Day 50 – Bad poetry

…

When “Feeling” Becomes a Pitfall: Unpacking the Paradox of Bad Poetry

“All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling – to be natural is obvious, to be obvious is inartistic.”

It’s a line that sounds like a warning scrawled on the back of a notebook in a cramped dorm room, yet it manages to capture a timeless tension every poet — amateur or seasoned — wrestles with. How can something as sincere as genuine feeling produce poetry that feels flat, trite, or outright “bad”? Why does the very act of being “natural” sometimes devolve into being “obvious,” and why does that matter?

In this post, we’ll:

1. Parse the quote – what does it really say?
2. Explore why raw feeling can become a liability.
3. Distinguish “natural” from “obvious.”
4. Look at real‑world examples of both the curse and the cure.
5. Offer practical steps for turning heartfelt material into artful poetry.

Grab a cup of tea, settle in, and let’s unpack the paradox that haunts any writer who’s ever tried to put a beating heart on a page.

1. The Quote in Plain English

All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling – to be natural is obvious, to be obvious is inartistic.

Break it down:

At its core, the statement warns against confusing emotional honesty with artistic success. A poem can be heartfelt and terrible if it leans on the feeling alone and never transforms it.

2. Why “Genuine Feeling” Can Produce Bad Poetry

a. Emotion is a Raw Material, Not a Finished Product

Feelings are like unrefined ore: rich, but still needing smelting. When a poet simply pours the ore onto the page, the result is heavy, unshaped, and often unpalatable.

Example: “I’m sad because my dog died. I miss him so much. I cry every night.”
That’s a statement of feeling, not a poem about feeling.

b. The Comfort Zone of the “I-Statement”

Writing “I feel ___” is a reflex. It’s comfortable because it bypasses the challenge of showing rather than telling. The poet leans on the reader’s empathy, assuming the raw confession will do the heavy lifting. Often, it doesn’t.

c. Cliché is the Natural Offspring of Unexamined Feeling

When we rely on our first, most immediate emotional response, we tend to reach for the language we already hear in the world around us. “Heartbreak” becomes “a broken heart,” “sadness” becomes “tears,” “love” becomes “a fire.” The result: a poem that sounds like the collective chorus of every greeting‑card writer that came before.

3. Natural vs. Obvious – How the Two Diverge

In short: naturalness is the feeling of inevitability; obviousness is the feeling of inevitability without any surprise. Good poetry walks the line between the two, making the inevitable feel new.

4. Case Studies: When Feeling Wins, When It Loses

4.1 The “Bad” Example: A Straight‑forward Lament

My mother’s hand was warm,
Now she’s gone, my world is cold.
I miss her like the desert misses rain.

What went wrong?

• Genuine feeling: The poet truly misses their mother.
• Obvious language: “Warm,” “cold,” “desert misses rain” are all textbook opposites.
• No transformation: The poem says, “I miss my mother,” without inventing a new way to show that loss.

4.2 The “Good” Example: Transformative Imagery

She left a kitchen with an empty kettle,
steam still curling in the hallway’s sigh—
a ghost of mornings that never boiled.

What works?

• Genuine feeling: The poet feels the absence.
• Natural but non‑obvious: The kettle, steam, and hallway become a metaphor for lingering presence.
• Transformation: The everyday object becomes a vessel for grief, inviting the reader to taste the silence.

4.3 Why the Difference Matters

The good poem doesn’t tell you directly “I miss her.” It shows—through a half‑filled kettle and lingering steam—that the house (and the poet) is waiting for a ritual that will never happen again. The reader must assemble the emotional puzzle, which creates a deeper, more resonant experience.

5. Turning Genuine Feeling into Artful Poetry

If you’ve ever stared at a notebook full of raw emotions and wondered, “How do I make this poetry?” here are concrete strategies to move from feeling → natural → obvious into feeling → crafted → surprising.

 Start with the Emotion, Then Step Back

1. Write a journal entry (no rhyme, no meter, just the raw feeling).
2. Read it aloud. Highlight any words or phrases that feel over‑used or too literal.
3. Identify the core image: What concrete thing does this feeling actually look like, smell like, sound like?

 Find a “Metaphorical Lens”

Instead of describing the feeling directly, ask:

• What object carries a similar weight?
• Which environment mirrors the internal climate?
• What action could stand in for the emotional state?

Example: “Grief” becomes “a tide that refuses to recede.”

 Play with Form to Force Freshness

• Enjambment can keep the reader guessing.
• Unexpected line breaks can shift emphasis.
• A formal constraint (sonnet, villanelle, ghazal) demands you find fresh ways to fulfil a given structure, preventing the temptation to fall back on clichés.

 Use “Defamiliarisation”

Coined by Russian formalist Viktor Shklovsky: make the familiar strange.
Instead of “cold night,” try “the sky’s iron‑clad sigh.”

This technique pushes the poem away from obviousness and back toward natural intrigue.

 Invite the Reader to Participate

Leave a gap in the narrative. End a stanza on a half‑finished image, or pose a subtle question. The reader’s mind will work to fill that space, turning raw feeling into a collaborative experience.

 Edit Ruthlessly for the “Obvious”

During revision, ask:

• “Is this line the only way to express this idea?”
• “What cliché does this echo? Can I replace it with a specific detail?”
• “Does this line show the feeling, or just tell it?”

If the answer leans toward “tell,” rewrite.

