Tag: Fiction

Writing a book in 365 days – 341/342

Days 341 and 342

The Ultimate Test: Reading Your Own Work as a Reader

As writers, we’ve all been there – pouring our hearts and souls into a project, painstakingly crafting each sentence, and meticulously editing every detail. But once we’ve finally completed our masterpiece, there’s a crucial step that many of us often overlook: reading it as a reader, not as a writer.

This concept may seem simple, but it’s a game-changer. By setting aside our writer’s hat and donning the reader’s cap, we can gain a fresh perspective on our work and determine whether it truly resonates with our target audience. The idea is straightforward: if we, as writers, find our own work enjoyable and engaging, then it’s likely that our readers will too. But if we struggle to get through our own content, then it’s back to the drawing board.

Why Reading as a Reader Matters

When we read our own work as writers, we’re often too close to the material. We’re familiar with the plot twists, character arcs, and themes, and we know exactly what we’re trying to convey. But readers don’t have this insider knowledge. They’re approaching our work with a blank slate, and it’s our job to draw them in and keep them engaged.

By reading our work as a reader, we can experience it in the same way that our audience will. We can identify areas where the pacing is slow, the dialogue is clunky, or the exposition is too dense. We can pinpoint moments where we’re confused, bored, or disconnected from the story. And we can make adjustments accordingly.

The Benefits of Reading as a Reader

So, what can we gain from reading our own work as a reader? Here are just a few benefits:

  1. Improved pacing: By reading our work from a reader’s perspective, we can identify areas where the story drags or feels rushed. We can make adjustments to the pacing to keep our readers engaged.
  2. Tighter writing: Reading our work as a reader helps us to eliminate unnecessary words, phrases, and scenes. We can streamline our writing and make every sentence count.
  3. Increased tension and suspense: By experiencing our story as a reader, we can identify moments where the tension and suspense are lacking. We can add twists and turns to keep our readers on the edge of their seats.
  4. Better character development: Reading our work as a reader helps us to see our characters through fresh eyes. We can add depth, nuance, and complexity to our characters, making them more relatable and believable.

The Ugly Truth: When It’s Not Enjoyable

But what happens when we read our work as a reader and it’s just not enjoyable? What if we find ourselves skipping sentences, zoning out, or worse, falling asleep? Well, that’s when the real work begins.

It’s time to take a step back, reassess our project, and make significant changes. This might involve rewriting entire sections, reworking our plot, or even scrapping our manuscript altogether. It’s a tough pill to swallow, but it’s better to face the music now than to publish a subpar work that fails to resonate with our readers.

Conclusion

Reading our own work as a reader is a crucial step in the writing process. It allows us to experience our story in a new way, identify areas for improvement, and make adjustments to create a more engaging and enjoyable read. So, take the time to sit down, read your work as a reader, and be honest with yourself. If it’s enjoyable, then you’re on the right track. But if not, don’t be afraid to go back to the drawing board and try again. Your readers will thank you.

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 him or her, 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, 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, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is 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 recognize was murder. The photo of the man up 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 at 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 realize 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, 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 a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of 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, bullet proof 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 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 was still 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 and 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 an 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 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 a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized 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 that 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 you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

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

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first.  I have come, basically to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us with 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 than 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, and 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, by the way she had announced herself, 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 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 a number of 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 note book 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 apologize 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 realized 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 realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close 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 officer’s 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 it 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 wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. 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 co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

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 re-writes, 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 Years, 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 there were apartment buildings 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 center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of 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

newechocover5rs

Writing a book in 365 days – 339

Day 339

Unlock Your Potential: The Power of Joining a Writer’s Group

Writing is often a solitary pursuit. Hunched over a keyboard, staring at a blank page, or lost in the quiet hum of creativity—these moments define the life of a writer. But what if there was a way to transform isolation into inspiration? Enter writers’ clubs, workshops, or writing groups: vibrant communities that offer more than just feedback. They become the bedrock of growth, connection, and resilience for writers at any stage of their journey. Let’s explore the transformative benefits of joining such a group.

1. Constructive Feedback and a Fresh Perspective

One of the most immediate benefits of joining a writing group is the constructive feedback you receive. While self-editing is essential, external perspectives can unveil blind spots. For example, a fellow writer might notice an inconsistency in a character’s motivation or suggest a pacing adjustment you hadn’t considered. Workshops often foster a culture of honesty and kindness, helping you refine your work with specific, actionable insights.

Moreover, reading others’ work exposes you to diverse styles, genres, and techniques. This cross-pollination of ideas can spark creativity and broaden your own writing toolkit.

2. Motivation, Accountability, and Discipline

The writing process can be inconsistent. Deadlines slip, self-doubt creeps in, and distractions abound. A writer’s group provides structure and accountability. Regular meetings, shared writing goals (like word counts or drafting timelines), and peer encouragement create a rhythm that keeps you on track.

Imagine committing to write 500 words a week, knowing your group will check in on your progress. Suddenly, the task feels personal and collaborative. The shared energy of a room (or virtual space) filled with fellow writers can reignite your passion on even the toughest days.

3. Learning and Skill Development

Writing groups often double as learning hubs. Many workshops include writing exercises, mini-lessons on grammar or storytelling techniques, or guest speakers who share industry tips. For instance, a member might lead a session on dialogue writing, or the facilitator could guide a critique focused on character development.

Even informal exchanges—discussing a favourite novel or dissecting a challenging scene—can deepen your understanding of the craft. The more you engage, the sharper your skills become.

4. Networking and Collaboration Opportunities

Connections matter. By joining a writing group, you become part of a network of like-minded individuals. These relationships can lead to collaborations—co-authoring a story, editing each other’s manuscripts, or even finding a publishing agent through introductions.

Additionally, many groups host or share information about contests, publications, or local literary events. For emerging writers, these opportunities can be invaluable for visibility and growth.

5. Emotional Support and Validation

Writing is an emotionally charged endeavour. Rejection letters, “fix-it” feedback, and the pressure to publish can wear you down. A writer’s group offers emotional support, a safe space to vent, celebrate small wins, and process setbacks.

