Days 80 and 81

Write a piece and then edit it by reducing its size by 20 percent.

…

First draft:

Growing up I did not believe l had one of those lovable faces.

My brother, known in school as the best looking boy of his graduating class, said it was a face only a mother could love.

He was mean.

Simone, a girl who was a friend, not a girlfriend, said my face had character.

She was charming and polite.

Looking now, in the mirror, l decided I’d aged gracefully.

I could truthfully say my brother had not, but that was as far as the comparison went.

My overachieving brother was the epitome of success in business, a veritable god zillionaire.  Everything he touched turned to gold.

My ultra successful sister, Penelope, had married into the right family perhaps by chance, but she was also a very learned scholar whose life was divided between her chair and the university and her social life with the rich and famous.

Then there was me.

I gave up on my chance at university because l was not the scholarly sort and didn’t last long.  Sadly l was the first of my family to be sent down from Oxford.

Instead, l took on a series of professions such as seasonal laborer, farmhand, factory worker, and lastly, night watchman.  At least now I had a uniform and looked like I’d made something of myself.

It would not be enough for my parents who every year didn’t say it out loud but the disappointment was always there in their expressions.

My brother in his usual blunt manner said l was a loser and would never change.

My sister was not quite so blunt.  She simply said it was disappointing so much potential was going to waste.  I only asked her once what she meant and lost me after the first four-syllable word.

Finally, I’d taken their comments to heart and decided l would not be going home to the family Christmas holiday reunion.

I told my boss l was available to work the night shift over the holidays, the shift no one else wanted.

It was he said the time for reflection.  He hated his family as much as I did so we would be able to lament our bad luck though the long cold hours from dusk till dawn.

It was 3 a.m. and it was like standing on the exact epicenter of the North Pole.  I’d just stepped from the warehouse into the car park.

The car was covered in snow.  The weather was clear now, but more snow was coming.

It was going to be a white Christmas, all I needed.  I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.

As I approached my car, the light went on in an SUV parked next to my car.  The door opened and what looked to be a woman was climbing down from the driver’s seat.

She closed the door and leaned against the side of the car.  “Graham?”

It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time, my ultra-successful sister, Penelope.  From what I could see, she didn’t look too well.

“What do you want?”

“Help.”

My help, I was the last person to help her or anyone for that matter.  But curiosity got the better of me.  “Why?”

“Because my husband is trying to kill me.”

The instant the last word left her lips I saw her jerk back into the car, and then start sliding down to the ground.  There was no mistaking the red streak following her as she fell.

She’d been shot from what could be a sniper rifle, which meant …

602 words long

…

After editing:

My parents were very wealthy, with an Upper Westside Apartment in Manhattan and a holiday house in Martha’s Vineyard. My sister had a successful medical career and married a most eligible bachelor, as expected, and my brother he was a politician.

I’d not seen any of them in at least five years, and they hadn’t called me.

You see, I was the black sheep of the family.  I dropped out of college when it all became too much and drifted.  Seasonal labourer, farmhand, factory worker, add job man, and night watchman. 

At least now I had a uniform and a gun and looked like I’d made something of myself.

It was hard to say why, but just before I was about to head out of the factory to end my shift, those thoughts about them came into my mind.   They might be gone, but I guess I will never forget them.  I wondered briefly if any of them thought about me.

It was 3 a.m., and it was like standing on the exact epicentre of the South Pole.  I’d just stepped from the factory warehouse into the car park.

The car was covered in snow.  The weather was clear now, but I could feel more snow coming.  A white Christmas?  That’s all I needed.  I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.

As I approached my car, the light went on inside an SUV parked next to my car.  The door opened and what looked to be a woman was getting out of the car.

“Graham?”

It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time.

I looked again and was shocked to see my ultra-successful sister, Penelope.  She was leaning against the front fender, and from what I could see, she didn’t look too well.

How on earth did she find me, after all the years that had passed?  Perhaps that sparked my un-conciliatory question, “What do you want?”