6. The Bigger Picture: Art, Authenticity, and Audience

The quote we started with hints at a deeper philosophical conundrum: If poetry is meant to be an artistic rendering of truth, why does authenticity sometimes feel like a handicap?

• The audience’s role – Readers come to poetry seeking not just to be understood but to be re‑imagined. A poem that merely mirrors their own feeling offers no new perspective.
• The artist’s responsibility – The poet must translate—not transcribe—emotion. Translation entails choice, compression, and often, paradox.
• Historical precedent – Think of Walt Whitman’s “I celebrate myself…” He starts with a personal confession, but he immediately expands that self into a universal, almost mythic, voice. The feeling is genuine, but it becomes a vehicle for something larger.

When poets manage this alchemy, the result is not only beautiful; it is transformative.

7. Quick Takeaways (For the Busy Writer)

8. Final Thought: The Art of “In‑Between”

Good poetry lives in the in‑between: between heart and head, feeling and craft, naturalness and surprise. Genuine feeling is the spark; technique, metaphor, and form are the fuel that keep the fire from sputtering out in a puff of obviousness.

So the next time you sit down to write, remember:

Feel first. Then, step away. Then, rebuild.

Let your emotions guide you, but give them a new shape before they become “obviously” bad. In doing so, you honour both the authenticity of your voice and the artistry that makes poetry timeless.

Your turn: Grab a piece of genuine feeling you’ve been holding onto—maybe a recent disappointment, a quiet joy, a stubborn love. Write a short stanza that shows that feeling through an unexpected image. Share it in the comments; let’s see how many of us can turn raw feeling into something delightfully natural—but never obvious.

Happy writing! 

Day 49 – Writing in unlikely places

…

Does Where You Are Determine What and How Much You Write?

Introduction: The Unseen Hand of Place

You sit down at your desk, coffee steaming, notebook open, and… nothing happens. The cursor blinks like a taunting lighthouse. You hear the house settle, the dishwasher start, a notification ping from a social‑media app you don’t need to check. The very space you’ve cultivated for creativity feels more like a trap than a sanctuary.

Flip the scene. You’re on a cramped airport bench, a train rattles past, or you’re lying on an exam table, waiting for the surgeon’s lights to turn on. The world around you is noisy, uncomfortable, and utterly unpredictable—yet suddenly the words flow.

Is it the environment that makes us write—or the lack of it?

In this post, I’ll explore how location shapes both what we write and how much we manage to produce, why the “bad” places often become the most fertile, and what practical tricks you can use to turn any setting—home, office, or waiting room—into a writing ally.

1. The Myth of the “Ideal” Writing Space

1.1 The Comfort‑Trap

When we think of the “perfect” writing nook, we picture a quiet corner, a comfy chair, ambient lighting, maybe a plant or two. The problem? Comfort breeds complacency.

• Distractions multiply – The very things you set up to keep you cozy—TV, music playlists, the fridge within arm’s reach—are also the easiest pathways to procrastination.
• Decision fatigue – Choosing the right pen, the perfect mug, the exact temperature of the room consumes cognitive bandwidth that could otherwise go toward drafting sentences.

1.2 The “Creative Crisis” of Home

Home is a paradox. It’s where you choose to be, yet it’s also where the countless responsibilities, family members, and chores compete for your attention. Even with a meticulously organised desk, the mental clutter of “Did I leave the stove on?” or “I need to reply to that email” can block the flow of ideas.

Research note: A 2019 study published in Psychology of Aesthetics, Creativity, and the Arts found that participants reported higher creative output in “moderately distracting” environments (e.g., a coffee shop) compared to completely quiet or extremely noisy settings. A touch of ambient stimulus appears to “prime” the brain for associative thinking.

2. The Unexpected Power of “Bad” Places

2.1 Waiting as a Creative Engine

I first noticed the phenomenon while waiting for a 2‑hour pre‑surgery appointment. The fluorescent lights hummed, the nurse called my name in a monotone, and the sterile smell hung heavy. Instead of scrolling through my phone, I pulled out a notebook and let the anxiety of the impending operation funnel into a short story about a surgeon who could hear the thoughts of his patients.

Why did it work?

• Time becomes owned – In a waiting room you have no real agenda; the minutes are yours by default. The brain, desperate to escape monotony, seeks a task.
• Heightened emotional state – Stress, anticipation, or even boredom raise cortisol levels, which can sharpen focus temporarily—much like the “fight or flight” effect that hones attention on a single objective.
• Physical constraints force mental clarity – Limited space, fixed seating, and the inability to move freely eliminate the temptation to “just get up and do something else.”

2.2 Other “Uncomfortable” Hotspots

3. How Place Influences What You Write

1. Sensory Input → Subject Matter
   • Smell of rain → Nostalgic memories, melancholic tone.
   • Industrial clang → Gritty, fast‑paced action scenes.
2. Emotional Atmosphere → Tone
   • Calm home → Analytical essays, research‑heavy pieces.
   • High‑stress environment → Raw, confessional voice.
3. Physical Constraints → Form
   • Tight space → Short forms (poems, flash fiction).
   • Ample time (e.g., a weekend retreat) → Long‑form novels or deep‑dive investigative pieces.

Understanding this relationship allows you to leverage a location rather than fight it. If you know you’ll be in a noisy airport, plan to write a list of story beats rather than a full draft. If you’re in a quiet home office, schedule deep‑work sessions for complex research.

