  You have everything you need now, go!”

When she opened her eyes again, she was in her bedroom in the castle. 

It was a long time ago.

The door opened and Mary Anne, her younger sister, burst in, skipping across the stone floor and then leaping onto her bed.

She moved quickly before her sister landed on her.  That she had not missed in all the years in the north tower.

Then she realised she was not confined, but was back before Matilda had arrived at the castle.

“Has Princess Matilda arrived?”

“Who?”

“A prospective bride for your brother.”

“No.  Never heard of her. “

Elizabeth cast her mind back to the day Matilda arrived.  She came with a party of guardsmen, a prince and several knights in escort.

“Are we expecting anyone?”

“No.  Why would we?”

“A handsome prince may be coming to sweep me off my feet.  A princess can always hope, can’t she?”

“I’m hoping you’ll come a play with me.  I’d rather go pick flowers than learn how to use a longbow.  I mean, girls do not go hunting; they fight in battles.”

“Are we going to war with anyone?”

“No.  But that’s the point.”

“I will play with you after your lessons.”

Mary Anne made one of her many expressions, the one that said she was upset with her sister.

“I don’t like you any more.”  She climbed off the bed and walked slowly towards the door, waiting for her sister to call her back.

Elizabeth didn’t.  She was busy trying to remember the little girl’s riddle in her dream.

If it was a dream.

‘You can’t go forward, you can only go back, but not as far as you think’.

It was the time before Matilda’s arrival.

That meant she could stop her from coming.  Except, she couldn’t use magic.

What magic?

She had no magic.  She was not a witch, not like Matilda had kept telling her she was.  A bad witch?  She was not a bad person.  She could never be a bad person.

She looked around her room, and it was missing something.  Flowers.  There were always flowers in a vase by the windows.  Freshly picked and with the aromas of the gardens.

She closed her eyes, wished for flowers, opened her eyes and there was a vase of freshly picked flowers on the windowsill.

That was odd.  She shook her head.

Her personal handmaiden knocked on the door and came in with a vase, identical to the one already on the sill.

“Sorry.  Someone else has brought you flowers.”

“No.  Please.  Put them next to the others, and tell me, what day is it?”

The girl rearranged the two vases, then turned around.  Four moons to your birthday, Princess.  There is going to be a great celebration with people from all over the realm.  Are you excited?”

She should be, but she wasn’t.  She remembered that Matilda arrived the day before the celebration, and all but ruined it for her.

Two moons then to try and remember and figure out what the riddle meant.

“Thank you, yes.  Very excited.  I presume the dressmaker will be along shortly.”

“Indeed.  We are all waiting anxiously to see it.  It is going to be the talk of the banquet hall.”

Not if history repeats itself.

“Thank you, Louisa, that will be all for the time being.”

She had magic, but she could not use it.  She had come back to the time before Matilda had arrived.  She had to find some way of diverting her from coming to the kingdom, but she could not do it herself, because Matilda knew who she was.  But she was the only one who could do it.

And what else was there?  It must be when the sky is dark but aglow.  What did that mean?

She was distracted the whole time the dressmakers were trying to finish fitting the dress.  Louisa was right, it was going to be the highlight of the banquet, only this time she was not going to stumble on the bottom step.

Unless Matilda cast a spell and made her trip.

Used to sneaking out at night, Elizabeth waited until the castle was quiet and went to the stables, where her horse was saddled and ready.

The sky was cloudy, and the moon was hidden, making it very dark.  Albert, the stable boy, was waiting and ready to go with her, even though she had asked him not to.

It was not worth the King’s wrath, so he rode with he,r or he followed her discreetly, but he was going.

She sighed.  It took an hour to reach the waters edge, part of a cove that stretched as far as she could see, the moon having intermittently perked out to light the way.

It was a restricted area for the people, the King reserving it as a private bathing spot.  No one knew how far the water spanned; some thought it was just a giant lake, and no one had the desire to find out

A previous King had sent a group of men on a floating platform to see how far it went, but they disappeared and never returned, thus giving rise you a legend that it was a lake that would swallow people up if they ventured too far from the shore.

Then, while standing just back from the water coming towards her in ripples, the moon came out and reflected off the water.

Aglow.

So she had to be here when the moon was out.  Did that mean Matilda arrived here by following the moon glowing on the water?

