Day 197 – Being Free to Choose

…

Fearless Creation: Decoding Langston Hughes on Artistic Freedom and Courage

“An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose.” — Langston Hughes

Art is often romanticised as a peaceful sanctuary of self-expression. We picture the painter in a sunlit studio, the writer with a blank page waiting for inspiration, or the musician plucking chords in quiet solitude. But true art has never really been about comfort. It has always been about courage.

Few literary figures understood the dual burden of freedom and fear better than Langston Hughes. As a leading voice of the Harlem Renaissance, Hughes used his poetry, plays, and prose to capture the rhythm of jazz, the pain of segregation, and the enduring resilience of Black America. He didn’t just write about freedom; he practised it on the page.

In this powerful quote, Hughes separates the concept of artistic freedom from the courage required to execute it. Let’s dive deep into what this means for creators, innovators, and anyone trying to live an authentic life.

---

Part 1: “An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly…”

The first half of Hughes’s statement champions autonomy. On paper, freedom of choice sounds simple. As an artist, you decide your medium, your subject matter, your tone, and your audience. You hold the brush, the pen, or the microphone.

However, true artistic choice is constantly under siege. Creators face immense external pressures:

• Market Demands: Algorithms, publishers, and galleries often reward what is familiar, marketable, and safe.
• Societal Expectations: Audiences and critics often want artists to stay in their lane, repeating past successes rather than evolving.
• Censorship: Throughout history—and continuing today—authorities and cultural gatekeepers actively attempt to restrict what artists are allowed to explore.

Hughes knew firsthand the pressure to conform. Writing in the mid-20th century, he was often told by critics (both white and Black) how a Black writer “should” portray the African American experience. Some wanted him to write respectable, uplifting propaganda; others wanted him to cater to white voyeurism.

Hughes rejected these boxes. He chose to write about the blues, the working class, the marginalised, and the joyful. He insisted on his right to choose his own canvas. But as he reminds us in the second half of his quote, having the right to choose is only half the battle.

---

Part 2: “…but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose.”

Here is where the quote transforms from a statement on liberty into a challenge on bravery.

You can have all the freedom in the world, but if you are paralysed by the fear of the consequences, that freedom is useless. Hughes suggests that the scariest part of being an artist isn’t the blank page—it’s the realisation of where your own creative instincts might lead you.

What happens when your choices lead you to:

• Expose uncomfortable truths? (About society, politics, or your own family?)
• Risk failure or ridicule? (Putting out a piece of work that completely misses the mark?)
• Alienate your audience? (Challenging the very people who supported your previous work?)
• Discover something dark within yourself? (Honest art requires confronting our own flaws, biases, and sorrows.)

Fear is the silent killer of originality. It whispers, “What will they think?” or “You’re going to get cancelled, mocked, or ignored.” To combat this, Hughes argues that an artist must cultivate a radical lack of fear toward their own potential. You must be willing to follow your muse down dark alleys, into political firestorms, or through experimental phases that defy logic.

---

Why This Quote Matters Beyond the Art World

You don’t have to be a published poet or a gallery-represented painter to live by Langston Hughes’s words. In a broader sense, we are all artists of our own lives.

Every day, we make choices about our careers, our relationships, our values, and our voices. We might have the theoretical freedom to change jobs, speak truth to power, or pursue an unconventional path, but we often hold ourselves back because we are terrified of what we might discover—or what others might say—if we actually follow through.

Hughes’s quote is a call to action for anyone feeling stuck:

1. Claim your autonomy: Stop waiting for permission to pursue what matters to you.
2. Face your internal resistance: Acknowledge that the fear of judgment or failure is normal, but refuse to let it dictate your output.
3. Trust your instincts: Be brave enough to execute the ideas that scare you just a little bit. Usually, that’s where the magic is.

---

Final Thoughts

Langston Hughes lived his art fearlessly. He wrote about race in America with an unflinching honesty that infuriated bigots and challenged the status quo. He didn’t shy away from the difficult choices, and because of that, his voice echoes powerfully across generations.

Artistic freedom is a fragile gift, but it is powerless without courage. As you create, build, or simply try to navigate your own path today, remember Hughes’s wisdom. Choose what you want to do—and then, with zero hesitation, have the courage to actually do it.

---

What creative choices have you been hesitating to make out of fear? How do you overcome the pressure to conform in your work? Let us know in the comments below!

…

Day 197 – Being Free to Choose

…

Fearless Creation: Decoding Langston Hughes on Artistic Freedom and Courage

“An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose.” — Langston Hughes

Art is often romanticised as a peaceful sanctuary of self-expression. We picture the painter in a sunlit studio, the writer with a blank page waiting for inspiration, or the musician plucking chords in quiet solitude. But true art has never really been about comfort. It has always been about courage.

Few literary figures understood the dual burden of freedom and fear better than Langston Hughes. As a leading voice of the Harlem Renaissance, Hughes used his poetry, plays, and prose to capture the rhythm of jazz, the pain of segregation, and the enduring resilience of Black America. He didn’t just write about freedom; he practised it on the page.

In this powerful quote, Hughes separates the concept of artistic freedom from the courage required to execute it. Let’s dive deep into what this means for creators, innovators, and anyone trying to live an authentic life.

---

Part 1: “An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly…”

The first half of Hughes’s statement champions autonomy. On paper, freedom of choice sounds simple. As an artist, you decide your medium, your subject matter, your tone, and your audience. You hold the brush, the pen, or the microphone.

However, true artistic choice is constantly under siege. Creators face immense external pressures:

• Market Demands: Algorithms, publishers, and galleries often reward what is familiar, marketable, and safe.
• Societal Expectations: Audiences and critics often want artists to stay in their lane, repeating past successes rather than evolving.
• Censorship: Throughout history—and continuing today—authorities and cultural gatekeepers actively attempt to restrict what artists are allowed to explore.

