365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 223

Day 223 – Writing exercise

…

There’s no looking away when the proverbial hits the fan.

You hope that it’s never going to happen, and when it does, training kicks in, but there is always that shred of doubt, and that’s all it takes.

One time infinitesimal shred…

In what I believed to be an empty building, I was going through the plan, waiting for the seconds to tick down.

Then I heard a door close. You know the type, one with a device that automatically closes it after you walk through. The one that, if set properly, you don’t hear the door shut.

The one that I heard because it wasn’t set properly, or hadn’t been checked recently, and that last six inches gave out and banged as the door hit the jamb.

Which meant someone else was in the building.

I wanted to believe that it was someone leaving, but I knew no one was supposed to be there. Not tonight. Not at two am, because the night watchmen had just finished their rounds and were settling in to their packed lunches.

Who was it, and why were they there?

…

This mission required stealth and precision. Three experts had gone over the building layout, the personnel who worked there, and the place where what I was supposed to take was easily removed.

The building expert had played his part. He’d been spot on with the sensors and detection traps, and the doors and locks.

I was in the last position before advancing to the room that held the safe that held the objective.

The personnel expert had failed his job. There was someone in the building who shouldn’t be.

Other than me.

That made the mission far more difficult. But as I crouched in position, I had time to realise that no one could factor in a random element, a scenario that should have been considered but was missed.

Or maybe it hadn’t.

Maybe it had been overlooked deliberately, and was in the mix because I was supposed to be able to handle random situations.

It was just such a scenario that had got Eloise canned from the program. She had been bitter about it, saying she had been the only one whose test had a random factor, that she had been deliberately targeted.

I had thought that too, because she had been very good, worked twice as hard, and had been the only girl.

Damn. Now I was thinking about her and not the mission, a real problem.

I felt a buzz on my wrist, the watch computer vibrating to tell me it was time to move.

Phase 2

Down the corridor, sticking close to the wall, to the end and turn right. The camera covering the entrance to the room would be off; that is, the red light would be out.

The surveillance monitoring guy would cut the camera at precisely the moment I reached the corner, giving me five seconds to get in the room.

Oddly, there was no surveillance in the room.

I reached the end, another buzz, five seconds, no red light, into the room and made sure the door didn’t slam shut.

Just.

“Hello, Will.”

I think I did have a heart attack.

…

Eloise. Larger than life, and looking very suave in all black.

She always could distract me.

“What the..”

I remembered to speak in hushed tones. Surveillance didn’t know if the room was bugged, but others were, and it was assumed it might be.

My silence had been disturbed when she spoke, even if it was not very loud.

“You’re being set up.”

“How the hell did you know I would be here?”

“Dargers.”

Dargers was the reason I had got into the program, the one who had been my mother’s handler and had been there when she died, on the job.

“Why?”

“Because you’re getting closer to the truth about your mother. Fletcher’s in hospital fighting for his life. Something happened just after you met.”

That was yesterday. I’d seen another associated with her last mission, but they were still OK. Or were they?

“You just got here?”

“No. Been waiting.”

“I heard a door close just before I got here.”

“Then they’re coming for you. We have to go.” She handed me an envelope. “The prize. I don’t think it has the value you were led to believe.”

Probably not.

…

It came as no surprise that Eloise had neutralised the surveillance and cleared the path. Or that she knew more about the organisation, because she had been a top-flight private investigator before signing on.

Before the end of the first week, she had categorised everyone: hopefuls and instructors. That she even spoke to me was a surprise. There were far more candidates who were more interested in her, but as the training progressed, I thought she hung out with me because she decided I was safe.

I never got to ask her why.

But I shared in her assessments and rode on her coat-tails, learning more from her than most of the instructors. I still couldn’t understand why I survived the cut, and she didn’t.

Working with her once again only reinforced just how good she was.

Objective achieved; it was a matter of two people working together being better than one, simply because I couldn’t be in two places at once. That’s when I opened the door; my instinct was to look left, and the threat was on the right.

The first threat, that is.

Our training had taught us that where there was one assassin, there was likely to be more, depending on the degree of danger you presented. I found it hard to believe I could be a threat, but then I had been a little loose in who I questioned about my mother’s death.

It was a taboo question, but being immersed in the world she once excelled in had provided a unique opportunity. I just didn’t think I would ruffle any feathers so quickly, or at all.

There were three would-be assassins. We didn’t shoot to kill, which was our training, because we would be killing our own people, people who we had most likely trained with, or worked with.

Then there was the revelation.

There was another way in and out of the building that I had not been told about, and that in itself told me all I needed to know.

The briefing supervisor was compromised, or hadn’t been given the full brief.

Once out of the building, Eloise faded into the night as if she had never been there. There had been no time for small talk, as much as I needed that one fleeting touch of hands as she left.

It reminded me that having feelings, or attachments, was at best a curse and at worst a death sentence in this job, if it was a job I wanted to take up, and those feelings I had for Eloise, having been rekindled, were going to make it impossible.

She had said as much about herself when she had left, not saying where she was going or what she was going to do.

I had tried to put her out of my mind.

…

If this had been a normal operation, in and out, the package would simply be dropped off, and I would relocate and await the next mission.

This hadn’t been normal.

I had a cell number to call if anything went wrong. The operations supervisor would have been aware of what had happened, and I would be called in for a debriefing.

I had a feeling Browning would be waiting on the end of the line to curate the fallout. Dead people could be explained away; live people could talk.