Feeling part of a community combats the isolation many writers face. Sharing your struggles with others who “get it” fosters resilience and reminds you that your voice matters.

6. Access to Resources and Creative Stimulation

Many groups curate resources: writing prompts, book recommendations, or even shared tools like grammar checkers. Some offer access to exclusive workshops or masterclasses. Online groups, in particular, can connect you to global experts and trends in the literary world.

The collaborative brainstorming sessions are gold, too. A tired plot idea revived by a group member’s unexpected twist, or a new genre explored through peer encouragement—these moments keep creativity alive.

7. Building Confidence and Overcoming Self-Doubt

Imposter syndrome is common among writers. Hearing peers praise your work or admit they struggle with similar doubts can be incredibly validating. Over time, the supportive environment of a writing group helps you trust your voice and embrace your unique style.

Additionally, sharing your writing aloud in a group setting helps build confidence in your work—and your ability to receive feedback without defensiveness.

Find Your Tribe: Where to Start

Still unsure? Begin by searching for local writing groups through libraries, community centres, or platforms like Meetup and Eventbrite. If in-person isn’t possible, online writing communities (e.g., Reddit’s r/writing, Scribophile) offer equally rich interactions. For the bold, consider starting your own group!

Final Thoughts

A writer’s group isn’t just a place to “get feedback.” It’s a village of collaborators, cheerleaders, and mentors who help you grow both personally and professionally. By joining such a community, you invest in your craft—and your confidence. So, take the leap. Share your work, lean on others, and watch your writing thrive in ways you never imagined.

What’s your favourite benefit of a writing group? Share your experiences in the comments below!

Ready to connect? Explore local or online writing groups today and unlock the power of collective creativity. 📝

Writing a book in 365 days – 339

Day 339

Unlock Your Potential: The Power of Joining a Writer’s Group

Writing is often a solitary pursuit. Hunched over a keyboard, staring at a blank page, or lost in the quiet hum of creativity—these moments define the life of a writer. But what if there was a way to transform isolation into inspiration? Enter writers’ clubs, workshops, or writing groups: vibrant communities that offer more than just feedback. They become the bedrock of growth, connection, and resilience for writers at any stage of their journey. Let’s explore the transformative benefits of joining such a group.

1. Constructive Feedback and a Fresh Perspective

One of the most immediate benefits of joining a writing group is the constructive feedback you receive. While self-editing is essential, external perspectives can unveil blind spots. For example, a fellow writer might notice an inconsistency in a character’s motivation or suggest a pacing adjustment you hadn’t considered. Workshops often foster a culture of honesty and kindness, helping you refine your work with specific, actionable insights.

Moreover, reading others’ work exposes you to diverse styles, genres, and techniques. This cross-pollination of ideas can spark creativity and broaden your own writing toolkit.

2. Motivation, Accountability, and Discipline

The writing process can be inconsistent. Deadlines slip, self-doubt creeps in, and distractions abound. A writer’s group provides structure and accountability. Regular meetings, shared writing goals (like word counts or drafting timelines), and peer encouragement create a rhythm that keeps you on track.

Imagine committing to write 500 words a week, knowing your group will check in on your progress. Suddenly, the task feels personal and collaborative. The shared energy of a room (or virtual space) filled with fellow writers can reignite your passion on even the toughest days.

3. Learning and Skill Development

Writing groups often double as learning hubs. Many workshops include writing exercises, mini-lessons on grammar or storytelling techniques, or guest speakers who share industry tips. For instance, a member might lead a session on dialogue writing, or the facilitator could guide a critique focused on character development.

Even informal exchanges—discussing a favourite novel or dissecting a challenging scene—can deepen your understanding of the craft. The more you engage, the sharper your skills become.

4. Networking and Collaboration Opportunities

Connections matter. By joining a writing group, you become part of a network of like-minded individuals. These relationships can lead to collaborations—co-authoring a story, editing each other’s manuscripts, or even finding a publishing agent through introductions.

Additionally, many groups host or share information about contests, publications, or local literary events. For emerging writers, these opportunities can be invaluable for visibility and growth.

5. Emotional Support and Validation

Writing is an emotionally charged endeavour. Rejection letters, “fix-it” feedback, and the pressure to publish can wear you down. A writer’s group offers emotional support, a safe space to vent, celebrate small wins, and process setbacks.

Feeling part of a community combats the isolation many writers face. Sharing your struggles with others who “get it” fosters resilience and reminds you that your voice matters.

6. Access to Resources and Creative Stimulation

Many groups curate resources: writing prompts, book recommendations, or even shared tools like grammar checkers. Some offer access to exclusive workshops or masterclasses. Online groups, in particular, can connect you to global experts and trends in the literary world.

The collaborative brainstorming sessions are gold, too. A tired plot idea revived by a group member’s unexpected twist, or a new genre explored through peer encouragement—these moments keep creativity alive.

7. Building Confidence and Overcoming Self-Doubt

Imposter syndrome is common among writers. Hearing peers praise your work or admit they struggle with similar doubts can be incredibly validating. Over time, the supportive environment of a writing group helps you trust your voice and embrace your unique style.

Additionally, sharing your writing aloud in a group setting helps build confidence in your work—and your ability to receive feedback without defensiveness.

Find Your Tribe: Where to Start

Still unsure? Begin by searching for local writing groups through libraries, community centres, or platforms like Meetup and Eventbrite. If in-person isn’t possible, online writing communities (e.g., Reddit’s r/writing, Scribophile) offer equally rich interactions. For the bold, consider starting your own group!

Final Thoughts

A writer’s group isn’t just a place to “get feedback.” It’s a village of collaborators, cheerleaders, and mentors who help you grow both personally and professionally. By joining such a community, you invest in your craft—and your confidence. So, take the leap. Share your work, lean on others, and watch your writing thrive in ways you never imagined.

What’s your favourite benefit of a writing group? Share your experiences in the comments below!

