Day 121 – Distractions

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Beyond the Blinking Cursor: How Writers Tame Distraction (and Why It’s Not Always Bad)

We’ve all been there: you sit down with a fresh pot of coffee, a clear idea, and your laptop. Ten minutes later, you’re knee-deep in a Wikipedia thread about 14th-century agriculture or scrolling through a reel of sourdough baking tips.

Writing is a singular act of focus in a world designed to fragment it. For a writer, distraction is the ultimate antagonist. But as we navigate the digital age, the way we handle these interruptions isn’t just about “willpower”—it’s about strategy.

Here is how professional writers build a fortress around their focus, and the surprising reason why some distractions might actually be a good thing.

1. The Sound of Silence (literally)

While some writers swear by lo-fi beats or cinematic scores, music can often become a “productive distraction”—something that feels like work atmosphere but actually competes for your linguistic brainpower.

The Strategy: When the prose gets tough, turn off the music. Silence forces you to hear the rhythm of your own sentences. If you can’t stand total silence, try brown noise or a simple fan. By removing the melodic pull of a song, you allow your internal narrator to take centre stage.

2. Cutting the Digital Cord

The internet is a writer’s greatest tool and their worst enemy. How many times has “checking a single fact” turned into an hour of aimless browsing?

The Strategy: Disconnect from the internet. Whether you use an app blocker like Freedom or simply flip the Wi-Fi toggle to ‘off,’ creating an offline sanctuary is a game-changer. If you realise you need to look something up, simply write [RESEARCH THIS] in brackets and keep moving. Stay in the flow of the story; the facts can wait for the editing phase.

3. Out of Sight, Out of Mind

The smartphone is the world’s most advanced distraction machine. Even having it face-down on your desk has been shown to reduce cognitive capacity because a small part of your brain is constantly “noticing” it.

The Strategy: Silence or hide your phone. Put it in another room or inside a desk drawer. By adding a physical barrier between yourself and those red notification bubbles, you reduce the “frictional cost” of staying focused. If you can’t see it, your brain eventually stops craving the hit of dopamine it provides.

4. Working Against the Clock

The fear of a long, gruelling writing session is often what leads us to seek distractions. If we think we have to write for five hours, we’ll do anything to escape.

The Strategy: Set a timer for breaks. Techniques like the Pomodoro Method (25 minutes of work, 5 minutes of rest) turn writing into a sprint rather than a marathon. When you know a break is coming in exactly 12 minutes, you’re more likely to push through a difficult paragraph rather than giving up.

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Can Distraction Actually Be Beneficial?

It sounds counterintuitive, but not all distractions are created equal. There is a concept in psychology called “incubation.”

When you hit a wall—a plot hole you can’t fill or a transition that feels clunky—staring at the screen often makes it worse. This is where a controlled distraction becomes beneficial.

By stepping away to do something “low-leakage” (like washing the dishes, taking a walk, or staring out the window), you allow your subconscious to work on the problem. The “Aha!” moment rarely happens while staring at a cursor; it happens when you’re distracted enough to let your mind wander, but not so distracted (by social media or email) that your brain is overwhelmed.

The Bottom Line

Managing distraction isn’t about becoming a robot; it’s about setting boundaries. By silencing the noise, disconnecting from the web, and using timers to structure your day, you create the space necessary for deep work.

And when the words won’t come? Lean into a constructive distraction. Walk away, let your mind drift, and trust that the story is still writing itself in the background.

How do you handle the urge to scroll when you should be writing? Let us know your favourite focus hacks in the comments below!

Day 120 – How can a writer be compared to a magician

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The Art of the Illusion: Why Every Writer is a Magician

We’ve all had that experience: you open a book, and suddenly, the room around you vanishes. You aren’t looking at ink on paper or pixels on a screen anymore; you are inside a character’s mind, feeling their heartbeat, smelling the rain on a distant street, and racing toward a conclusion you didn’t see coming.

When a story works, it feels like magic. But as any professional magician will tell you, the more effortless a trick looks, the more gruelling the preparation behind the curtain was.

The legendary Toni Morrison once perfectly captured this tension:

“[Handle writing] so the reader is only aware of the rabbit that comes out of the hat, and doesn’t see the false bottom—that’s where the hard work is.”

As writers, we are the magicians of the page. Here is why writing is the ultimate sleight of hand, and why hiding the “false bottom” is the most important part of the craft.

The Rabbit: The Seamless Experience

In Morrison’s metaphor, the “rabbit” is the finished story. It’s the emotional payoff, the sharp dialogue, and the plot twist that leaves the reader breathless.

When a reader picks up a book, they don’t want to see the writer’s struggle. They don’t want to notice the clunky sentence that took four hours to fix or the structural gap that required a total rewrite of Chapter Three. They want the wonder. They want the rabbit to appear out of thin air, vibrant and alive.

If the reader starts thinking about the writer’s technique while they are reading, the spell is broken. The “rabbit” becomes just a prop, and the magic fades.