I chose to sit on it until morning. Uppermost in my mind was the fact that if the mission had gone the way Browning’s had planned, I would be either dead or captured, and sitting in a dark room somewhere awaiting interrogation.

I could still end up there.

Now, when I called, he would have to pretend that everything was fine, though there would be doubts as to how I did manage to escape what, in his mind, was meant to be an inescapable trap.

I dialled the number on the untraceable cell Eloise had given me. The one I got for the mission was tracking my movements. Those movements ended in the safe room.

Davidson couldn’t help himself when he answered.

“Where did you get that device?”

“I had reason to believe the mission device was compromised, as per training. There was an unexpected visitor on the building, just before the ‘go’ signal. Someone knew I was there. I figured the cell was compromised and dumped it.”

“We had no prior intel of rogue movements, and our devices are secure.”

“Random factors, sir. It’s what got a trainee tossed out of the program. Remembered it at the last moment. Saved me, by the way. Three assassins tried to eliminate me.”

As if he wouldn’t know that he had three of his agents in the hospital wondering why they were not dead.

He sounded quite calm, which in a sense was disconcerting.

It was good that my training had taught me to trust no one, not even the people I worked for.

“Three?” His incredulous tone was almost believable.

“Not unexpected, if you remember the briefing. The organisation does contract some very nasty mercenaries as guards for their perimeter and internal security.”

“And you took care of them.”

“I believe so. They weren’t shooting back.”

There was a moment’s silence while he digested that piece of information before asking the question he should have asked at the beginning.”

“Did you get what you were sent for?”

“Yes.”

“Then await further instructions on where you are to deliver the package.”

The line went dead.

Since the cell phone I was using was untraceable, he couldn’t send a team to eliminate me, but just to be safe, I powered it down and removed the SIM card, then changed locations.

I wasn’t going to wait to be summoned or hunted down.

…

The organisation I worked for was one of several that worked under the umbrella of the main intelligence service.

These groups had their offices scattered about the city, hiding behind what could easily be mistaken for legitimate businesses.

The one I worked for, and run by Davidson, lived in a large sandstone turn-of-the-century building that also had lawyers, doctors and insurance agents. It was odd turning up at the office and mingling with a very strange collection of civilians.

While it provided the sort of cover we needed, and it gave Davidson the sort of autonomy and control over who knew what he was doing, he wanted to be without the prying eyes of those he reported to; it wasn’t the most secure. I often wondered what would happen if a shootout came to the corridors.

It hadn’t yet, but there was always a first time.

Being away from the ultra secure central operations centre, security was not as ting, and Davidson’s mall cop security set up, the brain child of his brother-in-law who was a locksmith, was adequate but not bulletproof.

It took me a week to find all the weak spots, the black holes in CCTV coverage, and the door codes, at least those beyond what was issued on our personal key cards.

And to discover that there was another way in that didn’t require a key card, and if Davison had got a proper security assessment, he would have discovered just how insecure the office was.

His office.

When sweeping the roof during my own security inspection I discovered a I discovered a hatch door that gave access to the roof, and below that, an attic, disused, that ran the length of the building. It was once the servants’ quarters for each of them.

There were some very interesting comments on the walls.

There were back staircases that led to each floor, and invisible doorways so they could mysteriously come and go without being seen.

There was another, the one I would be using. Davidson was a fresh air lover and had one of the windows in his office half open, playing havoc with everyone’s air conditioning.

He could be annoying like that.

I waited until he went to his one o’clock briefing, entered by the windows, and sat in his seat. I had no interest in rifling through the drawers or poking around in the filing cabinets.

At precisely five minutes past two he came in, closed the door behind him, and then stopped.

I would have thought he’d notice me before then.

“You need to do something about security. I, for one, wouldn’t feel safe if just about anyone could wander in off the street.”

His usual scowl turned a shade darker. “You’re not just anyone, are you?”

I looked at the man who controlled so many lives, to do with as he pleased. He wasn’t that man when my mother was killed in action, but he was her liaison in the field. That much I’d discovered before the walls went up.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

His cell phone rang. The puzzled expression on his face told me he was not expecting a call.

He took his phone out of his top pocket and looked at the screen, shook his head, and disconnected the call.

A few seconds later, a red dot from a laser sight appeared on the wall behind me. I knew there was something there when his expression changed, and then we both watched it until it appeared on his chest before disappearing.

“Is this some sort of sick joke?”

His cell phone rang again.

“Not me. I think you might want to answer it. Someone wants to get your attention.”

Who, though? I didn’t know. I had not arranged anything.

He answered it. “Whoever you are, you are in more trouble than you can imagine possible.”

Whoever was on the end of the call said something to him; his expression changed, this time to one I’d never expected from a man like him.

He pushed a button on the screen, and it came to life.

“You know better than to go into the lion’s den by yourself.”

Eloise.

“I had it covered.”

“Now you do.”

The red laser light reappeared.

Recognition flickered. “Morgan. You’re working with him?”

“Saving him from you, Davidson. And still working on what I’m going to do about you killing a friend of mine, the same one who intimated to Blake that you were his mother’s liaison on that last mission. You made a mistake. It cost her her life, just part of the mess you’ve been cleaning up ever since. Last night you went too far.”

“You haven’t got all of the facts.”

“I spoke to Richardson, just before he passed. It was an illuminating discussion, one that answered several questions I had.”

If his expression was going to be an indication of his mood, then just the mention of Richardson brought fear.

“That’s impossible.”

