Tag: Fiction

365 Days of writing, 2026 – My second story 21

More about my second novel

…

Zoe is now painfully reminded why she did not get involved with other people, why it was better to be responsible only for herself.  It was easy, perhaps to blame John for making his own problems by not heeding her advice, but, just the same, she felt a small shred of responsibility for his current situation.

After learning that John has been kidnapped by Olga, Zoe first goes to see an old colleague, and Yuri’s friend, Dominica to interrogate her, then meets up with Yuri, and it does not end well for one of them.  After telling her he’s the elusive Romanov, Yuri informs her of the fact that Olga has taken John and that Worthington is about to use John’s mother as leverage against her.

Not knowing immediately where Olga is, but believing she will not kill him because Zoe will come to her, she detours to take care of Worthington, having finally realised why he was searching for her.  In another of her many disguises, room service visits his room, and Worthington gets more than dinner served up to him.

Of course, Yuri lies. He is not Romanov, and Romanov is not trying to kill her, but find her.

Who is she? Well, you’ll have to read the book to find out.

And, as for Olga, well, hell hath no fury than a woman avenging a woman avenging her son!

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – My second story 21

More about my second novel

…

Zoe is now painfully reminded why she did not get involved with other people, why it was better to be responsible only for herself.  It was easy, perhaps to blame John for making his own problems by not heeding her advice, but, just the same, she felt a small shred of responsibility for his current situation.

After learning that John has been kidnapped by Olga, Zoe first goes to see an old colleague, and Yuri’s friend, Dominica to interrogate her, then meets up with Yuri, and it does not end well for one of them.  After telling her he’s the elusive Romanov, Yuri informs her of the fact that Olga has taken John and that Worthington is about to use John’s mother as leverage against her.

Not knowing immediately where Olga is, but believing she will not kill him because Zoe will come to her, she detours to take care of Worthington, having finally realised why he was searching for her.  In another of her many disguises, room service visits his room, and Worthington gets more than dinner served up to him.

Of course, Yuri lies. He is not Romanov, and Romanov is not trying to kill her, but find her.

Who is she? Well, you’ll have to read the book to find out.

And, as for Olga, well, hell hath no fury than a woman avenging a woman avenging her son!

…

What I learned about writing – Using another author’s style

The Echo Chamber vs. The Trailblazer: Finding Your Authorial Voice

The blank page stares back, a vast expanse of possibility. As writers, we stand at a familiar crossroads, a debate as old as storytelling itself: should we meticulously study and emulate the voices of those who have come before us, or forge a path entirely our own? Should we lean into the comfortable and the familiar, or strive to create a new artistic vogue?

This isn’t just an abstract literary question; it’s a fundamental one that shapes our creative journey and ultimately, the impact of our words.

The Allure of the Echo: Why Copying Feels Right (Sometimes)

Let’s be honest, there’s a powerful temptation to mimic. When we encounter an author whose prose sings, whose characters leap off the page, or whose plot twists leave us breathless, it’s natural to want to bottle that magic.

  • Learning the Craft: Studying established authors is an invaluable apprenticeship. By dissecting their sentence structures, their pacing, and their use of metaphor, we learn the mechanics of compelling storytelling. It’s like a musician learning scales before composing symphonies.
  • Finding Your Feet: Especially when starting out, adopting a style that resonates can provide a scaffolding. It offers a sense of direction and a model to follow, reducing the paralysing fear of the unknown.
  • Connecting with an Audience: Sometimes, a familiar style taps into a pre-existing reader base. If you write in a genre with established conventions, a comfortable and predictable style can be a draw for those seeking that specific experience.

However, a life spent solely in the echo chamber risks becoming a pale imitation. The danger lies in mistaking appreciation for appropriation, and in becoming so enamoured with another’s voice that we silence our own.

The Audacity of the Original: Charting Your Own Course

Conversely, the call to create something new, to be the trailblazer, is equally potent. It’s the spirit of innovation, of pushing boundaries, of leaving an indelible mark that is uniquely yours.

  • Authenticity and Connection: A truly original voice resonates deeply because it’s born from genuine experience, observation, and perspective. Readers connect with authenticity; they feel a genuine spark when they encounter something that feels fresh and true to the author.
  • Innovation and Evolution: Literature, like any art form, needs to evolve. New voices bring new ideas, new ways of seeing the world, and new techniques that can invigorate the literary landscape. Think of the authors who fundamentally changed how we tell stories – they weren’t afraid to deviate from the norm.
  • Finding Your Unique Power: Your life experiences, your quirks, your individual way of processing the world – these are the raw materials of your unique voice. To suppress them in favour of someone else’s is to dim your own light.