Hughes knew firsthand the pressure to conform. Writing in the mid-20th century, he was often told by critics (both white and Black) how a Black writer “should” portray the African American experience. Some wanted him to write respectable, uplifting propaganda; others wanted him to cater to white voyeurism.

Hughes rejected these boxes. He chose to write about the blues, the working class, the marginalised, and the joyful. He insisted on his right to choose his own canvas. But as he reminds us in the second half of his quote, having the right to choose is only half the battle.

---

Part 2: “…but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose.”

Here is where the quote transforms from a statement on liberty into a challenge on bravery.

You can have all the freedom in the world, but if you are paralysed by the fear of the consequences, that freedom is useless. Hughes suggests that the scariest part of being an artist isn’t the blank page—it’s the realisation of where your own creative instincts might lead you.

What happens when your choices lead you to:

• Expose uncomfortable truths? (About society, politics, or your own family?)
• Risk failure or ridicule? (Putting out a piece of work that completely misses the mark?)
• Alienate your audience? (Challenging the very people who supported your previous work?)
• Discover something dark within yourself? (Honest art requires confronting our own flaws, biases, and sorrows.)

Fear is the silent killer of originality. It whispers, “What will they think?” or “You’re going to get cancelled, mocked, or ignored.” To combat this, Hughes argues that an artist must cultivate a radical lack of fear toward their own potential. You must be willing to follow your muse down dark alleys, into political firestorms, or through experimental phases that defy logic.

---

Why This Quote Matters Beyond the Art World

You don’t have to be a published poet or a gallery-represented painter to live by Langston Hughes’s words. In a broader sense, we are all artists of our own lives.

Every day, we make choices about our careers, our relationships, our values, and our voices. We might have the theoretical freedom to change jobs, speak truth to power, or pursue an unconventional path, but we often hold ourselves back because we are terrified of what we might discover—or what others might say—if we actually follow through.

Hughes’s quote is a call to action for anyone feeling stuck:

1. Claim your autonomy: Stop waiting for permission to pursue what matters to you.
2. Face your internal resistance: Acknowledge that the fear of judgment or failure is normal, but refuse to let it dictate your output.
3. Trust your instincts: Be brave enough to execute the ideas that scare you just a little bit. Usually, that’s where the magic is.

---

Final Thoughts

Langston Hughes lived his art fearlessly. He wrote about race in America with an unflinching honesty that infuriated bigots and challenged the status quo. He didn’t shy away from the difficult choices, and because of that, his voice echoes powerfully across generations.

Artistic freedom is a fragile gift, but it is powerless without courage. As you create, build, or simply try to navigate your own path today, remember Hughes’s wisdom. Choose what you want to do—and then, with zero hesitation, have the courage to actually do it.

---

What creative choices have you been hesitating to make out of fear? How do you overcome the pressure to conform in your work? Let us know in the comments below!

…

Day 196 – Solving writing problems

…

The Ultimate Writing Hack? Why Carl Reiner’s “Driving and Talking” Method Works (And How to Use It)

Picture this: Legend of comedy Carl Reiner is behind the wheel, cruising down the highway, carrying on a hilarious, animated conversation with… absolutely no one.

To a passing driver, he might look like he’s lost his marbles. But to the creative genius behind The Dick Van Dyke Show and The 2000 Year Old Man, he was hard at work. Reiner famously relied on a peculiar yet powerful writing technique to solve his thorniest narrative problems: driving around and talking out loud to himself.

It sounds eccentric. But is it actually a viable method for tackling writer’s block, structuring plots, and developing dialogue? And more importantly—will it work for you?

Let’s pull back the hood on this unconventional writing strategy, explore the science behind why it works, and look at how you can apply it to your own writing process.

---

The Carl Reiner Method: How a Legend Solved Story Problems

Carl Reiner wasn’t just a writer; he was a master of comedic timing and narrative pacing. But even comedy legends hit walls. When a scene felt flat, a joke lacked punch, or a plot point refused to click, Reiner didn’t just stare blankly at a blinking cursor. He got in his car.

In the car, free from the physical constraints of a desk and the glaring pressure of a blank page, Reiner would talk to himself. He would pitch lines, argue both sides of an argument, act out character reactions, and narrate action sequences out loud. By the time he got back home, the problem was usually solved.

He wasn’t alone in this. Countless creators, from novelists to screenwriters, swear by the power of vocalisation. But why is a method usually reserved for eccentric commuters actually a goldmine for productivity?

---

The Science of Out-Loud Thinking: Why Talking to Yourself Cures Writer’s Block

It turns out that talking to yourself in a moving vehicle isn’t just a quirky habit—it’s a neurological cheat code. Here is why the Reiner method is so effective:

1. It Engages the Auditory Loop

When we write, our internal monologue moves fast—often too fast. We skip over logic gaps because our brains instinctively fill in what we mean to say, rather than what is actually on the page.

When you speak your ideas out loud, you force your brain to process them through the auditory loop. Hearing your words in real-time allows you to immediately catch clunky dialogue, pacing issues, and tonal inconsistencies. If a sentence makes you stumble while saying it aloud, your reader is going to stumble over it, too.

2. The Cognitive Offloading of Driving

Why do our best ideas happen in the shower, on a walk, or behind the wheel? Psychologists call this cognitive offloading.

Driving is a largely procedural task that requires just enough low-level brainpower to keep your hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road. This occupies the part of your brain prone to overthinking and anxiety (the default mode network), leaving your subconscious mind free to make wild, creative connections.

3. Activating Performance and Persona

Writing can feel sterile. Sitting at a keyboard is a sedentary, introverted act.

Speaking aloud, however, is a performance. When you talk out loud as your characters, you step into their shoes. You feel the cadence of their speech, the heat of their anger, or the charm of their wit. It shifts your brain from “analyst mode” to “storyteller mode.”