“No. What was impossible is that I found him. You did a very good job of hiding him away, so far north he’s almost at the North Pole. You even changed his name, Ralph Weimar. You also figured out who I was, didn’t you?”

“A guess at best. Your tradecraft gave you away. Isabel Jenkins.”

“Harold Jenkins, another of your losses.”

Jenkins. I knew that name from somewhere.

His shoulders slumped slightly, as if accepting that whatever he had been doing was over.

“So, not that any of what you think you know is relevant or even happened, what are you going to do?”

“End it.”

I saw the red dot focus on Davidson and then watched him die.

I didn’t expect what happened next. The dot moved to me. I thought I heard the bullet leave the gun just before it hit me, and in that fraction of a second before the pain came, it was lights out.

…

I think the miracle was that I was still alive.

I don’t remember anything from the moment Davidson was shot until I just woke, slowly focusing on a water stain on the roof above me.

It felt like I’d been hit by a truck. Or worse, one of those old steam locomotives.

There was an odd perfume aroma in the room, one that seemed familiar. It was there, on the tip of my tongue.

That was overwritten by another memory, the one where I suddenly associated my predicament with being shot, which led to remembering those last few seconds in Davidson’s office, and then Eloise.

“There he is.”

Eloise.

“What happened?”

“You were saved from a fate worse than death.”

Another memory. I was in Davidson’s office. Then another: the realisation I didn’t have an exit strategy. I was going to confront him … and then what?

“How?”

“You had to be a victim. Davidson didn’t survive; he wasn’t meant to. He had to pay for his mistakes. You, though, you don’t deserve what they would have done to you. He may have been a murderer, but he did get results. We both knew there is no real honour in the job we would have had to do. Don’t go back, even if they ask you.”

“Why are you doing this? How did you know…?”

“I like you, have done since the first time I saw you. You know me. I can see through just about anyone. And probably because your first words were not ‘babe’, ‘date’ and ‘fuck’.”

“I was going to ask you if you wanted a coffee and a chat once, but thought twice about it, then decided not to. You had enough admirers.”

She smiled. “I’m glad I’m out of it. It was a mistake, but a good one. I met you. Come work with me. I’m going back to being a Private Detective. LA or Hollywood. Maybe New York. Who knows. We can just get on the next train out and see where it takes us. What do you say?”

“How long will I be here?”

“A couple of days. It’s a clean wound, nothing damaged. You can thank me later.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Here. Told them we’re about to be married and I wasn’t letting you out of my sight. It amuses them. I kinda like the sound of it. But it takes two to tango, so I can wait until you’re back on your feet, and we’ll see how good we can dance together. Now, the doctor would like to talk to you, then the police. I’ll be right here if you need me. OK?”

“Dance?” Perhaps there was a little confusion.

“Tango. Yes. Tango, Alpha, November, Golf, Oscar.”

I felt a surge of adrenalin run through me, and my mind cleared, taking a quick glance around the room, and ending on Eloise, only she was not Eloise, she was Baxter, Captain, my team leader, and I was Reynolds, Lieutenant, undercover.

She had just issued an Agent down signal, which I assumed to be me. Protocol Five was instituted, and I was to follow her lead.

Something must have gone terribly wrong.

…

What I learned about writing – The influence of a writer’s memory

The Hidden Muse: How a Writer’s Memories Shape Their Stories

Have you ever wondered where a writer’s ideas come from? While imagination often takes centre stage, the quiet, unsung hero of storytelling is memory. A writer’s recollections—of joy, heartbreak, childhood summers, or quiet moments—act as a wellspring of authenticity, emotion, and cultural depth. Whether conscious or unconscious, memories weave themselves into narratives, transforming personal history into universal art. Let’s explore how memories influence the craft of storytelling and why they’re indispensable to a writer’s voice.

1. Personal Experiences: The Raw Material of Stories

Every life is a tapestry of moments, and for writers, these experiences become raw material. A hike through a forest, a tense argument, or the scent of rain on old pavement can evolve into a pivotal scene or atmosphere in a story. For instance, J.K. Rowling’s childhood fascination with folklore and her own struggles with depression subtly seep into the emotional landscapes of her Harry Potter characters.

Memories act as a “treasure chest” of sensory details—textures, sounds, and smells—that bring fictional worlds to life. A writer might rework a family vacation into a fantastical quest or recast a schoolyard rivalry as a fictional feud. The result? Stories grounded in realism, even when the plot is pure fiction.

Exercise for Writers: Keep a memory journal. Note fleeting recollections, no matter how small. Years later, you’ll discover how these fragments can be reshaped into compelling narrative fuel.

2. Emotional Authenticity: Memory as a Resonance Chamber

Memories are steeped in emotion, and emotions are the lifeblood of storytelling. When a writer draws from their past, their words gain a visceral truth that readers can’t help but feel. A breakup you lived through will carry nuances—lingering anger, bittersweet nostalgia—that you can’t fully invent without personal experience.

Maya Angelou once said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” By channelling their memories, writers give voice to their innermost truths, creating characters and conflicts that resonate on a deeply human level. Think of a mother’s recollection of a child’s first steps becoming the poignant backstory of a character’s protective instincts or a survivor’s trauma morphing into a symbol of resilience.

3. Cultural and Familial Narratives: The Stories We Inherit

Our memories aren’t just individual; they’re shaped by the stories we inherit. Family legends, cultural traditions, and historical contexts form a collective memory that writers often mine for themes. A grandmother’s tales of immigration, a holiday ritual, or a national tragedy becomes part of a writer’s lens, enriching their work with cultural specificity and depth.

