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.”

…

What I learned about writing – What can be explained is not poetry

The Unexplainable Truth: Why Yeats Said ‘What Can Be Explained Is Not Poetry’

W.B. Yeats, the towering figure of Irish literature and a Nobel laureate, often seemed to speak in riddles that contained profound universal truths. One such truth, delivered not from a stage but in a quiet moment with his son, Michael, cuts directly to the soul of creativity:

“What can be explained is not poetry.”

This deceptively simple statement is not merely a critique of literary analysis; it is a philosophy of art, a defence of mystery, and a guide for how we must approach the most cherished parts of our existence.

If poetry is built from words—the very tools of explanation—how can the final product simultaneously resist understanding? The answer lies in the fundamental difference between information and resonance.

1. The Reductionist Trap: Explanation as Destruction

When Yeats dismisses explanation, he is pushing back against the modern impulse to dissect, categorise, and summarise. Explanation seeks clarity, certainty, and a definitive endpoint. It wants to give you the meaning in a neat bullet point.

But for the poet, this act of definition is fatal.

Think of a poem like Yeats’s own “The Second Coming.” If you were asked to explain it, you might say: “It is about the breakdown of societal order, historical cycles, and the fear of a looming, savage future.” This is factually correct. But by the time you have finished this explanation, the poem itself—the terrifying rhythm, the shocking image of the “blood-dimmed tide,” the sheer visceral dread of the “rough beast, its hour come round at last”—has completely evaporated.

The Elements That Resist Explanation:

Rhythm and Sound: Poetry operates on the level of music. You can explain the notes on a score, but you cannot explain the feeling of the music’s vibration in your chest.
Ambiguity: A great poem holds multiple, often contradictory, truths simultaneously. Explanation forces a choice, killing the rich tension that gives the poem its power.
The Ineffable: Poetry deals in the realm of the subconscious, the spiritual, and the deeply felt human condition—areas that words can only point toward, never fully capture.

As the great poet Archibald MacLeish wrote, “A poem should not mean / But be.” If you can swap a poem for a paragraph of summarised meaning without losing anything vital, it was never truly poetry to begin with.

2. The Domain of True Art: Mystery and Aura

If explanation is the enemy, what elevates language into poetry? It is the successful creation of Aura—that inexplicable shimmer of authenticity and power surrounding a work of art.

Poetry, painting, and music—when successful—establish an immediate, emotional connection that bypasses the logical mind. They don’t give us facts; they provide us with an experience of being human.

A true poem resonates because it touches a nerve we didn’t know existed. It uses familiar words in unfamiliar arrangements that create a shock of recognition: Ah, yes, I have felt that thing, though I lacked the words for it.

This resonance cannot be taught, explained, or quantified. It is a mystery that the poet labors to create, and a mystery the reader must consent to receive. The poem’s job is to compel you to stop asking why and simply start feeling.

Art as a Sacred Language

For Yeats, an artist and a mystic, poetry was a sacred endeavour that tapped into universal symbols and mythic memory. This is why his poems are so dense with swans, spirals, gyres, and masks. These are not symbols to be easily decoded; they are portals meant to shift the reader’s consciousness.

To demand an explanation of a spiritual experience is to completely misunderstand the nature of the sacred. Yeats viewed poetry in the same light.

3. Beyond the Poem: Embracing the Unexplained Life

Yeats’s dictum is not just a lesson for the classroom; it is a profound commentary on how we live. The things we value most highly in life are often the things that defy bullet points and clear definitions.

If we can fully explain something, we often lose our sense of wonder for it. The minute we treat life as a logical equation, we forfeit the magic.

Love, Grief, and Beauty

Consider the deepest human experiences:

Love: Can you truly explain why you love a particular person? You can list their qualities (kindness, intelligence), but those are merely the ingredients. The love itself—the specific, irrational, overwhelming devotion—is the chemical reaction that cannot be explained. If it could, it would be a transaction, not love.
Beauty: Why is a specific sunset breathtaking? You can explain the atmospheric condition, the refraction of light, and the Rayleigh scattering effect. But none of that science touches the awe you feel when watching the sky turn orange.
Grief: Grief is not a set of stages to be rationally completed; it is a primal force that washes over you. No explanation can contain the depth of loss.

These are the poetic aspects of life. They are what make living rich, maddening, and profoundly meaningful. They require us to accept ambiguity and to tolerate the fact that the most important truths lie just beyond the reach of language.

The Call to Wonder

Yeats’s quiet lesson to his son remains a powerful challenge to us today: In an age where every phenomenon is instantly broken down by algorithms and summarised in 280 characters, are we losing our capacity for wonder?

If we insist on explaining everything, we risk reducing the rich tapestry of existence to a dry instruction manual.

True poetry—in literature and in life—requires us to put down the defining pencil, step away from the summary, and simply stand in the presence of the powerful, beautiful, bewildering thing that is.