---

Will It Work for You? (Pros and Cons)

While this method worked wonders for Carl Reiner, every writer’s brain is wired differently. Let’s weigh the benefits and potential drawbacks.

The Pros:

• Instant Dialogue Polish: Hearing words spoken aloud is the ultimate litmus test for natural-sounding dialogue.
• Beats Writer’s Block: Movement and vocalisation break the hypnotic, paralysing trance of staring at a blank screen.
• Multitasking Creativity: You are turning “dead time” (commuting, running errands) into productive ideation time.

The Cons:

• Distraction Risks: Safety first! If talking through a complex plot point causes you to miss your exit or run a red light, pull over.
• Transcription Friction: Unlike typing, you can’t easily capture spontaneous brilliance unless you have a voice recorder running (more on that later).
• Self-Consciousness: If you live in a dense urban area or drive a convertible, you might feel a bit silly yelling at your dashboard.

---

How to Adapt the Reiner Method for Your Writing Routine

You don’t need to lease a luxury sedan to reap the benefits of Carl Reiner’s favourite writing hack. Here is how you can integrate the “drive and talk” method into your workflow—safely and effectively:

1. Use the “Voice Memo” Safety Net

Never try to rely on memory alone. Before you put the car in drive, open a voice-recording app on your phone (or use a dedicated dictaphone) and mount it securely. Treat your car like a mobile podcast studio. Ramble, argue, pitch, and brainstorm freely, knowing it’s all being captured.

2. Go with a Prompt or Problem

Don’t just get in the car and hope for inspiration. Define your mission before you turn the ignition. For example: “How do I get Character A from the diner to the crime scene without it feeling forced?” or “Let’s workshop the argument between the spouses in Chapter 4.” Give your subconscious a specific target.

3. Roleplay Both Sides

Reiner was famous for playing multiple parts. If you are struggling with a scene between two characters, play both of them. Switch your pitch, adopt different accents, and let them have a verbal sparring match. You’ll often find that the characters will organically steer the scene in a direction you hadn’t planned—and that direction is usually the right one.

4. No Car? No Problem (The “Walk and Talk”)

If you don’t drive, don’t worry. The principle remains the same: movement plus vocalisation. Pop in some wireless earbuds, turn on your voice recorder app, and go for a brisk walk around your neighbourhood. (Bonus: Walking outdoors is also scientifically proven to boost creative output).

---

The Verdict: Give Your Writing a Voice

Carl Reiner proved that great comedy—and great writing in general—isn’t always born in absolute silence. Sometimes, it’s forged at 45 miles per hour, fueled by caffeine, road signs, and a writer talking animatedly to themselves.

If you are feeling stuck on a plot hole or your dialogue is feeling wooden, stop staring at the screen. Step away from the desk, grab your voice recorder, and take a drive. Your inner Carl Reiner is waiting to take the wheel.

---

Have you ever tried talking out loud to solve a creative problem? Let us know your favourite unconventional writing hacks in the comments below!

…

Day 196 – Solving writing problems

…

The Ultimate Writing Hack? Why Carl Reiner’s “Driving and Talking” Method Works (And How to Use It)

Picture this: Legend of comedy Carl Reiner is behind the wheel, cruising down the highway, carrying on a hilarious, animated conversation with… absolutely no one.

To a passing driver, he might look like he’s lost his marbles. But to the creative genius behind The Dick Van Dyke Show and The 2000 Year Old Man, he was hard at work. Reiner famously relied on a peculiar yet powerful writing technique to solve his thorniest narrative problems: driving around and talking out loud to himself.

It sounds eccentric. But is it actually a viable method for tackling writer’s block, structuring plots, and developing dialogue? And more importantly—will it work for you?

Let’s pull back the hood on this unconventional writing strategy, explore the science behind why it works, and look at how you can apply it to your own writing process.

---

The Carl Reiner Method: How a Legend Solved Story Problems

Carl Reiner wasn’t just a writer; he was a master of comedic timing and narrative pacing. But even comedy legends hit walls. When a scene felt flat, a joke lacked punch, or a plot point refused to click, Reiner didn’t just stare blankly at a blinking cursor. He got in his car.

In the car, free from the physical constraints of a desk and the glaring pressure of a blank page, Reiner would talk to himself. He would pitch lines, argue both sides of an argument, act out character reactions, and narrate action sequences out loud. By the time he got back home, the problem was usually solved.

He wasn’t alone in this. Countless creators, from novelists to screenwriters, swear by the power of vocalisation. But why is a method usually reserved for eccentric commuters actually a goldmine for productivity?

---

The Science of Out-Loud Thinking: Why Talking to Yourself Cures Writer’s Block

It turns out that talking to yourself in a moving vehicle isn’t just a quirky habit—it’s a neurological cheat code. Here is why the Reiner method is so effective:

1. It Engages the Auditory Loop

When we write, our internal monologue moves fast—often too fast. We skip over logic gaps because our brains instinctively fill in what we mean to say, rather than what is actually on the page.

When you speak your ideas out loud, you force your brain to process them through the auditory loop. Hearing your words in real-time allows you to immediately catch clunky dialogue, pacing issues, and tonal inconsistencies. If a sentence makes you stumble while saying it aloud, your reader is going to stumble over it, too.

2. The Cognitive Offloading of Driving

Why do our best ideas happen in the shower, on a walk, or behind the wheel? Psychologists call this cognitive offloading.

Driving is a largely procedural task that requires just enough low-level brainpower to keep your hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road. This occupies the part of your brain prone to overthinking and anxiety (the default mode network), leaving your subconscious mind free to make wild, creative connections.

3. Activating Performance and Persona

Writing can feel sterile. Sitting at a keyboard is a sedentary, introverted act.

Speaking aloud, however, is a performance. When you talk out loud as your characters, you step into their shoes. You feel the cadence of their speech, the heat of their anger, or the charm of their wit. It shifts your brain from “analyst mode” to “storyteller mode.”