4. Strategies to Turn Any Environment Into a Writing Ally

4.1 The “Mini‑Commitment” Method

• What it is: Instead of promising yourself an hour of writing, commit to five focused minutes.
• Why it works: Short bursts reduce the psychological barrier and are easier to fit into any setting—whether you’re on a train or standing in line.

Implementation tip: Keep a small notebook or a note‑taking app on your phone. When you spot a waiting period, open it and set a timer for 5 minutes. Write whatever comes to mind—no editing, just capture.

4.2 “Portable Writing Kit”

Having these items in your bag means you can start right away when the perfect (or imperfect) moment appears.

4.3 “Environmental Anchors”

Assign a type of writing to a specific place.

• Coffee shop → Brainstorming & outlining
• Bedroom → Personal journaling
• Commute (standing) → Sentence‑level micro‑writing

When you walk into that space, your brain already knows the mode you’ll adopt, reducing decision fatigue.

4.4 “Time‑Boxed Distraction Buffer”

If you’re at home and the distractions are relentless, schedule a distraction buffer: a 10‑minute period where you intentionally check emails, make a snack, or scroll social media before you sit down to write. Once the buffer ends, you’ve already satisfied the urge to wander, making it easier to stay focused on the task.

4.5 “The ‘Waiting‑Room Narrative’ Exercise”

1. Observe: Look around—people, sounds, smells. Jot down three concrete details.
2. Imagine: Assign each detail a character, a conflict, or a memory.
3. Write: In 10 minutes, craft a short scene that weaves those three elements together.

This exercise turns idle observation into a storytelling engine and can be repeated wherever you wait.

5. Real‑World Example: From Surgery Waiting Room to Published Short Story

Two hours before my knee‑replacement surgery, I was hunched on a plastic chair, the fluorescent lights buzzing above. My mind raced with “what‑ifs,” and the sterile scent of antiseptic filled the air.

I pulled out an empty notebook and wrote:

“The surgeon walked in, a quiet man with hands that trembled like the leaves outside the window…”

That snippet grew into a 2,500‑word short story titled “The Quiet Hands”, which later won a local flash‑fiction contest. The waiting room’s pressure gave the narrative urgency; the physical constraints forced me into concise, vivid prose; the ambient sounds became the rhythm of my sentences.

Takeaway: You don’t need a quiet home office to create award‑winning work—you just need to recognize the creative potential of every circumstance.

6. Final Thoughts: Embrace the Unpredictable

The answer to the headline question isn’t a simple “yes” or “no.” The place you’re in does influence what you write and how much you produce, but not in a deterministic way. It acts as a catalyst, a set of constraints, and a source of sensory fuel.

• If you love the quiet of home, schedule deep‑work blocks and protect them fiercely.
• If you thrive on the hustle of public spaces, use them for brainstorming, outlines, or short‑form writing.
• If you’re stuck in a waiting room, treat that time as a gift—a forced pause that can sharpen focus and spark authenticity.

The ultimate skill isn’t to “find the perfect spot,” but to adapt—to read the environment, to decide what kind of writing it invites, and to have a toolbox ready for any scenario. When you can turn a sterile surgery waiting room into a launchpad for your best story, you’ve mastered that art.

Action Checklist

• ☐ Pack a portable writing kit (notebook, pen, earbuds).
• ☐ Create environment anchors (e.g., coffee shop = outline).
• ☐ Set a daily mini‑commitment timer (5‑minute bursts).
• ☐ Practice the Waiting‑Room Narrative exercise once this week.
• ☐ Schedule a distraction buffer before your next home‑writing session.

Give yourself permission to write wherever you are. You may be surprised at the quality and quantity that emerges when you stop hunting for the “perfect” space and start harvesting the creativity that’s already hiding in the moments you thought were just downtime. Happy writing!

Day 49 – Writing in unlikely places

…

Does Where You Are Determine What and How Much You Write?

Introduction: The Unseen Hand of Place

You sit down at your desk, coffee steaming, notebook open, and… nothing happens. The cursor blinks like a taunting lighthouse. You hear the house settle, the dishwasher start, a notification ping from a social‑media app you don’t need to check. The very space you’ve cultivated for creativity feels more like a trap than a sanctuary.

Flip the scene. You’re on a cramped airport bench, a train rattles past, or you’re lying on an exam table, waiting for the surgeon’s lights to turn on. The world around you is noisy, uncomfortable, and utterly unpredictable—yet suddenly the words flow.

Is it the environment that makes us write—or the lack of it?

In this post, I’ll explore how location shapes both what we write and how much we manage to produce, why the “bad” places often become the most fertile, and what practical tricks you can use to turn any setting—home, office, or waiting room—into a writing ally.

1. The Myth of the “Ideal” Writing Space

1.1 The Comfort‑Trap

When we think of the “perfect” writing nook, we picture a quiet corner, a comfy chair, ambient lighting, maybe a plant or two. The problem? Comfort breeds complacency.

• Distractions multiply – The very things you set up to keep you cozy—TV, music playlists, the fridge within arm’s reach—are also the easiest pathways to procrastination.
• Decision fatigue – Choosing the right pen, the perfect mug, the exact temperature of the room consumes cognitive bandwidth that could otherwise go toward drafting sentences.

1.2 The “Creative Crisis” of Home

Home is a paradox. It’s where you choose to be, yet it’s also where the countless responsibilities, family members, and chores compete for your attention. Even with a meticulously organised desk, the mental clutter of “Did I leave the stove on?” or “I need to reply to that email” can block the flow of ideas.