Ready to connect? Explore local or online writing groups today and unlock the power of collective creativity. 📝

Writing a book in 365 days – 338

Day 338

Don’t Be Obsessed, Be Obsessedly Curious: The Balanced Art of Writing a Compelling Play

Playwriting is a thrilling dance between creativity and discipline. It’s a craft that demands passion, yet many aspiring playwrights believe they must be obsessively consumed by their work to succeed. But here’s the truth: you don’t need to be obsessive to write a great play. Instead, what you need is curiosity, patience, and a toolkit of strategies to bring your vision to life. Let’s explore why obsession isn’t the answer—and how to write a play that lingers in the hearts of audiences long after the curtain falls.

The Myth of the “Obsessed Artist”

Pop culture loves the image of the tormented artist locked in a studio for months, surviving on coffee and sheer willpower. But this myth is a red herring. While dedication is key, obsession—borderline compulsion, neglecting self-care, or losing balance—can lead to burnout, poor writing, and even health issues.

Consider this: Great plays are born from sustainable creativity, not self-destruction. Playwrights like Lynn Nottage and David Mamet thrived by setting boundaries, sleeping, and nourishing their minds with diverse experiences. The goal isn’t to “die for your art” but to live for it in a way that fuels your creativity without stealing your joy.

5 Strategies to Write a Compelling Play (Without Going Crazy)

1. Start with a Core Question, Not a Plot

Every great play is driven by an emotional or philosophical “what if?” Ask yourself:

  • What story haunts me?
  • What truth am I desperate to explore?
    Your answer might be as simple as, “What if a single mother lost her job and had to choose between her kids and a dream?” That question becomes the heartbeat of your play. Build your plot and characters to answer it—or, better yet, to challenge it.

2. Craft Nuanced Characters, Not Stereotypes

Audiences don’t want perfect heroes or villains. They want characters who feel human: flawed, vulnerable, and complicated.

  • Give each character a hidden motive. (Example: A grieving father might lash out, but his rage masks guilt.)
  • Avoid monologues that “explain” everything—let their actions and subtext do the work.

3. Fuel the Fire with Conflict and Stakes

Conflict isn’t just a punchy line—it’s the engine of drama. Ask:

  • What do my characters want?
  • What’s stopping them?
  • What do they stand to lose?

Think of Glengarry Glen Ross by David Mamet: The fight for a car sales job isn’t just about money—it’s about dignity. Raise the stakes by making the cost of failure personal.

4. Dialogue That Bites: Less Is More

Play dialogue should echo real speech—but with purpose.

  • Trim the filler: Delete “ums” and “you know.”
  • Subtext is your friend: Let characters say one thing but mean another. (This is how Shakespeare’s Ophelia truly speaks.)
  • Conflict in soundbites: Short, sharp lines pack more punch than long speeches.

Need help? Try the “Rewrite as a Screenplay” method: If your lines would feel at home on a Zoom call, they’re not dramatic enough.

5. Edit Ruthlessly and Collaborate Relentlessly

First drafts are drafts for a reason. Let them simmer, then revise with a surgeon’s precision.

  • Cut scenes that don’t serve the core question.
  • Work with others: Read your play aloud to beta readers, actors, or writers’ groups. Fresh ears catch what you miss.

Remember: Even August Wilson revised his plays 20+ times. Perfection isn’t a starting point—it’s a destination.

The Secret Sauce: Curiosity Over Compulsion

The key to writing a compelling play isn’t marathon sessions fueled by espresso but consistency and exploration. Take walks, read poetry, or attend stranger’s conversations. Inspiration isn’t just about being a “crazy artist”—it’s about living with open eyes and ears.

And when you feel stuck? Pace yourself. A daily 30-minute writing habit can build a masterpiece faster than a week-long caffeine-fueled sprint followed by burnout.

Final Thought: Write to Be Free, Not Trapped

A play is a mirror held up to life. It doesn’t have to be born of obsessive frenzy—just honest curiosity. The stage is for stories that matter, not for self-imposed suffering. So write from your deepest joys, fears, and questions. And remember: Your best work will come when you’re energised to tell it—not exhausted by the process.

Now go. Let the world see what makes you uniquely human. The audience is waiting. 🎭

Need more playwriting tips? Join our monthly writing workshops or follow us for weekly tips on balancing creativity and sanity in the arts. You’ve got this!

Writing a book in 365 days – 338

Day 338

Don’t Be Obsessed, Be Obsessedly Curious: The Balanced Art of Writing a Compelling Play

Playwriting is a thrilling dance between creativity and discipline. It’s a craft that demands passion, yet many aspiring playwrights believe they must be obsessively consumed by their work to succeed. But here’s the truth: you don’t need to be obsessive to write a great play. Instead, what you need is curiosity, patience, and a toolkit of strategies to bring your vision to life. Let’s explore why obsession isn’t the answer—and how to write a play that lingers in the hearts of audiences long after the curtain falls.

The Myth of the “Obsessed Artist”

Pop culture loves the image of the tormented artist locked in a studio for months, surviving on coffee and sheer willpower. But this myth is a red herring. While dedication is key, obsession—borderline compulsion, neglecting self-care, or losing balance—can lead to burnout, poor writing, and even health issues.

Consider this: Great plays are born from sustainable creativity, not self-destruction. Playwrights like Lynn Nottage and David Mamet thrived by setting boundaries, sleeping, and nourishing their minds with diverse experiences. The goal isn’t to “die for your art” but to live for it in a way that fuels your creativity without stealing your joy.

5 Strategies to Write a Compelling Play (Without Going Crazy)

1. Start with a Core Question, Not a Plot

Every great play is driven by an emotional or philosophical “what if?” Ask yourself:

  • What story haunts me?
  • What truth am I desperate to explore?
    Your answer might be as simple as, “What if a single mother lost her job and had to choose between her kids and a dream?” That question becomes the heartbeat of your play. Build your plot and characters to answer it—or, better yet, to challenge it.

2. Craft Nuanced Characters, Not Stereotypes

Audiences don’t want perfect heroes or villains. They want characters who feel human: flawed, vulnerable, and complicated.

  • Give each character a hidden motive. (Example: A grieving father might lash out, but his rage masks guilt.)
  • Avoid monologues that “explain” everything—let their actions and subtext do the work.