“It’s an omen.”  Albert appeared beside her.

“What is?”

“The moon on the water.  It is said to happen when a disaster is about to strike.”

“What sort of disaster?”

“Well, if we fail to provide the Gods a proper sacrifice, they get angry and send a warning.  We haven’t made a proper sacrifice for 99 moons, and it is said that on the 100th, failure to do so will bring on a severe punishment.”

“Where?”

“Here.  This area is not usually covered in water; it is a dry, sandy area where nothing grows and smells very bad.  It’s why no one comes here.  You can see over there,” he was pointing to a flat rock formation at the base of a cliff, “the place where sacrifices are made.  You don’t want to be there in two days.”

It didn’t make sense.  If Matilda had been there at the time, why hadn’t she been at the mercy of the Gods?

“Doesn’t that make it dangerous for anyone?”

“No.  Just the designated sacrifice, or a member of the Royal family, like yourself, who is why they are there for the ceremony, then move to higher ground.”

“So if I were there, then…”

“You would not want to be there.  No one has ever survived a sacrifice, which is why it was stopped when the King ascended the throne.  You’d best stay away from this place.”

She remained on the shore for a few minutes, looking out past the shoreline until the moon disappeared once again behind the clouds.

She was faced with a difficult decision.  Stay in the castle and let the bad witch take control of her kingdom, or sacrifice herself to save it.  Either way, her future was bleak.

She had a very difficult decision to make.

All day, she spent her time strolling around the gardens, drinking in the summery sounds and aromas.  It was her most favourite season of the year.

In the castle, preparations were well underway for the banquet in her honour the following day, and she had just had the last fitting of the dress.

Just the oohs and aahs of the hand maidens were enough to know it would be memorable and talked about for a long time after the banquet.

If she survived the night’s adventure.

It was an agonising decision, but it was not worth the trouble to her brother, her people, or to accede to the bad witch’s whims.

It would end tonight, one way or another.

As she had two nights before, she got as far as the stable before she was joined by Albert.  Predictably, he tried to convince her not to go to the Cove, but her mind was made up.  He could come or stay, but she was not going to be responsible for what might happen to him.

He didn’t understand why she wanted to be at the sacrificial site, when it might cause her death, but it didn’t stop him from going with her.

They left the horses at the top of the cliff and headed towards the sacrificial rock.

When the clouds cleared, and the moon came out, its shimmering light on the water led straight to the rock.  She took up a position near the rock and waited.

Then, after an hour or so, she saw a ship come into sight and sail slowly towards the rock.  As it got closer, she could see people on the deck.  Not far from shore, a boat was launched over the side, and a group climbed down into it.

Elizabeth could see one person covered in a robe, and guessed that it would be Princess Matilda.

When the boat reached the shore, men jumped out and pulled the boat closer.  Another boat had been launched, and more people followed.

The robed person came ashore, and Elizabeth came down to greet them.

“This is a surprise.  I did not expect there would be a reception party.”  Matilda removed the bonnet of the cape she was wearing.

“This is not a welcoming party.  It is a warning.  You should leave now.”

In the distance, up in the sky from where the ship had come, forks of light lit up the sky, showing swirling clouds.

The men who had accompanied Matilda were looking at the sky apprehensively.

“What is happening?” Matilda asked.

“It is the 100th moon, after the last sacrifice.  We did not perform the proper ritual, and I believe the Gods are angry with us.  You must leave now if you wish to avoid the Gods’ punishment.”

“That is nonsense.  You cannot still believe in pagan rituals, such as sacrificing anything for the so-called Gods’ favour.”

The forks of light came closer, this time bringing very loud noises.  Elizabeth had heard these noises before, as had many odd the people of her kingdom, and they to be a sign of imminent danger.

She was glad Albert had gone back up the cliff face.

“You should leave now.”

“Don’t be silly.  Who are you, anyway?”

Behind her, the rest of the landing party had come ashore.  There were about 20 people or more.  The same number as those who had arrived the last time, or was it the same time?  Elizabeth was confused.

“I am Princess Elizabeth.  I know who you are, and I know why you have come, and I have given you every opportunity to save yourselves, and you declined.  I am no longer responsible for what happens next.”

As Matilda went to reply, a gust of wind came from the water and splashed everyone.  The forks of light were much closer and were instantly followed by the loud noise.

