Day 243 – Mistakes are part of the territory

…

 Why You Need to Fail to Innovate: Unpacking John Cleese’s Masterclass on Creativity

“If you are not prepared to make a mistake, you’ll never come up with a new idea.” — John Cleese

We’ve all been there staring at a blank screen, a white whiteboard, or a daunting project brief, paralysed by the need to get it right on the first try. In a culture that worships overnight success and flawless execution, making a mistake feels like a professional sin.

But according to legendary comedian, actor, and writer John Cleese—co-founder of Monty Python and creator of Fawlty Towers—this fear of failure is the single greatest enemy of creativity.

If you want to innovate, invent, or simply think outside the box, you have to give yourself permission to be wrong. A lot.

Let’s dive deep into Cleese’s philosophy on creativity, why mistakes are the bedrock of original thought, and how you can cultivate a “mistake-friendly” mindset in your work and life.

---

The Myth of the “Lightbulb Moment”

When we think of creative breakthroughs, we often imagine a eureka moment—a lightning bolt of inspiration striking a genius out of nowhere.

Cleese, who gave a famous lecture on the mechanics of creativity, argues that this is entirely a myth. Creativity is not a talent you are simply born with; it is a mode of operation. It is a state of mind that you can enter, provided you create the right psychological conditions.

The biggest roadblock to entering this creative state? Anxiety.

When you are stressed, pressured to perform, or terrified of looking foolish, your brain goes into survival mode. You rely on tried-and-true, risk-free solutions. You stick to what you know works. Unfortunately, “what works” is the exact opposite of a new idea.

Why Fear Kills Innovation

To understand why fear is the kryptonite of creativity, we have to look at how the brain works.

1. The “Closed” Mindset: When you are afraid of making a mistake, your cognitive focus narrows. You become hyper-critical, editing your thoughts as they happen. This is the “inner critic” working overtime.
2. The Death of Play: Creativity requires playfulness. It requires asking “What if?” without worrying about whether the answer is stupid. Fear replaces play with pressure.
3. The Comfort Zone: Safe ideas rarely change the world. By definition, a new idea is untested, unproven, and a little bit ridiculous until it isn’t. If you refuse to take the risk of being wrong, you anchor yourself to mediocrity.

As Cleese points out, the most creative people aren’t necessarily smarter than everyone else; they are simply more willing to tolerate ambiguity, confusion, and error.

---

Redefining the “Mistake” in the Creative Process

Thomas Edison famously said, “I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.”

In the realm of innovation, a mistake is not a moral failing or a sign of incompetence. It is a data point.

Think of the creative process like an archaeological dig. You have to sift through tons of dirt, rubble, and broken pottery before you unearth something valuable. If you refuse to dig up the dirt because you’re afraid it’s worthless, you’ll never find the artifact.

When you accept that your first ideas are likely going to be terrible, a massive weight lifts off your shoulders. In fact, lowering the bar intentionally is one of the best brainstorming hacks available. Give yourself permission to write the worst possible version of an essay, design the ugliest logo, or pitch the most absurd business concept. Once the bad ideas are out on the table, the good ones finally have room to breathe.

---

How to Apply John Cleese’s Wisdom to Your Work

If you want to harness Cleese’s philosophy and become a more fearless, innovative thinker, try implementing these four strategies:

1. Create a “Tortoise Space” for Play

Cleese emphasises the importance of setting boundaries for creativity. He suggests creating a physical or temporal space where you can retreat from the pressures of the “open” (operational, stressed) mode. Give yourself a dedicated hour where nothing is precious, failure has zero consequences, and you are entirely free to play.

2. Separate Creation from Editing

The cardinal sin of brainstorming is trying to judge your ideas at the same time you are generating them. This is like trying to drive with one foot on the gas and the other on the brakes.

• Phase 1: Generate without judgment. Write down every crazy, stupid, or unpolished thought.
• Phase 2: Put on your analytical hat and evaluate what’s actually useful.

3. Reframe “Failure” as “Exploration”

Language matters. Instead of telling yourself, “If this doesn’t work, I’m a failure,” try telling yourself, “Let’s see what happens if we try X.” Cultivating scientific curiosity removes the emotional sting of a mistake and turns it into an interesting experiment.

4. Reward the Attempt, Not Just the Outcome

If you manage a team, you cannot demand innovation while punishing missteps. Foster a culture where bold, well-reasoned risks are celebrated—even when they fail. When employees know their jobs aren’t on the line for trying something new, they will surprise you with breakthrough solutions.

---

Final Thoughts: Embrace the Mess

Innovation is inherently messy. It is a journey of trial, error, backtracking, and accidental discoveries.

John Cleese’s timeless insight reminds us that perfectionism is the enemy of progress. If you wait until you have a guaranteed, foolproof, mistake-proof plan, you will be waiting forever.

So, lower the stakes. Embrace the absurd. Make the mistake. It just might be the starting point of your best idea yet.

---

What is the best “mistake” that led to a breakthrough in your career or creative projects? Let’s discuss in the comments below!

…

Day 243 – Mistakes are part of the territory

…

 Why You Need to Fail to Innovate: Unpacking John Cleese’s Masterclass on Creativity

“If you are not prepared to make a mistake, you’ll never come up with a new idea.” — John Cleese

We’ve all been there staring at a blank screen, a white whiteboard, or a daunting project brief, paralysed by the need to get it right on the first try. In a culture that worships overnight success and flawless execution, making a mistake feels like a professional sin.

But according to legendary comedian, actor, and writer John Cleese—co-founder of Monty Python and creator of Fawlty Towers—this fear of failure is the single greatest enemy of creativity.

If you want to innovate, invent, or simply think outside the box, you have to give yourself permission to be wrong. A lot.

Let’s dive deep into Cleese’s philosophy on creativity, why mistakes are the bedrock of original thought, and how you can cultivate a “mistake-friendly” mindset in your work and life.

---

The Myth of the “Lightbulb Moment”

When we think of creative breakthroughs, we often imagine a eureka moment—a lightning bolt of inspiration striking a genius out of nowhere.

Cleese, who gave a famous lecture on the mechanics of creativity, argues that this is entirely a myth. Creativity is not a talent you are simply born with; it is a mode of operation. It is a state of mind that you can enter, provided you create the right psychological conditions.

The biggest roadblock to entering this creative state? Anxiety.

When you are stressed, pressured to perform, or terrified of looking foolish, your brain goes into survival mode. You rely on tried-and-true, risk-free solutions. You stick to what you know works. Unfortunately, “what works” is the exact opposite of a new idea.

Why Fear Kills Innovation

To understand why fear is the kryptonite of creativity, we have to look at how the brain works.

1. The “Closed” Mindset: When you are afraid of making a mistake, your cognitive focus narrows. You become hyper-critical, editing your thoughts as they happen. This is the “inner critic” working overtime.
2. The Death of Play: Creativity requires playfulness. It requires asking “What if?” without worrying about whether the answer is stupid. Fear replaces play with pressure.
3. The Comfort Zone: Safe ideas rarely change the world. By definition, a new idea is untested, unproven, and a little bit ridiculous until it isn’t. If you refuse to take the risk of being wrong, you anchor yourself to mediocrity.

As Cleese points out, the most creative people aren’t necessarily smarter than everyone else; they are simply more willing to tolerate ambiguity, confusion, and error.

---

Redefining the “Mistake” in the Creative Process

Thomas Edison famously said, “I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.”

In the realm of innovation, a mistake is not a moral failing or a sign of incompetence. It is a data point.

Think of the creative process like an archaeological dig. You have to sift through tons of dirt, rubble, and broken pottery before you unearth something valuable. If you refuse to dig up the dirt because you’re afraid it’s worthless, you’ll never find the artifact.

When you accept that your first ideas are likely going to be terrible, a massive weight lifts off your shoulders. In fact, lowering the bar intentionally is one of the best brainstorming hacks available. Give yourself permission to write the worst possible version of an essay, design the ugliest logo, or pitch the most absurd business concept. Once the bad ideas are out on the table, the good ones finally have room to breathe.