For example, Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude is steeped in the myths and history of his Colombian upbringing, while Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Americanah explores the duality of identity through her own experiences as a Nigerian in the West. These stories don’t just entertain—they preserve heritage and spark cross-cultural understanding.

4. Transforming Pain into Art: The Alchemy of Memory

Not all memories are easy to confront, but they often yield the most powerful stories. Writers frequently rework pain—grief, injustice, or personal failure—into fiction, offering both catharsis and connection. Consider how Colson Whitehead reimagined his family’s history of slavery in The Nickel Boys, or how Sylvia Plath’s confessional poetry transformed private anguish into poetry that speaks to millions.

This process isn’t about reliving trauma but about distilling it into something universal. By fictionalising painful memories, writers can explore complex emotions with nuance, giving readers a safe space to reflect on their own struggles.

5. The Creative Process: Mining Memory for Detail

Memory is a writer’s secret tool in the creative process. When crafting dialogue, setting, or character motivations, recollections provide a blueprint. A childhood friend’s lisp, a grandparent’s philosophical musings, or the ache of a long-gone summer home can become the DNA of a fictional character or location.

But memory isn’t just about fact—it’s about mood. A forgotten alleyway lit by sunset or the taste of your first love’s coffee might never happen in real life again, but in a story, they become immortal.

Conclusion: Your Memories Are Your Superpower

Next time you pick up a pen—or a laptop—remind yourself that your past is a universe waiting to be explored. Memories are not just relics of the past; they’re the tools that make stories real. They allow writers to breathe life into characters, build worlds with texture, and speak truths that transcend time.

So, ask yourself: What hidden gems lie in your own memories? What stories are begging to be reborn? The next great novel, poem, or script might be hiding in the quiet corners of your past.

Final Challenge: Pull out an old photo, a birthday card, or a childhood diary entry. Let the memories spark a scene, a character, or a theme. You never know where it might lead.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 222

Day 222 – From a wish to ambition

…

The Birth of a Writer: At What Age Does the Inherent Desire to Write Actually Begin?

Every author has an origin story. Long before the book deals, the midnight editing sessions, and the sacred mug of cold coffee on the desk, there was a spark. A quiet, persistent urge that whispered, Put pen to paper. Tell a story.

But when does that inherent desire to write actually begin?

Is it during the wide-eyed pre-teen years, when the magic of chapter books first captures your imagination? Does it ignite in the turbulent, emotionally charged teenage years, fueled by first loves and heartbreak? Or does it wait patiently until adulthood, when real-world experience, careers, and hardships finally grant you the insight to understand the human condition?

The truth is, the writing bug doesn’t have a single birthday. It visits us at different stages of life, transforming us in unique ways depending on when it decides to strike. Let’s explore the three distinct phases where the desire to write commonly takes root, and how each shapes the writer you become.

1. The Pre-Teen Wonder: When Magic Becomes a Blueprint

For many writers, the journey begins in childhood. Think back to the days of flashlight-under-the-covers reading, when the world of Narnia, Hogwarts, or Camp Half-Blood felt more real than your actual backyard.

During the pre-teen years, books are pure magic. But for future writers, reading is never just a passive activity. It’s an invitation.

The Inspiration: You finish a beloved book, close the back cover, and feel a sharp pang of grief because the story is over. Then comes the realisation: I can make my own world.
The Output: These early efforts are often messy, heavily derivative fan-fictions or tales of magical kingdoms featuring pets as protagonists, written in spiral-bound notebooks with gel pens.
The Impact: Starting young instils a sense of play and boundless imagination. Pre-teen writers learn early on that the page is a limitless sandbox. They write for the sheer joy of creation, long before the inner critic learns how to speak.

2. The Teenage Storm: When Emotion Demands an Outlet

If childhood writing is driven by imagination, teenage writing is driven by gasoline and matches.

The teen years are a whirlwind of firsts: first love, crushing rejection, identity crises, and a sudden, overwhelming awareness of the world outside oneself. For many, the inherent desire to write doesn’t come from a love of plotting; it comes from an urgent need to survive the emotional turbulence of growing up.

The Inspiration: Raw emotion. Whether it’s the dizzying high of a mutual crush or the devastating isolation of feeling misunderstood, life feels cinematic and high-stakes.
The Output: Poetry scrawled in the margins of algebra notebooks, angsty journal entries, and deeply emotional coming-of-age stories where the protagonists experience the exact emotional spectrum the author is currently navigating.
The Impact: Teenage writing teaches emotional honesty. It forces the writer to confront vulnerability and translate abstract feelings into concrete words. While these pieces might make you cringe a decade later, they build the vital muscle of emotional resonance.

3. The Adult Awakening: When Lived Experience Demands to Be Told

Not everyone catches the writing bug early. For many, the desire to write arrives much later in life—after years in the workforce, raising a family, navigating loss, or simply watching the world turn.

You might be sitting at a corporate desk, standing in your kitchen, or travelling the world when a sudden realisation hits: I have something to say.

The Inspiration: Perspective. Years of observing human behaviour, professional triumphs and failures, relationships that bloomed and withered, and the quiet resilience it takes to simply be an adult. You’ve seen how the world actually works, beyond the idealism of youth.
The Output: Rich, nuanced fiction with morally grey characters, reflective memoirs, deep non-fiction, or stories that explore the complexities of mid-life, grief, and reinvention.
The Impact: Adult-bloomed writers bring depth, pacing, and psychological realism to their work. They may lack the unbridled innocence of the pre-teen or the raw urgency of the teen, but they compensate with wisdom, patience, and a profound understanding of human motivation.