The challenge of the reader, the lover, and the appreciative human being is to honour the mystery that remains when all the explanations have failed.

What truths in your life have you accepted as unexplainable? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 180

Day 180 – Rest periods for compulsive writers

…

The Inescapable Itch: How Compulsive Writers Finally Unplug (and Why They Dread It)

For the compulsive writer, the blank page isn’t just a workspace; it’s a nervous system. To stop writing is, in many ways, to stop feeling the pulse of the world. But even the most prolific ink-stained wretches occasionally find their pens running dry, or their minds fogging over with the static of over-output.

How does a writer whose baseline is “compulsive” actually step away? And more importantly, is the silence of a break actually a form of creative death?

The Williams Paradigm: The Panic of the Still Moment

If you want a masterclass in the agony of the “break,” look to Tennessee Williams.

Williams was a man possessed. His plays—A Streetcar Named Desire, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof—seemed to bleed out of him in a fit of architectural necessity. He didn’t just write stories; he exorcised ghosts. For Williams, the act of writing was a frantic attempt to outrun his own inner demons.

When Williams wasn’t writing, he wasn’t “relaxing” in the way modern self-help gurus suggest. He wasn’t taking a spa day or practising mindfulness. He was vibrating with a specific, high-frequency anxiety. He famously equated the downtime between creative bursts with a kind of spiritual oblivion.

He didn’t take breaks by choice; he took them when the exhaustion became too heavy to carry. But in those quiet intervals, the “boredom” he felt was actually a confrontation with reality—a reality he found far less interesting and far more terrifying than the worlds he built on paper.

Why the Break Feels Like a Grave

For the compulsive writer, a break feels like “death” for three distinct reasons:

The Loss of Control: When you are writing, you are the god of a small, contained universe. You decide who lives, who dies, and how the dialogue flows. In the real world, you are subject to the messy, boring, and uncontrollable whims of traffic, groceries, and small talk.
The Shadow of the “Interior”: Writers often use work as a distraction from the recursive loops of their own thoughts. When the writing stops, the inner monologue—usually the one questioning your worth or replaying old embarrassments—gets the megaphone.
The Identity Crisis: If you define yourself as a “Writer,” then a day spent not writing is a day you aren’t “being” anything. You feel like a malfunctioning machine.

How to Take a Break Without Losing Your Mind

If you are like Williams—wired to the page—you can’t just stop. You have to “pivot” your compulsion. Here is how the pros handle the hiatus:

Change the Input: If you can’t stop the output, change the channel. Switch to a medium that doesn’t feel like “work.” If you write prose, spend your break painting, gardening, or cooking. You are still creating, but you’ve let the part of your brain that handles syntax rest.
The “Low-Stakes” Journal: Give yourself permission to write in a way that doesn’t count. Take a pocket notebook where you are forbidden from writing anything “publishable.” Write about your lunch, the colour of the sky, or how annoying your neighbour’s dog is. It keeps the muscle moving without the pressure of the performance.
Embrace the “Restless Walk”: Williams often found his best ideas while walking. If you’re bored, don’t sit still. The brain that is compulsive needs movement. A three-mile walk can settle the nervous system while allowing the subconscious to keep filing away plot points.

The Verdict: Is It Boredom or Fuel?

Is it boring? Yes.

But here is the secret that Tennessee Williams eventually realised: Boredom is the soil in which the best ideas take root.

When you are constantly writing, you are mining your storehouse of ideas until you hit bedrock. You are repeating yourself because you haven’t given yourself time to experience anything new. The break, as terrifying as it feels, is the process of refilling the well.

You aren’t dying when you put the pen down. You’re simply waiting for the tide to come back in. And trust me—if you are truly a compulsive writer—the tide always comes back. You’ll be back at the desk before you know it, pen in hand, wondering why you ever missed the silence in the first place.

…

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Originally, it was not set anywhere in particular.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

…

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

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 180

Day 180 – Rest periods for compulsive writers

…

The Inescapable Itch: How Compulsive Writers Finally Unplug (and Why They Dread It)

How does a writer whose baseline is “compulsive” actually step away? And more importantly, is the silence of a break actually a form of creative death?

The Williams Paradigm: The Panic of the Still Moment

If you want a masterclass in the agony of the “break,” look to Tennessee Williams.

Why the Break Feels Like a Grave

For the compulsive writer, a break feels like “death” for three distinct reasons:

The Loss of Control: When you are writing, you are the god of a small, contained universe. You decide who lives, who dies, and how the dialogue flows. In the real world, you are subject to the messy, boring, and uncontrollable whims of traffic, groceries, and small talk.
The Shadow of the “Interior”: Writers often use work as a distraction from the recursive loops of their own thoughts. When the writing stops, the inner monologue—usually the one questioning your worth or replaying old embarrassments—gets the megaphone.
The Identity Crisis: If you define yourself as a “Writer,” then a day spent not writing is a day you aren’t “being” anything. You feel like a malfunctioning machine.