The False Bottom: The Mechanics of Craft

The “false bottom” is everything that happens before the reader ever turns page one. It is the invisible infrastructure of a story. This includes:

• Structural Scaffolding: Building a plot that feels inevitable but not predictable.
• The “Ugly” First Draft: Chasing ideas through a mess of bad metaphors and inconsistent pacing.
• The Editing Grind: Removing every “very” and “suddenly,” killing your darlings, and refining the rhythm of a sentence until it sings.
• Research: Knowing ten times more about a subject than what actually makes it into the book, just to ensure the world feels sturdy.

This is where the “hard work” Morrison mentions resides. It’s the sweat, the frustration, and the endless hours of refinement. It is the mechanical, often tedious labour required to create an object that looks like it was born, not made.

Why We Hide the Work

You might ask: If I worked so hard on this, why shouldn’t I let the reader see it?

In magic, if the audience sees the trapdoor, the wonder is replaced by logic. They stop feeling and start calculating. Writing is the same. To evoke a true emotional response, the mechanics must remain invisible.

We hide the “false bottom” because we want the reader to believe in the reality of the world we’ve built. We want them to believe the characters are making choices of their own free will, not because a writer is pulling their strings from behind a curtain.

Embracing the Invisible Labour

If you are a writer currently struggling with a difficult chapter or a plot hole that won’t close, remember Morrison’s words. The fact that it feels hard doesn’t mean you’re failing; it means you’re building the false bottom.

The goal isn’t to write something that is easy; it’s to write something that feels easy.

Next time you produce a piece of prose that flows so naturally it feels like it wrote itself, take a moment to look back at the “false bottom” you spent weeks constructing. The reader may never see it, but they will feel the magic it allows to happen.

After all, the best magic tricks aren’t about the rabbit—they’re about the secret the magician keeps to make the world feel a little more wondrous.

Day 120 – How can a writer be compared to a magician

…

The Art of the Illusion: Why Every Writer is a Magician

We’ve all had that experience: you open a book, and suddenly, the room around you vanishes. You aren’t looking at ink on paper or pixels on a screen anymore; you are inside a character’s mind, feeling their heartbeat, smelling the rain on a distant street, and racing toward a conclusion you didn’t see coming.

When a story works, it feels like magic. But as any professional magician will tell you, the more effortless a trick looks, the more gruelling the preparation behind the curtain was.

The legendary Toni Morrison once perfectly captured this tension:

“[Handle writing] so the reader is only aware of the rabbit that comes out of the hat, and doesn’t see the false bottom—that’s where the hard work is.”

As writers, we are the magicians of the page. Here is why writing is the ultimate sleight of hand, and why hiding the “false bottom” is the most important part of the craft.

The Rabbit: The Seamless Experience

In Morrison’s metaphor, the “rabbit” is the finished story. It’s the emotional payoff, the sharp dialogue, and the plot twist that leaves the reader breathless.

When a reader picks up a book, they don’t want to see the writer’s struggle. They don’t want to notice the clunky sentence that took four hours to fix or the structural gap that required a total rewrite of Chapter Three. They want the wonder. They want the rabbit to appear out of thin air, vibrant and alive.

If the reader starts thinking about the writer’s technique while they are reading, the spell is broken. The “rabbit” becomes just a prop, and the magic fades.

The False Bottom: The Mechanics of Craft

The “false bottom” is everything that happens before the reader ever turns page one. It is the invisible infrastructure of a story. This includes:

• Structural Scaffolding: Building a plot that feels inevitable but not predictable.
• The “Ugly” First Draft: Chasing ideas through a mess of bad metaphors and inconsistent pacing.
• The Editing Grind: Removing every “very” and “suddenly,” killing your darlings, and refining the rhythm of a sentence until it sings.
• Research: Knowing ten times more about a subject than what actually makes it into the book, just to ensure the world feels sturdy.

This is where the “hard work” Morrison mentions resides. It’s the sweat, the frustration, and the endless hours of refinement. It is the mechanical, often tedious labour required to create an object that looks like it was born, not made.

Why We Hide the Work

You might ask: If I worked so hard on this, why shouldn’t I let the reader see it?

In magic, if the audience sees the trapdoor, the wonder is replaced by logic. They stop feeling and start calculating. Writing is the same. To evoke a true emotional response, the mechanics must remain invisible.

We hide the “false bottom” because we want the reader to believe in the reality of the world we’ve built. We want them to believe the characters are making choices of their own free will, not because a writer is pulling their strings from behind a curtain.

Embracing the Invisible Labour

If you are a writer currently struggling with a difficult chapter or a plot hole that won’t close, remember Morrison’s words. The fact that it feels hard doesn’t mean you’re failing; it means you’re building the false bottom.

The goal isn’t to write something that is easy; it’s to write something that feels easy.

Next time you produce a piece of prose that flows so naturally it feels like it wrote itself, take a moment to look back at the “false bottom” you spent weeks constructing. The reader may never see it, but they will feel the magic it allows to happen.

After all, the best magic tricks aren’t about the rabbit—they’re about the secret the magician keeps to make the world feel a little more wondrous.