So, When Does It Truly Begin?

The beauty of the creative spirit is that it has no expiration date—and no single starting line.

If your journey started at age 10, your superpower is imagination.
If it started at age 15, your superpower is emotion.
If it started at age 40 (or 60, or 80), your superpower is perspective.

Ultimately, the inherent desire to write doesn’t belong to a specific age bracket. It belongs to the moment you decide that a story inside you deserves to exist outside of your head.

Whether you are dusting off a childhood dream, channelling current heartbreaks, or drawing from decades of life experience, the best time to start writing was yesterday. The second best time is right now.

When did the desire to write first strike you? Was it a childhood book, a teenage diary, or a later-in-life epiphany? Let us know in the comments below!

…

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet them or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except, of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact that, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street who look like someone we knew and make the mistake of approaching them like a long-lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away from what they perceive as a stalker, or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then, according to the circumstances and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me, one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognise was murder. The photo of the man on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated by what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer, the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room. I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realise what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low-profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, had no children, and, according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company; I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably, more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with several other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with several other delegates at the pre-conference get-together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bulletproof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me? I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain-killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes and took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I would still be considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try to explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in and out of consciousness. A nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told me what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have another visitor. He is from the British Embassy, I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realised then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit, the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service. He was not very old, which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome, and he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me. But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you. So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently, for them, it is an open and shut case.” I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not. They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here. There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact that you were shot had made it an all-around embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here? Shouldn’t they be here apologising?”

“That is why you have another visitor. I only took precedence because I insisted on speaking with you first. I have come, basically, to ask you for a favour. This situation has afforded us an opportunity. We would like you to sign the official document, which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious. What sort of opportunity was he talking about? Was this a matter that could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush-hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that? “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do. They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country. I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible, so you will stop being confused with him. I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were. And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done. But. There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal. I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change. “I’m sure you are a sensible man, Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can. They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, refund the cost of the Conference, and travel. I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri or Sorrento, if you like, before you go home. What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say. Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex. Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, who had announced herself as the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it: “The patient has recovered excellently, and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed, so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long, wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful, though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him. She checked the door and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then that I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have several witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed-circuit TV, we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her notebook back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti, and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologise for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you, it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest, one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger-happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realised if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry, but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest, he escaped. Once we realised we had made a mistake and reviewed the closed-circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough, no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officers’ weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you, Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrongdoing?”

“I have apologised. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank you for your time and cooperation, Mr Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 222

Day 222 – From a wish to ambition

…

The Birth of a Writer: At What Age Does the Inherent Desire to Write Actually Begin?

But when does that inherent desire to write actually begin?

1. The Pre-Teen Wonder: When Magic Becomes a Blueprint

During the pre-teen years, books are pure magic. But for future writers, reading is never just a passive activity. It’s an invitation.

The Inspiration: You finish a beloved book, close the back cover, and feel a sharp pang of grief because the story is over. Then comes the realisation: I can make my own world.
The Output: These early efforts are often messy, heavily derivative fan-fictions or tales of magical kingdoms featuring pets as protagonists, written in spiral-bound notebooks with gel pens.
The Impact: Starting young instils a sense of play and boundless imagination. Pre-teen writers learn early on that the page is a limitless sandbox. They write for the sheer joy of creation, long before the inner critic learns how to speak.

2. The Teenage Storm: When Emotion Demands an Outlet

If childhood writing is driven by imagination, teenage writing is driven by gasoline and matches.

The Inspiration: Raw emotion. Whether it’s the dizzying high of a mutual crush or the devastating isolation of feeling misunderstood, life feels cinematic and high-stakes.
The Output: Poetry scrawled in the margins of algebra notebooks, angsty journal entries, and deeply emotional coming-of-age stories where the protagonists experience the exact emotional spectrum the author is currently navigating.
The Impact: Teenage writing teaches emotional honesty. It forces the writer to confront vulnerability and translate abstract feelings into concrete words. While these pieces might make you cringe a decade later, they build the vital muscle of emotional resonance.

3. The Adult Awakening: When Lived Experience Demands to Be Told

You might be sitting at a corporate desk, standing in your kitchen, or travelling the world when a sudden realisation hits: I have something to say.

The Inspiration: Perspective. Years of observing human behaviour, professional triumphs and failures, relationships that bloomed and withered, and the quiet resilience it takes to simply be an adult. You’ve seen how the world actually works, beyond the idealism of youth.
The Output: Rich, nuanced fiction with morally grey characters, reflective memoirs, deep non-fiction, or stories that explore the complexities of mid-life, grief, and reinvention.
The Impact: Adult-bloomed writers bring depth, pacing, and psychological realism to their work. They may lack the unbridled innocence of the pre-teen or the raw urgency of the teen, but they compensate with wisdom, patience, and a profound understanding of human motivation.

So, When Does It Truly Begin?

The beauty of the creative spirit is that it has no expiration date—and no single starting line.

If your journey started at age 10, your superpower is imagination.
If it started at age 15, your superpower is emotion.
If it started at age 40 (or 60, or 80), your superpower is perspective.

Ultimately, the inherent desire to write doesn’t belong to a specific age bracket. It belongs to the moment you decide that a story inside you deserves to exist outside of your head.

When did the desire to write first strike you? Was it a childhood book, a teenage diary, or a later-in-life epiphany? Let us know in the comments below!