The wind began to howl, and then, as Elisabeth looked out over the water, she could see a wall of water coming towards them.

Matilda had just seen the horrified expression on Elizabeth’s face and turned.

It was too late.

Elizabeth closed her eyes and moments later was swept into the wall, along with the ship, the boats, and everyone on the shore.

It was a new day, and when Elizabeth woke, she was in her bed.

Not long after, she heard soft footsteps coming across the stones and then being joined under the covers.

Mary Anne, her sister.

“It’s your big day, Lizzy.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.  But just a little sad.  There was a storm last night, the Gods’ wrath for disobeying their command for a sacrifice.  They took away our lake and replaced it with rocks and sand.”

“That can’t be all that bad.  No one ever visited it, not since Papa stopped the sacrifices.”

“That is true.  Anyway, you have the banquet, and perhaps you may meet a nice Prince.  Mama has invited at least three.”

Elizabeth sighed.  It could be worse.  She might still be locked up in the north tower.  Now that was an odd thought.  Whatever made her think of that?

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 335

Day 335

Patterns, images and words

Breaking Free from Conventional Patterns: A Guide to Classicist, Modernist, and Personalised Visual Storytelling

As creatives, we’re often influenced by the styles and trends of our time. When it comes to visual storytelling, two dominant patterns have emerged: classicism and modernism. While these styles have their roots in art and architecture, they also extend to the world of design, writing, and even social media. But what happens when we want to break free from these conventional patterns and forge our own path? In this post, we’ll explore the characteristics of classicist and modernist patterns, discuss the pros and cons of using them, and provide guidance on creating your own unique visual language.

Classicism: Timeless Elegance

Classicism is characterised by:

  • Symmetry and balance
  • Ornate details and embellishments
  • Traditional typography and serif fonts
  • Earthy colours and muted tones
  • References to historical and cultural icons

Classical patterns evoke a sense of tradition, sophistication, and timelessness. They’re often associated with luxury brands, high-end products, and institutions that value heritage and prestige. If you’re aiming to create a sense of authority, trust, and stability, classicist patterns might be the way to go.

Modernism: Bold Innovation

Modernist patterns, on the other hand, are marked by:

  • Clean lines and minimalism
  • Geometric shapes and abstract forms
  • Sans-serif fonts and bold typography
  • Bright colours and bold contrasts
  • Emphasis on functionality and simplicity

Modernist patterns embody the spirit of innovation, progress, and experimentation. They’re commonly used in tech, design, and creative industries that prioritize forward thinking and cutting-edge ideas. If you want to convey a sense of dynamism, creativity, and forward momentum, modernist patterns might be your best bet.

The Risks of Conventional Patterns

While both classicist and modernist patterns have their advantages, relying too heavily on them can lead to:

  • Lack of originality and uniqueness
  • Overuse and clichés
  • Inability to stand out in a crowded market
  • Limited creative freedom and expression

Creating Your Own Patterns: The Power of Personalisation

So, what if you want to break free from these conventional patterns and create something truly unique? The good news is that you can! By combining elements from different styles, experimenting with new forms and shapes, and incorporating personal touches, you can develop a visual language that reflects your brand’s personality and values.

Here are some tips for creating your own patterns:

  1. Experiment with hybrids: Mix and match elements from classicism and modernism to create a style that’s both timeless and innovative.
  2. Draw from personal experiences: Incorporate patterns and motifs that reflect your personal story, interests, or cultural background.
  3. Play with typography: Use custom fonts, handwritten scripts, or unconventional typography to add a touch of personality to your designs.
  4. Incorporate natural elements: Use organic shapes, textures, and colours to bring a sense of warmth and authenticity to your visual storytelling.
  5. Keep it simple: Don’t be afraid to strip away unnecessary elements and focus on simplicity and clarity.

Conclusion

In the world of visual storytelling, patterns and styles can be both a blessing and a curse. While classicist and modernist patterns have their advantages, they can also limit our creative potential and lead to clichés. By embracing the power of personalisation and experimentation, we can break free from conventional patterns and create a visual language that’s truly unique and reflective of our brand’s personality. So, don’t be afraid to take risks, try new things, and forge your own path. The possibilities are endless, and the results can be truly remarkable.