---

How to Apply John Cleese’s Wisdom to Your Work

If you want to harness Cleese’s philosophy and become a more fearless, innovative thinker, try implementing these four strategies:

1. Create a “Tortoise Space” for Play

Cleese emphasises the importance of setting boundaries for creativity. He suggests creating a physical or temporal space where you can retreat from the pressures of the “open” (operational, stressed) mode. Give yourself a dedicated hour where nothing is precious, failure has zero consequences, and you are entirely free to play.

2. Separate Creation from Editing

The cardinal sin of brainstorming is trying to judge your ideas at the same time you are generating them. This is like trying to drive with one foot on the gas and the other on the brakes.

• Phase 1: Generate without judgment. Write down every crazy, stupid, or unpolished thought.
• Phase 2: Put on your analytical hat and evaluate what’s actually useful.

3. Reframe “Failure” as “Exploration”

Language matters. Instead of telling yourself, “If this doesn’t work, I’m a failure,” try telling yourself, “Let’s see what happens if we try X.” Cultivating scientific curiosity removes the emotional sting of a mistake and turns it into an interesting experiment.

4. Reward the Attempt, Not Just the Outcome

If you manage a team, you cannot demand innovation while punishing missteps. Foster a culture where bold, well-reasoned risks are celebrated—even when they fail. When employees know their jobs aren’t on the line for trying something new, they will surprise you with breakthrough solutions.

---

Final Thoughts: Embrace the Mess

Innovation is inherently messy. It is a journey of trial, error, backtracking, and accidental discoveries.

John Cleese’s timeless insight reminds us that perfectionism is the enemy of progress. If you wait until you have a guaranteed, foolproof, mistake-proof plan, you will be waiting forever.

So, lower the stakes. Embrace the absurd. Make the mistake. It just might be the starting point of your best idea yet.

---

What is the best “mistake” that led to a breakthrough in your career or creative projects? Let’s discuss in the comments below!

…

Days 241 and 242 – Writing Exercise

…

It had been a very difficult decision to walk away from what had been my home, and not only my home but that of my brothers and sisters, but my father’s choices, after our mother died, had created an impossible situation.

My father was never the sort of man who never argued or exerted his authority.  He preferred to let his wife, our mother, do everything, and while she was alive and had the best of intentions, everything was fine

Then she got ill and died.  He was like a rudderless ship, drifting in the middle of an empty ocean.  When it became too much, my sister registered him with a group who had all suffered the same malaise.  The loss of a lifelong partner.

That’s where he met Mathilde Watson.

Everything was fine for the first few months.  He got his mojo back, and he’d found another woman who was happy to take charge.

Except …

She was only interested in what she needed for herself and her children, and simply ignored, or made it known in a less-than-subtle manner, made it known that the rest of his family were no longer welcome. 

Within a year, all four of us children by his first marriage had moved out, or more to the point, were forced out, and her three children and her parents had settled in, making themselves at home.

We tried to tell him, but in the end he believed that we were upset that he had found another wife, and didn’t want him to be happy again.  It was pure Mathilde speaking, but in the end, we simply acknowledged that he was not going to change.

Then, that first Christmas we all came back, she had engineered an argument, one I, and the others should have expected, and more to the point, should have known better than to bite, and for myself,  my last words with him were regrettable.  I didn’t stay to hear what the others had said, but our group chat on social media lit up for about a month afterwards

We had all worked hard over subsequent years to repair the damage she had inflicted, but it was too late.

For all of us.

He got ill, and Mathilde deliberately or otherwise managed to make it almost impossible for any of us to see him except at the very end, when we each got a message to come home.

At least all of us had been with him when he died.  Where Mathilde was, no one asked, and we didn’t wait around to find out.

…

Legal offices were usually austere places, where visits were rare, where I had been once to sign a set of documents at the insistence of my father’s legal representative, a man as old as he was, Ferguson.  I didn’t know of ever had another name.

To be honest I was not sure what they were, I trusted the lawyer and what my father told me, that I didn’t needed to know, just that it was ensuring we emremained a family, despite the new arrangements in his life.  I thought it odd at the time, letting us all be forced away by Mathilde.

I just put it down to strange behaviour we had come to expect from him since Mathilde came into his life.

It was not long after I left home for good, probably not my finest hour, but I had been angry,  and Mathilde, his new wife, was an easy target. I said my piece, and never went back.

Whatever it was, I never gave it another thought.

Until…

I was told he had died.  Mathilde hadn’t informed us, and as little as a few days ago, my sister had phoned him to get a report and had been told by one of her sons he was fine, and not to worry.

Clearly he had been dead for a few weeks.

Ferguson was apologetic that he had been asked by the local police to hold off informing the relatives until they had completed a preliminary investigation.

What was first thought to be death by natural causes was now contentiously labelled a potential murder.  His request was twofold: we all had to meet the Detective in charge of the case, and make a statement that would eliminate us from the investigation.

Clearly it had been communicated to my brother and two sisters because for the next hour the phone lines burned with regret, and a single potential accusation.  If he had been murdered, we knew exactly who did it.

Mathilde.

The other reason for our presence: Ferguson had a letter from our father to read as part of the will.  There were some unusual aspects related to his death that had to be worked through, but Mathilde had been asking for clarification of her position.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t control my resentment, saying that I thought that her position would have been straightforward.  She had coerced him into signing everything over to her.  It was the reason why she had created a hostile environment that none of us wanted any part of.

We could all truthfully say we had no opportunity to coerce him, not that we would.  I may have been disappointed with him and his choices, but I had wanted to believe he was happy.

I said as much to Ferguson.  I also said it was hardly worth my while, that his new family would take everything, and I didn’t ever want to see their gloating faces again.

He countered, saying my attendance would be as a favour to him and out of respect for my father.  He had cared about us, despite what had happened.

It was a matter of whether I wanted to believe it, and I chose not to, but, against my better judgement, I agreed to go.  I had to see the Detective anyway.

… 

Before arriving at Ferguson’s office, we each visited the Detective separately.  It had been suggested that we go together, but my younger brother, a junior lawyer himself, said it would look like we were colluding.

My stay was brief; he took my statement of my movements over the last three months, and any contact I’d had with the household and my father.  That was easy.  None.  He seemed surprised until I summed up the environment.  We were simply not welcome, and he had made no effort to change it.

It seemed selfish and rather pathetic that I hadn’t tried harder, but it was what it was.

Then, prior to the meeting, we met at a cafe nearby.  We were all of the same opinion: the new wife and her family would get everything, and we’d get nothing.  In my mind’s eye I could see her coaxing my father’s hand, creating a will in their favour.

We almost unanimously decided to get up, walk out and go home.  Only a simultaneous text message arriving on our cell phones stopped us.

“Important you be there at the meeting.  All will be revealed in good time.”

I shrugged.

“All in,” I asked.

Three nods.  My older sister Jeanne had the last word: “If that bitch pisses me off, I’m going to punch her lights out.”

I didn’t tell her she would have to get in line.

…

The meeting room felt crowded and unruly.

Not a surprise

All of Mathilde’s family were there.  Her, her parents, the three children and their spouses and a dozen kids.  Jeanne said they bred like rabbits.  She seemed to know a lot about Mathilde and her tribe, as she called them.

The adults all had the same expressions, the cats who’d eaten the canary and got away with it.  None of them acknowledged us when we arrived, and we just frowned at them.  There were no seats left at the table, so we gathered over by the windows.

Their children did not offer us their seats out of respect. And a conversation between Mathilde and her eldest son was clearly referencing us in derogatory terms.  The laughter was annoying.

And provocative?  Maybe.  But it wasn’t going to get a rise.

That’s when Ferguson came in.

The noise level didn’t abate, nor did he get the respect he deserved.  That’s when I saw him raise his hand and bring it down on the table with such force it caused the water in the jug to ripple.