Research note: A 2019 study published in Psychology of Aesthetics, Creativity, and the Arts found that participants reported higher creative output in “moderately distracting” environments (e.g., a coffee shop) compared to completely quiet or extremely noisy settings. A touch of ambient stimulus appears to “prime” the brain for associative thinking.

2. The Unexpected Power of “Bad” Places

2.1 Waiting as a Creative Engine

I first noticed the phenomenon while waiting for a 2‑hour pre‑surgery appointment. The fluorescent lights hummed, the nurse called my name in a monotone, and the sterile smell hung heavy. Instead of scrolling through my phone, I pulled out a notebook and let the anxiety of the impending operation funnel into a short story about a surgeon who could hear the thoughts of his patients.

Why did it work?

• Time becomes owned – In a waiting room you have no real agenda; the minutes are yours by default. The brain, desperate to escape monotony, seeks a task.
• Heightened emotional state – Stress, anticipation, or even boredom raise cortisol levels, which can sharpen focus temporarily—much like the “fight or flight” effect that hones attention on a single objective.
• Physical constraints force mental clarity – Limited space, fixed seating, and the inability to move freely eliminate the temptation to “just get up and do something else.”

2.2 Other “Uncomfortable” Hotspots

3. How Place Influences What You Write

1. Sensory Input → Subject Matter
   • Smell of rain → Nostalgic memories, melancholic tone.
   • Industrial clang → Gritty, fast‑paced action scenes.
2. Emotional Atmosphere → Tone
   • Calm home → Analytical essays, research‑heavy pieces.
   • High‑stress environment → Raw, confessional voice.
3. Physical Constraints → Form
   • Tight space → Short forms (poems, flash fiction).
   • Ample time (e.g., a weekend retreat) → Long‑form novels or deep‑dive investigative pieces.

Understanding this relationship allows you to leverage a location rather than fight it. If you know you’ll be in a noisy airport, plan to write a list of story beats rather than a full draft. If you’re in a quiet home office, schedule deep‑work sessions for complex research.

4. Strategies to Turn Any Environment Into a Writing Ally

4.1 The “Mini‑Commitment” Method

• What it is: Instead of promising yourself an hour of writing, commit to five focused minutes.
• Why it works: Short bursts reduce the psychological barrier and are easier to fit into any setting—whether you’re on a train or standing in line.

Implementation tip: Keep a small notebook or a note‑taking app on your phone. When you spot a waiting period, open it and set a timer for 5 minutes. Write whatever comes to mind—no editing, just capture.

4.2 “Portable Writing Kit”

Having these items in your bag means you can start right away when the perfect (or imperfect) moment appears.

4.3 “Environmental Anchors”

Assign a type of writing to a specific place.

• Coffee shop → Brainstorming & outlining
• Bedroom → Personal journaling
• Commute (standing) → Sentence‑level micro‑writing

When you walk into that space, your brain already knows the mode you’ll adopt, reducing decision fatigue.

4.4 “Time‑Boxed Distraction Buffer”

If you’re at home and the distractions are relentless, schedule a distraction buffer: a 10‑minute period where you intentionally check emails, make a snack, or scroll social media before you sit down to write. Once the buffer ends, you’ve already satisfied the urge to wander, making it easier to stay focused on the task.

4.5 “The ‘Waiting‑Room Narrative’ Exercise”

1. Observe: Look around—people, sounds, smells. Jot down three concrete details.
2. Imagine: Assign each detail a character, a conflict, or a memory.
3. Write: In 10 minutes, craft a short scene that weaves those three elements together.

This exercise turns idle observation into a storytelling engine and can be repeated wherever you wait.

5. Real‑World Example: From Surgery Waiting Room to Published Short Story

Two hours before my knee‑replacement surgery, I was hunched on a plastic chair, the fluorescent lights buzzing above. My mind raced with “what‑ifs,” and the sterile scent of antiseptic filled the air.

I pulled out an empty notebook and wrote:

“The surgeon walked in, a quiet man with hands that trembled like the leaves outside the window…”

That snippet grew into a 2,500‑word short story titled “The Quiet Hands”, which later won a local flash‑fiction contest. The waiting room’s pressure gave the narrative urgency; the physical constraints forced me into concise, vivid prose; the ambient sounds became the rhythm of my sentences.

Takeaway: You don’t need a quiet home office to create award‑winning work—you just need to recognize the creative potential of every circumstance.

6. Final Thoughts: Embrace the Unpredictable

The answer to the headline question isn’t a simple “yes” or “no.” The place you’re in does influence what you write and how much you produce, but not in a deterministic way. It acts as a catalyst, a set of constraints, and a source of sensory fuel.

• If you love the quiet of home, schedule deep‑work blocks and protect them fiercely.
• If you thrive on the hustle of public spaces, use them for brainstorming, outlines, or short‑form writing.
• If you’re stuck in a waiting room, treat that time as a gift—a forced pause that can sharpen focus and spark authenticity.

The ultimate skill isn’t to “find the perfect spot,” but to adapt—to read the environment, to decide what kind of writing it invites, and to have a toolbox ready for any scenario. When you can turn a sterile surgery waiting room into a launchpad for your best story, you’ve mastered that art.

Action Checklist

• ☐ Pack a portable writing kit (notebook, pen, earbuds).
• ☐ Create environment anchors (e.g., coffee shop = outline).
• ☐ Set a daily mini‑commitment timer (5‑minute bursts).
• ☐ Practice the Waiting‑Room Narrative exercise once this week.
• ☐ Schedule a distraction buffer before your next home‑writing session.