Writing a book in 365 days – 335

Day 335

Patterns, images and words

Breaking Free from Conventional Patterns: A Guide to Classicist, Modernist, and Personalised Visual Storytelling

As creatives, we’re often influenced by the styles and trends of our time. When it comes to visual storytelling, two dominant patterns have emerged: classicism and modernism. While these styles have their roots in art and architecture, they also extend to the world of design, writing, and even social media. But what happens when we want to break free from these conventional patterns and forge our own path? In this post, we’ll explore the characteristics of classicist and modernist patterns, discuss the pros and cons of using them, and provide guidance on creating your own unique visual language.

Classicism: Timeless Elegance

Classicism is characterised by:

  • Symmetry and balance
  • Ornate details and embellishments
  • Traditional typography and serif fonts
  • Earthy colours and muted tones
  • References to historical and cultural icons

Classical patterns evoke a sense of tradition, sophistication, and timelessness. They’re often associated with luxury brands, high-end products, and institutions that value heritage and prestige. If you’re aiming to create a sense of authority, trust, and stability, classicist patterns might be the way to go.

Modernism: Bold Innovation

Modernist patterns, on the other hand, are marked by:

  • Clean lines and minimalism
  • Geometric shapes and abstract forms
  • Sans-serif fonts and bold typography
  • Bright colours and bold contrasts
  • Emphasis on functionality and simplicity

Modernist patterns embody the spirit of innovation, progress, and experimentation. They’re commonly used in tech, design, and creative industries that prioritize forward thinking and cutting-edge ideas. If you want to convey a sense of dynamism, creativity, and forward momentum, modernist patterns might be your best bet.

The Risks of Conventional Patterns

While both classicist and modernist patterns have their advantages, relying too heavily on them can lead to:

  • Lack of originality and uniqueness
  • Overuse and clichés
  • Inability to stand out in a crowded market
  • Limited creative freedom and expression

Creating Your Own Patterns: The Power of Personalisation

So, what if you want to break free from these conventional patterns and create something truly unique? The good news is that you can! By combining elements from different styles, experimenting with new forms and shapes, and incorporating personal touches, you can develop a visual language that reflects your brand’s personality and values.

Here are some tips for creating your own patterns:

  1. Experiment with hybrids: Mix and match elements from classicism and modernism to create a style that’s both timeless and innovative.
  2. Draw from personal experiences: Incorporate patterns and motifs that reflect your personal story, interests, or cultural background.
  3. Play with typography: Use custom fonts, handwritten scripts, or unconventional typography to add a touch of personality to your designs.
  4. Incorporate natural elements: Use organic shapes, textures, and colours to bring a sense of warmth and authenticity to your visual storytelling.
  5. Keep it simple: Don’t be afraid to strip away unnecessary elements and focus on simplicity and clarity.

Conclusion

In the world of visual storytelling, patterns and styles can be both a blessing and a curse. While classicist and modernist patterns have their advantages, they can also limit our creative potential and lead to clichés. By embracing the power of personalisation and experimentation, we can break free from conventional patterns and create a visual language that’s truly unique and reflective of our brand’s personality. So, don’t be afraid to take risks, try new things, and forge your own path. The possibilities are endless, and the results can be truly remarkable.

Writing a book in 365 days – 333/334

Days 333 and 334

Writing exercise – Include a love story, a catchy song, and a misunderstanding

Was it possible that one person could make a difference?  Yes!

My head and heart were still reeling the next morning, while battling with the effects of lack of sleep, euphoria was running at an all-time high, and the lyrics of ‘I could have danced all night’ were running through my head.

That night, it had been very hard to get to sleep, my mind going over every detail.  Was I writing more into this than there was?  Quite likely.  I would have to find some way of putting it all into some sort of perspective.  We just got along.  We were compatible.  We were not lovers or candidates for an affair.  That was not what I wanted, nor, I’m sure, did Katrina.  It had to be business as usual.

I was looking out the window again, down at the many people pouring out of the railway station on their way to work.  This morning, I viewed them in a different light, as people who, like I, no doubt had the same struggles, the same feelings, the same highs and lows.  No longer did I think I was the only one who could have problems.

Being a bad-tempered, forever-angry manager seemed to be part of the job.  It didn’t take long; after I’d assumed the position, I started to fit the mould.  I guess, after the last manager, the staff had every right to expect more of the same, and I’m afraid I hadn’t let them down.  It wasn’t hard because if you gave them an inch, they took a mile. 