It got their attention.

“This reading is for Albert’s four children from his first marriage, his second wife, and her three children.  No one else.  I will wait until this room is cleared before continuing.

“They are family.”  Mathilde sounded and looked offended.

“That may be, but your husband made a specific request about who may attend.  If you want to argue your case, get a lawyer and I’ll see you in court.  Otherwise, clear the room.”

I, for one, wouldn’t take issue with him.  He looked as angry as I felt.

Ferguson 1, Mathilde 0.

Her parents gathered up the children and left as requested.  A sullen silence settled over the room.  We sat at the end of the table, as far away from Mathilde and her children as we could get.

They had never accepted us as family, and all had been openly hostile towards us, mostly when our father was not home.

Mathilde glanced in our direction, then glared at Ferguson.  “What are they doing here?  They’re no longer family.  They abandoned their father, and if anyone is responsible for killing him, they are “

Ferguson glared back.  If she thought she could intimidate him, he was not a tall or heavy man, not like her sons; she was wrong.

He kept the stare going for nearly a minute until she began to squirm, when he fired the question, “Your opinion, if I get your meaning, is that you believe someone killed Albert?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them.”

Jeanne went slightly pink in the face, and I knew from experience that she was a sure sign she was about to explode.  “Not your first rodeo, eh Mathilde, trying to shift the blame.  Or should I call you Margaret?”

“What are you….”  Mathilde was gaining some colour as well.

Jeanne held up her phone.  “Detective Mandon, whom I know you are aware is investigating the suspicious death of my father,” with emphasis on the word ‘my’, “was extremely interested in the documents I gave him relating to another similar case in Ohio.  That’s where you said you came from.”

“Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong; jealousy and spite will get you nowhere.”

Jeanne put her phone down.  “You know his death is suspicious, and you’re deflecting.  Only someone with something to hide would do that.  You should have just sat there and shut up.”

She went to reply when her son, sitting next to her, put out a restraining hand and whispered in her ear.  She shook his hand off, but didn’t speak.

Ferguson looked at the combatants, calculating what it would take if a fight broke out.  Then, “The terms of the will are quite specific. If anyone sitting at this table had anything to do with Albert’s death, there’s nothing for you.”

He looked straight at Mathilde.  “You’ve been far from cooperative with the police.  You have made the claim that you should be compensated because, in your own words, ‘I have spent nearly every hour of every day for the last three months looking after him’.  Two points arise from that: the first, that no one, and especially the four children you are accusing, could have, nor anyone else, got near enough to give him a glass of water, let alone poison.  The other, again by your own admission, only you could have administered it.”

The son put another restraining hand on her and stopped her from removing it.  “You are twisting her words.”

“So you are admitting your mother lied.”

“Now you’re twisting my words.”

“No.  You just didn’t think things through before you wrote it down.”

Mathilde was now past angry.  Which, for someone who wanted to prove she was the loving and caring partner, certainly seemed agitated when the contrary was presented.

“You cooked this circus up together, didn’t you?”

My turn.  “Why didn’t you tell us when our father died?  In fact, when Jeanne called a few days after we now know he had died, one of your sons said he was still alive, and for us not to worry about him.”

She looked at her son, and he shrugged

“You got your dates mixed up.”

Jeanne, now strangely calm, said,  “I recorded the conversation, timestamped and filed away, with every other call I made.  Your son lied.  Why?”

She thought about what she would say, probably for the first time, and decided silence was a better option.

“Perhaps I might have an answer for you,” I said.  “You needed the time to try and empty the bank accounts before notifying the bank of his death.  The problem is, you couldn’t because he had to verify the transactions, a secondary process you were not aware of.  I’m guessing you saw the confirmation request but couldn’t bluff your way through it.  You knew he had several investment accounts, but he only granted you access to the everyday working account and a capped credit card.  If you killed him for his money, you failed.”

Her expression said all we needed to know.  It must have been hell in that house when she discovered she couldn’t get her hands on the main prize, about 30 million dollars.  I shuddered to think what the state of his study was after all of them ransacked it for evidence of his riches.  The paperwork would have been there somewhere, and he would not have had time to go cold before the search began.

How did I know this possible scenario?  The notifications the bank sent my father asking for his confirmation also came to me.  It was then I realised what those papers I’d signed meant.  I dug them out of the bottom of a proverbial shoebox and read them.

That’s when I realised something had happened.  He may not have been dead at the time, but totally incapacitated.  I was the only other signatory who could authorise her withdrawals.  It told me he hadn’t really trusted her completely.

“If I go home and have a look in his study, I’m willing to bet you ripped it apart looking for his access codes.  The thing is, he never wrote them down.  They died with him.”

She may have just worked out how to control her expression, but the boys hadn’t.  That house would now be little more than a rubbish tip.

Mathilde regained some composure, enough to say, “You asked us here to tell us what’s in the will.  My family needs some clarity about what arrangements he set in place for me.”

“Very well.  We’ll presume the assumption of innocence for all for the moment.  In normal circumstances, the will is quite simple in its provisions.”

An almost smug look returned to her face.

“It is important to note, before I read those provisions, the arrangements that were made some years ago, just after the death of his first wife and before he met and married you.”  Ferguson looked pointedly at Mathilde.  “At that time he decided to create a family trust, and then deposited the main investments and part of the funds from the sale of the house and several other properties into it.”

He paused, maybe to let that sink in, or to take a sigh of relief.  I remembered overhearing a conversation he had with our father over his finances, and the need to set up a trust to protect what he had and to provide for those he deemed worthy of an inheritance.

“He also created a working account where his share of the dividends from the trust’s investments were to be directed.  A few months later he transferred ownership of the trust to his four original children.”

It was a surprise to the other three, and until I got the requests for authorisation, I was equally in the dark.  Our father and Ferguson would have managed it without needing to defer to us, and his managers hip would have lapsed on his death

“What does all that mean?”  The smug look had gone, and the calculating mind had kicked in.

“It means Albert’s estate amounts to about a hundred and twenty-two thousand dollars.  The house was leased from the trust to him for a peppercorn rent as long as he lived.  Your continuing to rent the property will be at the discretion of the trustees.  Bear in mind that a tenant inspection is being carried out while you are here, as provided in the conditions of the rental agreement, and if the damages to the house exceed 5,000 dollars, you will be issued a notice of eviction.”

“You can’t do that.  He promised us he would look after us.”

“You didn’t ask the appropriate questions and made assumptions.  The rental agreement was made in his name.  He asked you if you wanted to be included on the lease agreement, but you declined.  If your name was on the rental agreement, it would be a different situation.”

“So, what do we get?”

“The car, and each a share of the 122 thousand or so in the working account and an investment account in both your names.  He had nothing else.”

One of the sons said, “And the dividends from the trusts.”

“Unfortunately, that money was at the discretion of the trustees, in his name only, and an arrangement made before you met him.  The agreement he signed with the trust was a contract of employment, which ceased on his death.  There will be some clean-up disbursements, vacation pay and possibly a bonus, but nothing significant.”

“And that’s it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“We’ll sue.”  One of the other sons, probably the first time he looked as if he was paying attention, spoke.  “There’s no way at least half of whatever is in that trust is ours.  It has to be worth millions.  He was filthy rich.  You said he was the one with the money.”

Ferguson’s phone vibrated on the desk beside the file.  He picked up the phone and checked it, reading what must have been a text.  There was just a hint of a smile.

“If you decide to sue, which is your right, of course, any bequests will be withdrawn, and we can argue our case in court.”

There were raised voices outside the office, and when we looked through the windows looking out over the foyer, there were two uniformed police officers and two detectives.

“The tox report had come back, and as I understand it, Albert died from slow poisoning. I’m not sure what the details are, but the police have searched the house and found evidence which they need you to explain how and why it’s there, and why it is in some of the food you kept in the freezer.”

Mathilde looked at the eldest son.