Day 119 – The relevance of A Confederation of Dunces to downtrodden writers

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The Patron Saint of the Misunderstood: Why A Confederation of Dunces Still Resonates with Downtrodden Writers

If you are a writer, you have undoubtedly wrestled with the feeling of belonging to a world that doesn’t quite fit your internal architecture. You have likely experienced the sting of rejection, the absurdity of the “literary establishment,” and the creeping suspicion that your work is being ignored by people who lack the intellectual rigour to appreciate it.

No character embodies this specific, agonising brand of isolation quite like Ignatius J. Reilly, the gargantuan protagonist of John Kennedy Toole’s posthumous masterpiece, A Confederation of Dunces.

For the downtrodden writer—the one working a soul-crushing day job while drafting a manuscript in a cramped apartment—Ignatius is both a cautionary tale and a dark, twisted mirror.

“I Mingle with My Peers or No One”

The defining line of Ignatius’s worldview is his famous declaration: “I mingle with my peers or no one, and since I have no peers, I mingle with no-one.”

On the surface, this is the ultimate expression of solipsistic arrogance. It is the peak of the “tortured genius” trope, where the ego becomes a barricade. However, for the writer who feels alienated, this sentiment hits differently. It speaks to the exhausting search for a creative community.

When you spend your life refining your voice and obsessing over the nuance of a sentence, the standard chatter of the world can feel like a profound waste of time. You don’t want to talk about the weather or the weekend; you want to talk about the collapse of modern morality, the structure of a perfect paragraph, or the decaying state of culture. When you can’t find that depth in others, the instinct is to retreat.

But there is a trap here. Ignatius uses this philosophy to justify his own inertia. He uses his “lack of peers” as a shield to avoid the vulnerability of being judged by the real world. For the rest of us, the lesson is clear: If you wait for your perfect peer group to emerge, you will be waiting forever.

The Tragedy of the Unfinished Manuscript

The irony of A Confederation of Dunces is that Ignatius is a writer—or, at least, he claims to be. He carries around his Big Chief writing tablet, filling it with philosophical rants and incoherent grievances against the “geometrical, theological, and geographical” decline of the twentieth century.

He is a writer who refuses to publish. He is a writer who spends more time correcting the perceived failures of others than completing his own work.

This is the great peril of the downtrodden writer. It is easy to become bitter, to develop a “Reilly-esque” disdain for the marketplace, and to convince yourself that your work is too “advanced” or “pure” for a public that prefers mindless pulp. We often use our high standards as a way to hide from the terrifying possibility that our work might be published and—far worse—dismissed.

Finding Solidarity in the Absurd

So, why read (or re-read) A Confederation of Dunces if you are currently feeling like a failure in the literary arts?

1. It’s a Reminder of the Danger of Ego: Toole’s novel is a comedy, not a biography, but it serves as a warning. Isolation is a creative desert. You need the grit of the real world—the very thing Ignatius scorns—to breathe life into your writing.
2. It Validates the Struggle: Toole himself struggled immensely to get his work published. His own tragic story adds a layer of poignancy to the book. He knew better than anyone what it felt like to be a genius without a seat at the table.
3. The Satire is Necessary: Sometimes, you have to laugh at the absurdity of it all. The world is full of “dunce” establishments, superficial trends, and people who will never understand the blood you pour into your pages. Acknowledging that and laughing at it, rather than letting it turn you into a recluse, is the only way to survive.

The Verdict

Ignatius J. Reilly’s tragedy is that he chose “no one” over the messiness of human connection. He chose the safety of his own mind over the risk of being misunderstood by the masses.

As a writer, your greatest work won’t come from sitting in a room alone, sneering at the world for not being up to your standards. It will come from acknowledging that while you may never find the “perfect” peer who understands every shade of your intent, there is a community of other writers just as broken, just as confused, and just as hopeful as you are.

Don’t be the person who mingles with “no one.” Find your fellow dunces. Share your stories. And for heaven’s sake, finish the manuscript.

Day 119 – The relevance of A Confederation of Dunces to downtrodden writers

…

The Patron Saint of the Misunderstood: Why A Confederation of Dunces Still Resonates with Downtrodden Writers

If you are a writer, you have undoubtedly wrestled with the feeling of belonging to a world that doesn’t quite fit your internal architecture. You have likely experienced the sting of rejection, the absurdity of the “literary establishment,” and the creeping suspicion that your work is being ignored by people who lack the intellectual rigour to appreciate it.

No character embodies this specific, agonising brand of isolation quite like Ignatius J. Reilly, the gargantuan protagonist of John Kennedy Toole’s posthumous masterpiece, A Confederation of Dunces.

For the downtrodden writer—the one working a soul-crushing day job while drafting a manuscript in a cramped apartment—Ignatius is both a cautionary tale and a dark, twisted mirror.

“I Mingle with My Peers or No One”

The defining line of Ignatius’s worldview is his famous declaration: “I mingle with my peers or no one, and since I have no peers, I mingle with no-one.”

On the surface, this is the ultimate expression of solipsistic arrogance. It is the peak of the “tortured genius” trope, where the ego becomes a barricade. However, for the writer who feels alienated, this sentiment hits differently. It speaks to the exhausting search for a creative community.