---

Will It Work for You? (Pros and Cons)

While this method worked wonders for Carl Reiner, every writer’s brain is wired differently. Let’s weigh the benefits and potential drawbacks.

The Pros:

• Instant Dialogue Polish: Hearing words spoken aloud is the ultimate litmus test for natural-sounding dialogue.
• Beats Writer’s Block: Movement and vocalisation break the hypnotic, paralysing trance of staring at a blank screen.
• Multitasking Creativity: You are turning “dead time” (commuting, running errands) into productive ideation time.

The Cons:

• Distraction Risks: Safety first! If talking through a complex plot point causes you to miss your exit or run a red light, pull over.
• Transcription Friction: Unlike typing, you can’t easily capture spontaneous brilliance unless you have a voice recorder running (more on that later).
• Self-Consciousness: If you live in a dense urban area or drive a convertible, you might feel a bit silly yelling at your dashboard.

---

How to Adapt the Reiner Method for Your Writing Routine

You don’t need to lease a luxury sedan to reap the benefits of Carl Reiner’s favourite writing hack. Here is how you can integrate the “drive and talk” method into your workflow—safely and effectively:

1. Use the “Voice Memo” Safety Net

Never try to rely on memory alone. Before you put the car in drive, open a voice-recording app on your phone (or use a dedicated dictaphone) and mount it securely. Treat your car like a mobile podcast studio. Ramble, argue, pitch, and brainstorm freely, knowing it’s all being captured.

2. Go with a Prompt or Problem

Don’t just get in the car and hope for inspiration. Define your mission before you turn the ignition. For example: “How do I get Character A from the diner to the crime scene without it feeling forced?” or “Let’s workshop the argument between the spouses in Chapter 4.” Give your subconscious a specific target.

3. Roleplay Both Sides

Reiner was famous for playing multiple parts. If you are struggling with a scene between two characters, play both of them. Switch your pitch, adopt different accents, and let them have a verbal sparring match. You’ll often find that the characters will organically steer the scene in a direction you hadn’t planned—and that direction is usually the right one.

4. No Car? No Problem (The “Walk and Talk”)

If you don’t drive, don’t worry. The principle remains the same: movement plus vocalisation. Pop in some wireless earbuds, turn on your voice recorder app, and go for a brisk walk around your neighbourhood. (Bonus: Walking outdoors is also scientifically proven to boost creative output).

---

The Verdict: Give Your Writing a Voice

Carl Reiner proved that great comedy—and great writing in general—isn’t always born in absolute silence. Sometimes, it’s forged at 45 miles per hour, fueled by caffeine, road signs, and a writer talking animatedly to themselves.

If you are feeling stuck on a plot hole or your dialogue is feeling wooden, stop staring at the screen. Step away from the desk, grab your voice recorder, and take a drive. Your inner Carl Reiner is waiting to take the wheel.

---

Have you ever tried talking out loud to solve a creative problem? Let us know your favourite unconventional writing hacks in the comments below!

…

Day 195 – Writing exercise

…

It was hard, very hard, to stand at the altar and find the words that could adequately describe how much he missed Catherine, or explain in simple words how much she had meant to him.

These days relationships and marriages were throwaway items, something you jump into and out of as easily as getting on and off a boat.

It was a dilemma that had been haunting him since the priest had told him he should prepare some words to remember her in a way everyone would understand.

The thing was, not everyone did.  Certainly not her brother and two sisters. Certainly not her parents; they simply didn’t understand who she was and didn’t try.  They had three other children to bend to their will.

Certainly not my parents, of similar practical ilk as hers, and didn’t understand my choice.  My younger sister did; they were friends, soul mates for life, and her sudden death had affected her as much as it had me.

But to find words that made her relatable?  That was going to take a collaborative effort, simply because she was ‘artistic’.

There were various ways of interpreting artistic, most ending up on a scrapheap of misunderstandings that usually generated into misguided insults.

When I first met her I did the same.  I had not yet broken free of what she called the shackles of formalism.  It was a polite way of saying I was trying to conform to my parents’ ideal person.

Hard working, university educated as a doctor or lawyer, certainly a professional, and ideally working in the family business.  My father was a lawyer; his father was; my brothers were.  Then, my mother was a doctor, and my sister was meant to be, but she, like myself, fell off that wagon before it was too late, and we became autonomous.

My parents blamed Catherine for that.

But that took a while.  I had yet to meet her and go through the hardest year of my life.

…

I was studying law at the same university my great-grandparents and my brothers attended.  We Berkeley’s were well known, even famous, given that Berkeley’s featured everywhere in the walls and the fabric of university lore.

I, like my brothers, had very big shoes to fill, and when you are a so-so student not gifted with instant recall and a photographic memory, law really is a struggle.

Catherine was there doing art history or archaeology or some esoteric degree that to me seemed more fun than gritty learning.  She stood out because of her manner, the way she dressed, and the fact that every day she was like a ray of sunshine.

The first time I met her was in the library.  I was trying to study for a difficult exam that I had to pass, or I would be spending my summer holidays locked in a tutorial instead of going on the family holiday in Capri.

I knew I wasn’t going to make it.

That day I was searching for a law volume, and she was up a ladder and dropped a book on my head.  She said it slipped out of her hand.

It hit me in just the spot where it briefly knocked me out cold.  A book.  I couldn’t believe it.

Anyway, when I woke up, I was in a medical room lying on a cot with a doctor looking concerned, and Catherine, though I didn’t know her name then, hovering at the end of the cot, hoping, she said later, she hadn’t killed me.

The doctor asked me if I knew where I was, loosely translated to ‘at the university ‘, and what day it was, ‘the worst day of my life ‘, and what happened to me, ‘God was answering my prayer to kill me now before I failed the exam and went straight to hell’.

I think there were tears because my head really hurt, so he recommended painkillers and bed rest.  The nurse was very unsympathetic.  Catherine was contrite.

She sat down beside the cot and held my hand.

