Day 183 – Words of Wisdom

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The Symbiotic Cycle: Why Writing and Living Are Inseparable

“I shall live badly if I do not write, and I shall write badly if I do not live.” — Françoise Sagan

When the French novelist Françoise Sagan uttered these words, she wasn’t just talking about the craft of writing; she was defining the heartbeat of the creative process. For many, writing is a profession, a hobby, or a necessary outlet. But for the serious practitioner, writing is a metabolism. It is the process of converting life into art and art back into fuel for life.

But what does this delicate, circular balance actually mean for those of us who struggle to find time for both? Let’s break down the symbiotic relationship between lived experience and the written word.

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Part I: “I shall live badly if I do not write”

For the dedicated writer, writing is not an extracurricular activity. It is a psychological hygiene practice. When we don’t write, the internal static—the observations, the frustrations, the fleeting moments of beauty—begins to clog our internal machinery.

• Writing as Processing: Life is chaotic. We encounter grief, joy, and existential absurdity in rapid succession. Writing turns the abstract feelings of our day-to-day existence into something tangible. Without this outlet, we often “live badly” because we are carrying the weight of unexamined experiences.
• The Clarity of Thought: Joan Didion famously said, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means.” When you fail to write, you lose your internal compass. Writing forces you to articulate your values, which in turn helps you live with greater intention.

Part II: “I shall write badly if I do not live”

The flip side of Sagan’s coin is equally dangerous. If you retreat into a hermetically sealed room to write, believing that “inspiration” will strike you in isolation, your work will eventually suffer. This is the “Ivory Tower” trap.

• The Well Must Be Refilled: You cannot pour from an empty cup. If your life is devoid of risk, conversation, sunlight, failure, and connection, your writing will begin to taste like stale water. Great writing requires the raw material of reality—the sensory details of a subway ride, the awkwardness of a first date, or the frustration of a broken-down car.
• Empathy Requires Experience: Fiction and non-fiction alike rely on the writer’s ability to understand the human condition. If you don’t engage with the world, your characters become flat and your philosophy becomes theoretical. To write with depth, you must allow yourself to be hurt, surprised, and changed by the world outside your desk.

Part III: Finding the Equilibrium

How do we balance the need for the solitude of the page with the need for the chaos of the street?

1. Immerse to Write: Give yourself periods of “active intake.” Read, travel, listen to podcasts, or volunteer. Make your life “messy” enough to give you something to analyse.
2. Withdraw to Create: Set non-negotiable windows of time where the world is locked out. Use this time to distil what you’ve gathered.
3. The Feedback Loop: Treat your life as research. When you are living, look for the “story”—what is the core emotion of this interaction? When you are writing, look for the “truth”—does this sentence reflect the way I truly feel, or is it just a cliché?

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The Final Word

Françoise Sagan understood that a writer who stops living becomes a technician, and a person who stops writing becomes a passive observer of their own life.

To live well, you must synthesise your experience into meaning. To write well, you must be brave enough to step out into the world and get your boots dirty. So, go out and live a life worth writing about—then come home and put it on the page.

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Are you struggling to balance your creative output with your daily life? Share your thoughts on how you keep your “well” full in the comments below.

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Day 182 – How do writers cope with requests

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The Burden of “Unpaid Favours”: How Writers Can Protect Their Time and Sanity

If you are a writer, you have undoubtedly felt the sting of “The Ask.”

It starts with a ping in your inbox or a DM on social media: “I love your work! Would you mind just taking a quick look at my manuscript?” or “Could you write a quick blurb?” or “Can I pick your brain for an hour over coffee about how to break into the industry?”

The legendary literary critic Edmund Wilson famously lamented these demands, referring to them as “unpaid favours.” For the recipient, these requests represent a genuine dilemma: you want to be generous and supportive of your community, but your time is your professional capital. If you said “yes” to everyone, you would never write another word of your own.

So, how do you manage the flood of requests without burning bridges—or burning out? Here is a guide to navigating the delicate art of saying “no.”

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1. The “Gatekeeper” Strategy: Use a FAQ Page

Prevention is the best medicine. If you have a professional website, create a dedicated “Contact” or “FAQ” page. Clearly outline your current capacity.

Pro-tip: Add a section titled “Mentorship and Inquiries.” State politely but firmly: “Due to my current writing schedule, I am unable to accept requests for manuscript reviews, informational interviews, or unpaid consulting.”

When someone sends a request, you don’t have to draft a long explanation. You can simply link to your policy. It removes the personal nature of the refusal.

2. Master the “Template of Kindness”

You don’t need to be rude to be firm. A “template of kindness” allows you to send a polite refusal in under 30 seconds.

Try this script:

“Hi [Name], thanks so much for reaching out and for your kind words about my work. I’m currently deep in a deadline and have had to step back from all outside projects and consultations to protect my writing time. I’m afraid I can’t help with this request, but I wish you the very best of luck with your [manuscript/project]!”

By keeping it brief, you prevent the “back-and-forth” that often results when you leave the door slightly ajar.

3. Redirect, Don’t Reject

Sometimes, the person asking genuinely needs help but doesn’t know where to turn. Instead of providing the labour yourself, provide a roadmap.

If someone asks for advice on how to get published, direct them to three reliable resources: a specific book on craft, a reputable industry organisation (like Poets & Writers or AWP), or a craft-focused newsletter.

Why this works: You are still being helpful, but you are shifting the burden from your labour to your curation.

4. Set “Consultation Hours”

If you truly want to give back but are overwhelmed, carve out a small, manageable block of time. Perhaps you offer one 30-minute coffee chat per quarter, or you answer one email question a month.

When that slot is full, it’s full. You can then honestly tell people: “My mentorship slots for the year are currently filled, but please check back in January.”

5. Recognize the “Unpaid Favor” Trap

Many writers feel guilty saying no because they fear being labelled “unapproachable” or “stuck up.” It is important to reframe the request: When someone asks for your labour for free, they are asking you to prioritise their career over your own.