Give yourself permission to write wherever you are. You may be surprised at the quality and quantity that emerges when you stop hunting for the “perfect” space and start harvesting the creativity that’s already hiding in the moments you thought were just downtime. Happy writing!

Day 48 – Writing exercise

…

I knew the moment I opened my eyes that this day was going to be different.

My life had begun to sink into a rut where everyone and everything were the same.  In fact, it was so predictable that I could recite every word spoken to me and in response for the first half hour.

So monotonous, I didn’t want to go to work today, any day, any more, ever.  Except I had to pay the rent, the bills, and eat.

How would life have been so much easier if I were a robot?

Except…

When I turned over, ready to close my eyes and forget the alarm had gone off, I saw the one thing that changed my mind in an instant.

Beth, short for Elizabeth, not Liz or Lizzy or Bethany.

The girl I had seen at work, asked about, told she was unavailable and not looking for friends like me, and gave up any hope of even saying hello.

Until last night, when I was holding open the door as the masses exited, and she was last in the queue.  She thanked me, the only one, and I blushed.  Yes, the introvert got tongue-tied.

She asked me if I was going her way, which I was, and we walked.

And talked, and talked, then went for a drink, had dinner, and no, I had no idea how she finished up next to me.

It appeared she was in the same group I was in, the assistant to the assistant, the gopher, doing odd jobs and worse for people who didn’t appreciate us, a stepping stone to something better, the bottom rung of the ladder to a career.

We had a lot in common.

We both had ambitions, and these were slowly being eroded by unhelpful, demeaning, and unappreciative superiors.

Now, in the cold, hard light of day, all those plans, everything we said we would do, all those strategies to put our superiors in their place, seemed a million miles away.

Except she was still there.

And I will be honest, I had no idea how or why she was.  We did have a little too much to drink, something I never did on a workday, and something she said she didn’t do ever.

And I hoped nothing happened, anything that would ruin a fledgling relationship that had possibilities.

When I tried to edge myself out of the bed, she woke, surprised, but with a smile. 

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Anything I might have said or done that I can’t remember.”

“Good thing then that I do. Did I forget to tell you that alcohol doesn’t really affect me, other than in the moment, but it doesn’t affect my judgment.  You were silly, not stupid, and I thought it wise to tuck you in and make sure you were OK.  Now, come back and rest for a few more minutes.  I gave you my mother’s hangover cure last night, so you will be fine.”

I slid back under the covers.

“Thank you.  Normally, after that much wine, I would be a mess.”  I had to admit I felt almost normal except for a slight ache behind my eyes, perhaps from not enough sleep.

“You’re welcome.  It was interesting to discover you hate the management group as much as I do.”

“Not so much hate as to wonder how they actually made the group.  They certainly have no people skills, but at least they treat everyone the same.”

“Which is wrong?”

“Well, at the orientation, they did tell us what to expect.”  Not quite, we were told that we needed to learn quickly during the internship, and that sometimes, in high-pressure situations, we might find ourselves in trouble, especially if we had the training and forgot the lessons.

That was the sticking point.  Most of those in management failed to complete our training, usually because of time constraints or simply their lack of interest in ‘molly coddling’ as one called it.

“But there are ways of doing it, and ways of not doing it.  Perhaps we need to remind them.  Subtly.”

“Is there such a thing?”

“You said that there was last night.  You have so many ideas, and equally no idea how to make them happen.  I’ve been thinking about it, and I have a plan.”

That morning transcended any I’d had in a lifetime and taught me one very valuable lesson.  I needed to be sober and aware at all times if I wanted to impress any woman. 

I knew she was just being kind to me, even though I felt like she might like me as more than just a colleague, but I would have to impress her if I wanted any sort of chance.

It was odd that I hadn’t thought about her or any of the others in that way; such was the necessity to keep your mind on the job and keep ahead of the game.  There were a dozen of us, and we were all competing for three positions, and it was coming to the end of the trial period.

No one had an edge.  Trying to grovel didn’t work, trying to be better than the others didn’t work, and they let you make mistakes without telling you, which, in front of the group, wasn’t exactly the best way of getting any of us to stay.

Perhaps they didn’t.  Perhaps those they didn’t harass out of the job were the sort of lackeys they wanted.

And apparently, I had told her that I’d been spending a lot of my spare time studying the whole financial structure of the organisation and found that our managers had been taking the wrong path

Both of us had been working on the background papers that were to be presented to the board members, and because of that, we would be allowed to sit in. 

She had a plan, and when she stepped through it, I agreed with her that it might work.  It just depended on one particular board member, the lone woman, Sylvia.  Beth had worked with her for a week when she requested an intern from HR, one of the girls. 

And unlike management, Sylvia was interested in helping the interns and taught them some valuable lessons, and this, along with the corporate knowledge we had, was either going to win us some points or get us fired.  Either way, we both agreed it was better than keeping the status quo and would be worth it, one way or the other.

As usual, the two managers we worked for, each in a different department, were charged with conducting the presentation.

But this morning, my manager hadn’t arrived in time for the meeting, and it was handed to Beth.  He was annoyed, and those last few minutes before it was due, Beth arrived with the morning coffee run, scribbled on a piece of paper, while I distributed the papers, including those I had written that showed the true start of the business and the recommendations to put the company on a more profitable trajectory. 