The Sweet Spot: Where Familiarity Meets the New

So, where does this leave us? Is it an either/or proposition? Not necessarily. The most compelling authors often strike a delicate balance.

  • Influence, Not Imitation: We are all influenced by what we read. The key is to absorb those influences, to understand why they work, and then to filter them through your own unique lens. Your voice is not built in a vacuum; it’s a tapestry woven with the threads of your experiences and the inspiration you’ve drawn from others.
  • Mastering the Familiar to Subvert It: Sometimes, the most groundbreaking work arises from a deep understanding of existing conventions. By mastering the familiar, you gain the power to play with it, to bend it, and ultimately, to subvert it in exciting and unexpected ways.
  • Seeking Your “Why”: Before you choose your path, ask yourself: Why am I writing this? What is the core message or feeling I want to convey? Your “why” will often guide you towards the most authentic and impactful voice, whether it’s a whisper of the familiar or a roar of the new.

The Verdict: Cultivate Your Own Garden

Ultimately, the pursuit of a unique authorial voice is not about rejecting all external influence. It’s about engaging with those influences critically, learning from them, and then, crucially, integrating them into your own distinct expression.

Don’t be afraid to experiment. Don’t be afraid to stumble. Don’t be afraid to sound a little like yourself, even if that self is still under construction. The world of literature is rich because of its diversity. It needs your echoes, yes, but more importantly, it thirsts for your original song. So, embrace the challenge, cultivate your own garden of words, and let your unique voice bloom.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 149

Day 149 – What really is writer’s block

…

The Myth of the Blank Page: Why “Writer’s Block” Is More Than Just a Stuck Pen

Every writer knows the sensation: you stare at the cursor, blinking rhythmically against a stark white screen, and your brain feels like a locked door. You can’t find the key. You call it “writer’s block.” You blame it on the caffeine crash, the deadline pressure, or a lack of inspiration.

But have you ever stopped to wonder if the term itself is actually to blame?

If you trace the history of those two words back to their source, you’ll find that “writer’s block” isn’t a medical condition or an inevitable creative cycle. It’s a diagnosis—and one that carries a heavy, somewhat dark, psychological weight.

The Invention of a Diagnosis

For most of literary history, writers simply struggled. They had “dry spells,” they “hit a wall,” or they were “out of ideas.” Then, in 1947, a psychoanalyst named Edmund Bergler coined the term “writer’s block.”

To understand Bergler, you have to understand the era. He was working in the shadow of Sigmund Freud, and he viewed the creative process through a very specific, psychoanalytic lens. Bergler didn’t think you were stuck because you were tired or uninspired. He believed that the “block” was actually an unconscious act of self-sabotage.

According to Bergler, writers were suffering from a deep-seated, masochistic drive. He argued that the writer unconsciously sabotaged their own work to enjoy the “self-constructed defeat” of failing to write. In his view, the agony of not being able to finish a manuscript wasn’t a struggle against a narrative problem; it was a psychological compulsion to suffer.

Is This Really About Word Counts?

If we accept Bergler’s definition, then “writer’s block” stops being a productivity issue and starts being an internal conflict.

This is where things get interesting. If you’re struggling to reach your daily word count, you usually look for practical solutions: try the Pomodoro technique, change your environment, or outline your chapters more clearly. But if the problem is actually a subconscious desire to sabotage yourself, those practical fixes will never work.

By framing our struggles as “writer’s block,” we’ve inherited a diagnosis that suggests the problem lies deep within our psyche, rather than on the page. It turns a professional hurdle into a personal failing.

Moving Beyond the “Block”

Maybe it’s time we retire the phrasing. When we tell ourselves we have “writer’s block,” we are giving ourselves permission to stop. We are turning a temporary lapse in flow into an identity—a “blocked” writer.

Perhaps the next time you feel stuck, you shouldn’t ask, “Why am I sabotaging myself?” or “How do I overcome this block?” Instead, try asking:

  • Is this section actually necessary for the story? (Maybe you’re stuck because the narrative is heading in the wrong direction.)
  • Am I exhausted or burnt out? (Sometimes, the tank is just empty.)
  • Is my goal too big? (Breaking a chapter into 100-word segments is far less daunting than “finishing the book.”)

Writer’s block might be a useful shorthand for the frustration of the craft, but it’s worth remembering that it was invented by a man who looked for internal demons behind every closed door. You don’t have to be a masochist to struggle with a sentence. Sometimes, a hard day of writing is just a hard day of writing—no analysis required.