I could see the surprise and then the hurt in her expression.  Perhaps I had been a little harsh.  Whatever she felt, it passed, and she said, “Help.”

My help?  Help with what? I was the last person who could help her, or anyone for that matter, with anything.   But curiosity got the better of me.  “Why?”

“I think my husband is trying to kill me.”

Then, with that said, she slid down the side of the car, and I could see, in the arc lamps lighting the car park, a trail of blood.

My first thought was that she needed the help of a doctor, not a stupid brother, then a second thought, call 911, which I did, and hoped like hell they got here in time.

And, yes, there was a third thought that crossed my mind.  Whether or not I would be blamed for this event.

478 Words

Mission accomplished

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Days 80 and 81

Write a piece and then edit it by reducing its size by 20 percent.

…

First draft:

Growing up I did not believe l had one of those lovable faces.

My brother, known in school as the best looking boy of his graduating class, said it was a face only a mother could love.

He was mean.

Simone, a girl who was a friend, not a girlfriend, said my face had character.

She was charming and polite.

Looking now, in the mirror, l decided I’d aged gracefully.

I could truthfully say my brother had not, but that was as far as the comparison went.

My overachieving brother was the epitome of success in business, a veritable god zillionaire.  Everything he touched turned to gold.

My ultra successful sister, Penelope, had married into the right family perhaps by chance, but she was also a very learned scholar whose life was divided between her chair and the university and her social life with the rich and famous.

Then there was me.

I gave up on my chance at university because l was not the scholarly sort and didn’t last long.  Sadly l was the first of my family to be sent down from Oxford.

Instead, l took on a series of professions such as seasonal laborer, farmhand, factory worker, and lastly, night watchman.  At least now I had a uniform and looked like I’d made something of myself.

It would not be enough for my parents who every year didn’t say it out loud but the disappointment was always there in their expressions.

My brother in his usual blunt manner said l was a loser and would never change.

My sister was not quite so blunt.  She simply said it was disappointing so much potential was going to waste.  I only asked her once what she meant and lost me after the first four-syllable word.

Finally, I’d taken their comments to heart and decided l would not be going home to the family Christmas holiday reunion.

I told my boss l was available to work the night shift over the holidays, the shift no one else wanted.

It was he said the time for reflection.  He hated his family as much as I did so we would be able to lament our bad luck though the long cold hours from dusk till dawn.

It was 3 a.m. and it was like standing on the exact epicenter of the North Pole.  I’d just stepped from the warehouse into the car park.

The car was covered in snow.  The weather was clear now, but more snow was coming.

It was going to be a white Christmas, all I needed.  I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.

As I approached my car, the light went on in an SUV parked next to my car.  The door opened and what looked to be a woman was climbing down from the driver’s seat.

She closed the door and leaned against the side of the car.  “Graham?”

It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time, my ultra-successful sister, Penelope.  From what I could see, she didn’t look too well.

“What do you want?”

“Help.”

My help, I was the last person to help her or anyone for that matter.  But curiosity got the better of me.  “Why?”

“Because my husband is trying to kill me.”

The instant the last word left her lips I saw her jerk back into the car, and then start sliding down to the ground.  There was no mistaking the red streak following her as she fell.

She’d been shot from what could be a sniper rifle, which meant …

602 words long

…

After editing:

My parents were very wealthy, with an Upper Westside Apartment in Manhattan and a holiday house in Martha’s Vineyard. My sister had a successful medical career and married a most eligible bachelor, as expected, and my brother he was a politician.

I’d not seen any of them in at least five years, and they hadn’t called me.

You see, I was the black sheep of the family.  I dropped out of college when it all became too much and drifted.  Seasonal labourer, farmhand, factory worker, add job man, and night watchman. 

At least now I had a uniform and a gun and looked like I’d made something of myself.