My speciality at uni was rescuing poor-performing companies using alternative strategies, and I had tried to get this across to the current management group, but they had consistently ignored it.  It was no secret that the current strategy was not working, and the meeting with the board was to tell them how to overcome this.

What did an intern know?

Before it started, Beth handed out the morning coffee and cakes; what the presenters hoped would put the board members in a better frame of mind.

It did not.

He had got the orders wrong, yet another example of not listening properly, and the unthinkable happened.  He told Beth to go and sort the mess out.

Sylvia put her hand up and asked who was responsible for writing down the orders, stating plainly that what she had was not what she ordered, and that the order had been taken by the manager.

Therefore, she said the manager should sort it out.

And since he had a perfectly adequate team of interns whom the presenters no doubt had gone through the presentation with as was required as part of the training standards of the organisation, the two interns could make the presentation in his place.

She then told him to leave.

The door closed, Beth made a précis of the manager’s presentation and then said that there was an alternative strategy available, one that was hot off the press and would be delivered by the person she described as a top of the class strategist in reviving poorly performing companies.

She then handed the floor to me, and I went through the basics and then the specifics, closing just as the manager returned.

Over coffee, four board members grilled him over the merits of the two strategies, one of course he knew about and had discounted and now had to admit was the more successful path.

If looks could kill, there would have been two dead interns.

Meeting over, we were dismissed.  The manager was kept in the room while the more senior members of management were summoned to explain how interns could possibly come up with a better strategy and why the current management team was still pursuing outdated and frankly incomprehensible methodologies.

Or at least that’s what we were told later.  Both Beth and I had decided that we would pack up and leave.  Even if we were right about our strategy, it was still the wrong way to go about it.  Board members come and go, so currying favour with them was not a successful way to get a position in the company because they couldn’t trust you to do what you were asked to do.

We both knew that. Getting a job was on merit, but when the company’s hiring staff were not apprised, well, perhaps the company was not worth working for.

That inevitable call came from HR.  It was from the same man who had conducted our interviews, the same man who basically told us we were worthless until we were forty.

It was a novel way of engendering loyalty and selling the company as a place worth working.  But that year was a difficult one, and jobs were hard to find, especially in one as prestigious to make a splash on our resumes.

We were both in the breakout area because we didn’t have a permanent office.  That would have come if we were selected to stay.

I put my phone on speaker.

“You two do realise that what you did, how you did it, was not the right way.  There are procedures and a hierarchy, and they should be followed.”

Beth was more blunt than I was, especially in dealing with her manager and purported mentor.  She said, “A hierarchy may work in a proper environment, but this isn’t where there is one.  The ideas we presented were communicated several times to the appropriate people, and they were ignored.”

“That is regrettable, but our procedures are there for a reason.”

“So the current muddle management can steal the interns’ ideas and pass them off as their own.  How are you supposed to get a position here if they deliberately stifle you?”

Good point.  I think most of us just accepted that was the way it is in the corporate jungle.

“I will agree that presenting something of a delicate.  But there is always a better way, and the two of you failed.  Regrettably, your internships are cancelled, and you will be escorted from the building by security.”

Conversation over.

Beth shrugged.  “No surprises there.  No surprise either when we read about the company seeking a Chapter 17 bailout in a few weeks.”

That comment coincided with the arrival of two security guards.  One would have been sufficient.
Of the two, one was the genial old man who took the time each morning to greet each of the employees by name, a remarkable feature given how many worked there.

What was more remarkable was the disdain and plain rudeness with which most of the staff treated him.  He shook his head.

“If I were to make a bet on you two, it would be that you would be the first to show initiative and then the first to be shown the door.”

He was not wrong in our case.  “You could have cleaned up.”

“I did, but not in the manner you would expect.”  He didn’t tell us why, but there was a wry grin and an interesting expression on Beth’s face.  Perhaps she knew.  I’d ask later.”

On the ground floor, we gave back our pass keys.  We had to sign an NDA, which was normal.  Then, after the formalities were done, I could see Sylvia come out of the elevator lobby and head over towards us.

Beth put her hand on my arm, a sign we should wait.

She saw the old man take off his cap and smiled, “It’s been a while, Miss Sylvia.”

“Too long, Archie.  Everyone fine?”

“Fine enough.  Yours?”

“Spread all over the country.  Can’t tie them down anymore.”

“No.  Kids always seem to have a sense of adventure these days.  You take care, Archie.”

She turned her attention to us.  “You two should know better, but then if you did, you wouldn’t have been here.  But, on the other hand, I’m glad you were.  As you may or may not know, I am an investor, mostly silent, and sometimes the holdings in shares get me a seat on the board.  Until this morning, I was going to sell those shares.  That presentation changed my mind.  And I heard what happened to both of you.  It’s not surprising this company is completely off the rails. Are you two looking for a job?  Of course you are.  Come and work for me.  Both of you.  I know a team when I see one.  Your first job, clean out the baggage and get this place back on track.  When I see my shares for ten times what they’re worth now, you two will get a very handsome bonus.  Do you need time to think about it?”

Beth looked at me, and I nodded.

“No.  Were in.  When do we start?”

“Now.”  Sylvia handed her a card.  “That’s the office I keep. Annabel knows you’re coming.  The paperwork will be there for your employment and your first assignment.  Welcome aboard.”

A handshake each, and she was gone.

I was shocked at how quickly your life could change.  My mother always said in troubled times that when one door closes, another one opens.

How true.

Then I saw Beth’s look of anguish.  “You do want to work with me, don’t you?”