When you spend your life refining your voice and obsessing over the nuance of a sentence, the standard chatter of the world can feel like a profound waste of time. You don’t want to talk about the weather or the weekend; you want to talk about the collapse of modern morality, the structure of a perfect paragraph, or the decaying state of culture. When you can’t find that depth in others, the instinct is to retreat.

But there is a trap here. Ignatius uses this philosophy to justify his own inertia. He uses his “lack of peers” as a shield to avoid the vulnerability of being judged by the real world. For the rest of us, the lesson is clear: If you wait for your perfect peer group to emerge, you will be waiting forever.

The Tragedy of the Unfinished Manuscript

The irony of A Confederation of Dunces is that Ignatius is a writer—or, at least, he claims to be. He carries around his Big Chief writing tablet, filling it with philosophical rants and incoherent grievances against the “geometrical, theological, and geographical” decline of the twentieth century.

He is a writer who refuses to publish. He is a writer who spends more time correcting the perceived failures of others than completing his own work.

This is the great peril of the downtrodden writer. It is easy to become bitter, to develop a “Reilly-esque” disdain for the marketplace, and to convince yourself that your work is too “advanced” or “pure” for a public that prefers mindless pulp. We often use our high standards as a way to hide from the terrifying possibility that our work might be published and—far worse—dismissed.

Finding Solidarity in the Absurd

So, why read (or re-read) A Confederation of Dunces if you are currently feeling like a failure in the literary arts?

1. It’s a Reminder of the Danger of Ego: Toole’s novel is a comedy, not a biography, but it serves as a warning. Isolation is a creative desert. You need the grit of the real world—the very thing Ignatius scorns—to breathe life into your writing.
2. It Validates the Struggle: Toole himself struggled immensely to get his work published. His own tragic story adds a layer of poignancy to the book. He knew better than anyone what it felt like to be a genius without a seat at the table.
3. The Satire is Necessary: Sometimes, you have to laugh at the absurdity of it all. The world is full of “dunce” establishments, superficial trends, and people who will never understand the blood you pour into your pages. Acknowledging that and laughing at it, rather than letting it turn you into a recluse, is the only way to survive.

The Verdict

Ignatius J. Reilly’s tragedy is that he chose “no one” over the messiness of human connection. He chose the safety of his own mind over the risk of being misunderstood by the masses.

As a writer, your greatest work won’t come from sitting in a room alone, sneering at the world for not being up to your standards. It will come from acknowledging that while you may never find the “perfect” peer who understands every shade of your intent, there is a community of other writers just as broken, just as confused, and just as hopeful as you are.

Don’t be the person who mingles with “no one.” Find your fellow dunces. Share your stories. And for heaven’s sake, finish the manuscript.

Day 118 – Writing Exercise

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With a job that took me all over the world, at times to some of the most scenic and visitor-friendly places to go, I never had the time to stop and smell the roses.

Ever.

There was never enough time.

Until…

I had to retire, forced because of injuries I had received in the line of duty.  It rendered me unfit to resume my chosen profession

Being told had been like the sky had fallen in on me.  The doctor, a relatively cheerful fellow, spoke the words in a matter-of-fact tone.

I doubt he realised the weight of those words on the recipient.  For him, it was another day in the office.  For me, it was the end of my world as I knew it.

Most of it was gobbledegook, until the end, the part that mattered.  The sentence…

“Movement will be difficult, and for a while, very tiring.  It will improve, but that will depend on your pain threshold.  No sudden movements, and plan your trips, short or long.  No stairs, avoid steep uphill and downhill paths, no running or jogging.  Maintain your exercise routine.  I think, at the very least, you are very lucky to be alive, and extremely lucky you have the mobility you have.”

My former boss, Roundtree, had a more profound way of looking at it.  “In other words, now you can get around to doing all those things you couldn’t before.”

“Skydiving, and downhill slalom?”

His bright expression turned into a frown, like the sun going behind a cloud.  “Don’t be obtuse, Sykes.  You know what I mean.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not your revered leader any more, Sykes.  You are the master of your destiny.  Have you told Wanda where you want to go?”

Wanda was the agency travel arrangements officer.  I had one last trip available.  First-class ticket to anywhere, and a fortnight in the best hotel.

“Florence.”

“Nice place.  I trust your Italian is up to scratch?”

“Yes, sir.”

A frown, but then, I was never going to call him Walter.  It seemed so disrespectful.

“Well, good.  Well done.  Don’t forget to send postcards.”

“Top of the list, sir.”

“Excellent.”  He came over and shook my hand, then left with the doctor.  I would probably not see him again.

…

You meet interesting people in first class.  It was almost a first for me.  Usually, I was down the back with the rest of humanity.  The department’s attitude was all about anonymity.

I thought it was because the boss was cheap.

But, halfway into the flight from New York to Florence, I’d decided the only reason I’d travel first class was the comfort, and it paid off. 

It was not about the chef-inspired food delivered on monogrammed fine bone china, or the champagne and orange juice when I boarded.  It wasn’t even about that special pack each passenger received on first boarding.

It was just an expensive way to fly.

And see how the other half lived.  Which, by the way, was far more exciting than I usually did, though at times I got to pretend I had more wealth than an Arab Sheik.