It was hard to say why, but just before I was about to head out of the factory to end my shift, those thoughts about them came into my mind.   They might be gone, but I guess I will never forget them.  I wondered briefly if any of them thought about me.

It was 3 a.m., and it was like standing on the exact epicentre of the South Pole.  I’d just stepped from the factory warehouse into the car park.

The car was covered in snow.  The weather was clear now, but I could feel more snow coming.  A white Christmas?  That’s all I needed.  I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.

As I approached my car, the light went on inside an SUV parked next to my car.  The door opened and what looked to be a woman was getting out of the car.

“Graham?”

It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time.

I looked again and was shocked to see my ultra-successful sister, Penelope.  She was leaning against the front fender, and from what I could see, she didn’t look too well.

How on earth did she find me, after all the years that had passed?  Perhaps that sparked my un-conciliatory question, “What do you want?”

I could see the surprise and then the hurt in her expression.  Perhaps I had been a little harsh.  Whatever she felt, it passed, and she said, “Help.”

My help?  Help with what? I was the last person who could help her, or anyone for that matter, with anything.   But curiosity got the better of me.  “Why?”

“I think my husband is trying to kill me.”

Then, with that said, she slid down the side of the car, and I could see, in the arc lamps lighting the car park, a trail of blood.

My first thought was that she needed the help of a doctor, not a stupid brother, then a second thought, call 911, which I did, and hoped like hell they got here in time.

And, yes, there was a third thought that crossed my mind.  Whether or not I would be blamed for this event.

478 Words

Mission accomplished

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

More about my story

…

Back to the knock on the door…

His partner, sent over by the boss as a surprise, arrives at his door, and he is shocked.  He works alone, this was not discussed and leads to a call back.

Threats are delivered; she stays.  In her own room of course.

As I’m writing these information pieces I note over the days the story repeats or changes a little.  This is because as I’m writing it, the story changes the characters, the situations, the places as I fill in the gaps, and flesh out the story, little pieces that change from my original thoughts.

I will think of something new as a question is asked, and one will be that our journalist is a feature writer and has been published in reputable newspapers.  This, of course, sets his bona fides as cover, but I added another detail: he can actually write.  If not mentioned before, he has a history with the keynote speaker.  They are inevitably going to meet, though in his role as protector, which is not supposed to happen.

What plan ever goes by the book?

In the early stages of the story, he will meet with the girl in white, the policeman, maybe he’ll run into the head of the secret police, and maybe the keynote speaker.

Then there is the leader of the rebels.

In between all of this, he had to get used to the fact he now has a shadow, and she cannot be cut out.  It’s no coincidence that she will do very nicely as a distraction, but who is it she will be distracting if not our protagonist?

More about my story

…

Back to the knock on the door…

His partner, sent over by the boss as a surprise, arrives at his door, and he is shocked.  He works alone, this was not discussed and leads to a call back.

Threats are delivered; she stays.  In her own room of course.

As I’m writing these information pieces I note over the days the story repeats or changes a little.  This is because as I’m writing it, the story changes the characters, the situations, the places as I fill in the gaps, and flesh out the story, little pieces that change from my original thoughts.

I will think of something new as a question is asked, and one will be that our journalist is a feature writer and has been published in reputable newspapers.  This, of course, sets his bona fides as cover, but I added another detail: he can actually write.  If not mentioned before, he has a history with the keynote speaker.  They are inevitably going to meet, though in his role as protector, which is not supposed to happen.

What plan ever goes by the book?

In the early stages of the story, he will meet with the girl in white, the policeman, maybe he’ll run into the head of the secret police, and maybe the keynote speaker.

Then there is the leader of the rebels.

In between all of this, he had to get used to the fact he now has a shadow, and she cannot be cut out.  It’s no coincidence that she will do very nicely as a distraction, but who is it she will be distracting if not our protagonist?

Day 80

Embedding twists and contradictions

Examples: ‘I loved her like a rabbit loves a rattlesnake’, ‘stealing a man’s wife, that’s nothing, but stealing his car, that’s larceny’, and ‘Not every man’s death is a crime’.