I’d seen her many times, always from afar.  I was not in her classes nor did I have a reason to be in her friend group.  Why she had stayed was unexplainable.  I had survived; her obligation was over.  I didn’t blame her for anything.  It could have happened to anyone.

She opened with, “I’m so sorry. Things like that just happen to me.”

“Dripping books of heads?”

“Books, spilling drinks and food, bumping into things.  People say I’m in a different world.”

“Are you?”

She smiled.  “Most of the time I see the world differently.  It’s the same as everyone else.  I just see only the good things.”

“How?”

“Take your accident.  It brought us together.  That’s a good thing.  Unless you’re an axe murderer.”

“They don’t let me bring my axe to school.”

She gave me a strange look, then smiled again.  “You have a sense of humour.  That will never work if you’re going to be a lawyer.”

“How do you know…”

“You look like your brother Aloysius.  I hope you’re not like him.  He keeps asking me out, but it’s only to settle a bet.  He’s basically horrible.  I’m sorry, but that’s how I see him.”

She was right, of course; he was.  And I knew about him and his university friends.  They had no respect for women, a trait handed down from their father.  Mine too, but that part missed me.  He called me ambivalent, a traitor as wild as my red hair.

He stopped short of saying I wasn’t his son, especially when my mother was not around.  Curiously, I never suspected her of having affairs, not like him in his quest to stay relevant and young, a battle he was losing as he got older.

“I hate to say it, but I agree with you.  I’ll be happy to kick his ass if he tries too hard, if you like.  It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You’d do that for me, even after I tried to kill you.”

“I think it was the law trying to kill me.  It was sending me a message.  You just happened to be nearby.”

“Now you’re being too nice.”  She stood.  “You seem to be alright, so I’ll leave you to contemplate the hidden meaning behind the attack of the book.  Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Probably not.  We moved in completely different circles, and I was not the sort of person that fitted into her friend group.

“Maybe.  I could get delayed amnesia, and forget you.”

“You could, but I am unforgettable.”  That said, she left.

I didn’t expect to see her again, except from afar.  Somehow that made me feel sad.

. .

Some people stay in your mind for a variety of reasons.  Catherine stayed in mine simply because she was different, in a way that made her, as she said, unforgettable.

But toiling with the vicissitudes of the law took my mind off everything as I battled to get my head above water.  Law just wasn’t my thing.

Later that year, when I was seriously contemplating leaving university and going home to face the music, I wandered into the cafe looking for a cup of strong black coffee.

That’s when I saw her again, sitting with two other girls who no doubt were in her classes.  What bothered me was that my brother was talking to her.

Well, not talking to her as such, it looked to me like he was being an ass.  Again.

I stood on the doorway for a fraction too long, causing a hold-up that drew comment and her attention.

Just what I didn’t want.

I was going to leave, but she saw me and waved.  My brother turned to see who she was waving at, and that sealed my fate.

The last thing I wanted to do was confront him.  He was condescending at best and abrasive at worst when I wandered into his line of sight.

It was a shame I had to go to the same school as he did.

Fate sealed, I wandered over.

She was more interested in me than him.  He glared at me, “What are you doing here?”

“Getting coffee, though something stronger would be better.  What are you doing?  Harassing the female students in your usual manner?”

If her plan was to put us against each other, it might just work.  I was in a bad mood, and he was just the person to take it out on.

“Just go away and get whatever it is you came for.”

She looked at me, and I think she could see I was spoiling for a fight.  Maybe she wanted to throw some duel on the fire.

“Your brother is being a pain.”

“No.  My brother wanted to win a bet that he can get you to go out with him.  Put him out of his misery, and as a gentleman he will go away and not bother you again “

I looked at him.  “Not that you know what a gentleman really is.  Perhaps I should have a quiet word to Margaret and tell her you’re still sowing those wild cats Dad keeps banging on about.”

“You should be minding your own business.”

“Your misbehaving is my business.  I’m protecting the family name while you seem to think besmirching it is fine.”

“Go away, Steven.  Or else.”

“Or else what?”

“You don’t want to know.”

He was bigger and meaner than me, a member of the rugby team.  I’d seen what he could do when he took his temper out on Jeffery, our middle brother.

I was no match in size and weight, but he had no finesse.

I looked back at her.  “You want this jackass to leave you alone?”

“He doesn’t understand the word no.”

“Not when money is involved.”  I looked at him.  “You and me, the gym.  I win, you leave alone.”

“And if I win,” he said, grinning.

“You won’t.”

He looked me up and down, evaluating his chances.  They were good.  Probably better than good.

“Done.  6 pm.  You really are that stupid.”

Perhaps I was, but one thing I knew in that moment.  I was going to take my temper and all the bad stuff about law I hated on him.

…

“You really shouldn’t be doing this,” Catherine said.  She had decided to come with me to the gym to watch the epic battle.

She didn’t portray it as two fools fighting over a girl who wanted nothing to do with either of them.  She wanted to believe I was defending her honour.

That might have been the case if it was 1780, or a page out of a Jane Austen novel. 

The truth was I hated him.  He was the favourite; everything came easy for him.  Law studies were easy, rugby was easy, dating any girl he wanted was easy.

I just wanted to wipe that smirk off his face.

In reality, I was going to get pounded into the middle of next week.

And I think she knew that my gesture was just that, one that I hadn’t thought through.  She had already told me I didn’t have to go through with it. 

I said it was about time I stuck up for myself instead of living in his shadow.  This was sibling rivalry, and she was just an excuse I was using to justify my actions.

Yet she did go off after telling me I was being stupid, or that she didn’t appreciate me making a fool of myself on her behalf.  I think I was offended at her lack of faith.

When I got there, about five minutes before the event, there was a crowd of about two hundred.  Friends of his, and people who had learned there was going to be a fight.

A civilised fight.