…

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the Past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The Birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus, the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all rewrites, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation. I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample. I was going to give them the re-worked short story. Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally, it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself. We were there for New Year’s, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening, we were out late and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow; it was cold and wet, and apartment buildings were shimmering in the street light, and I thought, “This is the place where my main character will live”.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected. I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went, so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller Centre is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy man with few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party. I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble. No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

…

Get it here: https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

What I learned about writing – 5 Proven Ways to Give Your Writing Confidence a Real Boost

Whether you’re polishing a novel manuscript, drafting a blog post, or scribbling down a quick journal entry, every writer hits the “I‑don’t‑know‑if‑this‑is‑good enough” wall at some point. The good news? Confidence isn’t a mystical talent you’re either born with or not—it’s a skill you can train, just like plotting, character arcs, or SEO research. Below are five concrete strategies (backed by research and real‑world experience) that will help you shake off self‑doubt, step into your writer’s voice, and keep the words flowing.

1. Celebrate Small Wins – Turn “Done” Into “Done‑and‑Delicious”

Why it works:
Psychologist Dr. Barbara Fredrickson’s Broaden‑and‑Build theory tells us that positive emotions expand our mental toolkit, making us more creative and resilient. Acknowledging tiny achievements creates that positive feedback loop.

How to apply it:

Small Milestone	Celebration Idea
Finishing a paragraph	Add a sticky note to your monitor that says “Paragraph conquered!”
Hitting a word‑count target (e.g., 500 words)	Treat yourself to a 5‑minute playlist of your favorite songs
Finding the perfect metaphor	Write it on a slip of paper and tape it on your wall as a visual trophy
Receiving a kind comment on a draft	Save the comment in a “Confidence Folder” (digital or physical) for low‑energy days

Make it a habit: At the end of each writing session, jot down one thing you did well. Over weeks, you’ll have a personal “confidence bank” to draw from when you feel stuck.

2. Adopt a “Draft‑First, Edit‑Later” Mindset

Why it works:
Research from the University of Cambridge shows that separating the creative (draft) and analytical (edit) phases lowers perfectionism and increases output quality. When you stop judging while you write, the flow state—that sweet spot where the words seem to write themselves—is easier to achieve.

Practical steps:

Set a timer for a “pure draft” sprint (e.g., 20 minutes). During this window, no back‑spacing, no grammar checks, no Googling synonyms. Just write.
Label the document “RAW” so you consciously know you’ll revisit it later.
Switch gears after the sprint: take a short walk, stretch, then open the file in “Edit” mode. You’ll be surprised at how many “aha!” moments appear when you return with fresh eyes.

Result: The draft becomes a safe space for experimentation, and the later edit feels like polishing a gem rather than fixing a broken vase.

3. Build a “Writer’s Support Squad”

Why it works:
Social support is a massive confidence driver. According to a 2022 study in Writing Research Quarterly, writers who regularly share work with peers report 31% higher self‑efficacy (belief in their ability to succeed) than solitary writers.

Ways to create your squad:

Join a local or virtual writing group. Platforms like Meetup, Discord, or even Facebook have genre‑specific circles.
Find a “beta‑reader buddy.” Swap drafts with someone you trust; give each other a single, focused piece of feedback (e.g., “Did the protagonist’s motivation feel clear?”).
Hire a professional editor for a “confidence edit.” Even a brief 30‑minute session can validate that you’re on the right track.
Use accountability apps. Tools like Habitica or Beeminder let you set writing goals and get nudges (or gentle shame‑reminders) from friends.

Tip: Keep the feedback loop specific and positive. A phrase like “I loved how you showed the conflict through dialogue” feels far more empowering than a vague “It’s good.”

4. Leverage the Power of “Impostor‑Syndrome Journaling”

Why it works:
Impostor syndrome—feeling like a fraud despite evidence of competence—is rampant among writers. A 2020 meta‑analysis in Psychology of Aesthetics, Creativity, and the Arts found that journaling about these thoughts reduces their intensity by 40%.

How to journal effectively:

Name the feeling. Write, “I’m feeling like an impostor because…”
Collect evidence. List concrete achievements (publications, positive comments, word‑count milestones).
Reframe. Turn “I’m not good enough” into “I’m still learning, and that’s okay.”
Set a “next‑step” goal. E.g., “Read one article on pacing this week.”

Do this once a week, preferably after a writing session. Over time, the journal becomes a personal truth‑checker that reminds you of your progress whenever doubt creeps in.

5. Practice “Micro‑Storytelling” to Warm Up Your Voice

Why it works:
Micro‑storytelling (flash fiction ≤ 300 words, Instagram captions, or even 6‑sentence anecdotes) forces you to distill ideas quickly, sharpening your narrative instincts and giving you immediate, tangible proof of skill.

Kick‑start ideas:

Prompt	Word Limit	Goal
“The last word you ever typed”	150	Capture tension in a single scene
“A coffee shop conversation that changes everything”	200	Practice dialogue
“A piece of advice you’d give to your younger self”	250	Tap into voice & authenticity
“Rewrite a classic fairy tale in 3 sentences”	100	Hone brevity & wit

Routine: Spend the first 10 minutes of every writing day on a micro‑story. When you finish, you have a finished piece to share, post, or shelve—instant confidence.