There were not many, and they didn’t talk to each other.  There was a family, the mother and father were reasonable, and the two children were brats.  Two CEOs spent the time trying to prove one was better than the other, me, a pretender, a middle-aged woman who was a magazine editor, telling everyone she was on a freebie, a youngish woman who looked like an adventurer, with the whole Indiana Jones thing going on, and two men I suspected were Arab terrorists, or more likely drug cartel leaders.  Flashy but cheap.  I’d met their type before.

The Indiana Jones girl spoke to me before I said anything.  She was nearby and didn’t look the sort to indulge in sharing anything on a plane with strangers.  Neither was I.  It was surprisingly just how many did.

She was coming back from the restroom and simply stopped.  “First time?”

I looked up, surprised.  “Here, going to Italy, being a big boy and travelling alone…”

She smiled.  “Sharper than an Inca death dart.  Pick one.”  She leaned against the wall as the plane shuddered through some turbulence.

“Not the first time here.  Not Italy.  Always working, never got time to see the sights.  Retired, can now.  You?”

“Blogger.  Influencer.  To most, a wanker.  I try the experience for the more adventurous of us out there.”

“Ever crash and burn?”

“Frequently.  Just getting over another failed relationship.  I keep making the same mistake.”

She didn’t look to me to be the sort who made any mistakes. But thanks for sharing, but I don’t care.

“Married men?”

It was meant to be a light-hearted comment.  It went down with a lead balloon.  “You married?”

I think it came out more harshly than she intended.

“No.  No woman will have me.  Broken “

A glare, or a grim smile, she figured I was an obtuse old bastard, and it was time to move on.  A nod, and she went back to her seat.

It was a reminder that you can have everything and nothing.  Someone had told me that a while back, and it stuck

…

I got through the flight with painkillers and a great deal of tolerance.  I was going to kill the two children and hide them in the baggage compartment, but they were not worth the effort.  Leaving them alive was the best form of revenge on the parents.

Florence airports seemed very little different to than at JFK, other than the fact that the writing was in Italian and people tended to speak Italian.  They might have looked a little different, but I wasn’t paying attention.

I was heading to immigration to collect my one bag.  Travelling light was instilled into us.  Carry nothing you couldn’t afford to lose.  To me, all that mattered was a passport and a credit card.  Oh, and money.

I followed the adventuress, oddly in a hurry to get off the plane, turn her phone on and make a half dozen calls, each getting more frustration-laden till the last when I thought she was going to throw the cell phone at the wall.

Or the man who suddenly changed direction in front of her and caused her to stumble to avoid him.  The language was very unladylike.  The man just sailed on regardless.

She just happened to block my way, so I just stood there.  I thought about offering to help, but I got the impression she would not accept it. I would be one of ‘those’ men.

I still had no idea what ‘those’ meant.

She saw me.  “You again.”

Again what?  “You seem to be in a particularly bad mood.  I would have thought that impossible in this place.”

She frowned.  “You seem happy.”

“Just happy to be here.  See a few ancient statues, and go to the museum.  Steep myself in the aura of history.  Get some pizza and gelato.”

“You’re too old to be acting like a giddy tourist.”

She was right, but that was how I felt.  Or how I wanted to feel.

“Life’s too short to be perpetually in a hurry.”

I thought I’d stepped over that invisible line, as red spots appeared on her cheeks, but then she took a deep breath and slowly let it out

“You’re right.  The more haste, the less speed.  Tell me about the statues.”

I almost did a double-take.  Almost.

She fell in beside me, and we strolled to immigration.

…

Whilst I had no intention of spending more time with Deborah Travisore, adventuress and adventure travel influencer, beyond the walk to the immigration queue, she found me, standing back, waiting for the bags.

First class should be first off?  Right?  No.  Not today.  Or just not me.  She had collected four suitcases and several smaller bags, another person who didn’t understand the meaning of travelling light.

I made the mistake of asking if she had brought a menagerie with her. 

And had she not accepted it, had an eccentric sense of humour, my limousine ride from the airport to the hotel would have been less interesting.

If I were still in my former trade, firstly, I would have suspected her to be a foreign actor up to no good, and secondly, if it were and they wanted me dead, I would be.

Except it was patently clear she was who she said she was.  Exile alone and waiting for my bad, I looked up her website’s social media pages and the messy, broken relationships that she seemed to revel in.

Who else would you entrust their disastrous life to cultivate likes, followers, and social media traction?  What scared me was when, not if, I ended up on her website pages as Mr Eccentric, broken man. Astonishingly, she had over a quarter of a million followers.

It was my second foray into the world of social media as a man in the street.  I had no pages, nothing on Facebook or Instagram, or anything.  I just created an email address the day before I got on the plane

The ride to the hotel scored me the result of six phone calls from exiting the plane to where she stumbled.

The man who had asked her to come, and made arrangements for her to run adventure tours and lectures, and who had made arrangements for her hotel stay, had been declared insolvent and arrested.

She had nothing to do and nowhere to go.  I said I would take her as far as my hotel.  What she did after that was her business.