I smiled.  “Of course, never been more certain of anything.”  I held out my hand, and she took it in hers.  “That, and whatever may follow.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 48 – Writing exercise

…

I knew the moment I opened my eyes that this day was going to be different.

My life had begun to sink into a rut where everyone and everything were the same.  In fact, it was so predictable that I could recite every word spoken to me and in response for the first half hour.

So monotonous, I didn’t want to go to work today, any day, any more, ever.  Except I had to pay the rent, the bills, and eat.

How would life have been so much easier if I were a robot?

Except…

When I turned over, ready to close my eyes and forget the alarm had gone off, I saw the one thing that changed my mind in an instant.

Beth, short for Elizabeth, not Liz or Lizzy or Bethany.

The girl I had seen at work, asked about, told she was unavailable or looking for friends like me, and gave up any hope of even saying hello.

Until last night, when I was holding open the door as the masses exited, and she was last in the queue.  She thanked me, the only one, and I blushed.  Yes, the introvert got tongue-tied.

She asked me if I was going her way, which I was, and we walked.

And talked, and talked, then went for a drink, had dinner, and no, I had no idea how she finished up next to me.

It appeared she was in the same group I was in, the assistant to the assistant, the gopher, doing odd jobs and worse for people who didn’t appreciate us, a stepping stone to something better, the bottom rung of the ladder to a career.

We had a lot in common.

We both had ambitions, and these were slowly being eroded by unhelpful, demeaning, and unappreciative superiors.

Now, in the cold, hard light of day, all those plans, everything we said we would do, all those strategies to put our superiors in their place, seemed a million miles away.

Except she was still there.

And I will be honest, I had no idea how or why she was.  We did have a little too much to drink, something I never did on a workday, and something she said she didn’t do ever.

And I hoped nothing happened, anything that would ruin a fledgling relationship that had possibilities.

When I tried to edge myself out of the bed, she woke, surprised, but with a smile. 

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Anything I might have said or done that I can’t remember.”

“Good thing then that I do. Did I forget to tell you that alcohol doesn’t really affect me, other than in the moment, but it doesn’t affect my judgment.  You were silly, not stupid, and I thought it wise to tuck you in and make sure you were OK.  Now, come back and rest for a few more minutes.  I gave you my mother’s hangover cure last night, so you will be fine.”

I slid back under the covers.

“Thank you.  Normally, after that much wine, I would be a mess.”  I had to admit I felt almost normal except for a slight ache behind my eyes, perhaps from not enough sleep.

“You’re welcome.  It was interesting to discover you hate the management group as much as I do.”

“Not so much hate as to wonder how they actually made the group.  They certainly have no people skills, but at least they treat everyone the same.”

“Which is wrong?”

“Well, at the orientation, they did tell us what to expect.”  Not quite, we were told that we needed to learn quickly during the internship, and that sometimes, in high-pressure situations, we might find ourselves in trouble, especially if we had the training and forgot the lessons.

That was the sticking point.  Most of those in management failed to complete our training, usually because of time constraints or simply their lack of interest in ‘molly coddling’ as one called it.

“But there are ways of doing it, and ways of not doing it.  Perhaps we need to remind them.  Subtly.”

“Is there such a thing?”

“You said that there was last night.  You have so many ideas, and equally no idea how to make them happen.  I’ve been thinking about it, and I have a plan.”

That morning transcended any I’d had in a lifetime and taught me one very valuable lesson.  I needed to be sober and aware at all times if I wanted to impress any woman. 

I knew she was just being kind to me, even though I felt like she might like me as more than just a colleague, but I would have to impress her if I wanted any sort of chance.

It was odd that I hadn’t thought about her or any of the others in that way; such was the necessity to keep your mind on the job and keep ahead of the game.  There were a dozen of us, and we were all competing for three positions, and it was coming to the end of the trial period.

No one had an edge.  Trying to grovel didn’t work, trying to be better than the others didn’t work, and they let you make mistakes without telling you, which, in front of the group, wasn’t exactly the best way of getting any of us to stay.

Perhaps they didn’t.  Perhaps those they didn’t harass out of the job were the sort of lackeys they wanted.

And apparently, I had told her that I’d been spending a lot of my spare time studying the whole financial structure of the organisation and found that our managers had been taking the wrong path

Both of us had been working on the background papers that were to be presented to the board members, and because of that, we would be allowed to sit in. 

She had a plan, and when she stepped through it, I agreed with her that it might work.  It just depended on one particular board member, the lone woman, Sylvia.  Beth had worked with her for a week when she requested an intern from HR, one of the girls. 

And unlike management, Sylvia was interested in helping the interns and taught them some valuable lessons, and this, along with the corporate knowledge we had, was either going to win us some points or get us fired.  Either way, we both agreed it was better than keeping the status quo and would be worth it, one way or the other.

As usual, the two managers we worked for, each in a different department, were charged with conducting the presentation.

But this morning, my manager hadn’t arrived in time for the meeting, and it was handed to Beth.  He was annoyed, and those last few minutes before it was due, Beth arrived with the morning coffee run, scribbled on a piece of paper, while I distributed the papers, including those I had written that showed the true start of the business and the recommendations to put the company on a more profitable trajectory. 

My speciality at uni was rescuing poor-performing companies using alternative strategies, and I had tried to get this across to the current management group, but they had consistently ignored it.  It was no secret that the current strategy was not working, and the meeting with the board was to tell them how to overcome this.