You are not obligated to provide free consulting, editing, or networking. Protecting your time is not an act of arrogance; it is an act of professional sustainability. If you don’t save your creative energy for your own work, your work will eventually stop existing—and then you won’t have anything to offer anyone.

The Bottom Line

Edmund Wilson was right: requests for “unpaid favours” are an occupational hazard for any successful writer. But you are the CEO of your own creative practice. You get to decide how your time is spent.

Be polite, be concise, and stay focused on your work. The best way to support the writing community is to keep writing, keep publishing, and keep showing the world that writing is a profession deserving of boundaries.

Are you a writer struggling with boundary-setting? Share how you handle “unpaid favours” in the comments below!

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Day 182 – How do writers cope with requests

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The Burden of “Unpaid Favours”: How Writers Can Protect Their Time and Sanity

If you are a writer, you have undoubtedly felt the sting of “The Ask.”

It starts with a ping in your inbox or a DM on social media: “I love your work! Would you mind just taking a quick look at my manuscript?” or “Could you write a quick blurb?” or “Can I pick your brain for an hour over coffee about how to break into the industry?”

The legendary literary critic Edmund Wilson famously lamented these demands, referring to them as “unpaid favours.” For the recipient, these requests represent a genuine dilemma: you want to be generous and supportive of your community, but your time is your professional capital. If you said “yes” to everyone, you would never write another word of your own.

So, how do you manage the flood of requests without burning bridges—or burning out? Here is a guide to navigating the delicate art of saying “no.”

---

1. The “Gatekeeper” Strategy: Use a FAQ Page

Prevention is the best medicine. If you have a professional website, create a dedicated “Contact” or “FAQ” page. Clearly outline your current capacity.

Pro-tip: Add a section titled “Mentorship and Inquiries.” State politely but firmly: “Due to my current writing schedule, I am unable to accept requests for manuscript reviews, informational interviews, or unpaid consulting.”

When someone sends a request, you don’t have to draft a long explanation. You can simply link to your policy. It removes the personal nature of the refusal.

2. Master the “Template of Kindness”

You don’t need to be rude to be firm. A “template of kindness” allows you to send a polite refusal in under 30 seconds.

Try this script:

“Hi [Name], thanks so much for reaching out and for your kind words about my work. I’m currently deep in a deadline and have had to step back from all outside projects and consultations to protect my writing time. I’m afraid I can’t help with this request, but I wish you the very best of luck with your [manuscript/project]!”

By keeping it brief, you prevent the “back-and-forth” that often results when you leave the door slightly ajar.

3. Redirect, Don’t Reject

Sometimes, the person asking genuinely needs help but doesn’t know where to turn. Instead of providing the labour yourself, provide a roadmap.

If someone asks for advice on how to get published, direct them to three reliable resources: a specific book on craft, a reputable industry organisation (like Poets & Writers or AWP), or a craft-focused newsletter.

Why this works: You are still being helpful, but you are shifting the burden from your labour to your curation.

4. Set “Consultation Hours”

If you truly want to give back but are overwhelmed, carve out a small, manageable block of time. Perhaps you offer one 30-minute coffee chat per quarter, or you answer one email question a month.

When that slot is full, it’s full. You can then honestly tell people: “My mentorship slots for the year are currently filled, but please check back in January.”

5. Recognize the “Unpaid Favor” Trap

Many writers feel guilty saying no because they fear being labelled “unapproachable” or “stuck up.” It is important to reframe the request: When someone asks for your labour for free, they are asking you to prioritise their career over your own.

You are not obligated to provide free consulting, editing, or networking. Protecting your time is not an act of arrogance; it is an act of professional sustainability. If you don’t save your creative energy for your own work, your work will eventually stop existing—and then you won’t have anything to offer anyone.

The Bottom Line

Edmund Wilson was right: requests for “unpaid favours” are an occupational hazard for any successful writer. But you are the CEO of your own creative practice. You get to decide how your time is spent.

Be polite, be concise, and stay focused on your work. The best way to support the writing community is to keep writing, keep publishing, and keep showing the world that writing is a profession deserving of boundaries.

Are you a writer struggling with boundary-setting? Share how you handle “unpaid favours” in the comments below!

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Day 181 – Writing Exercise

How can you trust a person you know is telling you outright lies?

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There’s nothing worse than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I got there by trying to prove myself among a group of four colleagues who had been working together for years.

They clearly didn’t want a fifth wheel.

And they certainly didn’t like the idea of a forcibly retired field agent looking for a quiet berth to see out his service.

The section head in charge told me quite clearly that the department had made a mistake, that his research team did not need another member, and they certainly didn’t want an ex-field agent.

He was miffed because the department head had decided my knowledge and expertise were too valuable to toss on the scrapheap.

No one else in that group had seen field service or understood those who came from it.  To them, the information they provided was 100 per cent useful, when in my particular case, it was not.

In that first meeting when I arrived, and listened to the broad outline of what the team provided, I could have categorically proved that information, sometimes poorly researched, had caused actual deaths of top-line agents, and taking into account my last personal experience, it had led to me unwillingly landing on their doorstep.

Such was the arrogance, I wanted to personally throttle two of them, but I decided it was neither the time or the place.  It was a matter of head down, minding my own business, and only consulting with the others when necessary.

And then only with extreme reluctance.

Which led to the seminal moment.  There was a cafe not far from the office, one I discovered the day I first arrived, where I needed a strong coffee before walking through the door.

The waitress, Angelique, according to her nametag, was bright and cheerful, the exact opposite of what I was feeling.  It was hard not to feel her enthusiasm, and it had lightened my mood.

So much so, I preferred to spend my morning and afternoon breaks in the cafe rather than be ignored in the cafeteria.

Sometimes the others, singly or in pairs, never the whole four at once, would come in.  I deliberately sat where I could not be seen very clearly and observed them.  Those conversations when they sat close enough were priceless.