I started with all the best intentions.  Then, as the rot set in at home, it had a great deal of influence at work.  As despondency closed in from all sides, relations on all fronts deteriorated.  Amazingly, I could see it all quite clearly, where things had been going wrong.  Was it symbolic that the sun came out at that precise moment, bathing me in a shaft of sunlight and warmth through the clouds?

Jenny came in with the morning mail.  As was customary, she would put it on the desk, and, if there was anything important, bring it to my attention and leave.  I had heard rumours she was less than impressed with me, but it was hard to find anything out.  Certainly, most mornings, I didn’t so much as acknowledge her existence.

“How are you this morning?”  I turned to catch her just as she was leaving.

She stopped.  “Very well, thank you.”  Her tone was slightly apprehensive.

“I know it’s probably a little late, but I apologise for being the cranky old bastard in the past, and I have greatly appreciated the work you have been doing for me all this time.”

Her apprehension changed to surprise.  “Thank you.”

“And for not going over to Whiteside when they offered it to you.”

“That was easy.  You were the lesser of the two evils.”

I smiled, trying to disarm her fears.  She looked at me, expecting a trap.  I’d also heard about Whiteside.  “I guess, in the fullness of time, when they write the history of this place, it will count for something to be known as the ‘lesser of two evils’.  But to more important things.  What’s really going on in this place?”

It took a while to break down the apprehension.  She had every right to be wary, but I finally convinced her that I was not the monster I was made out to be.  I also knew, discovering quite by accident, she was the editor of the unofficial staff newspaper.  She had a great sense of humour, as well as journalistic ability, which few knew about.

It was a great session, leading up to the morning tea break.  She gave me a rather potted history of each of the people in the department, pointing out, in her opinion, she added quick, their good and bad points.  When I asked her about my colleagues, she was a little more guarded, but I found out enough to satisfy my curiosity.

As she was going, perhaps finally deciding our new working relationship was sufficiently amicable, she asked, “Is there anything going on between you and Katrina?”

I looked at her and smiled.  “No.  As much as everyone would like it, I’m afraid our only claim to fame is morning tea and lunch on the odd occasion.  Still, if people think there is, it won’t matter what I say, will it?”

“No.  I’m afraid not.  You are up against a strange mentality here.”

“What do you think?”

“Does it matter?”

“It may seem odd to you, but yes.”

“She has the extraordinary quality of bringing people out of themselves.  Personally, I believe you.  From my experience working for you, I know you are one of the few with integrity.  And if you did go off the rails, I wouldn’t hold it against you.  This place manages to do it to everyone eventually.”

I deliberately did not go up to the tearoom to see Katrina.  Not that I didn’t want to, but I suspected my face would be a little like an open book, and I needed time to get my thoughts and emotions under control.

She came up to see me mid-morning about a minor administrative problem, which could easily be solved over the phone.  When she came in, I looked up, a felt a little quickening in my heart rate, but otherwise tried to look normal.  The business matter was resolved quickly, but she made no attempt to leave.

“We missed you at tea.”

“Work is piling up.”

“It has nothing to do with us?”

She was direct, and it was as if she could read my thoughts.

“I’m just a bit worried about what people are saying.”

She shook her head.  “Whatever for?”

“You should hardly want to have your name linked to mine in having a sordid affair.”

“Sordid, hey?  I’ve never had a sordid affair.  Is that an offer?”

I felt embarrassed.  Normally, I wouldn’t dream of talking to any woman in this manner.  “You know what I mean.”

“I think I do, and I’m flattered you have considered my feelings.  It’s a rare quality some of your contemporaries should take note of.  But you should not give a damn about what anyone thinks.  You and I know the truth, so we can have the last laugh on all of them.”

She made it sound all too easy, but I was sure it wasn’t quite the way she put it.  We were, unfortunately, up against human nature.  For many, it would be impossible to see that we could be just friends.  And for me?  Or her?  Perhaps it should end here.

“Do you seriously think that’s possible?”  I looked at her, perhaps for the first time, in a different light.  She was quite beautiful, with the look and personality to drive some men to distraction.

I had put my ear to the ground, and she was one of the few women who excited most of the men in this company.  One had even told me his secret desires at one management party, such was the lack of serious topics.  It angered me that my mind could sink to their level.