Next time the words won’t come, don’t blame your subconscious. Just close the laptop, take a walk, and remember: you aren’t “blocked.” You’re just in the middle of the work.

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 149

Day 149 – What really is writer’s block

…

The Myth of the Blank Page: Why “Writer’s Block” Is More Than Just a Stuck Pen

Every writer knows the sensation: you stare at the cursor, blinking rhythmically against a stark white screen, and your brain feels like a locked door. You can’t find the key. You call it “writer’s block.” You blame it on the caffeine crash, the deadline pressure, or a lack of inspiration.

But have you ever stopped to wonder if the term itself is actually to blame?

If you trace the history of those two words back to their source, you’ll find that “writer’s block” isn’t a medical condition or an inevitable creative cycle. It’s a diagnosis—and one that carries a heavy, somewhat dark, psychological weight.

The Invention of a Diagnosis

For most of literary history, writers simply struggled. They had “dry spells,” they “hit a wall,” or they were “out of ideas.” Then, in 1947, a psychoanalyst named Edmund Bergler coined the term “writer’s block.”

To understand Bergler, you have to understand the era. He was working in the shadow of Sigmund Freud, and he viewed the creative process through a very specific, psychoanalytic lens. Bergler didn’t think you were stuck because you were tired or uninspired. He believed that the “block” was actually an unconscious act of self-sabotage.

According to Bergler, writers were suffering from a deep-seated, masochistic drive. He argued that the writer unconsciously sabotaged their own work to enjoy the “self-constructed defeat” of failing to write. In his view, the agony of not being able to finish a manuscript wasn’t a struggle against a narrative problem; it was a psychological compulsion to suffer.

Is This Really About Word Counts?

If we accept Bergler’s definition, then “writer’s block” stops being a productivity issue and starts being an internal conflict.

This is where things get interesting. If you’re struggling to reach your daily word count, you usually look for practical solutions: try the Pomodoro technique, change your environment, or outline your chapters more clearly. But if the problem is actually a subconscious desire to sabotage yourself, those practical fixes will never work.

By framing our struggles as “writer’s block,” we’ve inherited a diagnosis that suggests the problem lies deep within our psyche, rather than on the page. It turns a professional hurdle into a personal failing.

Moving Beyond the “Block”

Maybe it’s time we retire the phrasing. When we tell ourselves we have “writer’s block,” we are giving ourselves permission to stop. We are turning a temporary lapse in flow into an identity—a “blocked” writer.

Perhaps the next time you feel stuck, you shouldn’t ask, “Why am I sabotaging myself?” or “How do I overcome this block?” Instead, try asking:

  • Is this section actually necessary for the story? (Maybe you’re stuck because the narrative is heading in the wrong direction.)
  • Am I exhausted or burnt out? (Sometimes, the tank is just empty.)
  • Is my goal too big? (Breaking a chapter into 100-word segments is far less daunting than “finishing the book.”)

Writer’s block might be a useful shorthand for the frustration of the craft, but it’s worth remembering that it was invented by a man who looked for internal demons behind every closed door. You don’t have to be a masochist to struggle with a sentence. Sometimes, a hard day of writing is just a hard day of writing—no analysis required.

Next time the words won’t come, don’t blame your subconscious. Just close the laptop, take a walk, and remember: you aren’t “blocked.” You’re just in the middle of the work.

…

What I learned about writing – Some pointers for reviewing your work

Sharpen Your Words: Simple Tips for Better Writing

Ever finish writing something and feel like it’s just… not quite right? We’ve all been there. Polishing your writing is key to making sure your message shines through. Here are a few handy tips to help you review your work and make it stronger.

Keep it Concise

Don’t write long sentences. Shorter sentences are easier to follow. They pack a punch.

Each sentence should make a clear statement. Get straight to the point. Avoid rambling. Every sentence needs a purpose.

Watch Your Vocabulary

Don’t use big words. Choose words that everyone understands. Simple language is powerful language.

Never use words whose meanings you are not sure of. If you’re second-guessing a word, swap it out. Clarity is king.

Be Concrete

Avoid the abstract. Stick to what you can see, hear, touch, taste, and smell. Give examples. Paint a picture with your words.

What Else?

These are great starting points, but what else can help you make your writing shine?

  • Read it aloud: This is a game-changer. You’ll catch awkward phrasing and sentences that are too long. Your ears will tell you what your eyes miss.
  • Get a second opinion: Ask a friend or colleague to read your work. They’ll see things you’re too close to notice.
  • Take a break: Step away from your writing. Come back with fresh eyes.
  • Focus on flow: Do your ideas connect smoothly? Are your paragraphs logically ordered?
  • Check for repetition: Are you saying the same thing over and over? Find different ways to express your ideas.