He was dressed for the occasion, in fact, the whole boxing thing, and it didn’t surprise me he was into sparring.  I had been taking lessons, but the odds of any of it sticking in my brain were slight.

“Go change.  We do this properly.”

I shrugged, then climbed into the ring.  One of the gym staff came over with gloves and a helmet and helped me put both on.

Then he read the riot act, as much to say this was going to be by the book and no underhanded punching and clinging.  There was more, but I wasn’t listening.  I was trying to remember what my instructor had told me.

We took our corners.

The gym instructor stood in the middle.  Someone clanged the bell, and it was on.

I watched him circle, fists pumping like pistons, throwing out exploratory jabs as he circled.  Perhaps he thought it would make me dizzy watching him.

Then he came at me, trying to land a punch on the way past.  I saw the move and moved out of the way, and landed a punch to his upper arm that elicited a grunt.

And an expression changed.  Perhaps I might take a little effort on his part.

More circling, more punches, one of which rattled me, but not unduly so.  I had lowered my guard.

Then he came at me.  Perhaps he thought he had me at a disadvantage.  He landed one, but while he was doing that, he left himself exposed, and I lashed out with all the force I could muster.

Thwack. That’s what it sounded like.  Clean, hard, and right on the money.

He crumpled, collapsing to the floor and then didn’t move.  The gym instructor was beside him checking the damage.

It wasn’t much.  I had caught him flush, and it knocked him out.  A few seconds later he was awake, realised what had happened and tried to get up.  His legs could not support the weight, and he had to stay down.

But the fight was over.

I stood there and looked down at him.  There was a vacant stare behind those eyes of his.  Stunned perhaps at the idea that I could beat him.

“You win,” he said. “No hard feelings.”

Pity.  I wanted to pound him some more. Instead I just shrugged and took off the gloves.  By the time I got out of the ring, my brother was back on his feet.  He would survive.

The crowd had dispersed.

Catherine was still there, sitting on a seat by the wall well away from the ring.

“Did you win?”

“Of course.  What were you expecting?”

“Taking you to hospital in an ambulance.  It seems to me the only time we spend together is me taking you to random medical facilities “

“Well, you don’t have to.  He won’t be annoying you again.”

“What about you?”

“I won’t be annoying you at all.”

“What if I want to be annoyed by you?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.  I’m not your sort.”

“How do you know what my sort is?”

“It would not be a deadly dull law graduate.  You have too much life in you to be dragged backwards by a dour person like me.”

I had no idea how or why this conversation was going, other than it shouldn’t.  We were opposites that in a normal world would never meet.

“OK.  Take me to dinner.  If by the end of it I judge you to be too dour, we’ll call it off.  But what you just did, no one has ever done for me before.  That’s not dour.”

“No.  It was bloody stupid.”

“Calculated, yes; stupid, no.  You knew you could beat him.”

“I knew the odds were in my favour.  But fights like that are unpredictable.  I could have got hurt.”

“Then I would have taken you to hospital and got you patched up.  Then I would tell you how remarkable I think you are.  You should never be the person other people want you to be, but the person you want to.  He’s in there,” she touched my heart, which coincidentally was beating rather faster than normal, “and we’ll find him.”

“Dinner?”

“A posh restaurant.  Impress me.  I can be impressed.”

Then she took my hand in hers, and she stood.

I knew then that she was the one, the only one for me; and that I was never going to be a lawyer

…

I was standing behind the priest who had just delivered a remarkable eulogy, one that encapsulated her life, her manner, and her influence over the world at large.

It was meant to light up what a very sad day was, and it did.  I remembered her, not only from the first day I met her, but through that amazing dinner date at her so-called posh restaurant, to the day I asked her to marry me and she said yes.

What could I say that could ever tell anyone what I had and what I’d lost?

I could not.

But given the chance to get back at my brother, well, there was a wealth of stories right there.

I looked out over the crowd, all sitting and expecting something witty.

“Everyone knew Catherine, and unfortunately for some, Catherine knew them.  I remember her speech at the wedding.  As progressive as we were, she took us all by surprise…

“Some more than others…

Quite a few of those before me were there.  It was the first inkling they got that she was not afraid to speak her mind or trample on egos.

I was not going to remind them, but it led into more humorous memories, and it got the conversation going.  We remembered, we laughed, and how we laughed, until we cried.  She had that effect on each and every one of us.

And yes, as I spoke, I knew she was standing next to me, slipping her hand in mine and squeezing it gently, just to let me know I was not, and never would be, alone.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 195 – Writing exercise

…

It was hard, very hard, to stand at the altar and find the words that could adequately describe how much he missed Catherine, or explain in simple words how much she had meant to him.

These days, relationships and marriages were throwaway items, something you jump into and out of as easily as getting on and off a boat.

It was a dilemma that had been haunting him since the priest had told him he should prepare some words to remember her in a way everyone would understand.

The thing was, not everyone did.  Certainly not her brother and two sisters. Certainly not her parents; they simply didn’t understand who she was and didn’t try.  They had three other children to bend to their will.

Certainly not my parents, of similar practical ilk as hers, and didn’t understand my choice.  My younger sister did; they were friends, soul mates for life, and her sudden death had affected her as much as it had me.

But to find words that made her relatable?  That was going to take a collaborative effort, simply because she was ‘artistic’.

There were various ways of interpreting artistic, most ending up on a scrapheap of misunderstandings that usually generated into misguided insults.

When I first met her I did the same.  I had not yet broken free of what she called the shackles of formalism.  It was a polite way of saying I was trying to conform to my parents’ ideal person.

Hard working, university educated as a doctor or lawyer, certainly a professional, and ideally working in the family business.  My father was a lawyer; his father was; my brothers were.  Then, my mother was a doctor, and my sister was meant to be, but she, like myself, fell off that wagon before it was too late, and we became autonomous.

My parents blamed Catherine for that.

But that took a while.  I had yet to meet her and go through the hardest year of my life.