Putting It All Together: A 7‑Day Confidence Sprint

Day	Focus	Action
1	Celebrate Wins	Write 3 bullet‑point win notes after your session.
2	Draft‑First	20‑minute sprint + “RAW” label.
3	Squad Up	Post a snippet in your writing group, ask for one specific comment.
4	Impostor Journal	Follow the 4‑step journaling template.
5	Micro‑Story	Complete a flash‑fiction piece (≤200 words).
6	Edit Session	Revisit Day 2’s draft with fresh eyes.
7	Review & Reward	Compile all win notes, journal entries, and micro‑stories. Celebrate with a treat or a leisure activity.

At the end of the week, you’ll have a portfolio of proof—a tangible collection that demonstrates progress, skill, and resilience. And more importantly, you’ll have rewired your brain to associate writing with positive outcomes rather than fear.

Final Thought: Confidence Is a Muscle, Not a Magic Spell

Every writer—whether a debut novelist, a seasoned journalist, or a hobbyist blogger—needs a reliable toolbox for moments of doubt. The strategies above are evidence‑based, low‑cost, and adaptable to any schedule or genre. Try one or mix several, track what resonates, and watch your inner critic shrink while your creative voice grows louder.

Ready to boost your confidence? Grab a notebook, pick the first tip, and start today. Your future self (and your readers) will thank you.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 220/221

Days 220 and 221 – Writing Exercise

…

It was always the same answer, as it had been from the day I could ask questions: “Who was Uncle Robert?”

My mother was always the first to speak, as he was one of her mother’s siblings, saying he was the black sheep, the one who went down in a hail of bullets.

If that sounded dubious, the next part cemented that remark: that he had died a hero, saving a bus full of children

It was heroic, and he was my uncle, the original font of all things good about my mother’s family, even though once I grew up and understood the nuances of the English language, I also knew what sarcasm was, and how it applied to him.

My mother and two of my aunts on her side, when thinking they were alone and talking about him, dropped a trail of breadcrumbs that said he was a criminal somewhere in Chicago and if he wasn’t already dead, he should be.

That meant a lot. And it was curious to us children that we should stop asking terrible questions about a man who no longer existed.

Over succeeding years, I tried, but it wasn’t easy because there was always someone inadvertently mentioning his name.

But as the years passed, and I started digging into the genealogical aspect of our family, a chance discovery of a ‘lost’ aunt on my mother’s side who was living on the other side of the country, Charlotte, told me her brother, my uncle, was not dead but very clearly alive.

And what’s more, she gave me his address.

And as soon as I was old enough to travel on my own, I got on the plane and went to Cincinnati. It was, I discovered, where all the members of my mother’s family came from.

…

Considering where we lived in Arizona, a not-so-large town in the Southwest, Cincinnati was eye-opening. To me, it was a big city, but not as big as Tucson or New York, where my older sister had gone, but enough to show there was a whole different world out there when I was ready to greet it.

At this time I just wanted to say hello and confirm that the mystery that had hung around for years was not a mystery at all, and then go home.

Of course things were never that simple. It might have been simple if I had a plan, but all the plan was; was to get from the airport to the house where my potential uncle lived.

And to find out why he had been shunned, or more likely why he had shunned us.

Until I knocked on the door and a boy who looked exactly like me opened it.

“My God,” was his first comment. It was followed by, “Well, aren’t you the clever one, then.”

Until that exact moment, I was not sure what I was fishing for, perhaps a slightly complimentary remark. Charlotte had said the uncle was a bit of a smarty pants. He’d obviously passed that on to his son.

“Is your father here?”

I knew who my uncle was because Charlotte had shown me his photo, and I had rung ahead to let him know who I was and what part in the family I was related.

He hadn’t seemed impressed that I existed or that he cared whether he knew me or not, though I did detect a slight curiosity in his tone.

He asked only one question. Was I visiting him of my own volition or had my mother told me to come? I said that it was a result of my ancestry search that I’d discovered him, and I’d not told my mother anything about this visit.

I had assumed that telling my mother where I was going would set her off, after running a test scenario that just had his name on the tip of my tongue. Something bad must have happened a long time ago, and it was so bad they stopped talking.

Perhaps I would have to mend some bridges. After the meeting, of course, and if we dismissed the idea of killing our contemporaries to keep a secret.

There was a story to be had, and once I stepped over that threshold, I was determined to get it, or at the very least, the truth.

I didn’t feel too sanguine, though, just outside the front door, and in a moment of realising that it was quite possible I would not get over the first hurdle.

I was looking at the uncle’s son’s not-backing-down expression, so I had to consider that first effort might all come to nothing, but perseverance was the ticket to this mission, not failure.

Until another of my aunts, one I didn’t readily recognise, came down the stairs just inside the doorway. She stopped on the last step, then put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Was she about to send me on my way? She gave me an up-and-down look. “You don’t look like your mother.”

“You don’t look like my mother, and you are supposed to be a sister.”

“Obviously your mother didn’t teach you about insolence. You should go back to where you came from.”

“They don’t know I’m here, and I didn’t tell them. I didn’t come to see you; I came to see my uncle. Is he here or is he playing hide and seek?”

“You can leave now.” She said.

A man came down the stairs and brushed past her. There was no doubting who he was.

“You’re as feisty as your mother. Jack, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

He came out the door and closed it behind him. “Let’s walk. I wouldn’t worry too much about them. Annabel is your mother’s twin sister, the one she doesn’t talk about. It will no doubt answer that question you have about the boy looking like you.”

“I wasn’t going to ask.”

“You were. What made you think there was a long-lost uncle?”