Reviewing your writing doesn’t have to be a chore. By keeping these simple tips in mind, you can transform your drafts into clear, engaging pieces that truly connect with your readers. Happy writing!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 148

Day 148 – From a single spark

…

The Art of the Spark: Why Your Best Ideas Don’t Happen at a Desk

We are taught from a young age that productivity is a sedentary activity. We’re told to sit down, open the laptop, force a furrowed brow, and “get to work.” We treat creativity like a math equation: Inputs + Desk Time = Output.

But if you look at the creative process of the world’s most interesting thinkers, you’ll find a common truth: The best work rarely happens when you’re forcing it.

I don’t sit at my desk and think. That’s not how the magic works. For me, the process is far more ethereal, and infinitely more effective.

The Midnight Line

My creative process starts in the quiet, disjointed landscape of a dream. I wake up, often in the haze of the early morning, with a single line etched into my consciousness. It’s a fragment—a stray thought that feels like it carries the weight of a thousand words.

I write it down immediately, before the logic of the waking world can dilute it. And then, I look at it.

At that moment, the line is just a point—a single dot on a blank page. But that dot is powerful because it’s unresolved. It isn’t a finished sentence; it’s a compass needle. It can lean in a dozen different directions.

Inventing the Context

Here is the secret that most people are too afraid to admit: I don’t always know what my own ideas mean at first.

When I look at that line, I’m not analysing it. I’m playing with it. I’m acting as an architect for an idea that has no home yet. If the line is strange or opaque, I have to work backward. I have to invent a context. I have to build a world around that fragment so that it finally makes sense.

This is the opposite of the “desk-bound” approach. Instead of starting with a rigid structure and trying to fill it, I start with a spark and wait to see what it sets on fire.

The Death of Failure

When you view creativity as a process of discovery—of waking up and following a thread—the fear of failure evaporates.

If I sit down to write a “perfect” piece of work and it doesn’t land, it feels like a failure. But if I wake up and write down a line, and then spend my day trying to figure out what that line could be, there is no such thing as failure.

If the direction I choose doesn’t quite fit, I simply change the context. If the concept doesn’t work, I turn the page. Every attempt is just another way of exploring the potential of that original point. It isn’t a mistake; it’s a draft. It’s an exploration. It’s the process of turning fog into solid ground.

Your Next Step

If you feel blocked, stop trying to force your brain to function like a machine at your desk. Let go of the need to have a “final plan” before you begin.

Start with a line. Don’t judge it. Don’t worry if it doesn’t make sense yet. Treat your idea like a point that can lean in any direction, and give yourself the freedom to invent the world that houses it.

After all, the most compelling stories aren’t the ones we plan—they’re the ones we discover by listening to the quiet fragments of our own minds.

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 148

Day 148 – From a single spark

…

The Art of the Spark: Why Your Best Ideas Don’t Happen at a Desk

We are taught from a young age that productivity is a sedentary activity. We’re told to sit down, open the laptop, force a furrowed brow, and “get to work.” We treat creativity like a math equation: Inputs + Desk Time = Output.

But if you look at the creative process of the world’s most interesting thinkers, you’ll find a common truth: The best work rarely happens when you’re forcing it.

I don’t sit at my desk and think. That’s not how the magic works. For me, the process is far more ethereal, and infinitely more effective.

The Midnight Line

My creative process starts in the quiet, disjointed landscape of a dream. I wake up, often in the haze of the early morning, with a single line etched into my consciousness. It’s a fragment—a stray thought that feels like it carries the weight of a thousand words.

I write it down immediately, before the logic of the waking world can dilute it. And then, I look at it.

At that moment, the line is just a point—a single dot on a blank page. But that dot is powerful because it’s unresolved. It isn’t a finished sentence; it’s a compass needle. It can lean in a dozen different directions.

Inventing the Context

Here is the secret that most people are too afraid to admit: I don’t always know what my own ideas mean at first.

When I look at that line, I’m not analysing it. I’m playing with it. I’m acting as an architect for an idea that has no home yet. If the line is strange or opaque, I have to work backward. I have to invent a context. I have to build a world around that fragment so that it finally makes sense.

This is the opposite of the “desk-bound” approach. Instead of starting with a rigid structure and trying to fill it, I start with a spark and wait to see what it sets on fire.

The Death of Failure

When you view creativity as a process of discovery—of waking up and following a thread—the fear of failure evaporates.

If I sit down to write a “perfect” piece of work and it doesn’t land, it feels like a failure. But if I wake up and write down a line, and then spend my day trying to figure out what that line could be, there is no such thing as failure.