Angelique brought my coffee and her surprise cake. I always let her decide which cake. Then two of my colleagues came in.  They did not look happy.

Nor did they see me, but then they would have to be deliberately looking for me.  They sat two tables across on the other side of a dividing hedge.

Angelique went over to them and took their order.  Two cappuccinos.  Perhaps the automatic coffee machine in the cafeteria had broken down.

“I’m telling you, Sandra, Roger thinks he’s a spy.”

“Roger jumps at shadows.  Don’t you think it’s time to cut him loose?  He’s never going to leave his wife.  She controls the money.”

“He says it’s complicated.”

“All married men say that.  As for Stevens, he was a spy, could still be a spy, but the reality is, good spies don’t get sent to our corner of the universe unless they failed badly.”

“You don’t think he’s been sent to see why some of the briefings were not quite up to the mark.  I mean that Paris mission…”

My last job.  Not up to the mark?  It provided out-of-date information, a critical schedule change that was missed.

“Roger approved it.  He said he checked it.”

“How, Eva?  He was with you?”

“I’m not to blame here.  That’s up to him to juggle things.  He would have postponed, like he has before, when things get tight.”

“You need to dump him before he takes you down with him, or worse, sets you up to take the fall.”

“He wouldn’t.”

Sandra just shook her head and said nothing.  The coffee arrived.

“Anyway,” Sandra said, “it might well be a moot point.  Roger has a plan to get rid of him.  It worked with the others, and this guy looks about ready to quit anyway.”

“You think so.  I wouldn’t underestimate what he’s capable of if he were an agent.  I’d like to know just how many people he’s killed.”

“You’re just morbid.”

“No.  Practical.  Mark my words.  There’s more to him than meets the eye.”

…

I was a spy, for want of a better word.  It was made very clear when the department head came to visit me before discharge from the hospital that I would not likely be sent back into the field

It was when he pitched the research job.

By then, I needed something, anything to take my mind off the nightmare.

I went to see him a few weeks later, at his request.  It was the second time I’d been in his office, all dark wood and leather furniture.  The polished almost made my eyes water. 

The cigar smoke did.

“That position I was talking about, it has taken on a new aspect.  The ops manager has completed his review of your mission and found that the briefing reference material was lacking.”

“Wrong.”

“By and large, it was right, except for several crucial details.  The question he raises is whether or not it was deliberate.”

“A traitor?”

“An incompetent fool, more likely.  But that’s for you to determine.  We’re sending you there.  I know the chap who runs it.  He’s going to fight this and make your life hell.”

“So another MacCallister then.”

That was a story.  The man I had to impress to get into the service.  The man who failed 80 per cent of his charges in the first week.  He and I were chalk and cheese.

“Worse.  MacCallister knows when he’s met a worthy opponent.  Roger Ballins doesn’t.  He’s broken every new person we’ve sent.”

I shrugged.  “He hasn’t had the Berkeley twins find his breaking point then.”

The Berkeley twins were the department’s interrogation team.  We all went through what was called the ‘break test’.  It was near the end of the training, and the cause of a lot of the remaining candidates failing.

“Not yet.  Let’s hope it does not come to that.”

…

So, Roger had a plan.  It bothered me that the two of them had no concept of what secrecy was, or had a modicum of training in how to maintain a certain level of anonymity, given the job they were doing.

It raised the question of whether they frequently discussed their research out of the office.  I doubted anyone was aware of how bad security was at the section.

Especially when it involved another employee, in this case, me.

If their plan involved overloading me with work, it wasn’t working.  Roger had been subtly dumping new requests in my in-tray every morning, and then asking the same afternoon what the status was on them.

The daily meetings each morning saw the others clearing requests while I was not.  Roger hadn’t said anything yet, but that might be the next phase of the plan.

My first day, he’d started with the spiel that it was a tight-knit crew who had been working well together for years, and there was no need for another.

For that reason, I just didn’t get to work with any of the others, and any requests I made of them were either ignored or I was given the excuse that they were too busy.

That then led to them spreading niggling half-truths woven into far larger tales of my aloofness, inability to work in a team, confrontational attitude, and lack of interpersonal skills.

Sadly, half of that was true.  I didn’t want to work with them, and even less so now after overhearing them.  I wished I hadn’t.

I stewed over their comments on the short walk back to the office, and it was no surprise to find Roger waiting for me when I returned.

“Where have you been?”  It wasn’t asked in the politest of tones.

I quickly glanced at the others who had their heads down.

“Out for a head-clearing walk.  It’s marvellous what the London Transport diesel fumes can do for the mind.”

I couldn’t tell him I was up the road having a coffee break.

“You might think….” 

It was as far as he got.  The department head chose that exact moment to walk through the door.  An unannounced visit.

The four others suddenly looked more alert and on their guard.

He looked at me.  “Stevens, you are here.  I was told operations sent you to apply your field experience to improving the relevance of the briefing papers.”  He swung around and looked at Roger.  “I’m sure you’ve been using Stevens as an expert resource to assist the team?”

“I … well.. I was not aware that was the intention.”

He shook his head, then turned back to me.  “Just what has he been using you for?”

“Research, which is what I assumed I was here for.”

“God no.  Operations assured me they would pass on my request that every briefing now has to pass through you to ensure that it’s relevant and correct from the field agents’ perspective.”

He turned back to Roger, who was almost cowering.  “Operations sent me the memo, and your name was on the distribution list.  Go and find it and take the time to find an excuse why you haven’t implemented a direct order.  I’ll be in the cafeteria.  Stevens, you’re with me.”

A last look before I followed him out, it looked like the gang of five just got a very swift kick where it hurt.

Good.

….

“Roger was a washout from the training program about ten years ago, sold operations on the idea that a person who understood the field agents’ perspective would add value to the research process.  Trouble is, he was never in the field.”

“Maybe it was more about resenting the fact he was washed out.”