…

I was studying law at the same university my great-grandparents and my brothers attended.  We Berkeley’s were well known, even famous, given that Berkeley’s featured everywhere in the walls and the fabric of university lore.

I, like my brothers, had very big shoes to fill, and when you are a so-so student not gifted with instant recall and a photographic memory, law really is a struggle.

Catherine was there doing art history or archaeology or some esoteric degree that to me seemed more fun than gritty learning.  She stood out because of her manner, the way she dressed, and the fact that every day she was like a ray of sunshine.

The first time I met her was in the library.  I was trying to study for a difficult exam that I had to pass, or I would be spending my summer holidays locked in a tutorial instead of going on the family holiday in Capri.

I knew I wasn’t going to make it.

That day I was searching for a law volume, and she was up a ladder and dropped a book on my head.  She said it slipped out of her hand.

It hit me in just the spot where it briefly knocked me out cold.  A book.  I couldn’t believe it.

Anyway, when I woke up, I was in a medical room lying on a cot with a doctor looking concerned, and Catherine, though I didn’t know her name then, hovering at the end of the cot, hoping, she said later, she hadn’t killed me.

The doctor asked me if I knew where I was, loosely translated to ‘at the university ‘, and what day it was, ‘the worst day of my life ‘, and what happened to me, ‘God was answering my prayer to kill me now before I failed the exam and went straight to hell’.

I think there were tears because my head really hurt, so he recommended painkillers and bed rest.  The nurse was very unsympathetic.  Catherine was contrite.

She sat down beside the cot and held my hand.

I’d seen her many times, always from afar.  I was not in her classes nor did I have a reason to be in her friend group.  Why she had stayed was unexplainable.  I had survived; her obligation was over.  I didn’t blame her for anything.  It could have happened to anyone.

She opened with, “I’m so sorry. Things like that just happen to me.”

“Dripping books of heads?”

“Books, spilling drinks and food, bumping into things.  People say I’m in a different world.”

“Are you?”

She smiled.  “Most of the time I see the world differently.  It’s the same as everyone else.  I just see only the good things.”

“How?”

“Take your accident.  It brought us together.  That’s a good thing.  Unless you’re an axe murderer.”

“They don’t let me bring my axe to school.”

She gave me a strange look, then smiled again.  “You have a sense of humour.  That will never work if you’re going to be a lawyer.”

“How do you know…”

“You look like your brother Aloysius.  I hope you’re not like him.  He keeps asking me out, but it’s only to settle a bet.  He’s basically horrible.  I’m sorry, but that’s how I see him.”

She was right, of course; he was.  And I knew about him and his university friends.  They had no respect for women, a trait handed down from their father.  Mine too, but that part missed me.  He called me ambivalent, a traitor as wild as my red hair.

He stopped short of saying I wasn’t his son, especially when my mother was not around.  Curiously, I never suspected her of having affairs, not like him in his quest to stay relevant and young, a battle he was losing as he got older.

“I hate to say it, but I agree with you.  I’ll be happy to kick his ass if he tries too hard, if you like.  It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You’d do that for me, even after I tried to kill you.”

“I think it was the law trying to kill me.  It was sending me a message.  You just happened to be nearby.”

“Now you’re being too nice.”  She stood.  “You seem to be alright, so I’ll leave you to contemplate the hidden meaning behind the attack of the book.  Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Probably not.  We moved in completely different circles, and I was not the sort of person that fitted into her friend group.

“Maybe.  I could get delayed amnesia, and forget you.”

“You could, but I am unforgettable.”  That said, she left.

I didn’t expect to see her again, except from afar.  Somehow that made me feel sad.

. .

Some people stay in your mind for a variety of reasons.  Catherine stayed in mine simply because she was different, in a way that made her, as she said, unforgettable.

But toiling with the vicissitudes of the law took my mind off everything as I battled to get my head above water.  Law just wasn’t my thing.

Later that year, when I was seriously contemplating leaving university and going home to face the music, I wandered into the cafe looking for a cup of strong black coffee.

That’s when I saw her again, sitting with two other girls who no doubt were in her classes.  What bothered me was that my brother was talking to her.

Well, not talking to her as such, it looked to me like he was being an ass.  Again.

I stood on the doorway for a fraction too long, causing a hold-up that drew comment and her attention.

Just what I didn’t want.

I was going to leave, but she saw me and waved.  My brother turned to see who she was waving at, and that sealed my fate.

The last thing I wanted to do was confront him.  He was condescending at best and abrasive at worst when I wandered into his line of sight.

It was a shame I had to go to the same school as he did.

Fate sealed, I wandered over.

She was more interested in me than him.  He glared at me, “What are you doing here?”

“Getting coffee, though something stronger would be better.  What are you doing?  Harassing the female students in your usual manner?”

If her plan was to put us against each other, it might just work.  I was in a bad mood, and he was just the person to take it out on.

“Just go away and get whatever it is you came for.”

She looked at me, and I think she could see I was spoiling for a fight.  Maybe she wanted to throw some duel on the fire.

“Your brother is being a pain.”

“No.  My brother wanted to win a bet that he can get you to go out with him.  Put him out of his misery, and as a gentleman he will go away and not bother you again “

I looked at him.  “Not that you know what a gentleman really is.  Perhaps I should have a quiet word to Margaret and tell her you’re still sowing those wild cats Dad keeps banging on about.”

“You should be minding your own business.”

“Your misbehaving is my business.  I’m protecting the family name while you seem to think besmirching it is fine.”

“Go away, Steven.  Or else.”

“Or else what?”

“You don’t want to know.”

He was bigger and meaner than me, a member of the rugby team.  I’d seen what he could do when he took his temper out on Jeffery, our middle brother.

I was no match in size and weight, but he had no finesse.

I looked back at her.  “You want this jackass to leave you alone?”

“He doesn’t understand the word no.”

“Not when money is involved.”  I looked at him.  “You and me, the gym.  I win, you leave alone.”