3. Fuel the Fire with Conflict and Stakes

Conflict isn’t just a punchy line—it’s the engine of drama. Ask:

  • What do my characters want?
  • What’s stopping them?
  • What do they stand to lose?

Think of Glengarry Glen Ross by David Mamet: The fight for a car sales job isn’t just about money—it’s about dignity. Raise the stakes by making the cost of failure personal.

4. Dialogue That Bites: Less Is More

Play dialogue should echo real speech—but with purpose.

  • Trim the filler: Delete “ums” and “you know.”
  • Subtext is your friend: Let characters say one thing but mean another. (This is how Shakespeare’s Ophelia truly speaks.)
  • Conflict in soundbites: Short, sharp lines pack more punch than long speeches.

Need help? Try the “Rewrite as a Screenplay” method: If your lines would feel at home on a Zoom call, they’re not dramatic enough.

5. Edit Ruthlessly and Collaborate Relentlessly

First drafts are drafts for a reason. Let them simmer, then revise with a surgeon’s precision.

  • Cut scenes that don’t serve the core question.
  • Work with others: Read your play aloud to beta readers, actors, or writers’ groups. Fresh ears catch what you miss.

Remember: Even August Wilson revised his plays 20+ times. Perfection isn’t a starting point—it’s a destination.

The Secret Sauce: Curiosity Over Compulsion

The key to writing a compelling play isn’t marathon sessions fueled by espresso but consistency and exploration. Take walks, read poetry, or attend stranger’s conversations. Inspiration isn’t just about being a “crazy artist”—it’s about living with open eyes and ears.

And when you feel stuck? Pace yourself. A daily 30-minute writing habit can build a masterpiece faster than a week-long caffeine-fueled sprint followed by burnout.

Final Thought: Write to Be Free, Not Trapped

A play is a mirror held up to life. It doesn’t have to be born of obsessive frenzy—just honest curiosity. The stage is for stories that matter, not for self-imposed suffering. So write from your deepest joys, fears, and questions. And remember: Your best work will come when you’re energised to tell it—not exhausted by the process.

Now go. Let the world see what makes you uniquely human. The audience is waiting. 🎭

Need more playwriting tips? Join our monthly writing workshops or follow us for weekly tips on balancing creativity and sanity in the arts. You’ve got this!

Writing a book in 365 days – 337

Day 337

Authors to study from the past

…

Mastering the Craft: Must-Read Authors from the 1940s and Beyond to Elevate Your Writing

When it comes to mastering the art of writing—whether it’s crafting intricate plots, developing multidimensional characters, or diving into profound themes—there are countless literary giants whose works serve as masterclasses in storytelling. Starting from the 1940s and moving backwards in time, these authors offer timeless lessons in style, structure, and substance. Here’s a curated list of authors and their works that can transform your approach to writing.

1. William Golding (1954) – Lord of the Flies

Lesson: Human Nature and Allegory
Golding’s Lord of the Flies is a masterclass in allegorical storytelling and psychological depth. By placing a group of boys on a deserted island, he peels back the veneer of civilisation to reveal primal instincts. For writers, Golding teaches how to use a microcosmic setting to explore universal themes like power, fear, and morality. His sparse yet brutal prose shows how simplicity can amplify tension and symbolism.

2. Evelyn Waugh (1945) – Brideshead Revisited

Lesson: Structure and Societal Critique
Waugh’s semi-autobiographical novel combines lush prose with a fragmented, reflective narrative. Brideshead Revisited is a lesson in balancing character development with thematic depth. Writers can learn how to weave personal introspection with societal critique (e.g., the decline of British aristocracy) and how to structure a narrative around memory and emotional resonance.

3. Graham Greene (1940s–1950s) – The Power and the Glory (1940), The Quiet American (1955)

Lesson: Moral Ambiguity and Pacing
Greene’s novels, set against politically turbulent backdrops, explore moral ambiguity with razor-sharp precision. In The Power and the Glory, he uses a flawed priest to ask, “What makes a man good?” Writers can study Greene’s lean, taut prose, his ability to build tension through understatement, and how to embed philosophical questions into action-driven plots.

4. John Steinbeck (1939–1952) – The Grapes of Wrath, East of Eden

Lesson: Social Justice and Emotional Resonance
Steinbeck’s unflinching portrayal of the human condition, from the Joad family’s plight in The Grapes of Wrath to the complex family dynamics in East of Eden, teaches the power of empathy in storytelling. His ability to balance epic scope with intimate moments is a guide to creating narratives that are both socially relevant and emotionally gripping.

5. F. Scott Fitzgerald (1925) – The Great Gatsby

Lesson: Symbolism and Narrative Voice
Though published in the 1920s, Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby remains a touchstone for writers. Nick Carraway’s reflective narration and Gatsby’s glittering, tragic world showcase how symbolism (e.g., the green light, the Valley of Ashes) can anchor themes of aspiration and decay. His lyrical prose reminds us that language itself can be a character in the story.

6. Ernest Hemingway (1940s–1950s) – Across the River and into the Trees (1950)

Lesson: The Iceberg Theory
Hemingway’s famous “theory of omission” (hide the deeper meaning beneath the surface) is best learned by studying his sparse, understated prose. His 1950s works, while less celebrated, demonstrate how much can be said with minimal words. A lesson in restraint: show, don’t tell.

7. George Orwell (1949) – 1984

Lesson: Dystopian Storytelling and Warning Narratives
Orwell’s 1984 endures as a chilling exploration of authoritarianism and language manipulation. For writers, it’s a blueprint for constructing cautionary tales: how to create a world that feels grounded in reality, yet pushes the boundaries of imagination to provoke thought.

8. Virginia Woolf (1920s–1930s) – To the Lighthouse, Mrs. Dalloway

Lesson: Stream of Consciousness and Subjective Time
Woolf’s modernist experiments with time and perspective teach writers how to capture the inner lives of characters. Her fluid narratives, like the fragmented days of Mrs. Dalloway, show how to blur the lines between external action and internal emotion.

9. Truman Capote (1960) – In Cold Blood

Lesson: Narrative Non-Fiction
Though published in the 1960s, Capote’s blend of journalism and novelistic technique in In Cold Blood redefined true crime. It’s a masterclass in pacing, interview-driven storytelling, and how to humanise even the most heinous characters.