Coffee in the cafeteria had a very distinctive taste, and one I could see wasn’t appreciated.  I wondered if that meant he would do something about it.

“Maybe he’s just an incompetent fool.  What have you found out?”

“Eva did the Paris report, sent it to Roger.  Thing is, they are having an affair, and if I overheard the conversation correctly, he was too busy spending time with her to check the report.”

“Are you listening at keyholes?”  He seemed surprised.

I was going to tell him that spies were notorious for listening at keyholes, but thought the better of it.

“There’s a Cafe not far up the road.  God knows how many others heard the same conversation.  They don’t seem to know much about security.”

The surprise changed to annoyance, but that was the moment Roger came in, saw us, and came over.

He waited until he was told to sit.

“I’m sorry, sir.  It was buried in a pile of requests.”

I didn’t believe him.  He would have seen it and filed it, hoping no one would ever notice.  Especially the department head.

“That’s the first strike, Roger.  What were your conclusions in the investigation I asked for on the Paris mission?  You’ve had three months.”

“We’ve been busy.”

“You told me categorically that you had sufficient staff to handle the workload.  That was obviously a lie.  I sent someone down to help, and you still seem to be overwhelmed.  That’s the second strike, Roger.”

There was no comeback for that, and it was interesting to see someone else squirm under the intensity of the department head.  Rumour had it he was once an excellent interrogator who didn’t need the usual tools of the trade.

“I … we .. “

“Go back to the office, Roger, before you register that fatal third strike.  I need a little time to consider what we need to do moving forward.  I have to say I’m extremely disappointed.  Go.”

I doubted Roger liked the idea of being dismissed, and it was going to make my position less tenable, being present at his dressing down.

“They might all resign,” I said.

“That wouldn’t be the worst outcome.  There are at least a dozen other candidates that could instantly fill their shoes.”

“I think the problem is not with the staff, it’s the person in charge.”

“Then you can take over and restore some discipline.  Problem solved.”

“Temporarily.”  I had no wish to be running a section full of resentful people.

“Fix this for me, and we’ll talk about where you go next.”  He took another sip of his coffee and made a face.  “This is terrible.  We’ll have to do something about this, too.”

…

We went back to the office, and the department head sent Roger off on stress leave, then announced my promotion to acting section head.

No one said a word, but the expressions said more than words could.  Each of them blamed me for his removal, and especially Eva.

After the department head left, I called a meeting.  I seriously believed they would simply ignore me, but then they shuffled into the room and sat in their usual chairs.

I looked at each one of them and could feel the resentment.

I looked at Eva.  “Just so you know, I was sent on that Paris mission.  I was lucky, I lived.  Just.  Three others died, and believe me when I tell you, being there and watching them die because someone didn’t do their job properly, well, you are very fortunate I didn’t throttle you the first day I got here.”

“It was not my fault.”  Petulant.

“What do you call fucking your section leader when he should be critiquing your work?”

“How…”

It was said to shock her, and it had the effect I was looking for.  She was arrogant, but arrogance only lasts until the reason for it is broken.  As long as Roger was there, she felt bulletproof.

Now I just had to dispel the notion I had overheard them earlier.  She was clever nonetheless, and I was not going to underestimate her.

“The department carries out periodical checks on staff who are in positions where discretion is paramount.  A foreign agent could quite easily use your illicit affair as leverage.  You do understand what leverage is, don’t you?  The internal report on your report actually suggested that you had been compromised and forced to provide flawed information.”

It was the last nail in the coffin that held her invincibility.  I don’t think any of them had been told of the importance of their work.

There was still a little iron in her tone, but the facade was cracking.  “I would never do that.” 

“You wouldn’t have a choice.  The fact that you left yourself open to the possibility is bad enough.  The real problem is that your mind wasn’t on the job at hand.  The fact that Roger let it happen is even worse.”

She didn’t ask the bigger question: why didn’t she get the sack, which is generally the first option in situations like this?  Instead, she went with, “What’s going to happen to him?”

“You should be more worried about yourself,” Sandra said.  “I told you the bastard would drag you down with him.”

Her friend was right.

“You are very lucky not to have followed him out the door.  Instead, your first job will be to write a report on the complete process beyond the reference paper you wrote for the Paris Mission.  I want all the sources annotated.  You need to tell the truth, and it’s the only chance you will get to keep your job. Am I understood?”

I saw Sandra squeeze her hand.  A tear escaped from watery eyes.  The defiance was gone, replaced by recognition that she was in a very bad place.

“Understood.”

“As for the rest of you, next week you will be attending security briefings.  From now on, not one word of what you do, where you work, or who you work for is to be repeated outside this office.  In a month, we will be changing offices.  I assume you’ve told just anyone who would listen all about this place.  Now you have to tell them that the unit was disbanded and you’ve been reassigned.  Security will also be a lot tighter, and breaches of it will be dealt with summarily.  Anyone who does not want to stay under the new conditions can give notice by the end of the week.”

The four were visibly shellshocked.

“Any questions?”

Sandra looked at me with what I would call an unfathomable expression.  I’d seen it once before, from a person I misjudged.

“How many people have you killed?”

For some reason, I had been expecting it.

“I’d like to say none, but when you are in a life-or-death moment, you are taught to make an instant decision based on the imminent threat to your life.  The simple answer is only when I absolutely had to.  It doesn’t pay to have too many ghosts of your enemies haunting your dreams.”

Question time over, I sent them back to work.

…

There’s an old saying, “A leopard cannot change its spots”, and unfortunately, Eva was a prime example.

I had hoped that she understood her situation, certainly she did what I had requested and wrote a report that told me that the section was lacking certain specific resources that a simple check would have uncovered.

It means that the section, when it is relocated, would have a resources manager whose sole job will be to keep everything up to date.

Aside from that, it wasn’t hard to see that she had not broken off the relationship with Roger and was in fact, reporting back to him what was happening.

Roger probably believed that he was coming back at the end of his stress leave, a question I asked the department head.  A reply came back to tell me he had been reassigned.