“The way my mother talks about a part of her life that seems like a made-up story. How many siblings were there?”

“Fourteen. Same father, two different women, sisters. Your grandfather married Elsie first and had eight children, including your mother and Annabel, the last two of the eight, and after they were born Elsie died from afterbirth complications, then he married Agnes, Elsie’s younger sister, and had six more of which I was the first. Your mother and Amnabel were blamed for her death; each blamed the other, and then the family fractured.”

…

We ended up in a cafe and the story took three cups of coffee.

The grandparents, the marriages, the family fractures, the children, and loss. Perhaps I was too young to understand the nuances of family, other than my father’s edit that family was supposed to be everything, a hard tenet to follow given how my mother was the complete antithesis of it.

It was why I only assumed there were eight siblings: my mother and her older brothers and sisters, the evil sister Annabel, not knowing Annabel was her twin, and this other bunch of people that I thought belonged to another branch of the family.

My mother never assimilated with her father, and I knew that her mother was dead, but she never seemed to mention her with any fondness.

No surprise. She had never got to meet her at the point where she could bond with her or remember her. She only had a stepmother, though she never mentioned her. In fact, she rarely mentioned her life before marrying my father, and he seemed quite at home not mentioning her parents either.

The only people both my siblings and I knew were the grandparents on my father’s side.

Now I had a more detailed understanding of mt mothers whole family, and some of the reasons why she never mentioned them.

I could understand why Annabel hated me; she hated her twin, who had been born in a house that treated them badly. I could not imagine what it would be like to be blamed by everyone for the death of their mother.

Even when it was not their fault, as my uncle had gone out of his way to find the truth and try for years to repair the fractures.

By the time I got back on the plane to go home, two days later, and after sitting at the table with my other six aunts and uncles, I was not sure whether I should be pleased or disappointed I’d found out the family secret.

…

When I walked in the door, back home, and feeling exhausted from the long trip, I wasn’t expecting to walk into a minefield.

My mother was standing in the hallway, arms crossed, and looking black as thunder.

Melanie. The sister who could never keep a secret. I had to tell someone in case there was a problem while I was away.

I guess if there was a chance to score points, she would take it.

“You went to Cincinnati?”

It was a statement, not a question.

My father, or anyone else who was around, had seen the storm brewing and left to find a safe haven.

“I did. Part of this deep desire to see something of this great country I live in. Maybe next month I’ll go to Texas.” Better to be flippant.

“So Cincinnati was just a spot like pinning the tail on the donkey?”

“No. It seemed significant, like you mentioning it with loathing. I wanted to find out if it was as bad as you seem to think it is.”

“You have no idea what I think.”

“Actually, I think I might have some idea. I met your twin sister, the evil Annabel. I get it, by the way. Sisters can be shitty to one another, and I imagine that can only intensify with a twin. It’s amusing to discover she had exactly the same loathing of you, which makes it quite funny.”

“It’s not.”

“It is. After all the times you told me I had to be nice to my siblings, you went and did the exact opposite. Did Dad know you were one of fourteen?”

“I told him my father was in a mental home and my mother was dead. I’d like it to stay that way.”

“Why?”

“Because it was better that way.” The black clouds were passing, and the edge had gone out of her tone. She was still angry but not as much.

“You spoke to Anthony?”

“You knew he was still in Cincinnati?”

“Of course. He is my stepbrother, perhaps the only one worth talking to, and the only one who took the time to find the truth.”

“And you knew Annabel was staying with him?”

“You went to the home we were brought up in. She was never going to leave him, married or otherwise. You would have met your doppelganger Eric, too.” She shrugged. “She dated your father for the whole of high school, got pregnant, which, given the type of girl she was, surprised no one. It’s why he looks like you; he’s your father’s illegitimate child. He invited her to the prom, and she got sick, and told me to go with him instead so another girl wouldn’t steal him from her.”

I could see how that would work. “Except…”

“He preferred me. One night it took. The Prom. She was a bitch at the best of times. I wasn’t. You can only put up with that stuff for so long. But there was the pregnancy and the obligation. Our parents expected him to do the right thing. He didn’t.”

I could see now why Annabel hated her. Bad choices and expectations.

She continued, “To make things easier for her, I left home, came here, told him he had to marry her, but he said he’d made his bed, asked me to marry him. I said no. He eventually married her, the child was born, and then they divorced. She cheated on him, not surprising. A year later, your father came here, asked me again, and I said yes. She hated me ever since. The guy she ended up with was better for her, but you could never tell her anything. She blew that marriage up too, by the way.”

I had some experience in breaking up with a first love. The next was never the same, even after you got over that broken heart, which I didn’t think I had.

“I’m sure there’s a moral in this story somewhere. If anything, given my family, perhaps it’s better not to get married, or if you do, stick to one wife, and not have eight, six or fourteen kids. And not marry a twin.”

I thought i saw the beginnings of a smile. I could have been mistaken.

“What are you going to do with this newfound knowledge?”

“Talk to the aunts and uncles I know about the aunts and uncles they quite clearly knew about but never spoke about because of you.”

“Not me exactly. Out of deference to me. They regretted blaming us for our mother’s death, because at that age everything was more intense and easily explained in a child’s head, aside from our father hammering it in because of his own misery.

It was what it was. I should have handled it better, but I didn’t. Perhaps in some small way, you doing what you just did might be the first step along a long path back. If you want, invite Anthony to come and visit you. See what he says.”

I knew what he would say, but I wasn’t going to tell her.

I’d let that be a surprise.