Until I learned that the plane ticket had been paid for, the return ticket had been rescinded, and she didn’t have any more money.

Lesson learned?  Lots of followers meant not a lot of money.

At the hotel, I was met by the Assistant Manager and shown to my room.  I was hoping it would be the last time I saw Deborah.

Until…

My room phone rang.

Intrigued, I answered it.  “Yes?”

“Miss Travencore is insisting that you will verify she is who she says she is.”  It was the Assistant Manager in a rather tricky bind.

“Does that mean I have to pay her account if she cannot?”

“It means you have a connecting set of rooms, and you can hide her in one.  Not that I’m suggesting you do such a thing.  If not, we will escort her to the sidewalk.”

If she were a spy, which I was beginning to think was the case, because her landing on my lap like this was page one of the student playbook.

It was a case of keep your friends close and keep your enemies closer.

“Tell her it will be until she sorts herself out.”

So here was the problem.  Firstly, she was being far too obvious.  Secondly, she had a lot of work put into her cover story.  Thirdly, this type of decoy was usually a stunning-looking woman.  Deborah was attractive in a different way.

Perhaps she had a more interesting side that would emerge later.

Fourthly, and perhaps the one that would be my downfall, I was intrigued that anyone would care about an ex-spy.  I had no codes, no access, and no information or access to it. I had the internet, the same as everyone else.

I was here to look at antiquities, not duel with adversaries that were no longer adversaries.

I took a bottle of Italian beer out of the bar fridge and took a few sips while looking down on a main thoroughfare that led to the Duomo.  I was hoping to visit the church before the day was out.

I heard the door close next door.  Deborah was in residence.  It would cost me nothing for her to stay there; it was part of the package.

Satisfied that the aromas wafting up and in through my windows were exactly as I remembered them, I sat down to contemplate the afternoon.

Fifteen minutes.  I had a mental bet with myself that it would take ten.

A light rapping on the door.

I wasn’t going to open it, then after a sigh, I did.

“Deborah.”

“Call me Debbie.”

“Miss Travencore.”

“That sounds very formal.”

“So there are no misunderstandings.”

“There are no misunderstandings.”

“It will be interesting to see how quickly the complications add up.”

“I am not here to cause trouble, just to thank you for your generosity.”

“Consider me thanked.”  I went to close the door.

“Before you make a decision you might regret…”

I didn’t think any of the decisions I was considering I would regret, other than the one that submits her to a crude and painful field interrogation.

“Who are you, really, Miss Travencore?”

“Who I say I am.  I travel the world finding adventures for my devoted fans.  And, every now and then dabble in a hobby of mine.  This is certainly not one of those tasks.  I swear my uncle Walter puts far too much faith in me.”

“Uncle … Walter?”  An awful thought occurred to me.  My old boss had sent a minder.

“This Uncle Walter…”

“Calls you insufferable, Sykes.  He calls me incorrigible Debbie.  I told him I didn’t do babysitting.  And you wouldn’t want it.  Do you?”

“He refused to get you a room?”

“He said he was already paying for half the hotel.  You know what he’s like.  Three-star, ‘can-not-swing-a-cat’ rooms and overboiled eggs for breakfast.  I heard the crispy bacon is fantastic here.”

I shook my head.  I could have a long conversation with Walter, but it wouldn’t change a thing.  He’d mentioned his Lara Croft nice more than once, and the fact that she always seemed to make a mess of everything she touched, but somehow worked out.

Now she was here.

What was he thinking?

“I assume this is for how long?”

“Three weeks or you kill me, which he said you might do when you figure it out.  I saved you the trouble.  Kill me now.”

I looked her up and down.  Over the years, he had told me a lot about her, and I think I came to know her almost as well as he did.

“I’ve got a better idea.  Let’s go look at some statues and try the gelato.  You’ll love it.  And dress like a tourist, not like you’re about to swing from the trees.”

She smiled.  “If you try not to look like something you’re not, old and broken.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 118 – Writing Exercise

…

With a job that took me all over the world, at times to some of the most scenic and visitor-friendly places to go, I never had the time to stop and smell the roses.

Ever.

There was never enough time.

Until…

I had to retire, forced because of injuries I had received in the line of duty.  It rendered me unfit to resume my chosen profession

Being told had been like the sky had fallen in on me.  The doctor, a relatively cheerful fellow, spoke the words in a matter-of-fact tone.

I doubt he realised the weight of those words on the recipient.  For him, it was another day in the office.  For me, it was the end of my world as I knew it.

Most of it was gobbledegook, until the end, the part that mattered.  The sentence…

“Movement will be difficult, and for a while, very tiring.  It will improve, but that will depend on your pain threshold.  No sudden movements, and plan your trips, short or long.  No stairs, avoid steep uphill and downhill paths, no running or jogging.  Maintain your exercise routine.  I think, at the very least, you are very lucky to be alive, and extremely lucky you have the mobility you have.”

My former boss, Roundtree, had a more profound way of looking at it.  “In other words, now you can get around to doing all those things you couldn’t before.”

“Skydiving, and downhill slalom?”