So, he was lying to Eva, but that wasn’t really the issue.  She was violating what was now a golden rule.  No telling anyone the nature of our work or the existence of the office.

Which, unfortunately, led to a request to come to my office when she arrived.  We had just started at the new building, where security was very tight.

She knocked on the door, a half hour after the appointed time.  Some of that arrogance had returned, probably fed to her by Roger telling her that I had no real authority.

I did admonish her for lateness.  I could overlook a lot of minor indiscretions so long as the work ethic was there.

Operations had received an anonymous letter about certain aspects of the section that apparently were not within the department’s guidelines.

It was supposed to be a reflection on my ineptitude in running what a functioning section was, and had now become a disparate and dysfunctional group without proper leadership.

A list of infractions followed.

As soon as she sat down, I handed her the document.

“Quite a damning expose, don’t you think?”

She glanced at the document and tossed the file back on the desk.  “I wouldn’t know, it’s the first time I’ve seen it.”

“But it doesn’t relate to certain events in this office.”

“It appears so.”

“And you had nothing to do with it?”

“No.”

“And you have broken off all relations with Roger?”

A very subtle change in expression.  A seasoned interrogator would pick up on it.

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you spoke to him?”

“The day he left the office.”

“You do realise that when you signed your new employment contract recently, you agreed that the department can, at any time, instigate standard personnel checks to determine your security status.”

The eyes changed, just for a second.  People needed time to process a question and then work on a suitable and believable response.

“That may also include a lie detector test.”

“Are you deliberately handing me grounds for a harassment case?”

I shrugged, opened the top drawer, pulled out a folder and pushed it across the desk.

“You tell me.”

First reaction, she did not want to reach for it.  From the moment she uttered that previous statement until I pulled out the file, she had been smug.

She had also been lying to my face.

I was willing to accept the four of them at face value and treated them all equally and equitably.  I hadn’t expected to get that particular letter, but I knew Roger well enough to know he would retaliate in some way, and that he might reach out to Eva.

“Sandra was right, Eva.  Roger didn’t care that much about you, so he was willing to take you down with him.  I have to say I misjudged you.  I’m usually a better judge of character.”

“What’s in the file?”

“Photographs and a transcript of your conversation.”

“How many people know?”

“The Department head, head of operations and me.  We were expecting it.  You had to know that we would be monitoring you.”

Smug expression gone, but there was still defiance.  She sighed.  “What happens now?”

“You find another job.  You’ve proved that you can’t be trusted, so it cannot be for any government organisation.  Unfortunately, when the authorities came to arrest Roger, he decided not to come in quietly.  There was an exchange of shots, and he didn’t survive.  He left behind a confession that also explains your actions, and that this latest development was your idea for revenge.”

“And now he’s dead, and the lies earlier you will not believe anything I say.”  She shook her head. “Am I free to go?”

“As far as I’m concerned, you are.”

“But…”

“When you leave here, you will be met by a woman.  I suggest you make the time to hear what she has to say.  It may be the only way you will get to see light at the end of a very dark tunnel “

She stood.  “You’re scaring me, now.”

“Good, because that same woman told me that fear was going to be my only friend when the chips were down.  It’s why I’m still here, and still breathing.  Take some advice.  Listen to her.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 181 – Writing Exercise

How can you trust a person you know is telling you outright lies?

…

There’s nothing worse than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I got there by trying to prove myself among a group of four colleagues who had been working together for years.

They clearly didn’t want a fifth wheel.

And they certainly didn’t like the idea of a forcibly retired field agent looking for a quiet berth to see out his service.

The section head in charge told me quite clearly that the department had made a mistake, that his research team did not need another member, and they certainly didn’t want an ex-field agent.

He was miffed because the department head had decided my knowledge and expertise were too valuable to toss on the scrapheap.

No one else in that group had seen field service or understood those who came from it.  To them, the information they provided was 100 per cent useful, when in my particular case, it was not.

In that first meeting when I arrived, and listened to the broad outline of what the team provided, I could have categorically proved that information, sometimes poorly researched, had caused actual deaths of top-line agents, and taking into account my last personal experience, it had led to me unwillingly landing on their doorstep.

Such was the arrogance, I wanted to personally throttle two of them, but I decided it was neither the time or the place.  It was a matter of head down, minding my own business, and only consulting with the others when necessary.

And then only with extreme reluctance.

Which led to the seminal moment.  There was a cafe not far from the office, one I discovered the day I first arrived, where I needed a strong coffee before walking through the door.

The waitress, Angelique, according to her nametag, was bright and cheerful, the exact opposite of what I was feeling.  It was hard not to feel her enthusiasm, and it had lightened my mood.

So much so, I preferred to spend my morning and afternoon breaks in the cafe rather than be ignored in the cafeteria.

Sometimes the others, singly or in pairs, never the whole four at once, would come in.  I deliberately sat where I could not be seen very clearly and observed them.  Those conversations when they sat close enough were priceless.

Angelique brought my coffee and her surprise cake. I always let her decide which cake. Then two of my colleagues came in.  They did not look happy.

Nor did they see me, but then they would have to be deliberately looking for me.  They sat two tables across on the other side of a dividing hedge.

Angelique went over to them and took their order.  Two cappuccinos.  Perhaps the automatic coffee machine in the cafeteria had broken down.

“I’m telling you, Sandra, Roger thinks he’s a spy.”

“Roger jumps at shadows.  Don’t you think it’s time to cut him loose?  He’s never going to leave his wife.  She controls the money.”

“He says it’s complicated.”

“All married men say that.  As for Stevens, he was a spy, could still be a spy, but the reality is, good spies don’t get sent to our corner of the universe unless they failed badly.”

“You don’t think he’s been sent to see why some of the briefings were not quite up to the mark.  I mean that Paris mission…”

My last job.  Not up to the mark?  It provided out-of-date information, a critical schedule change that was missed.