Come up with one of your own…

…

What’s not to say about the notion of a good contradiction? That’s the mainstay of most people I know; you think you know them, and you suddenly realise that you don’t.

And I think this works really well with the love interest in a thriller or mystery.

How do you know whether you are falling for an axe murderer or an innocent bystander?

You don’t.

So, there she is, standing on the corner of the street, under a flickering street lamp, smoking a cigarette. You’re watching the tendrils of smoke drift upwards until a burst of air blasts it away, and then the whole process starts over again.

The burning question in your mind: Will I go up to her and ask if she’s free for a drink?

She might be waiting for someone, or she might be waiting for someone like me to go up and ask her. What have you got to lose?

That voice of the devil sitting on your shoulder chimes in, perhaps she waiting for a chump like you so she can fulfill an order for a kidney, or liver.

And that face, all the innocence of Mata Hari rolled into the epitome of the girl next door.

The thing is, I’d never seen the typical girl next door to know what one looked like.

What am I looking for, a whirlwind romance, a walk in the park, or a quick and painless death?

I took two steps in her direction, determined to make the move, and stopped as a car pulled up beside her. A flick of the butt, a smile, she gets in the car and it drives off.

Oh, well, I guess I’ll be drinking on my own. Again.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 80

Embedding twists and contradictions

Examples: ‘I loved her like a rabbit loves a rattlesnake’, ‘stealing a man’s wife, that’s nothing, but stealing his car, that’s larceny’, and ‘Not every man’s death is a crime’.

Come up with one of your own…

…

What’s not to say about the notion of a good contradiction? That’s the mainstay of most people I know; you think you know them, and you suddenly realise that you don’t.

And I think this works really well with the love interest in a thriller or mystery.

How do you know whether you are falling for an axe murderer or an innocent bystander?

You don’t.

So, there she is, standing on the corner of the street, under a flickering street lamp, smoking a cigarette. You’re watching the tendrils of smoke drift upwards until a burst of air blasts it away, and then the whole process starts over again.

The burning question in your mind: Will I go up to her and ask if she’s free for a drink?

She might be waiting for someone, or she might be waiting for someone like me to go up and ask her. What have you got to lose?

That voice of the devil sitting on your shoulder chimes in, perhaps she waiting for a chump like you so she can fulfill an order for a kidney, or liver.

And that face, all the innocence of Mata Hari rolled into the epitome of the girl next door.

The thing is, I’d never seen the typical girl next door to know what one looked like.

What am I looking for, a whirlwind romance, a walk in the park, or a quick and painless death?

I took two steps in her direction, determined to make the move, and stopped as a car pulled up beside her. A flick of the butt, a smile, she gets in the car and it drives off.

Oh, well, I guess I’ll be drinking on my own. Again.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 79

What drives your writing

…

This is not a thing that pushes you every day, but there are times when something or someone will prey on your mind, and it will not be settled until you have ‘vented’.

I have to say that from time to time, the concept of venting has come over me when writing a blog piece, particularly when the folly of politicians and/or corporations is just too much. There has been a moment when a particular person has enraged me, but these people generally find themselves in a caricature.

Then there is that long-term project of the history of my family, and my brother, being the fountain of all knowledge of them, sometimes has a sit down and relates all these stories about them and after which I sit down and write as much about them as I can remember.

This I feel, is distinct from those times when I am writing a novel, apart from the incentive provided by NaNoWriMo where the race is on to get it done in 30 days. Other times, like for instance at the moment I am working on a story that is very fresh and very accessible in my mind, and therefore available to write.

I started about four days ago for a new section and have written nine new chapters in 4 days, and there is still more. While this story wants to be written, I will get it down, albeit in raw form, because it has changed a few times plot-wise since I started.

But that is me, and it is not for everyone. I often find myself writing about five or six stories at once, and yes, sometimes it can be confusing.