10. Harper Lee (1960) – To Kill a Mockingbird

Lesson: Moral Courage in Character Development
Lee’s iconic novel, published in the early 1960s, is a case study in using a child’s perspective to critique systemic racism. Atticus Finch’s quiet moral authority and Scout’s growth illustrate how to embed ethical dilemmas into character arcs without sermonizing.

Conclusion: The Timeless Classroom of Literature

From Golding’s haunting allegories to Hemingway’s clipped prose, these authors offer a rich tapestry of techniques to inspire modern writers. Whether you’re drawn to the moral complexity of Greene, the symbolic depth of Fitzgerald, or the socio-political acuity of Orwell, reading backward from the 1940s is a journey into the heart of what makes storytelling enduring. So, dive in—your next story’s secret might be hidden in the pages of their masterpieces.

Final Tip: As you explore these works, don’t just read—annotate, imitate, and experiment. The best writing lessons come when you let these authors’ voices influence your own unique style. Happy writing!

Writing a book in 365 days – 337

Day 337

Authors to study from the past

…

Mastering the Craft: Must-Read Authors from the 1940s and Beyond to Elevate Your Writing

When it comes to mastering the art of writing—whether it’s crafting intricate plots, developing multidimensional characters, or diving into profound themes—there are countless literary giants whose works serve as masterclasses in storytelling. Starting from the 1940s and moving backwards in time, these authors offer timeless lessons in style, structure, and substance. Here’s a curated list of authors and their works that can transform your approach to writing.

1. William Golding (1954) – Lord of the Flies

Lesson: Human Nature and Allegory
Golding’s Lord of the Flies is a masterclass in allegorical storytelling and psychological depth. By placing a group of boys on a deserted island, he peels back the veneer of civilisation to reveal primal instincts. For writers, Golding teaches how to use a microcosmic setting to explore universal themes like power, fear, and morality. His sparse yet brutal prose shows how simplicity can amplify tension and symbolism.

2. Evelyn Waugh (1945) – Brideshead Revisited

Lesson: Structure and Societal Critique
Waugh’s semi-autobiographical novel combines lush prose with a fragmented, reflective narrative. Brideshead Revisited is a lesson in balancing character development with thematic depth. Writers can learn how to weave personal introspection with societal critique (e.g., the decline of British aristocracy) and how to structure a narrative around memory and emotional resonance.

3. Graham Greene (1940s–1950s) – The Power and the Glory (1940), The Quiet American (1955)

Lesson: Moral Ambiguity and Pacing
Greene’s novels, set against politically turbulent backdrops, explore moral ambiguity with razor-sharp precision. In The Power and the Glory, he uses a flawed priest to ask, “What makes a man good?” Writers can study Greene’s lean, taut prose, his ability to build tension through understatement, and how to embed philosophical questions into action-driven plots.

4. John Steinbeck (1939–1952) – The Grapes of Wrath, East of Eden

Lesson: Social Justice and Emotional Resonance
Steinbeck’s unflinching portrayal of the human condition, from the Joad family’s plight in The Grapes of Wrath to the complex family dynamics in East of Eden, teaches the power of empathy in storytelling. His ability to balance epic scope with intimate moments is a guide to creating narratives that are both socially relevant and emotionally gripping.

5. F. Scott Fitzgerald (1925) – The Great Gatsby

Lesson: Symbolism and Narrative Voice
Though published in the 1920s, Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby remains a touchstone for writers. Nick Carraway’s reflective narration and Gatsby’s glittering, tragic world showcase how symbolism (e.g., the green light, the Valley of Ashes) can anchor themes of aspiration and decay. His lyrical prose reminds us that language itself can be a character in the story.

6. Ernest Hemingway (1940s–1950s) – Across the River and into the Trees (1950)

Lesson: The Iceberg Theory
Hemingway’s famous “theory of omission” (hide the deeper meaning beneath the surface) is best learned by studying his sparse, understated prose. His 1950s works, while less celebrated, demonstrate how much can be said with minimal words. A lesson in restraint: show, don’t tell.

7. George Orwell (1949) – 1984

Lesson: Dystopian Storytelling and Warning Narratives
Orwell’s 1984 endures as a chilling exploration of authoritarianism and language manipulation. For writers, it’s a blueprint for constructing cautionary tales: how to create a world that feels grounded in reality, yet pushes the boundaries of imagination to provoke thought.

8. Virginia Woolf (1920s–1930s) – To the Lighthouse, Mrs. Dalloway

Lesson: Stream of Consciousness and Subjective Time
Woolf’s modernist experiments with time and perspective teach writers how to capture the inner lives of characters. Her fluid narratives, like the fragmented days of Mrs. Dalloway, show how to blur the lines between external action and internal emotion.

9. Truman Capote (1960) – In Cold Blood

Lesson: Narrative Non-Fiction
Though published in the 1960s, Capote’s blend of journalism and novelistic technique in In Cold Blood redefined true crime. It’s a masterclass in pacing, interview-driven storytelling, and how to humanise even the most heinous characters.

10. Harper Lee (1960) – To Kill a Mockingbird

Lesson: Moral Courage in Character Development
Lee’s iconic novel, published in the early 1960s, is a case study in using a child’s perspective to critique systemic racism. Atticus Finch’s quiet moral authority and Scout’s growth illustrate how to embed ethical dilemmas into character arcs without sermonizing.

Conclusion: The Timeless Classroom of Literature

From Golding’s haunting allegories to Hemingway’s clipped prose, these authors offer a rich tapestry of techniques to inspire modern writers. Whether you’re drawn to the moral complexity of Greene, the symbolic depth of Fitzgerald, or the socio-political acuity of Orwell, reading backward from the 1940s is a journey into the heart of what makes storytelling enduring. So, dive in—your next story’s secret might be hidden in the pages of their masterpieces.

Final Tip: As you explore these works, don’t just read—annotate, imitate, and experiment. The best writing lessons come when you let these authors’ voices influence your own unique style. Happy writing!