“What?  It’s not my fault.”

“Shut up, you fool.”

The detective was ushered in, and without another word, we left, as all four of them immediately said they would not be cooperating until they called their lawyer.

I was positive Ferguson was not going to represent them.

…

The menagerie that was Mathilde’s family was rounded up and taken away.  Ferguson was glad to see the last of them.

Legally, we had known about the trust, if push came to shove, but the reality was Ferguson kept all of the letters, documents and correspondence at his office.

Our father didn’t want to burden us with complications of investing money or managing properties. Now? Perhaps we would have to.

It was a tidy sum, and we could draw a large income from the trust if we chose.  None of it could go to his new family.  They were only entitled to a share of his assistance and the time of the wedding.

It was watertight and could not be contested.

And if she, or any of them, were convicted of murder, then it was a moot point.

Jeanne’s final remark: “She was, after all said and done, just a gold digger.  All of them. I think we owe a great deal of thanks to Mr Ferguson for his diligence in protecting us from that dreadful woman and her family.”

Even so, I had a feeling we had not seen the last of Mathilde Watson.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Days 241 and 242 – Writing Exercise

…

It had been a very difficult decision to walk away from what had been my home, and not only my home but that of my brothers and sisters, but my father’s choices, after our mother died, had created an impossible situation.

My father was never the sort of man who never argued or exerted his authority.  He preferred to let his wife, our mother, do everything, and while she was alive and had the best of intentions, everything was fine

Then she got ill and died.  He was like a rudderless ship, drifting in the middle of an empty ocean.  When it became too much, my sister registered him with a group who had all suffered the same malaise.  The loss of a lifelong partner.

That’s where he met Mathilde Watson.

Everything was fine for the first few months.  He got his mojo back, and he’d found another woman who was happy to take charge.

Except …

She was only interested in what she needed for herself and her children, and simply ignored, or made it known in a less-than-subtle manner, made it known that the rest of his family were no longer welcome. 

Within a year, all four of us children by his first marriage had moved out, or more to the point, were forced out, and her three children and her parents had settled in, making themselves at home.

We tried to tell him, but in the end he believed that we were upset that he had found another wife, and didn’t want him to be happy again.  It was pure Mathilde speaking, but in the end, we simply acknowledged that he was not going to change.

Then, that first Christmas we all came back, she had engineered an argument, one I, and the others should have expected, and more to the point, should have known better than to bite, and for myself,  my last words with him were regrettable.  I didn’t stay to hear what the others had said, but our group chat on social media lit up for about a month afterwards

We had all worked hard over subsequent years to repair the damage she had inflicted, but it was too late.

For all of us.

He got ill, and Mathilde deliberately or otherwise managed to make it almost impossible for any of us to see him except at the very end, when we each got a message to come home.

At least all of us had been with him when he died.  Where Mathilde was, no one asked, and we didn’t wait around to find out.

…

Legal offices were usually austere places, where visits were rare, where I had been once to sign a set of documents at the insistence of my father’s legal representative, a man as old as he was, Ferguson.  I didn’t know of ever had another name.

To be honest I was not sure what they were, I trusted the lawyer and what my father told me, that I didn’t needed to know, just that it was ensuring we emremained a family, despite the new arrangements in his life.  I thought it odd at the time, letting us all be forced away by Mathilde.

I just put it down to strange behaviour we had come to expect from him since Mathilde came into his life.

It was not long after I left home for good, probably not my finest hour, but I had been angry,  and Mathilde, his new wife, was an easy target. I said my piece, and never went back.

Whatever it was, I never gave it another thought.

Until…

I was told he had died.  Mathilde hadn’t informed us, and as little as a few days ago, my sister had phoned him to get a report and had been told by one of her sons he was fine, and not to worry.

Clearly he had been dead for a few weeks.

Ferguson was apologetic that he had been asked by the local police to hold off informing the relatives until they had completed a preliminary investigation.

What was first thought to be death by natural causes was now contentiously labelled a potential murder.  His request was twofold: we all had to meet the Detective in charge of the case, and make a statement that would eliminate us from the investigation.

Clearly it had been communicated to my brother and two sisters because for the next hour the phone lines burned with regret, and a single potential accusation.  If he had been murdered, we knew exactly who did it.

Mathilde.

The other reason for our presence: Ferguson had a letter from our father to read as part of the will.  There were some unusual aspects related to his death that had to be worked through, but Mathilde had been asking for clarification of her position.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t control my resentment, saying that I thought that her position would have been straightforward.  She had coerced him into signing everything over to her.  It was the reason why she had created a hostile environment that none of us wanted any part of.

We could all truthfully say we had no opportunity to coerce him, not that we would.  I may have been disappointed with him and his choices, but I had wanted to believe he was happy.

I said as much to Ferguson.  I also said it was hardly worth my while, that his new family would take everything, and I didn’t ever want to see their gloating faces again.

He countered, saying my attendance would be as a favour to him and out of respect for my father.  He had cared about us, despite what had happened.

It was a matter of whether I wanted to believe it, and I chose not to, but, against my better judgement, I agreed to go.  I had to see the Detective anyway.

… 

Before arriving at Ferguson’s office, we each visited the Detective separately.  It had been suggested that we go together, but my younger brother, a junior lawyer himself, said it would look like we were colluding.

My stay was brief; he took my statement of my movements over the last three months, and any contact I’d had with the household and my father.  That was easy.  None.  He seemed surprised until I summed up the environment.  We were simply not welcome, and he had made no effort to change it.

It seemed selfish and rather pathetic that I hadn’t tried harder, but it was what it was.

Then, prior to the meeting, we met at a cafe nearby.  We were all of the same opinion: the new wife and her family would get everything, and we’d get nothing.  In my mind’s eye I could see her coaxing my father’s hand, creating a will in their favour.

We almost unanimously decided to get up, walk out and go home.  Only a simultaneous text message arriving on our cell phones stopped us.

“Important you be there at the meeting.  All will be revealed in good time.”

I shrugged.

“All in,” I asked.

Three nods.  My older sister Jeanne had the last word: “If that bitch pisses me off, I’m going to punch her lights out.”

I didn’t tell her she would have to get in line.

…

The meeting room felt crowded and unruly.

Not a surprise

All of Mathilde’s family were there.  Her, her parents, the three children and their spouses and a dozen kids.  Jeanne said they bred like rabbits.  She seemed to know a lot about Mathilde and her tribe, as she called them.

The adults all had the same expressions, the cats who’d eaten the canary and got away with it.  None of them acknowledged us when we arrived, and we just frowned at them.  There were no seats left at the table, so we gathered over by the windows.

Their children did not offer us their seats out of respect. And a conversation between Mathilde and her eldest son was clearly referencing us in derogatory terms.  The laughter was annoying.

And provocative?  Maybe.  But it wasn’t going to get a rise.

That’s when Ferguson came in.

The noise level didn’t abate, nor did he get the respect he deserved.  That’s when I saw him raise his hand and bring it down on the table with such force it caused the water in the jug to ripple.

It got their attention.

“This reading is for Albert’s four children from his first marriage, his second wife, and her three children.  No one else.  I will wait until this room is cleared before continuing.

“They are family.”  Mathilde sounded and looked offended.

“That may be, but your husband made a specific request about who may attend.  If you want to argue your case, get a lawyer and I’ll see you in court.  Otherwise, clear the room.”

I, for one, wouldn’t take issue with him.  He looked as angry as I felt.

Ferguson 1, Mathilde 0.

Her parents gathered up the children and left as requested.  A sullen silence settled over the room.  We sat at the end of the table, as far away from Mathilde and her children as we could get.

They had never accepted us as family, and all had been openly hostile towards us, mostly when our father was not home.

Mathilde glanced in our direction, then glared at Ferguson.  “What are they doing here?  They’re no longer family.  They abandoned their father, and if anyone is responsible for killing him, they are “

Ferguson glared back.  If she thought she could intimidate him, he was not a tall or heavy man, not like her sons; she was wrong.