“And if I win,” he said, grinning.

“You won’t.”

He looked me up and down, evaluating his chances.  They were good.  Probably better than good.

“Done.  6 pm.  You really are that stupid.”

Perhaps I was, but one thing I knew in that moment.  I was going to take my temper and all the bad stuff about law I hated on him.

…

“You really shouldn’t be doing this,” Catherine said.  She had decided to come with me to the gym to watch the epic battle.

She didn’t portray it as two fools fighting over a girl who wanted nothing to do with either of them.  She wanted to believe I was defending her honour.

That might have been the case if it was 1780, or a page out of a Jane Austen novel. 

The truth was I hated him.  He was the favourite; everything came easy for him.  Law studies were easy, rugby was easy, dating any girl he wanted was easy.

I just wanted to wipe that smirk off his face.

In reality, I was going to get pounded into the middle of next week.

And I think she knew that my gesture was just that, one that I hadn’t thought through.  She had already told me I didn’t have to go through with it. 

I said it was about time I stuck up for myself instead of living in his shadow.  This was sibling rivalry, and she was just an excuse I was using to justify my actions.

Yet she did go off after telling me I was being stupid, or that she didn’t appreciate me making a fool of myself on her behalf.  I think I was offended at her lack of faith.

When I got there, about five minutes before the event, there was a crowd of about two hundred.  Friends of his, and people who had learned there was going to be a fight.

A civilised fight.

He was dressed for the occasion, in fact, the whole boxing thing, and it didn’t surprise me he was into sparring.  I had been taking lessons, but the odds of any of it sticking in my brain were slight.

“Go change.  We do this properly.”

I shrugged, then climbed into the ring.  One of the gym staff came over with gloves and a helmet and helped me put both on.

Then he read the riot act, as much to say this was going to be by the book and no underhanded punching and clinging.  There was more, but I wasn’t listening.  I was trying to remember what my instructor had told me.

We took our corners.

The gym instructor stood in the middle.  Someone clanged the bell, and it was on.

I watched him circle, fists pumping like pistons, throwing out exploratory jabs as he circled.  Perhaps he thought it would make me dizzy watching him.

Then he came at me, trying to land a punch on the way past.  I saw the move and moved out of the way, and landed a punch to his upper arm that elicited a grunt.

And an expression changed.  Perhaps I might take a little effort on his part.

More circling, more punches, one of which rattled me, but not unduly so.  I had lowered my guard.

Then he came at me.  Perhaps he thought he had me at a disadvantage.  He landed one, but while he was doing that, he left himself exposed, and I lashed out with all the force I could muster.

Thwack. That’s what it sounded like.  Clean, hard, and right on the money.

He crumpled, collapsing to the floor and then didn’t move.  The gym instructor was beside him checking the damage.

It wasn’t much.  I had caught him flush, and it knocked him out.  A few seconds later he was awake, realised what had happened and tried to get up.  His legs could not support the weight, and he had to stay down.

But the fight was over.

I stood there and looked down at him.  There was a vacant stare behind those eyes of his.  Stunned perhaps at the idea that I could beat him.

“You win,” he said. “No hard feelings.”

Pity.  I wanted to pound him some more. Instead I just shrugged and took off the gloves.  By the time I got out of the ring, my brother was back on his feet.  He would survive.

The crowd had dispersed.

Catherine was still there, sitting on a seat by the wall well away from the ring.

“Did you win?”

“Of course.  What were you expecting?”

“Taking you to hospital in an ambulance.  It seems to me the only time we spend together is me taking you to random medical facilities “

“Well, you don’t have to.  He won’t be annoying you again.”

“What about you?”

“I won’t be annoying you at all.”

“What if I want to be annoyed by you?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.  I’m not your sort.”

“How do you know what my sort is?”

“It would not be a deadly dull law graduate.  You have too much life in you to be dragged backwards by a dour person like me.”

I had no idea how or why this conversation was going, other than it shouldn’t.  We were opposites that in a normal world would never meet.

“OK.  Take me to dinner.  If by the end of it I judge you to be too dour, we’ll call it off.  But what you just did, no one has ever done for me before.  That’s not dour.”

“No.  It was bloody stupid.”

“Calculated, yes; stupid, no.  You knew you could beat him.”

“I knew the odds were in my favour.  But fights like that are unpredictable.  I could have got hurt.”

“Then I would have taken you to hospital and got you patched up.  Then I would tell you how remarkable I think you are.  You should never be the person other people want you to be, but the person you want to.  He’s in there,” she touched my heart, which coincidentally was beating rather faster than normal, “and we’ll find him.”

“Dinner?”

“A posh restaurant.  Impress me.  I can be impressed.”

Then she took my hand in hers, and she stood.

I knew then that she was the one, the only one for me; and that I was never going to be a lawyer

…

I was standing behind the priest who had just delivered a remarkable eulogy, one that encapsulated her life, her manner, and her influence over the world at large.

It was meant to light up what a very sad day was, and it did.  I remembered her, not only from the first day I met her, but through that amazing dinner date at her so-called posh restaurant, to the day I asked her to marry me and she said yes.

What could I say that could ever tell anyone what I had and what I’d lost?

I could not.

But given the chance to get back at my brother, well, there was a wealth of stories right there.

I looked out over the crowd, all sitting and expecting something witty.

“Everyone knew Catherine, and unfortunately for some, Catherine knew them.  I remember her speech at the wedding.  As progressive as we were, she took us all by surprise…

“Some more than others…

Quite a few of those before me were there.  It was the first inkling they got that she was not afraid to speak her mind or trample on egos.

I was not going to remind them, but it led into more humorous memories, and it got the conversation going.  We remembered, we laughed, and how we laughed, until we cried.  She had that effect on each and every one of us.

And yes, as I spoke, I knew she was standing next to me, slipping her hand in mine and squeezing it gently, just to let me know I was not, and never would be, alone.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026