Writing a book in 365 days – 336

Day 336

Writing exercise – Everything she could see from the room she never left was beautiful.

…

It was Princess Elizabeth’s bright, sunny disposition that gave her the ability to see the good in everything.

Or so someone had said, a long time ago, so long she could not remember who said it or when it was.

What she did know was that it was good advice.

Why, when she knew that she might never leave that room, at the top of the north tower, the one that overlooked the gardens, the lake, the valley and then the sea.

On a good day, she thought, I could see forever.

On a bad day, not that there were many, she could just barely remember how she finished up in that room in the north tower.

But on the periphery of her memory was a story…

…

The Princess Matilda had arrived from a Kingdom across the ocean, a land they had never heard of before, seeking a Prince’s hand in marriage, and she was visiting the seven kingdoms that made up the realm.

Her kingdom was the last, and her brother Prince Joshua was seeking a Princess bride, and Matilda was perfect.

What they didn’t know was that Princess Matilda was not quite who she said she was.  It was not long before her brother became ill, and when none of the healers in the kingdom could save him, Princess Matilda told them of a prophecy that foretold of a great sickness that would spread through the realm, and that the only way it could be stopped was to ensure that Princess Elizabeth never left the castle.

Of course, no one believed it, not until people in the kingdom succumbed to the same ailment that the Prince was suffering from.

So, when the people started to die, the King had no choice.  The Princess Elizabeth was confined to a room in the north tower, and then people recovered.  No one knew why it was, only that her confinement had saved the people.

…

Some years passed before one day the Princess Matilda came to visit her.

She came into her room and sat down.  Elizabeth stayed by the windows.  It was only the second time she had been face-to-face with Matilda, who had deliberately stayed away from her.

“Are you not afraid you will get sick?”

She knew the reason why she was confined, but never understood why she was not sick herself.

“No.  It does not affect me.  In fact, you are not the reason people are getting sick.  That was just a spell I cast to make them believe you are the cause.”

Elizabeth did not understand why she would say that.  “A spell?”  She was equally unaware of witches and witchcraft, though it was said that witches once existed in the realm a very, very long time ago.

“Yes.  A spell.  It was necessary to do what I have done to make sure you do not cause trouble.”

“Why would you think that?  I have no intention of doing anything except marrying a Prince and living happily ever after.”

“That’s the problem.  If you marry a Prince and have children, they will become witches or warlocks, very powerful and dangerous sorcerers.  You were the last of the line, and we have to contain your powers.”

“I have no powers.”

“Not in this room.  It is a special room that keeps you from using any spells or exerting any influence.”

“Are you a witch?”

“A good witch, assigned by the Wizard to ensure we do not slip back into the old ways.  You will be here until you die.  So will I.”

“So I can never leave here?”

“No.”

Elizabeth thought that was harsh, and was going to say something, but then realised that a sudden, random thought just entered her head, one that told her there was a means to escape.

Not exactly how to, but that Princess Matilda knew, but wasn’t going to share.

“You cannot be killed, but you will eventually die.  When that happens, I will be free.  This is as much torture for me as it is for you.”

“It is not torture.  I have a comfortable room and a splendid view.  And I do not have to marry a horrible Prince.  What more could a princess ask for?”

Her cheery manner was too much for Matilda, and she left in a grumpy mood.

…

Many years passed.

Elizabeth realised that she was not aging as fast as her family members, or Princess Matilda.

Something else she noticed was the fact that outside the door to her room,  Princess Matilda looked quite old, as old as her brother, now the King of their kingdom, but inside the room, as old as her parents had been when she was first confined.  Elizabeth herself had hardly aged at all.

It was as if she had eternal youth.

And she was sure that was what angered Matilda.

Over the years, she had been working on how she was going to get to the secrets locked away in Matilda’s head.

At first, when she tried to read her mind, Matilda knew straight away.  Not that she said anything, so Elizabeth had to be smarter.

She practised reading the minds of those who walked in the gardens below, at first amazed that she could, considering Matilda told her her powers were useless in that room.

That wasn’t entirely true.

And as the years passed, she began to realise that she had some powers, and that it was possible to move objects, make objects appear or disappear, and make objects invisible.

She also realised that she could plant ideas into those people below, and get them to do her bidding.  It was not horrible things, she could not and would not want to harm anyone, but she did want to stop whatever it was Matilda was going to do.

She had finally realised that Matilda was not the good witch that she portrayed herself as, bur a bad witch, who slowly, over time, was turning the people against her brother. 

This culminated in Princess Matilda’s latest visit, the seventh anniversary of her confinement, the visits being once every ten years.

Matilda swept into the room and sat in her usual chair.

“You are looking old, Matilda,” she said, with no malice in her tone. 

Her bright and cheerful disposition annoyed Matilda

“You are fortunate I cannot kill you.”

To Elizabeth, it seemed an odd thing to say.  A clue perhaps that Matilda’s powers were waning.  She had felt a shift in the atmosphere of her room.

“That would be the act of a bad witch, which you claim you are not.”

“That is true.  Forget I said that.  There’s a blizzard coming, and we did not get enough grain in storage to last the winter.  It’s going to be hard.”

“You could use your powers to stop the storm.”

Matilda glared at her.  “What would you know of such things?”

“Just random thoughts.  My mother used to recite stories of the old days when a grand Wizard ruled the realm.”

“Fairytales.  Of course.  Did she tell you of the bad things that happened to the good witches and warlocks?”

“I don’t believe there was good and bad then.  What there was, I believe, was greed, lust, and the desire for malevolent power.  Instead of sharing the wealth and goodness, some people wanted it all for themselves and made the people their slaves.  Is that not what is happening now?”

Matilda looked at her curiously.  “You know this how?”

“I can see.  I can hear the people who bring me things.  I can feel a change in the atmosphere.  It is hard not to feel the people’s pain.  You are planning something evil.  It is the only explanation.”

She stood suddenly, her cheeks flushed front anger.

“I am not.  We are preparing for the winter solstice sacrifice to the Gods so that we will survive this harsh weather.  Enough.”

She flounced out of the room, the door slammed shut, and the bolts were driven home.

Where Elizabeth should have been dismayed, she was not.  Her plan had succeeded far beyond her expectations.