“I like you, John.  I like you a lot.  You’re going to have to make up your own mind about that.  I have.  What happens from here is up to you.”  With that said, she left me in more turmoil than I needed.

For several days, I went home earlier than usual to see if I could sort out some of the problems at home.  I took the children aside, one at a time, and had a long talk with them.  They thought it was rather novel that I should talk to them at all, but seemed to be willing to give it a chance.

Perhaps it was something I should have done long before this, but it was something that had slipped.  Once, when they were young, I spent more time with them.  Of course, then I was a lowly clerk, without the pressures of promotion.

How much of our interaction with family was lost as we worked our way up the ladder of success?  It was all from a business point of view, not personal, and it was true that the more successful we became in the company, the less successful we were at home.

I had a number of long talks with Joan, taking her to dinner, and spending a weekend away from the children on our own.  There was still some of the feeling we had for each other lurking beneath the hostility.  At times, we had arguments, but they were less intense, and relations were better.

Our discussions, however, were not on the same level as those I could have with Katrina.  Katrina had, in some unimaginable way, opened up a little of me, the real me, I’d not known before.

Whilst we had maintained a relatively platonic relationship, I had set aside any other feelings.  We still had the occasional cup of coffee or quick lunch, but it didn’t have the same feel to it, and she’d noticed it but said nothing.  I missed her, being with her, expressing my feelings.  Being myself, the newly discovered me.

Even Jenny, my new sounding board, said she’d noticed a subtle change.  In fact, at the end of one of our morning briefings, she added the observation, “You should not dwell too much on what other people think.  If you do, you will always be unhappy.”

I knew what she meant.  I leaned back in my chair, hands behind my head, and looked deep into my soul.  What did I want?  What did I feel?  Should I run with it, or run away from it?

I’d known the answer to that long before I picked up the phone.

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 333/334

Days 333 and 334

Writing exercise – Include a love story, a catchy song, and a misunderstanding

Was it possible that one person could make a difference?  Yes!

My head and heart were still reeling the next morning, while battling with the effects of lack of sleep, euphoria was running at an all-time high, and the lyrics of ‘I could have danced all night’ were running through my head.

That night, it had been very hard to get to sleep, my mind going over every detail.  Was I writing more into this than there was?  Quite likely.  I would have to find some way of putting it all into some sort of perspective.  We just got along.  We were compatible.  We were not lovers or candidates for an affair.  That was not what I wanted, nor, I’m sure, did Katrina.  It had to be business as usual.

I was looking out the window again, down at the many people pouring out of the railway station on their way to work.  This morning, I viewed them in a different light, as people who, like I, no doubt had the same struggles, the same feelings, the same highs and lows.  No longer did I think I was the only one who could have problems.

Being a bad-tempered, forever-angry manager seemed to be part of the job.  It didn’t take long; after I’d assumed the position, I started to fit the mould.  I guess, after the last manager, the staff had every right to expect more of the same, and I’m afraid I hadn’t let them down.  It wasn’t hard because if you gave them an inch, they took a mile. 

I started with all the best intentions.  Then, as the rot set in at home, it had a great deal of influence at work.  As despondency closed in from all sides, relations on all fronts deteriorated.  Amazingly, I could see it all quite clearly, where things had been going wrong.  Was it symbolic that the sun came out at that precise moment, bathing me in a shaft of sunlight and warmth through the clouds?

Jenny came in with the morning mail.  As was customary, she would put it on the desk, and, if there was anything important, bring it to my attention and leave.  I had heard rumours she was less than impressed with me, but it was hard to find anything out.  Certainly, most mornings, I didn’t so much as acknowledge her existence.

“How are you this morning?”  I turned to catch her just as she was leaving.

She stopped.  “Very well, thank you.”  Her tone was slightly apprehensive.

“I know it’s probably a little late, but I apologise for being the cranky old bastard in the past, and I have greatly appreciated the work you have been doing for me all this time.”

Her apprehension changed to surprise.  “Thank you.”

“And for not going over to Whiteside when they offered it to you.”

“That was easy.  You were the lesser of the two evils.”

I smiled, trying to disarm her fears.  She looked at me, expecting a trap.  I’d also heard about Whiteside.  “I guess, in the fullness of time, when they write the history of this place, it will count for something to be known as the ‘lesser of two evils’.  But to more important things.  What’s really going on in this place?”