He kept the stare going for nearly a minute until she began to squirm, when he fired the question, “Your opinion, if I get your meaning, is that you believe someone killed Albert?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them.”

Jeanne went slightly pink in the face, and I knew from experience that she was a sure sign she was about to explode.  “Not your first rodeo, eh Mathilde, trying to shift the blame.  Or should I call you Margaret?”

“What are you….”  Mathilde was gaining some colour as well.

Jeanne held up her phone.  “Detective Mandon, whom I know you are aware is investigating the suspicious death of my father,” with emphasis on the word ‘my’, “was extremely interested in the documents I gave him relating to another similar case in Ohio.  That’s where you said you came from.”

“Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong; jealousy and spite will get you nowhere.”

Jeanne put her phone down.  “You know his death is suspicious, and you’re deflecting.  Only someone with something to hide would do that.  You should have just sat there and shut up.”

She went to reply when her son, sitting next to her, put out a restraining hand and whispered in her ear.  She shook his hand off, but didn’t speak.

Ferguson looked at the combatants, calculating what it would take if a fight broke out.  Then, “The terms of the will are quite specific. If anyone sitting at this table had anything to do with Albert’s death, there’s nothing for you.”

He looked straight at Mathilde.  “You’ve been far from cooperative with the police.  You have made the claim that you should be compensated because, in your own words, ‘I have spent nearly every hour of every day for the last three months looking after him’.  Two points arise from that: the first, that no one, and especially the four children you are accusing, could have, nor anyone else, got near enough to give him a glass of water, let alone poison.  The other, again by your own admission, only you could have administered it.”

The son put another restraining hand on her and stopped her from removing it.  “You are twisting her words.”

“So you are admitting your mother lied.”

“Now you’re twisting my words.”

“No.  You just didn’t think things through before you wrote it down.”

Mathilde was now past angry.  Which, for someone who wanted to prove she was the loving and caring partner, certainly seemed agitated when the contrary was presented.

“You cooked this circus up together, didn’t you?”

My turn.  “Why didn’t you tell us when our father died?  In fact, when Jeanne called a few days after we now know he had died, one of your sons said he was still alive, and for us not to worry about him.”

She looked at her son, and he shrugged

“You got your dates mixed up.”

Jeanne, now strangely calm, said,  “I recorded the conversation, timestamped and filed away, with every other call I made.  Your son lied.  Why?”

She thought about what she would say, probably for the first time, and decided silence was a better option.

“Perhaps I might have an answer for you,” I said.  “You needed the time to try and empty the bank accounts before notifying the bank of his death.  The problem is, you couldn’t because he had to verify the transactions, a secondary process you were not aware of.  I’m guessing you saw the confirmation request but couldn’t bluff your way through it.  You knew he had several investment accounts, but he only granted you access to the everyday working account and a capped credit card.  If you killed him for his money, you failed.”

Her expression said all we needed to know.  It must have been hell in that house when she discovered she couldn’t get her hands on the main prize, about 30 million dollars.  I shuddered to think what the state of his study was after all of them ransacked it for evidence of his riches.  The paperwork would have been there somewhere, and he would not have had time to go cold before the search began.

How did I know this possible scenario?  The notifications the bank sent my father asking for his confirmation also came to me.  It was then I realised what those papers I’d signed meant.  I dug them out of the bottom of a proverbial shoebox and read them.

That’s when I realised something had happened.  He may not have been dead at the time, but totally incapacitated.  I was the only other signatory who could authorise her withdrawals.  It told me he hadn’t really trusted her completely.

“If I go home and have a look in his study, I’m willing to bet you ripped it apart looking for his access codes.  The thing is, he never wrote them down.  They died with him.”

She may have just worked out how to control her expression, but the boys hadn’t.  That house would now be little more than a rubbish tip.

Mathilde regained some composure, enough to say, “You asked us here to tell us what’s in the will.  My family needs some clarity about what arrangements he set in place for me.”

“Very well.  We’ll presume the assumption of innocence for all for the moment.  In normal circumstances, the will is quite simple in its provisions.”

An almost smug look returned to her face.

“It is important to note, before I read those provisions, the arrangements that were made some years ago, just after the death of his first wife and before he met and married you.”  Ferguson looked pointedly at Mathilde.  “At that time he decided to create a family trust, and then deposited the main investments and part of the funds from the sale of the house and several other properties into it.”

He paused, maybe to let that sink in, or to take a sigh of relief.  I remembered overhearing a conversation he had with our father over his finances, and the need to set up a trust to protect what he had and to provide for those he deemed worthy of an inheritance.

“He also created a working account where his share of the dividends from the trust’s investments were to be directed.  A few months later he transferred ownership of the trust to his four original children.”

It was a surprise to the other three, and until I got the requests for authorisation, I was equally in the dark.  Our father and Ferguson would have managed it without needing to defer to us, and his managers hip would have lapsed on his death

“What does all that mean?”  The smug look had gone, and the calculating mind had kicked in.

“It means Albert’s estate amounts to about a hundred and twenty-two thousand dollars.  The house was leased from the trust to him for a peppercorn rent as long as he lived.  Your continuing to rent the property will be at the discretion of the trustees.  Bear in mind that a tenant inspection is being carried out while you are here, as provided in the conditions of the rental agreement, and if the damages to the house exceed 5,000 dollars, you will be issued a notice of eviction.”

“You can’t do that.  He promised us he would look after us.”

“You didn’t ask the appropriate questions and made assumptions.  The rental agreement was made in his name.  He asked you if you wanted to be included on the lease agreement, but you declined.  If your name was on the rental agreement, it would be a different situation.”

“So, what do we get?”

“The car, and each a share of the 122 thousand or so in the working account and an investment account in both your names.  He had nothing else.”

One of the sons said, “And the dividends from the trusts.”

“Unfortunately, that money was at the discretion of the trustees, in his name only, and an arrangement made before you met him.  The agreement he signed with the trust was a contract of employment, which ceased on his death.  There will be some clean-up disbursements, vacation pay and possibly a bonus, but nothing significant.”

“And that’s it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“We’ll sue.”  One of the other sons, probably the first time he looked as if he was paying attention, spoke.  “There’s no way at least half of whatever is in that trust is ours.  It has to be worth millions.  He was filthy rich.  You said he was the one with the money.”

Ferguson’s phone vibrated on the desk beside the file.  He picked up the phone and checked it, reading what must have been a text.  There was just a hint of a smile.

“If you decide to sue, which is your right, of course, any bequests will be withdrawn, and we can argue our case in court.”

There were raised voices outside the office, and when we looked through the windows looking out over the foyer, there were two uniformed police officers and two detectives.

“The tox report had come back, and as I understand it, Albert died from slow poisoning. I’m not sure what the details are, but the police have searched the house and found evidence which they need you to explain how and why it’s there, and why it is in some of the food you kept in the freezer.”

Mathilde looked at the eldest son.

“What?  It’s not my fault.”

“Shut up, you fool.”

The detective was ushered in, and without another word, we left, as all four of them immediately said they would not be cooperating until they called their lawyer.

I was positive Ferguson was not going to represent them.

…

The menagerie that was Mathilde’s family was rounded up and taken away.  Ferguson was glad to see the last of them.

Legally, we had known about the trust, if push came to shove, but the reality was Ferguson kept all of the letters, documents and correspondence at his office.

Our father didn’t want to burden us with complications of investing money or managing properties. Now? Perhaps we would have to.

It was a tidy sum, and we could draw a large income from the trust if we chose.  None of it could go to his new family.  They were only entitled to a share of his assistance and the time of the wedding.

It was watertight and could not be contested.

And if she, or any of them, were convicted of murder, then it was a moot point.

Jeanne’s final remark: “She was, after all said and done, just a gold digger.  All of them. I think we owe a great deal of thanks to Mr Ferguson for his diligence in protecting us from that dreadful woman and her family.”