She knew how to defeat Princess Matilda.

…

Having the know-how and exercising it were two entirely different things.

Elizabeth had to assume that if anything about her changed, Matilda, as a witch, would know.  After all, Elizabeth was now aware of Matilda, where she was, who she was with, and what she was doing.

More importantly, she now knew what she was thinking.

And that was what had her worried.

It had been a long, magical plan, because neither Matilda nor any of her fellow sorcerers were capable of killing, mailing, or stopping her except within the confines of a single room.

But what she discovered was that over time, the strength of the spell that kept her in that room weakened along with the caster.

Matilda had been relying on the fact that she would hold out longer than Elizabeth.  Elizabeth had considered whether there was simply another witch, younger and more powerfu,l to take Matilda’s place.

It was surprising to discover that Matilda was the last of her line, any line of consequence, and that they were the last two genuine witches.  There were others scattered throughout both kingdoms, but they were almost powerless, and more importantly, did not want to show their heritage.

So what was Matilda’s endgame?  If she survived, would she become the next Wizard, for surely the Wizard who had sent her had to be dead?

Or did she need Elizabeth to die and then usurp her power to rule?

Elizabeth had not been able to get a sense of what Matila’s plan was, just the means to escape the room.  After that, Elizabeth was not sure what she would or even could do.  Just breathe in the fresh mountain air, walk alongside the lake, and bask in the rays of the sun.

Instead, when she looked out over the kingdom, it was bleak, cold and very miserable.  It suddenly felt like everything had changed, and the realm, her realm, was different now.

She was suddenly tired and felt compelled to lie down and rest.

…

When she opened her eyes, she was not in her room, but in the middle of a field of flowers and grass, surrounded by the sounds and aromas of spring.

The sky was blue without a cloud, the sun shining but not too hot, the breeze gentle and soothing.

Was this the afterlife?

Had she died?

A child of about six or seven years old appeared, coming out of the grass, and seeing her, stopped and smiled.

“Hello, Elizabeth.  You have come to us at last?”

“Come to whom?”

“Your true family.  I am the youngest, you are the eldest.  You are seeking guidance, no?”

She hesitated, suddenly realising the girl was herself at that age.  “I think so.”

“Good.  Then it is time.  You cannot defeat the bad magic with good magic, as bad magic cannot defeat good.  You cannot cast a spell to defeat a spell, for magic cannot achieve what must be done. You cannot go forward; you can only go back, but not as far as you might think.  You must be polite, well-mannered, but firm.  You cannot use force and involve anyone else; it must be you and you alone.  It must be done at water’s edge when the skies are dark but aglow.  You have everything you need now, go!”

…

When she opened her eyes again, she was in her bedroom in the castle. 

It was a long time ago.

The door opened and Mary Anne, her younger sister, burst in, skipping across the stone floor and then leaping onto her bed.

She moved quickly before her sister landed on her.  That she had not missed in all the years in the north tower.

Then she realised she was not confined, but was back before Matilda had arrived at the castle.

“Has Princess Matilda arrived?”

“Who?”

“A prospective bride for your brother.”

“No.  Never heard of her. “

Elizabeth cast her mind back to the day Matilda arrived.  She came with a party of guardsmen, a prince and several knights in escort.

“Are we expecting anyone?”

“No.  Why would we?”

“A handsome prince may be coming to sweep me off my feet.  A princess can always hope, can’t she?”

“I’m hoping you’ll come a play with me.  I’d rather go pick flowers than learn how to use a longbow.  I mean, girls do not go hunting; they fight in battles.”

“Are we going to war with anyone?”

“No.  But that’s the point.”

“I will play with you after your lessons.”

Mary Anne made one of her many expressions, the one that said she was upset with her sister.

“I don’t like you any more.”  She climbed off the bed and walked slowly towards the door, waiting for her sister to call her back.

Elizabeth didn’t.  She was busy trying to remember the little girl’s riddle in her dream.

If it was a dream.

‘You can’t go forward, you can only go back, but not as far as you think’.

It was the time before Matilda’s arrival.

That meant she could stop her from coming.  Except, she couldn’t use magic.

What magic?

She had no magic.  She was not a witch, not like Matilda had kept telling her she was.  A bad witch?  She was not a bad person.  She could never be a bad person.

She looked around her room, and it was missing something.  Flowers.  There were always flowers in a vase by the windows.  Freshly picked and with the aromas of the gardens.

She closed her eyes, wished for flowers, opened her eyes and there was a vase of freshly picked flowers on the windowsill.

That was odd.  She shook her head.

Her personal handmaiden knocked on the door and came in with a vase, identical to the one already on the sill.

“Sorry.  Someone else has brought you flowers.”

“No.  Please.  Put them next to the others, and tell me, what day is it?”

The girl rearranged the two vases, then turned around.  Four moons to your birthday, Princess.  There is going to be a great celebration with people from all over the realm.  Are you excited?”

She should be, but she wasn’t.  She remembered that Matilda arrived the day before the celebration, and all but ruined it for her.

Two moons then to try and remember and figure out what the riddle meant.

“Thank you, yes.  Very excited.  I presume the dressmaker will be along shortly.”

“Indeed.  We are all waiting anxiously to see it.  It is going to be the talk of the banquet hall.”

Not if history repeats itself.

“Thank you, Louisa, that will be all for the time being.”

…

She had magic, but she could not use it.  She had come back to the time before Matilda had arrived.  She had to find some way of diverting her from coming to the kingdom, but she could not do it herself, because Matilda knew who she was.  But she was the only one who could do it.

And what else was there?  It must be when the sky is dark but aglow.  What did that mean?

She was distracted the whole time the dressmakers were trying to finish fitting the dress.  Louisa was right, it was going to be the highlight of the banquet, only this time she was not going to stumble on the bottom step.

Unless Matilda cast a spell and made her trip.

Used to sneaking out at night, Elizabeth waited until the castle was quiet and went to the stables, where her horse was saddled and ready.

The sky was cloudy, and the moon was hidden, making it very dark.  Albert, the stable boy, was waiting and ready to go with her, even though she had asked him not to.