“Roger approved it.  He said he checked it.”

“How, Eva?  He was with you?”

“I’m not to blame here.  That’s up to him to juggle things.  He would have postponed, like he has before, when things get tight.”

“You need to dump him before he takes you down with him, or worse, sets you up to take the fall.”

“He wouldn’t.”

Sandra just shook her head and said nothing.  The coffee arrived.

“Anyway,” Sandra said, “it might well be a moot point.  Roger has a plan to get rid of him.  It worked with the others, and this guy looks about ready to quit anyway.”

“You think so.  I wouldn’t underestimate what he’s capable of if he were an agent.  I’d like to know just how many people he’s killed.”

“You’re just morbid.”

“No.  Practical.  Mark my words.  There’s more to him than meets the eye.”

…

I was a spy, for want of a better word.  It was made very clear when the department head came to visit me before discharge from the hospital that I would not likely be sent back into the field

It was when he pitched the research job.

By then, I needed something, anything to take my mind off the nightmare.

I went to see him a few weeks later, at his request.  It was the second time I’d been in his office, all dark wood and leather furniture.  The polished almost made my eyes water. 

The cigar smoke did.

“That position I was talking about, it has taken on a new aspect.  The ops manager has completed his review of your mission and found that the briefing reference material was lacking.”

“Wrong.”

“By and large, it was right, except for several crucial details.  The question he raises is whether or not it was deliberate.”

“A traitor?”

“An incompetent fool, more likely.  But that’s for you to determine.  We’re sending you there.  I know the chap who runs it.  He’s going to fight this and make your life hell.”

“So another MacCallister then.”

That was a story.  The man I had to impress to get into the service.  The man who failed 80 per cent of his charges in the first week.  He and I were chalk and cheese.

“Worse.  MacCallister knows when he’s met a worthy opponent.  Roger Ballins doesn’t.  He’s broken every new person we’ve sent.”

I shrugged.  “He hasn’t had the Berkeley twins find his breaking point then.”

The Berkeley twins were the department’s interrogation team.  We all went through what was called the ‘break test’.  It was near the end of the training, and the cause of a lot of the remaining candidates failing.

“Not yet.  Let’s hope it does not come to that.”

…

So, Roger had a plan.  It bothered me that the two of them had no concept of what secrecy was, or had a modicum of training in how to maintain a certain level of anonymity, given the job they were doing.

It raised the question of whether they frequently discussed their research out of the office.  I doubted anyone was aware of how bad security was at the section.

Especially when it involved another employee, in this case, me.

If their plan involved overloading me with work, it wasn’t working.  Roger had been subtly dumping new requests in my in-tray every morning, and then asking the same afternoon what the status was on them.

The daily meetings each morning saw the others clearing requests while I was not.  Roger hadn’t said anything yet, but that might be the next phase of the plan.

My first day, he’d started with the spiel that it was a tight-knit crew who had been working well together for years, and there was no need for another.

For that reason, I just didn’t get to work with any of the others, and any requests I made of them were either ignored or I was given the excuse that they were too busy.

That then led to them spreading niggling half-truths woven into far larger tales of my aloofness, inability to work in a team, confrontational attitude, and lack of interpersonal skills.

Sadly, half of that was true.  I didn’t want to work with them, and even less so now after overhearing them.  I wished I hadn’t.

I stewed over their comments on the short walk back to the office, and it was no surprise to find Roger waiting for me when I returned.

“Where have you been?”  It wasn’t asked in the politest of tones.

I quickly glanced at the others who had their heads down.

“Out for a head-clearing walk.  It’s marvellous what the London Transport diesel fumes can do for the mind.”

I couldn’t tell him I was up the road having a coffee break.

“You might think….” 

It was as far as he got.  The department head chose that exact moment to walk through the door.  An unannounced visit.

The four others suddenly looked more alert and on their guard.

He looked at me.  “Stevens, you are here.  I was told operations sent you to apply your field experience to improving the relevance of the briefing papers.”  He swung around and looked at Roger.  “I’m sure you’ve been using Stevens as an expert resource to assist the team?”

“I … well.. I was not aware that was the intention.”

He shook his head, then turned back to me.  “Just what has he been using you for?”

“Research, which is what I assumed I was here for.”

“God no.  Operations assured me they would pass on my request that every briefing now has to pass through you to ensure that it’s relevant and correct from the field agents’ perspective.”

He turned back to Roger, who was almost cowering.  “Operations sent me the memo, and your name was on the distribution list.  Go and find it and take the time to find an excuse why you haven’t implemented a direct order.  I’ll be in the cafeteria.  Stevens, you’re with me.”

A last look before I followed him out, it looked like the gang of five just got a very swift kick where it hurt.

Good.

….

“Roger was a washout from the training program about ten years ago, sold operations on the idea that a person who understood the field agents’ perspective would add value to the research process.  Trouble is, he was never in the field.”

“Maybe it was more about resenting the fact he was washed out.”

Coffee in the cafeteria had a very distinctive taste, and one I could see wasn’t appreciated.  I wondered if that meant he would do something about it.

“Maybe he’s just an incompetent fool.  What have you found out?”

“Eva did the Paris report, sent it to Roger.  Thing is, they are having an affair, and if I overheard the conversation correctly, he was too busy spending time with her to check the report.”

“Are you listening at keyholes?”  He seemed surprised.

I was going to tell him that spies were notorious for listening at keyholes, but thought the better of it.

“There’s a Cafe not far up the road.  God knows how many others heard the same conversation.  They don’t seem to know much about security.”

The surprise changed to annoyance, but that was the moment Roger came in, saw us, and came over.

He waited until he was told to sit.

“I’m sorry, sir.  It was buried in a pile of requests.”

I didn’t believe him.  He would have seen it and filed it, hoping no one would ever notice.  Especially the department head.

“That’s the first strike, Roger.  What were your conclusions in the investigation I asked for on the Paris mission?  You’ve had three months.”