It took a while to break down the apprehension.  She had every right to be wary, but I finally convinced her that I was not the monster I was made out to be.  I also knew, discovering quite by accident, she was the editor of the unofficial staff newspaper.  She had a great sense of humour, as well as journalistic ability, which few knew about.

It was a great session, leading up to the morning tea break.  She gave me a rather potted history of each of the people in the department, pointing out, in her opinion, she added quick, their good and bad points.  When I asked her about my colleagues, she was a little more guarded, but I found out enough to satisfy my curiosity.

As she was going, perhaps finally deciding our new working relationship was sufficiently amicable, she asked, “Is there anything going on between you and Katrina?”

I looked at her and smiled.  “No.  As much as everyone would like it, I’m afraid our only claim to fame is morning tea and lunch on the odd occasion.  Still, if people think there is, it won’t matter what I say, will it?”

“No.  I’m afraid not.  You are up against a strange mentality here.”

“What do you think?”

“Does it matter?”

“It may seem odd to you, but yes.”

“She has the extraordinary quality of bringing people out of themselves.  Personally, I believe you.  From my experience working for you, I know you are one of the few with integrity.  And if you did go off the rails, I wouldn’t hold it against you.  This place manages to do it to everyone eventually.”

I deliberately did not go up to the tearoom to see Katrina.  Not that I didn’t want to, but I suspected my face would be a little like an open book, and I needed time to get my thoughts and emotions under control.

She came up to see me mid-morning about a minor administrative problem, which could easily be solved over the phone.  When she came in, I looked up, a felt a little quickening in my heart rate, but otherwise tried to look normal.  The business matter was resolved quickly, but she made no attempt to leave.

“We missed you at tea.”

“Work is piling up.”

“It has nothing to do with us?”

She was direct, and it was as if she could read my thoughts.

“I’m just a bit worried about what people are saying.”

She shook her head.  “Whatever for?”

“You should hardly want to have your name linked to mine in having a sordid affair.”

“Sordid, hey?  I’ve never had a sordid affair.  Is that an offer?”

I felt embarrassed.  Normally, I wouldn’t dream of talking to any woman in this manner.  “You know what I mean.”

“I think I do, and I’m flattered you have considered my feelings.  It’s a rare quality some of your contemporaries should take note of.  But you should not give a damn about what anyone thinks.  You and I know the truth, so we can have the last laugh on all of them.”

She made it sound all too easy, but I was sure it wasn’t quite the way she put it.  We were, unfortunately, up against human nature.  For many, it would be impossible to see that we could be just friends.  And for me?  Or her?  Perhaps it should end here.

“Do you seriously think that’s possible?”  I looked at her, perhaps for the first time, in a different light.  She was quite beautiful, with the look and personality to drive some men to distraction.

I had put my ear to the ground, and she was one of the few women who excited most of the men in this company.  One had even told me his secret desires at one management party, such was the lack of serious topics.  It angered me that my mind could sink to their level.

“I like you, John.  I like you a lot.  You’re going to have to make up your own mind about that.  I have.  What happens from here is up to you.”  With that said, she left me in more turmoil than I needed.

For several days, I went home earlier than usual to see if I could sort out some of the problems at home.  I took the children aside, one at a time, and had a long talk with them.  They thought it was rather novel that I should talk to them at all, but seemed to be willing to give it a chance.

Perhaps it was something I should have done long before this, but it was something that had slipped.  Once, when they were young, I spent more time with them.  Of course, then I was a lowly clerk, without the pressures of promotion.

How much of our interaction with family was lost as we worked our way up the ladder of success?  It was all from a business point of view, not personal, and it was true that the more successful we became in the company, the less successful we were at home.

I had a number of long talks with Joan, taking her to dinner, and spending a weekend away from the children on our own.  There was still some of the feeling we had for each other lurking beneath the hostility.  At times, we had arguments, but they were less intense, and relations were better.

Our discussions, however, were not on the same level as those I could have with Katrina.  Katrina had, in some unimaginable way, opened up a little of me, the real me, I’d not known before.

Whilst we had maintained a relatively platonic relationship, I had set aside any other feelings.  We still had the occasional cup of coffee or quick lunch, but it didn’t have the same feel to it, and she’d noticed it but said nothing.  I missed her, being with her, expressing my feelings.  Being myself, the newly discovered me.