Even so, I had a feeling we had not seen the last of Mathilde Watson.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

The Invisible Wall

…

Hitting the Wall: How to Rescue a Book Series When You’ve Literally Lost the Plot

You had a vision. Book one launched with a bang. Book two built the world and deepened the character arcs. Book three delivered a satisfying, breathless climax that left readers clamouring for more.

And then came book four.

You’re halfway through the manuscript, and you’ve hit the ultimate writer’s nightmare: you have quite literally lost the plot. The pacing is dead, the characters are wandering around a narrative wasteland like confused tourists, and staring at a blank Word document makes you want to take up competitive knitting.

If your series was going gangbusters and has now slammed head-first into a brick wall, take a deep breath. You aren’t the first bestselling author to face the dreaded “middle-book slump,” and you certainly won’t be the last.

Here is your emergency guide on what happens when you hit the wall, both figuratively and literally—and how to fix it before your readers jump ship.

---

Phase 1: The Anatomy of the Collapse (The “Literally” Part)

First, let’s address the physical and mental reality of hitting the wall. Writing a sprawling series takes a massive cognitive toll. By book four, you are no longer just writing a story; you are managing a fictional ecosystem.

When you lose the plot literally, it usually looks like this:

• The Spaghetti Plot: You’ve introduced too many subplots, and they are now tangled in a knot so tight even Alexander the Great would reach for a pair of scissors.
• The Character Drift: Your protagonist is doing things purely because the plot requires them to, rather than making organic choices based on their growth.
• The Middle-Book Swamp: You know where the book needs to end, and you know where it started, but the 40,000 words in the middle are a foggy morass of conversations in coffee shops and hallways that lead nowhere.

When your brain hits this wall, it’s waving a white flag. It’s telling you that your current blueprint is broken.

---

Phase 2: Stop Digging (The Power of Stepping Back)

The worst thing you can do when you’ve lost the plot is to force yourself to churn out 2,000 words a day of absolute nonsense just to hit a daily quota. That’s how you end up with a manuscript that requires a ruthless, tear-soaked page-one rewrite later.

1. Give Yourself Permission to Pause: Step away from the keyboard for 48 hours. Seriously. Go for a walk, read a book in a completely different genre, or binge a TV show. Let your subconscious untangle the wires without your conscious frustration getting in the way.

2. Conduct an Autopsy: Print out what you have so far—yes, actual paper. Grab a red pen and a highlighter. Read through the manuscript from chapter one of book four (or even the end of book three) to see where the train officially derailed. Ask yourself:

• Where did the momentum stop?
• Which character choice felt forced?
• Did I introduce a shiny new plot element just to keep things moving, and did it actually ruin the pacing?

---

Phase 3: Rebuilding the Roadmap

Once you’ve identified the crash site, it’s time to rebuild. If you’re a “pantser” (someone who writes by the seat of their pants), congratulations: you have officially reached the limits of pure intuition. It’s time to borrow a few tools from the outliners.

Triage Strategy A: The “Back to Basics” Reset

Look back at the promise you made to your readers in books one through three. What is the core engine of this series?

• Is it a romance where the tension has stalled?
• Is it a mystery where the wrong clues are taking up too much oxygen?
• Strip away the shiny subplots and refocus entirely on the main conflict.

Triage Strategy B: Up the Stakes (or Change the Cost)

Often, a plot stalls because the characters are safe and the conflict is abstract. Introduce a ticking clock. Force your protagonist into a corner where they have to make an impossible choice. If a scene doesn’t change the characters’ status quo or advance the central mystery/conflict, cut it.

Triage Strategy C: Bring in the Wrecking Ball

If the middle is truly unsalvageable, ask yourself the most dangerous question a writer can ask: What is the worst possible thing that could happen to my characters right now? Blow up a safehouse. Have a trusted ally betray them. Force them to abandon their current mission and pivot entirely. Sometimes, introducing a narrative earthquake is the only way to shake the plot back to life.

---

Phase 4: Crossing the Finish Line

Writing a long-running series is a marathon of endurance. The first three books benefited from the initial adrenaline rush of creation—the honeymoon phase of world-building and character introduction. Book four is where the real work begins.

Hitting the wall doesn’t mean you’re a bad writer; it means you’ve outgrown your current structure.

So, forgive yourself for the mess. Roll up your sleeves, grab your red pen, and go find your plot. Your readers are waiting on the other side of the wall, and they are rooting for you to break right through it.

…

The Invisible Wall

…

Hitting the Wall: How to Rescue a Book Series When You’ve Literally Lost the Plot

You had a vision. Book one launched with a bang. Book two built the world and deepened the character arcs. Book three delivered a satisfying, breathless climax that left readers clamouring for more.

And then came book four.

You’re halfway through the manuscript, and you’ve hit the ultimate writer’s nightmare: you have quite literally lost the plot. The pacing is dead, the characters are wandering around a narrative wasteland like confused tourists, and staring at a blank Word document makes you want to take up competitive knitting.

If your series was going gangbusters and has now slammed head-first into a brick wall, take a deep breath. You aren’t the first bestselling author to face the dreaded “middle-book slump,” and you certainly won’t be the last.

Here is your emergency guide on what happens when you hit the wall, both figuratively and literally—and how to fix it before your readers jump ship.

---

Phase 1: The Anatomy of the Collapse (The “Literally” Part)

First, let’s address the physical and mental reality of hitting the wall. Writing a sprawling series takes a massive cognitive toll. By book four, you are no longer just writing a story; you are managing a fictional ecosystem.

When you lose the plot literally, it usually looks like this:

• The Spaghetti Plot: You’ve introduced too many subplots, and they are now tangled in a knot so tight even Alexander the Great would reach for a pair of scissors.
• The Character Drift: Your protagonist is doing things purely because the plot requires them to, rather than making organic choices based on their growth.
• The Middle-Book Swamp: You know where the book needs to end, and you know where it started, but the 40,000 words in the middle are a foggy morass of conversations in coffee shops and hallways that lead nowhere.

When your brain hits this wall, it’s waving a white flag. It’s telling you that your current blueprint is broken.

---

Phase 2: Stop Digging (The Power of Stepping Back)

The worst thing you can do when you’ve lost the plot is to force yourself to churn out 2,000 words a day of absolute nonsense just to hit a daily quota. That’s how you end up with a manuscript that requires a ruthless, tear-soaked page-one rewrite later.

1. Give Yourself Permission to Pause: Step away from the keyboard for 48 hours. Seriously. Go for a walk, read a book in a completely different genre, or binge a TV show. Let your subconscious untangle the wires without your conscious frustration getting in the way.

2. Conduct an Autopsy: Print out what you have so far—yes, actual paper. Grab a red pen and a highlighter. Read through the manuscript from chapter one of book four (or even the end of book three) to see where the train officially derailed. Ask yourself:

• Where did the momentum stop?
• Which character choice felt forced?
• Did I introduce a shiny new plot element just to keep things moving, and did it actually ruin the pacing?

---

Phase 3: Rebuilding the Roadmap

Once you’ve identified the crash site, it’s time to rebuild. If you’re a “pantser” (someone who writes by the seat of their pants), congratulations: you have officially reached the limits of pure intuition. It’s time to borrow a few tools from the outliners.

Triage Strategy A: The “Back to Basics” Reset

Look back at the promise you made to your readers in books one through three. What is the core engine of this series?

• Is it a romance where the tension has stalled?
• Is it a mystery where the wrong clues are taking up too much oxygen?
• Strip away the shiny subplots and refocus entirely on the main conflict.

Triage Strategy B: Up the Stakes (or Change the Cost)

Often, a plot stalls because the characters are safe and the conflict is abstract. Introduce a ticking clock. Force your protagonist into a corner where they have to make an impossible choice. If a scene doesn’t change the characters’ status quo or advance the central mystery/conflict, cut it.