“We’ve been busy.”

“You told me categorically that you had sufficient staff to handle the workload.  That was obviously a lie.  I sent someone down to help, and you still seem to be overwhelmed.  That’s the second strike, Roger.”

There was no comeback for that, and it was interesting to see someone else squirm under the intensity of the department head.  Rumour had it he was once an excellent interrogator who didn’t need the usual tools of the trade.

“I … we .. “

“Go back to the office, Roger, before you register that fatal third strike.  I need a little time to consider what we need to do moving forward.  I have to say I’m extremely disappointed.  Go.”

I doubted Roger liked the idea of being dismissed, and it was going to make my position less tenable, being present at his dressing down.

“They might all resign,” I said.

“That wouldn’t be the worst outcome.  There are at least a dozen other candidates that could instantly fill their shoes.”

“I think the problem is not with the staff, it’s the person in charge.”

“Then you can take over and restore some discipline.  Problem solved.”

“Temporarily.”  I had no wish to be running a section full of resentful people.

“Fix this for me, and we’ll talk about where you go next.”  He took another sip of his coffee and made a face.  “This is terrible.  We’ll have to do something about this, too.”

…

We went back to the office, and the department head sent Roger off on stress leave, then announced my promotion to acting section head.

No one said a word, but the expressions said more than words could.  Each of them blamed me for his removal, and especially Eva.

After the department head left, I called a meeting.  I seriously believed they would simply ignore me, but then they shuffled into the room and sat in their usual chairs.

I looked at each one of them and could feel the resentment.

I looked at Eva.  “Just so you know, I was sent on that Paris mission.  I was lucky, I lived.  Just.  Three others died, and believe me when I tell you, being there and watching them die because someone didn’t do their job properly, well, you are very fortunate I didn’t throttle you the first day I got here.”

“It was not my fault.”  Petulant.

“What do you call fucking your section leader when he should be critiquing your work?”

“How…”

It was said to shock her, and it had the effect I was looking for.  She was arrogant, but arrogance only lasts until the reason for it is broken.  As long as Roger was there, she felt bulletproof.

Now I just had to dispel the notion I had overheard them earlier.  She was clever nonetheless, and I was not going to underestimate her.

“The department carries out periodical checks on staff who are in positions where discretion is paramount.  A foreign agent could quite easily use your illicit affair as leverage.  You do understand what leverage is, don’t you?  The internal report on your report actually suggested that you had been compromised and forced to provide flawed information.”

It was the last nail in the coffin that held her invincibility.  I don’t think any of them had been told of the importance of their work.

There was still a little iron in her tone, but the facade was cracking.  “I would never do that.” 

“You wouldn’t have a choice.  The fact that you left yourself open to the possibility is bad enough.  The real problem is that your mind wasn’t on the job at hand.  The fact that Roger let it happen is even worse.”

She didn’t ask the bigger question: why didn’t she get the sack, which is generally the first option in situations like this?  Instead, she went with, “What’s going to happen to him?”

“You should be more worried about yourself,” Sandra said.  “I told you the bastard would drag you down with him.”

Her friend was right.

“You are very lucky not to have followed him out the door.  Instead, your first job will be to write a report on the complete process beyond the reference paper you wrote for the Paris Mission.  I want all the sources annotated.  You need to tell the truth, and it’s the only chance you will get to keep your job. Am I understood?”

I saw Sandra squeeze her hand.  A tear escaped from watery eyes.  The defiance was gone, replaced by recognition that she was in a very bad place.

“Understood.”

“As for the rest of you, next week you will be attending security briefings.  From now on, not one word of what you do, where you work, or who you work for is to be repeated outside this office.  In a month, we will be changing offices.  I assume you’ve told just anyone who would listen all about this place.  Now you have to tell them that the unit was disbanded and you’ve been reassigned.  Security will also be a lot tighter, and breaches of it will be dealt with summarily.  Anyone who does not want to stay under the new conditions can give notice by the end of the week.”

The four were visibly shellshocked.

“Any questions?”

Sandra looked at me with what I would call an unfathomable expression.  I’d seen it once before, from a person I misjudged.

“How many people have you killed?”

For some reason, I had been expecting it.

“I’d like to say none, but when you are in a life-or-death moment, you are taught to make an instant decision based on the imminent threat to your life.  The simple answer is only when I absolutely had to.  It doesn’t pay to have too many ghosts of your enemies haunting your dreams.”

Question time over, I sent them back to work.

…

There’s an old saying, “A leopard cannot change its spots”, and unfortunately, Eva was a prime example.

I had hoped that she understood her situation, certainly she did what I had requested and wrote a report that told me that the section was lacking certain specific resources that a simple check would have uncovered.

It means that the section, when it is relocated, would have a resources manager whose sole job will be to keep everything up to date.

Aside from that, it wasn’t hard to see that she had not broken off the relationship with Roger and was in fact, reporting back to him what was happening.

Roger probably believed that he was coming back at the end of his stress leave, a question I asked the department head.  A reply came back to tell me he had been reassigned.

So, he was lying to Eva, but that wasn’t really the issue.  She was violating what was now a golden rule.  No telling anyone the nature of our work or the existence of the office.

Which, unfortunately, led to a request to come to my office when she arrived.  We had just started at the new building, where security was very tight.

She knocked on the door, a half hour after the appointed time.  Some of that arrogance had returned, probably fed to her by Roger telling her that I had no real authority.

I did admonish her for lateness.  I could overlook a lot of minor indiscretions so long as the work ethic was there.

Operations had received an anonymous letter about certain aspects of the section that apparently were not within the department’s guidelines.

It was supposed to be a reflection on my ineptitude in running what a functioning section was, and had now become a disparate and dysfunctional group without proper leadership.

A list of infractions followed.

As soon as she sat down, I handed her the document.

“Quite a damning expose, don’t you think?”

She glanced at the document and tossed the file back on the desk.  “I wouldn’t know, it’s the first time I’ve seen it.”