Even Jenny, my new sounding board, said she’d noticed a subtle change.  In fact, at the end of one of our morning briefings, she added the observation, “You should not dwell too much on what other people think.  If you do, you will always be unhappy.”

I knew what she meant.  I leaned back in my chair, hands behind my head, and looked deep into my soul.  What did I want?  What did I feel?  Should I run with it, or run away from it?

I’d known the answer to that long before I picked up the phone.

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 332

Day 332

From First Draft to Focused Masterpiece: How to Narrow Your Writing Target

Introduction: The Freedom of the First Draft
Crossing the finish line of your first draft is a triumph. The blank page is no more, and your ideas are finally spilling out. Yet, beneath that satisfaction often lingers an unspoken truth: the work isn’t done. Now comes the equally critical (and often underrated) task: narrowing the target. This phase transforms an amorphous draft into a sharp, impactful piece that resonates deeply with its audience. Think of it as sculpting the raw marble of your thoughts into a statue with purpose. Let’s explore how to do this with intention and clarity.


The Power of the First Draft

Before diving into refinement, it’s important to honour the messy beauty of your first draft. It’s a “get it out” stage—where creativity flows unfiltered, and every idea, no matter how half-baked, is welcomed. But here’s the thing: first drafts are not meant to be final products. They’re blueprints, prototypes, or even “vessels of possibility.” The magic happens next, when you take a step back and ask, “What is this really trying to say?”


Step 1: Identify Your Core Message

The first step in narrowing your target is distilling your work down to its essence. Ask yourself:

  • What is the single most important takeaway?
  • What changes do I want the reader to experience?

Write this down in a single sentence. If your draft aims to persuade, what’s the one action you want your reader to take? If it’s a story, what’s the central theme or emotion you want to evoke? This core message becomes your compass during the editing phase.

Example:

  • Vague: “Climate change is a problem that affects us all, and we need to do something about it.”
  • Narrowed: “Rising ocean temperatures are accelerating coastal erosion—here’s how you can advocate for immediate policy change in your community.”

The narrowed version focuses on a specific cause (ocean temperatures), effect (coastal erosion), and a clear call to action (advocacy and policy).


Step 2: Cut What Doesn’t Serve the Core

Once you have clarity on your message, ruthlessly edit out anything that doesn’t amplify it. This includes:

  • Tangential anecdotes: A personal story might have been fun to write, but if it doesn’t tie back to your point, it’s a detour.
  • Jargon or fluff: Replace vague phrases like “a lot of people” with specific data or terms.
  • Redundant sections: Are two paragraphs exploring the same idea? Consolidate.

Pro Tip: Use the “kill your darlings” mantra, but with a twist. If a line makes you cringe but still feels essential, it might belong. The goal isn’t to erase creativity—it’s to eliminate clutter.


Step 3: Refine Your Audience Focus

Know your reader’s face. The more specific you are about your audience’s needs, the sharper your focus. Ask:

  • Who is most likely to engage with this?
  • What do they need to know, feel, or do?

If your draft is for a niche audience (e.g., organic farmers, tech startups, grieving parents), tailor your language, examples, and structure to speak directly to them. Narrowing your audience isn’t about exclusion—it’s about connection.

Example:
A post about healthy eating for adolescent athletes versus busy working parents will require fundamentally different angles, even if the topic is the same.


Step 4: Use Feedback to Sharpen the Edge

Once you’ve narrowed your draft, seek feedback. Ask your beta readers or editors:

  • “Is the main point clear?”
  • “Did anything feel off-topic or confusing?”
  • “Where did I lose you?”

Their honest responses will highlight where your focus is strong and areas that need tightening.


Conclusion: From Broad to Bold

Narrowing your target isn’t about stifling creativity—it’s about amplifying it. By focusing on one core message, one audience, and one action, you create writing that’s not just heard but felt. So, after your first draft, give yourself permission to dig deeper. Prune, polish, and focus until your work becomes a beacon of clarity.

Your Turn: Grab a pen and write your core message in one sentence. If you can’t sum up your draft in a tweet, keep refining.


Final Thought: A narrow target may seem limiting, but it’s the very thing that turns a sea of words into a sea change.

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first.  I have come, basically to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us with an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that.  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

© Charles Heath 2015-2021