If the direction I choose doesn’t quite fit, I simply change the context. If the concept doesn’t work, I turn the page. Every attempt is just another way of exploring the potential of that original point. It isn’t a mistake; it’s a draft. It’s an exploration. It’s the process of turning fog into solid ground.

Your Next Step

If you feel blocked, stop trying to force your brain to function like a machine at your desk. Let go of the need to have a “final plan” before you begin.

Start with a line. Don’t judge it. Don’t worry if it doesn’t make sense yet. Treat your idea like a point that can lean in any direction, and give yourself the freedom to invent the world that houses it.

After all, the most compelling stories aren’t the ones we plan—they’re the ones we discover by listening to the quiet fragments of our own minds.

…

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.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

What I learned about writing – Making sense out of formless rubble

Taming the Chaos: How Art Builds Sanctuaries in a World of Rubble

We’ve all felt it, haven’t we? That creeping sense of overwhelm. The news cycle churns relentlessly, a tidal wave of disconnected events. Our personal lives can feel like a jumble of unfinished tasks and fuzzy anxieties. The world, in its raw, unedited state, can seem like a vast, formless expanse, a “mass of senseless rubble” threatening to swallow us whole.

It’s this very formlessness, this inherent chaos, that I believe lies at the heart of a profound motive for creating art. Whether it’s a sprawling epic novel, a defiant abstract painting, a haunting melody, or even a meticulously arranged bouquet of flowers, art, in its myriad manifestations, is our deeply human act of defiance against the shapeless void.

Think about it. The world, left to its own devices, is a wild, untamed thing. It doesn’t adhere to our neat narratives or our tidy classifications. It’s a messy, unpredictable storm of emotions, events, and experiences – some beautiful, some brutal, and many simply baffling. Trying to grasp it all, to make sense of its sheer scale and complexity, can be an exhausting and frankly, demoralising endeavour.

And here’s where the artist steps in, armed not with a bulldozer, but with a brush, a pen, a chisel, or a musical score. The deep motive, as I see it, is to defeat the formlessness of the world. It’s a declaration that we can impose order, that we can find patterns, and that we can create meaning where none immediately presents itself.

Consider the act of storytelling. A novelist takes a stream of consciousness, a tangle of potential plotlines, a cast of characters with complicated motivations, and weaves them into a coherent narrative. A beginning emerges, a middle unfolds, and an end, however bittersweet, is reached. The chaos of human experience is channelled, shaped, and channelled into a form that we can understand, digest, and even learn from. We read a book and, for a time, the bewildering mess of life is held at bay, replaced by the carefully constructed architecture of a fictional universe.

The visual artist does something similar. They stare at a blank canvas, a lump of clay, or a digital void, and begin to impose their vision. They choose colours, shapes, textures, and compositions. They translate the abstract feelings and observations that swirl within them into tangible forms. A Rothko painting, with its vast fields of colour, doesn’t necessarily depict a specific object, but it evokes an emotional landscape. It gives form to the ineffable, allowing us to engage with feelings that might otherwise remain formless and elusive.

And this act of creation isn’t just about imposing order on the external world; it’s profoundly about cheering oneself up by constructing forms out of what might otherwise be a mass of senseless rubble. When we feel lost, overwhelmed, or insignificant, the act of creation is an act of empowerment. It’s taking a piece of the formless, the chaotic, the seemingly senseless, and wrestling it into something beautiful, something resonant, something that serves as a small, but potent, sanctuary.

Think of the artist who, after experiencing profound loss, picks up their instrument and composes a lament. They aren’t erasing the pain, but they are giving it a shape, a melody, a rhythm. This act of formalising grief can be incredibly cathartic, transforming raw emotion into something that can be shared, understood, and perhaps, in time, healed. It’s building a small, sturdy structure of sound against the howling wind of sorrow.

In our own lives, we don’t all need to be professional artists to tap into this motive. Organising a messy desk, planning a meal, or even meticulously tending a garden are all small acts of form-making. They are ways of bringing order to our immediate surroundings, of saying, “This chaos will not defeat me.”

So, the next time you find yourself staring at the bewildering vastness of the world, feeling a bit lost in the rubble, remember the power of form. Remember that art, in all its glorious diversity, is our innate human response to that formlessness. It’s our way of building beautiful, meaningful sanctuaries, one carefully crafted line, one resonant chord, one poignant word at a time. It’s our quiet, persistent, and ultimately triumphant declaration that even in the face of overwhelming chaos, we can create. And in that creation, we find not only order, but also a much-needed dose of cheer.