What did an intern know?

Before it started, Beth handed out the morning coffee and cakes; what the presenters hoped would put the board members in a better frame of mind.

It did not.

He had got the orders wrong, yet another example of not listening properly, and the unthinkable happened.  He told Beth to go and sort the mess out.

Sylvia put her hand up and asked who was responsible for writing down the orders, stating plainly that what she had was not what she ordered, and that the order had been taken by the manager.

Therefore, she said the manager should sort it out.

And since he had a perfectly adequate team of interns whom the presenters no doubt had gone through the presentation with, as was required as part of the training standards of the organisation, the two interns could make the presentation in his place.

She then told him to leave.

The door closed, Beth made a précis of the manager’s presentation and then said that there was an alternative strategy available, one that was hot off the press and would be delivered by the person she described as a top of the class strategist in reviving poorly performing companies.

She then handed the floor to me, and I went through the basics and then the specifics, closing just as the manager returned.

Over coffee, four board members grilled him over the merits of the two strategies, one of course he knew about and had discounted and now had to admit was the more successful path.

If looks could kill, there would have been two dead interns.

Meeting over, we were dismissed.  The manager was kept in the room while the more senior members of management were summoned to explain how interns could possibly come up with a better strategy and why the current management team was still pursuing outdated and frankly incomprehensible methodologies.

Or at least that’s what we were told later.  Both Beth and I had decided that we would pack up and leave.  Even if we were right about our strategy, it was still the wrong way to go about it.  Board members come and go, so currying favour with them was not a successful way to get a position in the company because they couldn’t trust you to do what you were asked to do.

We both knew that. Getting a job was on merit, but when the company’s hiring staff were not apprised, well, perhaps the company was not worth working for.

That inevitable call came from HR.  It was from the same man who had conducted our interviews, the same man who basically told us we were worthless until we were forty.

It was a novel way of engendering loyalty and selling the company as a place worth working.  But that year was a difficult one, and jobs were hard to find, especially in one as prestigious to make a splash on our resumes.

We were both in the breakout area because we didn’t have a permanent office.  That would have come if we were selected to stay.

I put my phone on speaker.

“You two do realise that what you did, how you did it, was not the right way.  There are procedures and a hierarchy, and they should be followed.”

Beth was more blunt than I was, especially in dealing with her manager and purported mentor.  She said, “A hierarchy may work in a proper environment, but this isn’t where there is one.  The ideas we presented were communicated several times to the appropriate people, and they were ignored.”

“That is regrettable, but our procedures are there for a reason.”

“So the current muddle management can steal the interns’ ideas and pass them off as their own.  How are you supposed to get a position here if they deliberately stifle you?”

Good point.  I think most of us just accepted that was the way it is in the corporate jungle.

“I will agree that presenting something of a delicate.  But there is always a better way, and the two of you failed.  Regrettably, your internships are cancelled, and you will be escorted from the building by security.”

Conversation over.

Beth shrugged.  “No surprises there.  No surprise either when we read about the company seeking a Chapter 17 bailout in a few weeks.”

That comment coincided with the arrival of two security guards.  One would have been sufficient.
Of the two, one was the genial old man who took the time each morning to greet each of the employees by name, a remarkable feature given how many worked there.

What was more remarkable was the disdain and plain rudeness with which most of the staff treated him.  He shook his head.

“If I were to make a bet on you two, it would be that you would be the first to show initiative and then the first to be shown the door.”

He was not wrong in our case.  “You could have cleaned up.”

“I did, but not in the manner you would expect.”  He didn’t tell us why, but there was a wry grin and an interesting expression on Beth’s face.  Perhaps she knew.  I’d ask later.”

On the ground floor, we gave back our pass keys.  We had to sign an NDA, which was normal.  Then, after the formalities were done, I could see Sylvia come out of the elevator lobby and head over towards us.

Beth put her hand on my arm, a sign we should wait.

She saw the old man take off his cap and smiled, “It’s been a while, Miss Sylvia.”

“Too long, Archie.  Everyone fine?”

“Fine enough.  Yours?”

“Spread all over the country.  Can’t tie them down anymore.”

“No.  Kids always seem to have a sense of adventure these days.  You take care, Archie.”

She turned her attention to us.  “You two should know better, but then if you did, you wouldn’t have been here.  But, on the other hand, I’m glad you were.  As you may or may not know, I am an investor, mostly silent, and sometimes the holdings in shares get me a seat on the board.  Until this morning, I was going to sell those shares.  That presentation changed my mind.  And I heard what happened to both of you.  It’s not surprising this company is completely off the rails. Are you two looking for a job?  Of course you are.  Come and work for me.  Both of you.  I know a team when I see one.  Your first job, clean out the baggage and get this place back on track.  When I see my shares for ten times what they’re worth now, you two will get a very handsome bonus.  Do you need time to think about it?”

Beth looked at me, and I nodded.

“No.  Were in.  When do we start?”

“Now.”  Sylvia handed her a card.  “That’s the office I keep. Annabel knows you’re coming.  The paperwork will be there for your employment and your first assignment.  Welcome aboard.”

A handshake each, and she was gone.

I was shocked at how quickly your life could change.  My mother always said in troubled times that when one door closes, another one opens.

How true.

Then I saw Beth’s look of anguish.  “You do want to work with me, don’t you?”

I smiled.  “Of course, never been more certain of anything.”  I held out my hand, and she took it in hers.  “That, and whatever may follow.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026