His bright expression turned into a frown, like the sun going behind a cloud.  “Don’t be obtuse, Sykes.  You know what I mean.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not your revered leader any more, Sykes.  You are the master of your destiny.  Have you told Wanda where you want to go?”

Wanda was the agency travel arrangements officer.  I had one last trip available.  First-class ticket to anywhere, and a fortnight in the best hotel.

“Florence.”

“Nice place.  I trust your Italian is up to scratch?”

“Yes, sir.”

A frown, but then, I was never going to call him Walter.  It seemed so disrespectful.

“Well, good.  Well done.  Don’t forget to send postcards.”

“Top of the list, sir.”

“Excellent.”  He came over and shook my hand, then left with the doctor.  I would probably not see him again.

…

You meet interesting people in first class.  It was almost a first for me.  Usually, I was down the back with the rest of humanity.  The department’s attitude was all about anonymity.

I thought it was because the boss was cheap.

But, halfway into the flight from New York to Florence, I’d decided the only reason I’d travel first class was the comfort, and it paid off. 

It was not about the chef-inspired food delivered on monogrammed fine bone china, or the champagne and orange juice when I boarded.  It wasn’t even about that special pack each passenger received on first boarding.

It was just an expensive way to fly.

And see how the other half lived.  Which, by the way, was far more exciting than I usually did, though at times I got to pretend I had more wealth than an Arab Sheik.

There were not many, and they didn’t talk to each other.  There was a family, the mother and father were reasonable, and the two children were brats.  Two CEOs spent the time trying to prove one was better than the other, me, a pretender, a middle-aged woman who was a magazine editor, telling everyone she was on a freebie, a youngish woman who looked like an adventurer, with the whole Indiana Jones thing going on, and two men I suspected were Arab terrorists, or more likely drug cartel leaders.  Flashy but cheap.  I’d met their type before.

The Indiana Jones girl spoke to me before I said anything.  She was nearby and didn’t look the sort to indulge in sharing anything on a plane with strangers.  Neither was I.  It was surprisingly just how many did.

She was coming back from the restroom and simply stopped.  “First time?”

I looked up, surprised.  “Here, going to Italy, being a big boy and travelling alone…”

She smiled.  “Sharper than an Inca death dart.  Pick one.”  She leaned against the wall as the plane shuddered through some turbulence.

“Not the first time here.  Not Italy.  Always working, never got time to see the sights.  Retired, can now.  You?”

“Blogger.  Influencer.  To most, a wanker.  I try the experience for the more adventurous of us out there.”

“Ever crash and burn?”

“Frequently.  Just getting over another failed relationship.  I keep making the same mistake.”

She didn’t look to me to be the sort who made any mistakes. But thanks for sharing, but I don’t care.

“Married men?”

It was meant to be a light-hearted comment.  It went down with a lead balloon.  “You married?”

I think it came out more harshly than she intended.

“No.  No woman will have me.  Broken “

A glare, or a grim smile, she figured I was an obtuse old bastard, and it was time to move on.  A nod, and she went back to her seat.

It was a reminder that you can have everything and nothing.  Someone had told me that a while back, and it stuck

…

I got through the flight with painkillers and a great deal of tolerance.  I was going to kill the two children and hide them in the baggage compartment, but they were not worth the effort.  Leaving them alive was the best form of revenge on the parents.

Florence airports seemed very little different to than at JFK, other than the fact that the writing was in Italian and people tended to speak Italian.  They might have looked a little different, but I wasn’t paying attention.

I was heading to immigration to collect my one bag.  Travelling light was instilled into us.  Carry nothing you couldn’t afford to lose.  To me, all that mattered was a passport and a credit card.  Oh, and money.

I followed the adventuress, oddly in a hurry to get off the plane, turn her phone on and make a half dozen calls, each getting more frustration-laden till the last when I thought she was going to throw the cell phone at the wall.

Or the man who suddenly changed direction in front of her and caused her to stumble to avoid him.  The language was very unladylike.  The man just sailed on regardless.

She just happened to block my way, so I just stood there.  I thought about offering to help, but I got the impression she would not accept it. I would be one of ‘those’ men.

I still had no idea what ‘those’ meant.

She saw me.  “You again.”

Again what?  “You seem to be in a particularly bad mood.  I would have thought that impossible in this place.”

She frowned.  “You seem happy.”

“Just happy to be here.  See a few ancient statues, and go to the museum.  Steep myself in the aura of history.  Get some pizza and gelato.”

“You’re too old to be acting like a giddy tourist.”

She was right, but that was how I felt.  Or how I wanted to feel.

“Life’s too short to be perpetually in a hurry.”

I thought I’d stepped over that invisible line, as red spots appeared on her cheeks, but then she took a deep breath and slowly let it out

“You’re right.  The more haste, the less speed.  Tell me about the statues.”

I almost did a double-take.  Almost.

She fell in beside me, and we strolled to immigration.

…

Whilst I had no intention of spending more time with Deborah Travisore, adventuress and adventure travel influencer, beyond the walk to the immigration queue, she found me, standing back, waiting for the bags.

First class should be first off?  Right?  No.  Not today.  Or just not me.  She had collected four suitcases and several smaller bags, another person who didn’t understand the meaning of travelling light.