It was not worth the King’s wrath, so he rode with he,r or he followed her discreetly, but he was going.

She sighed.  It took an hour to reach the waters edge, part of a cove that stretched as far as she could see, the moon having intermittently perked out to light the way.

It was a restricted area for the people, the King reserving it as a private bathing spot.  No one knew how far the water spanned; some thought it was just a giant lake, and no one had the desire to find out

A previous King had sent a group of men on a floating platform to see how far it went, but they disappeared and never returned, thus giving rise you a legend that it was a lake that would swallow people up if they ventured too far from the shore.

Then, while standing just back from the water coming towards her in ripples, the moon came out and reflected off the water.

Aglow.

So she had to be here when the moon was out.  Did that mean Matilda arrived here by following the moon glowing on the water?

“It’s an omen.”  Albert appeared beside her.

“What is?”

“The moon on the water.  It is said to happen when a disaster is about to strike.”

“What sort of disaster?”

“Well, if we fail to provide the Gods a proper sacrifice, they get angry and send a warning.  We haven’t made a proper sacrifice for 99 moons, and it is said that on the 100th, failure to do so will bring on a severe punishment.”

“Where?”

“Here.  This area is not usually covered in water; it is a dry, sandy area where nothing grows and smells very bad.  It’s why no one comes here.  You can see over there,” he was pointing to a flat rock formation at the base of a cliff, “the place where sacrifices are made.  You don’t want to be there in two days.”

It didn’t make sense.  If Matilda had been there at the time, why hadn’t she been at the mercy of the Gods?

“Doesn’t that make it dangerous for anyone?”

“No.  Just the designated sacrifice, or a member of the Royal family, like yourself, who is why they are there for the ceremony, then move to higher ground.”

“So if I were there, then…”

“You would not want to be there.  No one has ever survived a sacrifice, which is why it was stopped when the King ascended the throne.  You’d best stay away from this place.”

She remained on the shore for a few minutes, looking out past the shoreline until the moon disappeared once again behind the clouds.

She was faced with a difficult decision.  Stay in the castle and let the bad witch take control of her kingdom, or sacrifice herself to save it.  Either way, her future was bleak.

She had a very difficult decision to make.

…

All day, she spent her time strolling around the gardens, drinking in the summery sounds and aromas.  It was her most favourite season of the year.

In the castle, preparations were well underway for the banquet in her honour the following day, and she had just had the last fitting of the dress.

Just the oohs and aahs of the hand maidens were enough to know it would be memorable and talked about for a long time after the banquet.

If she survived the night’s adventure.

It was an agonising decision, but it was not worth the trouble to her brother, her people, or to accede to the bad witch’s whims.

It would end tonight, one way or another.

As she had two nights before, she got as far as the stable before she was joined by Albert.  Predictably, he tried to convince her not to go to the Cove, but her mind was made up.  He could come or stay, but she was not going to be responsible for what might happen to him.

He didn’t understand why she wanted to be at the sacrificial site, when it might cause her death, but it didn’t stop him from going with her.

They left the horses at the top of the cliff and headed towards the sacrificial rock.

When the clouds cleared, and the moon came out, its shimmering light on the water led straight to the rock.  She took up a position near the rock and waited.

Then, after an hour or so, she saw a ship come into sight and sail slowly towards the rock.  As it got closer, she could see people on the deck.  Not far from shore, a boat was launched over the side, and a group climbed down into it.

Elizabeth could see one person covered in a robe, and guessed that it would be Princess Matilda.

When the boat reached the shore, men jumped out and pulled the boat closer.  Another boat had been launched, and more people followed.

The robed person came ashore, and Elizabeth came down to greet them.

“This is a surprise.  I did not expect there would be a reception party.”  Matilda removed the bonnet of the cape she was wearing.

“This is not a welcoming party.  It is a warning.  You should leave now.”

In the distance, up in the sky from where the ship had come, forks of light lit up the sky, showing swirling clouds.

The men who had accompanied Matilda were looking at the sky apprehensively.

“What is happening?” Matilda asked.

“It is the 100th moon, after the last sacrifice.  We did not perform the proper ritual, and I believe the Gods are angry with us.  You must leave now if you wish to avoid the Gods’ punishment.”

“That is nonsense.  You cannot still believe in pagan rituals, such as sacrificing anything for the so-called Gods’ favour.”

The forks of light came closer, this time bringing very loud noises.  Elizabeth had heard these noises before, as had many odd the people of her kingdom, and they to be a sign of imminent danger.

She was glad Albert had gone back up the cliff face.

“You should leave now.”

“Don’t be silly.  Who are you, anyway?”

Behind her, the rest of the landing party had come ashore.  There were about 20 people or more.  The same number as those who had arrived the last time, or was it the same time?  Elizabeth was confused.

“I am Princess Elizabeth.  I know who you are, and I know why you have come, and I have given you every opportunity to save yourselves, and you declined.  I am no longer responsible for what happens next.”

As Matilda went to reply, a gust of wind came from the water and splashed everyone.  The forks of light were much closer and were instantly followed by the loud noise.

The wind began to howl, and then, as Elisabeth looked out over the water, she could see a wall of water coming towards them.

Matilda had just seen the horrified expression on Elizabeth’s face and turned.

It was too late.

Elizabeth closed her eyes and moments later was swept into the wall, along with the ship, the boats, and everyone on the shore.

…

It was a new day, and when Elizabeth woke, she was in her bed.

Not long after, she heard soft footsteps coming across the stones and then being joined under the covers.

Mary Anne, her sister.

“It’s your big day, Lizzy.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.  But just a little sad.  There was a storm last night, the Gods’ wrath for disobeying their command for a sacrifice.  They took away our lake and replaced it with rocks and sand.”

“That can’t be all that bad.  No one ever visited it, not since Papa stopped the sacrifices.”

“That is true.  Anyway, you have the banquet, and perhaps you may meet a nice Prince.  Mama has invited at least three.”

Elizabeth sighed.  It could be worse.  She might still be locked up in the north tower.  Now that was an odd thought.  Whatever made her think of that?

…

©  Charles Heath  2025