Day 79

What drives your writing

…

This is not a thing that pushes you every day, but there are times when something or someone will prey on your mind, and it will not be settled until you have ‘vented’.

I have to say that from time to time, the concept of venting has come over me when writing a blog piece, particularly when the folly of politicians and/or corporations is just too much. There has been a moment when a particular person has enraged me, but these people generally find themselves in a caricature.

Then there is that long-term project of the history of my family, and my brother, being the fountain of all knowledge of them, sometimes has a sit down and relates all these stories about them and after which I sit down and write as much about them as I can remember.

This I feel, is distinct from those times when I am writing a novel, apart from the incentive provided by NaNoWriMo where the race is on to get it done in 30 days. Other times, like for instance at the moment I am working on a story that is very fresh and very accessible in my mind, and therefore available to write.

I started about four days ago for a new section and have written nine new chapters in 4 days, and there is still more. While this story wants to be written, I will get it down, albeit in raw form, because it has changed a few times plot-wise since I started.

But that is me, and it is not for everyone. I often find myself writing about five or six stories at once, and yes, sometimes it can be confusing.

Day 78

Do you use a style manual

…

A “manual of style and usage” is a reference guide that provides rules and guidelines for writing and editing, covering aspects like grammar, punctuation, capitalization, spelling, and formatting, aiming for consistency and clarity.

Style guides, also known as manuals of style and usage, are essential tools for ensuring consistency and clarity in writing and design, particularly across various industries and disciplines. They provide standardized rules for grammar, punctuation, formatting, citation, and other aspects of writing, helping writers and editors maintain a consistent style and tone.

I can think of two: The Elements of Style and Style Manual for Authors, Editors, and Printers (Australia).

I have recently stumbled upon The Chicago Manual of Style, 16th Edition, which is a style guide for American English published since 1906 by the University of Chicago Press

Why are style guides important?

• Consistency: Style guides ensure that all documents within a specific organization, industry, or publication adhere to a consistent style, making them easier to read and understand.
• Clarity: By following established rules, style guides help writers avoid ambiguity and ensure that their message is clear and concise.
• Professionalism: Adhering to a style guide demonstrates professionalism and attention to detail, enhancing the credibility of the written work.
• Standardization: Style guides provide a framework for writing and design, making it easier for different people to work together on the same project.
• Facilitating Communication: They help ensure that all content produced by an organization or industry is consistent in its style, tone, and format, making it easier for the audience to understand the message. 

…

Most of the above has been derived from the internet.

Day 78

Do you use a style manual

…

A “manual of style and usage” is a reference guide that provides rules and guidelines for writing and editing, covering aspects like grammar, punctuation, capitalization, spelling, and formatting, aiming for consistency and clarity.

Style guides, also known as manuals of style and usage, are essential tools for ensuring consistency and clarity in writing and design, particularly across various industries and disciplines. They provide standardized rules for grammar, punctuation, formatting, citation, and other aspects of writing, helping writers and editors maintain a consistent style and tone.

I can think of two: The Elements of Style and Style Manual for Authors, Editors, and Printers (Australia).

I have recently stumbled upon The Chicago Manual of Style, 16th Edition, which is a style guide for American English published since 1906 by the University of Chicago Press

Why are style guides important?

• Consistency: Style guides ensure that all documents within a specific organization, industry, or publication adhere to a consistent style, making them easier to read and understand.
• Clarity: By following established rules, style guides help writers avoid ambiguity and ensure that their message is clear and concise.
• Professionalism: Adhering to a style guide demonstrates professionalism and attention to detail, enhancing the credibility of the written work.
• Standardization: Style guides provide a framework for writing and design, making it easier for different people to work together on the same project.
• Facilitating Communication: They help ensure that all content produced by an organization or industry is consistent in its style, tone, and format, making it easier for the audience to understand the message. 

…

Most of the above has been derived from the internet.