I made the mistake of asking if she had brought a menagerie with her. 

And had she not accepted it, had an eccentric sense of humour, my limousine ride from the airport to the hotel would have been less interesting.

If I were still in my former trade, firstly, I would have suspected her to be a foreign actor up to no good, and secondly, if it were and they wanted me dead, I would be.

Except it was patently clear she was who she said she was.  Exile alone and waiting for my bad, I looked up her website’s social media pages and the messy, broken relationships that she seemed to revel in.

Who else would you entrust their disastrous life to cultivate likes, followers, and social media traction?  What scared me was when, not if, I ended up on her website pages as Mr Eccentric, broken man. Astonishingly, she had over a quarter of a million followers.

It was my second foray into the world of social media as a man in the street.  I had no pages, nothing on Facebook or Instagram, or anything.  I just created an email address the day before I got on the plane

The ride to the hotel scored me the result of six phone calls from exiting the plane to where she stumbled.

The man who had asked her to come, and made arrangements for her to run adventure tours and lectures, and who had made arrangements for her hotel stay, had been declared insolvent and arrested.

She had nothing to do and nowhere to go.  I said I would take her as far as my hotel.  What she did after that was her business.

Until I learned that the plane ticket had been paid for, the return ticket had been rescinded, and she didn’t have any more money.

Lesson learned?  Lots of followers meant not a lot of money.

At the hotel, I was met by the Assistant Manager and shown to my room.  I was hoping it would be the last time I saw Deborah.

Until…

My room phone rang.

Intrigued, I answered it.  “Yes?”

“Miss Travencore is insisting that you will verify she is who she says she is.”  It was the Assistant Manager in a rather tricky bind.

“Does that mean I have to pay her account if she cannot?”

“It means you have a connecting set of rooms, and you can hide her in one.  Not that I’m suggesting you do such a thing.  If not, we will escort her to the sidewalk.”

If she were a spy, which I was beginning to think was the case, because her landing on my lap like this was page one of the student playbook.

It was a case of keep your friends close and keep your enemies closer.

“Tell her it will be until she sorts herself out.”

So here was the problem.  Firstly, she was being far too obvious.  Secondly, she had a lot of work put into her cover story.  Thirdly, this type of decoy was usually a stunning-looking woman.  Deborah was attractive in a different way.

Perhaps she had a more interesting side that would emerge later.

Fourthly, and perhaps the one that would be my downfall, I was intrigued that anyone would care about an ex-spy.  I had no codes, no access, and no information or access to it. I had the internet, the same as everyone else.

I was here to look at antiquities, not duel with adversaries that were no longer adversaries.

I took a bottle of Italian beer out of the bar fridge and took a few sips while looking down on a main thoroughfare that led to the Duomo.  I was hoping to visit the church before the day was out.

I heard the door close next door.  Deborah was in residence.  It would cost me nothing for her to stay there; it was part of the package.

Satisfied that the aromas wafting up and in through my windows were exactly as I remembered them, I sat down to contemplate the afternoon.

Fifteen minutes.  I had a mental bet with myself that it would take ten.

A light rapping on the door.

I wasn’t going to open it, then after a sigh, I did.

“Deborah.”

“Call me Debbie.”

“Miss Travencore.”

“That sounds very formal.”

“So there are no misunderstandings.”

“There are no misunderstandings.”

“It will be interesting to see how quickly the complications add up.”

“I am not here to cause trouble, just to thank you for your generosity.”

“Consider me thanked.”  I went to close the door.

“Before you make a decision you might regret…”

I didn’t think any of the decisions I was considering I would regret, other than the one that submits her to a crude and painful field interrogation.

“Who are you, really, Miss Travencore?”

“Who I say I am.  I travel the world finding adventures for my devoted fans.  And, every now and then dabble in a hobby of mine.  This is certainly not one of those tasks.  I swear my uncle Walter puts far too much faith in me.”

“Uncle … Walter?”  An awful thought occurred to me.  My old boss had sent a minder.

“This Uncle Walter…”

“Calls you insufferable, Sykes.  He calls me incorrigible Debbie.  I told him I didn’t do babysitting.  And you wouldn’t want it.  Do you?”

“He refused to get you a room?”

“He said he was already paying for half the hotel.  You know what he’s like.  Three-star, ‘can-not-swing-a-cat’ rooms and overboiled eggs for breakfast.  I heard the crispy bacon is fantastic here.”

I shook my head.  I could have a long conversation with Walter, but it wouldn’t change a thing.  He’d mentioned his Lara Croft nice more than once, and the fact that she always seemed to make a mess of everything she touched, but somehow worked out.

Now she was here.

What was he thinking?

“I assume this is for how long?”

“Three weeks or you kill me, which he said you might do when you figure it out.  I saved you the trouble.  Kill me now.”

I looked her up and down.  Over the years, he had told me a lot about her, and I think I came to know her almost as well as he did.

“I’ve got a better idea.  Let’s go look at some statues and try the gelato.  You’ll love it.  And dress like a tourist, not like you’re about to swing from the trees.”

She smiled.  “If you try not to look like something you’re not, old and broken.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026