Triage Strategy C: Bring in the Wrecking Ball

If the middle is truly unsalvageable, ask yourself the most dangerous question a writer can ask: What is the worst possible thing that could happen to my characters right now? Blow up a safehouse. Have a trusted ally betray them. Force them to abandon their current mission and pivot entirely. Sometimes, introducing a narrative earthquake is the only way to shake the plot back to life.

---

Phase 4: Crossing the Finish Line

Writing a long-running series is a marathon of endurance. The first three books benefited from the initial adrenaline rush of creation—the honeymoon phase of world-building and character introduction. Book four is where the real work begins.

Hitting the wall doesn’t mean you’re a bad writer; it means you’ve outgrown your current structure.

So, forgive yourself for the mess. Roll up your sleeves, grab your red pen, and go find your plot. Your readers are waiting on the other side of the wall, and they are rooting for you to break right through it.

…

Day 240 – The usefulness of old writing tropes

…

The Power of Tropes: Why Cliffhangers, Third-Act Twists, and the Hero’s Quest Still Rule Storytelling

As writers, we all chase the holy grail of absolute originality. We want to craft something so entirely unprecedented that it leaves readers breathless, wondering, “How on earth did they think of that?”

However, in the pursuit of being unique, it’s easy to slip into the writing morass—that confusing, overly abstract swamp where narratives become so convoluted that they alienate the reader entirely.

The truth? Tropes aren’t the enemy of creativity; they are its foundation. Tropes are the shared language between storyteller and audience. When used skillfully, time-tested devices like cliffhangers, third-act twists, and the hero’s quest act as narrative anchor points. They keep readers turning pages while giving you a sturdy framework to inject your own voice and subvert expectations.

Let’s break down three of the most powerful storytelling tropes, exploring the distinct advantages and disadvantages of each, and how you can use them without falling into clichés.

---

1. The Cliffhanger: The Ultimate Page-Turner

Think of the classic serialised novels of the 19th century or modern prestige television: just as the tension reaches a fever pitch, bam—fade to black. A cliffhanger abruptly halts the narrative at a moment of high suspense, leaving the ultimate fate of the characters hanging in the balance.

The Advantages:

• Instant Engagement: Cliffhangers hijack our psychological need for closure (known as the Zeigarnik effect). Readers remember uncompleted tasks and unresolved plots much better than finished ones, making it nearly impossible to put the book down.
• Momentum: They bridge the gap between chapters, episodes, or books. In serialised fiction or indie publishing, a well-placed cliffhanger is your best tool for securing immediate pre-orders for the sequel.

The Disadvantages:

• Reader Frustration: If overused or deployed cheaply, cliffhangers can feel manipulative. When every single chapter ends with a manufactured crisis that is immediately resolved in the next sentence, readers lose trust in the narrative stakes.
• The “Cheap Trick” Trap: Relying solely on cliffhangers can mask lazy plotting. If the core narrative arc isn’t compelling on its own, a cliffhanger is just a Band-Aid slapped over a boring story.

Pro Tip: Use cliffhangers sparingly and ensure they emerge naturally from the plot. A true cliffhanger should answer one major question while brilliantly spawning two more.

---

2. The Third-Act Twist: The Perspective Shifter

Positioned just as the story hurtles toward its climax, the third-act twist turns everything the reader thought they knew completely upside down. Think of The Sixth Sense, Gone Girl, or Shutter Island. Suddenly, clues that were hiding in plain sight take on a terrifying or triumphant new meaning.

The Advantages:

• High Re-readability: A masterfully executed twist rewards the reader. Once the secret is out, looking back at the narrative jigsaw puzzle and seeing how the pieces fit together is one of the most deeply satisfying experiences a reader can have.
• Emotional Resonance: A great twist doesn’t just shock; it changes the stakes. It forces the protagonist (and the audience) to re-evaluate their journey, often elevating a standard plot into a profound thematic statement.

The Disadvantages:

• The “Come Out of Nowhere” Problem: If a twist has no foreshadowing, it stops being clever and starts looking like cheating. Readers hate feeling tricked by information the author withheld just to pull a fast one.
• Predictability: Conversely, because third-act twists are so ubiquitous, seasoned readers can often spot them a mile away. If your twist relies on an amnesiac narrator, a secret twin, or “it was all a dream,” genre-savvy readers will guess it by page fifty.

Pro Tip: Play fair. Hide your clues in moments of high action so the reader’s attention is divided. When the twist drops, the reader should slap their forehead and say, “Of course! It was right there the whole time!”

---

3. The Hero’s Quest: The Blueprint of Human Myth

From The Odyssey and The Lord of the Rings to Star Wars and The Hunger Games, the hero’s quest (often mapped out as Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey) is the undisputed heavyweight champion of storytelling structures. A protagonist is called to adventure, crosses a threshold, faces trials, undergoes a profound transformation, and returns home forever changed.

The Advantages:

• Universal Resonance: The hero’s quest mirrors the human condition. We are all striving to grow, overcome obstacles, and find our place in the world. Because of this, the quest structure speaks directly to our primal emotional wiring.
• Built-in Character Arcs: The structure forces your protagonist to change. By putting them through a gauntlet of external trials that reflect their internal flaws, you guarantee a deeply satisfying character arc.

The Disadvantages:

• Formulaic Fatigue: Because it is so ubiquitous, the quest can easily feel paint-by-numbers. If you hit every single milestone of the Hero’s Journey without subverting any expectations, your story risks feeling like a generic clone of a thousand other books.
• Scope Creep: Quests are naturally sprawling. It is very easy to get bogged down in world-building, lore, and “fetch quests” that stall the narrative momentum and exhaust the reader.

Pro Tip: Subvert the milestones. Maybe your hero refuses the call and stays home, changing their small corner of the world instead. Or perhaps the mentor figure turns out to be the ultimate antagonist. Give the familiar skeleton some entirely new skin.

---

Conclusion: Embrace the Tropes, Find Your Voice

Tropes are not a cage; they are tools. Cliffhangers keep the pages turning, third-act twists blow the reader’s mind, and the hero’s quest provides a resonant emotional backbone.

Don’t be afraid to lean into these time-tested traditions. Readers want the comfort of the familiar, provided you deliver it with a fresh voice, sharp prose, and genuine emotional stakes. Use these tropes as your foundation, and let your unique perspective be the architecture that brings the house down.

---

What is your favorite trope to write or read? Do you love a good plot twist, or do you prefer a classic epic journey? Let us know in the comments below!

…

Day 240 – The usefulness of old writing tropes

…

The Power of Tropes: Why Cliffhangers, Third-Act Twists, and the Hero’s Quest Still Rule Storytelling

As writers, we all chase the holy grail of absolute originality. We want to craft something so entirely unprecedented that it leaves readers breathless, wondering, “How on earth did they think of that?”

However, in the pursuit of being unique, it’s easy to slip into the writing morass—that confusing, overly abstract swamp where narratives become so convoluted that they alienate the reader entirely.

The truth? Tropes aren’t the enemy of creativity; they are its foundation. Tropes are the shared language between storyteller and audience. When used skillfully, time-tested devices like cliffhangers, third-act twists, and the hero’s quest act as narrative anchor points. They keep readers turning pages while giving you a sturdy framework to inject your own voice and subvert expectations.

Let’s break down three of the most powerful storytelling tropes, exploring the distinct advantages and disadvantages of each, and how you can use them without falling into clichés.

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1. The Cliffhanger: The Ultimate Page-Turner

Think of the classic serialised novels of the 19th century or modern prestige television: just as the tension reaches a fever pitch, bam—fade to black. A cliffhanger abruptly halts the narrative at a moment of high suspense, leaving the ultimate fate of the characters hanging in the balance.

The Advantages:

• Instant Engagement: Cliffhangers hijack our psychological need for closure (known as the Zeigarnik effect). Readers remember uncompleted tasks and unresolved plots much better than finished ones, making it nearly impossible to put the book down.
• Momentum: They bridge the gap between chapters, episodes, or books. In serialised fiction or indie publishing, a well-placed cliffhanger is your best tool for securing immediate pre-orders for the sequel.