“But it doesn’t relate to certain events in this office.”

“It appears so.”

“And you had nothing to do with it?”

“No.”

“And you have broken off all relations with Roger?”

A very subtle change in expression.  A seasoned interrogator would pick up on it.

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you spoke to him?”

“The day he left the office.”

“You do realise that when you signed your new employment contract recently, you agreed that the department can, at any time, instigate standard personnel checks to determine your security status.”

The eyes changed, just for a second.  People needed time to process a question and then work on a suitable and believable response.

“That may also include a lie detector test.”

“Are you deliberately handing me grounds for a harassment case?”

I shrugged, opened the top drawer, pulled out a folder and pushed it across the desk.

“You tell me.”

First reaction, she did not want to reach for it.  From the moment she uttered that previous statement until I pulled out the file, she had been smug.

She had also been lying to my face.

I was willing to accept the four of them at face value and treated them all equally and equitably.  I hadn’t expected to get that particular letter, but I knew Roger well enough to know he would retaliate in some way, and that he might reach out to Eva.

“Sandra was right, Eva.  Roger didn’t care that much about you, so he was willing to take you down with him.  I have to say I misjudged you.  I’m usually a better judge of character.”

“What’s in the file?”

“Photographs and a transcript of your conversation.”

“How many people know?”

“The Department head, head of operations and me.  We were expecting it.  You had to know that we would be monitoring you.”

Smug expression gone, but there was still defiance.  She sighed.  “What happens now?”

“You find another job.  You’ve proved that you can’t be trusted, so it cannot be for any government organisation.  Unfortunately, when the authorities came to arrest Roger, he decided not to come in quietly.  There was an exchange of shots, and he didn’t survive.  He left behind a confession that also explains your actions, and that this latest development was your idea for revenge.”

“And now he’s dead, and the lies earlier you will not believe anything I say.”  She shook her head. “Am I free to go?”

“As far as I’m concerned, you are.”

“But…”

“When you leave here, you will be met by a woman.  I suggest you make the time to hear what she has to say.  It may be the only way you will get to see light at the end of a very dark tunnel “

She stood.  “You’re scaring me, now.”

“Good, because that same woman told me that fear was going to be my only friend when the chips were down.  It’s why I’m still here, and still breathing.  Take some advice.  Listen to her.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 180 – Rest periods for compulsive writers

…

The Inescapable Itch: How Compulsive Writers Finally Unplug (and Why They Dread It)

For the compulsive writer, the blank page isn’t just a workspace; it’s a nervous system. To stop writing is, in many ways, to stop feeling the pulse of the world. But even the most prolific ink-stained wretches occasionally find their pens running dry, or their minds fogging over with the static of over-output.

How does a writer whose baseline is “compulsive” actually step away? And more importantly, is the silence of a break actually a form of creative death?

The Williams Paradigm: The Panic of the Still Moment

If you want a masterclass in the agony of the “break,” look to Tennessee Williams.

Williams was a man possessed. His plays—A Streetcar Named Desire, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof—seemed to bleed out of him in a fit of architectural necessity. He didn’t just write stories; he exorcised ghosts. For Williams, the act of writing was a frantic attempt to outrun his own inner demons.

When Williams wasn’t writing, he wasn’t “relaxing” in the way modern self-help gurus suggest. He wasn’t taking a spa day or practising mindfulness. He was vibrating with a specific, high-frequency anxiety. He famously equated the downtime between creative bursts with a kind of spiritual oblivion.

He didn’t take breaks by choice; he took them when the exhaustion became too heavy to carry. But in those quiet intervals, the “boredom” he felt was actually a confrontation with reality—a reality he found far less interesting and far more terrifying than the worlds he built on paper.

Why the Break Feels Like a Grave

For the compulsive writer, a break feels like “death” for three distinct reasons:

1. The Loss of Control: When you are writing, you are the god of a small, contained universe. You decide who lives, who dies, and how the dialogue flows. In the real world, you are subject to the messy, boring, and uncontrollable whims of traffic, groceries, and small talk.
2. The Shadow of the “Interior”: Writers often use work as a distraction from the recursive loops of their own thoughts. When the writing stops, the inner monologue—usually the one questioning your worth or replaying old embarrassments—gets the megaphone.
3. The Identity Crisis: If you define yourself as a “Writer,” then a day spent not writing is a day you aren’t “being” anything. You feel like a malfunctioning machine.

How to Take a Break Without Losing Your Mind

If you are like Williams—wired to the page—you can’t just stop. You have to “pivot” your compulsion. Here is how the pros handle the hiatus:

• Change the Input: If you can’t stop the output, change the channel. Switch to a medium that doesn’t feel like “work.” If you write prose, spend your break painting, gardening, or cooking. You are still creating, but you’ve let the part of your brain that handles syntax rest.
• The “Low-Stakes” Journal: Give yourself permission to write in a way that doesn’t count. Take a pocket notebook where you are forbidden from writing anything “publishable.” Write about your lunch, the colour of the sky, or how annoying your neighbour’s dog is. It keeps the muscle moving without the pressure of the performance.
• Embrace the “Restless Walk”: Williams often found his best ideas while walking. If you’re bored, don’t sit still. The brain that is compulsive needs movement. A three-mile walk can settle the nervous system while allowing the subconscious to keep filing away plot points.

The Verdict: Is It Boredom or Fuel?

Is it boring? Yes.

But here is the secret that Tennessee Williams eventually realised: Boredom is the soil in which the best ideas take root.

When you are constantly writing, you are mining your storehouse of ideas until you hit bedrock. You are repeating yourself because you haven’t given yourself time to experience anything new. The break, as terrifying as it feels, is the process of refilling the well.

You aren’t dying when you put the pen down. You’re simply waiting for the tide to come back in. And trust me—if you are truly a compulsive writer—the tide always comes back. You’ll be back at the desk before you know it, pen in hand, wondering why you ever missed the silence in the first place.

…