The Disadvantages:

• Reader Frustration: If overused or deployed cheaply, cliffhangers can feel manipulative. When every single chapter ends with a manufactured crisis that is immediately resolved in the next sentence, readers lose trust in the narrative stakes.
• The “Cheap Trick” Trap: Relying solely on cliffhangers can mask lazy plotting. If the core narrative arc isn’t compelling on its own, a cliffhanger is just a Band-Aid slapped over a boring story.

Pro Tip: Use cliffhangers sparingly and ensure they emerge naturally from the plot. A true cliffhanger should answer one major question while brilliantly spawning two more.

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2. The Third-Act Twist: The Perspective Shifter

Positioned just as the story hurtles toward its climax, the third-act twist turns everything the reader thought they knew completely upside down. Think of The Sixth Sense, Gone Girl, or Shutter Island. Suddenly, clues that were hiding in plain sight take on a terrifying or triumphant new meaning.

The Advantages:

• High Re-readability: A masterfully executed twist rewards the reader. Once the secret is out, looking back at the narrative jigsaw puzzle and seeing how the pieces fit together is one of the most deeply satisfying experiences a reader can have.
• Emotional Resonance: A great twist doesn’t just shock; it changes the stakes. It forces the protagonist (and the audience) to re-evaluate their journey, often elevating a standard plot into a profound thematic statement.

The Disadvantages:

• The “Come Out of Nowhere” Problem: If a twist has no foreshadowing, it stops being clever and starts looking like cheating. Readers hate feeling tricked by information the author withheld just to pull a fast one.
• Predictability: Conversely, because third-act twists are so ubiquitous, seasoned readers can often spot them a mile away. If your twist relies on an amnesiac narrator, a secret twin, or “it was all a dream,” genre-savvy readers will guess it by page fifty.

Pro Tip: Play fair. Hide your clues in moments of high action so the reader’s attention is divided. When the twist drops, the reader should slap their forehead and say, “Of course! It was right there the whole time!”

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3. The Hero’s Quest: The Blueprint of Human Myth

From The Odyssey and The Lord of the Rings to Star Wars and The Hunger Games, the hero’s quest (often mapped out as Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey) is the undisputed heavyweight champion of storytelling structures. A protagonist is called to adventure, crosses a threshold, faces trials, undergoes a profound transformation, and returns home forever changed.

The Advantages:

• Universal Resonance: The hero’s quest mirrors the human condition. We are all striving to grow, overcome obstacles, and find our place in the world. Because of this, the quest structure speaks directly to our primal emotional wiring.
• Built-in Character Arcs: The structure forces your protagonist to change. By putting them through a gauntlet of external trials that reflect their internal flaws, you guarantee a deeply satisfying character arc.

The Disadvantages:

• Formulaic Fatigue: Because it is so ubiquitous, the quest can easily feel paint-by-numbers. If you hit every single milestone of the Hero’s Journey without subverting any expectations, your story risks feeling like a generic clone of a thousand other books.
• Scope Creep: Quests are naturally sprawling. It is very easy to get bogged down in world-building, lore, and “fetch quests” that stall the narrative momentum and exhaust the reader.

Pro Tip: Subvert the milestones. Maybe your hero refuses the call and stays home, changing their small corner of the world instead. Or perhaps the mentor figure turns out to be the ultimate antagonist. Give the familiar skeleton some entirely new skin.

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Conclusion: Embrace the Tropes, Find Your Voice

Tropes are not a cage; they are tools. Cliffhangers keep the pages turning, third-act twists blow the reader’s mind, and the hero’s quest provides a resonant emotional backbone.

Don’t be afraid to lean into these time-tested traditions. Readers want the comfort of the familiar, provided you deliver it with a fresh voice, sharp prose, and genuine emotional stakes. Use these tropes as your foundation, and let your unique perspective be the architecture that brings the house down.

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What is your favorite trope to write or read? Do you love a good plot twist, or do you prefer a classic epic journey? Let us know in the comments below!

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Day 239 – Finding those appreciative readers

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The Sweet Sound of Appreciation: Why the Indie Writer’s Toughest Battle is Visibility

“There’s nothing like an appreciative word from a satisfied reader.” — Peter Mayle

For anyone who has ever poured their heart, soul, and countless sleepless nights into writing a book, Peter Mayle’s words hit home with piercing accuracy.

There is a unique, almost magical high that comes from hearing someone say, “I couldn’t put your book down,” or “Your characters stayed with me for days after I finished.” That single review, email, or social media comment makes every deleted chapter, every plot hole, and every moment of self-doubt entirely worth it. It’s the fuel that keeps the indie engine running.

Yet, for independent authors, there is a massive, often exhausting caveat to this joy.

As Mayle so eloquently noted, the appreciation is the reward. But the hard part—the mountain that every indie writer must scale—is simply getting that book out into the world so someone can actually read it in the first place.

Let’s talk about the invisible half of the indie publishing journey: the battle for visibility.

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The Myth of “If You Build It, They Will Come”

In the traditional publishing model, authors often hand off their manuscript and let massive marketing machines, established distribution networks, and bookstore shelf-space do the heavy lifting.

In the indie world, you are the marketing machine.

When you hit “Publish” on Amazon KDP, IngramSpark, or Draft2Digital, a wave of profound relief washes over you. You did it! The book is live. You share the link on Facebook, tweet about it on X (formerly Twitter), and wait for the deluge of sales.

And then… crickets.

This is the harsh reality check every self-published author faces. The internet is a vast, deafeningly loud ocean, and a newly published indie book is a single drop of water. Without a traditional publishing house’s budget or pre-existing retail partnerships, the book won’t sell itself.

Suddenly, the writer has to pivot from being a creative artist to wearing a dozen unfamiliar hats:

• The Social Media Manager: Building a brand, posting aesthetic reels, and engaging with a community.
• The Media Buyer: Figuring out the labyrinthine worlds of Amazon Ads and Facebook Ads without burning a hole in their wallet.
• The Publicist: Pitching book bloggers, podcast hosts, and reviewers who are already drowning in requests.
• The Data Analyst: Staring at click-through rates, conversion percentages, and ranking algorithms trying to decode why book sales are fluctuating.

It’s an immense amount of unpaid, non-creative labour that happens after the manuscript is finished.

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Why Discoverability is the Ultimate Indie Hurdle

Getting a book “out there” isn’t just about uploading a file to a retailer; it’s about discoverability.

1. The Sea of Competition: Thousands of books are published every single day. Standing out requires an eye-catching cover, a compelling blurb, professional formatting, and zero grammatical errors. Even with all that, you still have to catch a reader’s eye.
2. The Review Catch-22: Readers love reviews. They validate a book’s quality before buying. But to get reviews, people have to buy and read the book. Breaking this loop is one of the toughest challenges for a debut or mid-list indie author.
3. Algorithm Anxiety: Amazon’s algorithm is the gatekeeper most indie authors obsess over. Understanding how to trigger “Also Boughts” and rank well in specific niche categories requires a mix of strategy, timing, and sheer luck.

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The Joy Makes the Struggle Worthwhile

With all of these hurdles—the marketing costs, the algorithmic mysteries, the relentless hustle—why do indie authors keep doing it?

Because of what Peter Mayle talked about.

It’s the email from a stranger on the other side of the planet saying your story helped them through a tough week. It’s seeing a five-star review from a reader who “gets” the deeper themes you worked so hard to weave into the narrative.

Indie publishing is hard, gruelling work. It requires thick skin, business acumen, and an unshakeable belief in your own work. But when you finally bridge the gap between your hard drive and a reader’s nightstand, and that appreciative word finally comes in?

There truly is nothing like it.

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Are you an indie writer currently fighting the visibility battle? What has been your biggest struggle (and your greatest triumph) in getting your book out into the world? Let’s chat in the comments below!

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