How to Take a Break Without Losing Your Mind

If you are like Williams—wired to the page—you can’t just stop. You have to “pivot” your compulsion. Here is how the pros handle the hiatus:

Change the Input: If you can’t stop the output, change the channel. Switch to a medium that doesn’t feel like “work.” If you write prose, spend your break painting, gardening, or cooking. You are still creating, but you’ve let the part of your brain that handles syntax rest.
The “Low-Stakes” Journal: Give yourself permission to write in a way that doesn’t count. Take a pocket notebook where you are forbidden from writing anything “publishable.” Write about your lunch, the colour of the sky, or how annoying your neighbour’s dog is. It keeps the muscle moving without the pressure of the performance.
Embrace the “Restless Walk”: Williams often found his best ideas while walking. If you’re bored, don’t sit still. The brain that is compulsive needs movement. A three-mile walk can settle the nervous system while allowing the subconscious to keep filing away plot points.

The Verdict: Is It Boredom or Fuel?

Is it boring? Yes.

But here is the secret that Tennessee Williams eventually realised: Boredom is the soil in which the best ideas take root.

…

What I learned about writing – What is ‘style’

What Is Style, Anyway? A Deep Dive into Its Many Faces

You hear the word “style” thrown around everywhere. “Oh, she has great style!” “That’s not really my style.” “We need to adopt a new brand style.” But have you ever stopped to consider just how multifaceted and powerful this seemingly simple concept truly is?

From the clothes we wear to the way we craft a sentence, style is an invisible force shaping perception, conveying meaning, and defining identity. Let’s peel back the layers and explore the various aspects that make up the rich tapestry of “style.”

1. Your Signature: Personal Style

This is perhaps the most intimate and immediately recognizable form of style. Your personal style is your unique fingerprint on the world – the way you speak, dress, decorate your home, or even how you approach a problem.

In writing, your personal style is your distinctive voice. It’s the rhythm of your prose, your preferred vocabulary, your unique way of structuring sentences, and the characteristic tone you adopt. It’s what makes a reader say, “Ah, I can tell this is by [Your Name]!” early on in a piece. It’s developed over time, shaped by your experiences, personality, and influences, and it’s what makes your work authentically yours. Whether it’s a dry wit, a poignant lyricism, or a straightforward reportage, your personal style is your artistic DNA.

2. The Blueprint: Categorical & Aesthetic Styles

Beyond the individual, style often manifests in broader categories or aesthetic movements. These are frameworks that have evolved over time, often tied to specific historical periods, philosophies, or artistic intentions.

Think about architecture: you immediately picture different elements for Gothic (soaring arches, intricate details, dramatic light) versus Minimalist (clean lines, functional forms, understated elegance).

In literature, these categorical styles define genres and movements:

Minimalist Prose: Characterised by sparse language, short sentences, and a focus on showing rather than telling. It strips away excess to convey essential meaning.
Gothic Style: Evokes a sense of dread, mystery, and romanticism, often featuring dark settings, supernatural elements, and heightened emotions.
Free Verse: A poetic style that disregards traditional meter and rhyme schemes, allowing the poet to create their own rhythm and structure, often mimicking natural speech patterns.
Stream of Consciousness: A narrative style that attempts to depict the multitudinous thoughts and feelings that pass through the mind.

These styles provide a common language and a set of shared conventions that allow artists and audiences to connect within a recognised context. They are not rigid cages but rather rich traditions from which to draw inspiration or, indeed, to deliberately diverge.

3. The Adaptable Garment: Contextual & Required Style

Sometimes, style isn’t about personal expression or aesthetic preference; it’s about purpose and audience. This is where contextual and required style comes into play – the practical application of tailoring your approach to fit a specific need.

Publisher Guidelines: If you’re submitting a manuscript, adhering to publisher style guides (e.g., APA, MLA, Chicago, or an in-house guide) is non-negotiable. This dictates everything from formatting and citation methods to hyphenation rules and preferred spellings. It ensures consistency, clarity, and professionalism.
Audience-Specific Writing: A story written for a children’s magazine will have a vastly different style than an academic paper or a pulp fiction novel. The vocabulary, sentence structure, themes, and overall tone must be carefully calibrated to resonate with the intended readers. You wouldn’t use complex metaphors for toddlers, nor overly simplistic language for a literary journal.
Platform & Medium Specifics: Articles for a fast-paced online news site demand punchy headlines and concise paragraphs, while a feature in a glossy print magazine might allow for more expansive prose and evocative imagery. Each medium has its own stylistic conventions that best serve its purpose and audience.
Brand Voice: Businesses and organisations develop a “brand style” or “voice” to ensure all their communications are consistent and reflect their identity, whether it’s formal and authoritative or playful and approachable.

This aspect of style is less about artistic freedom and more about effective communication. It’s the mark of a skilled practitioner who understands how to adapt their craft to meet external demands without necessarily sacrificing their core personal style. It’s about being versatile enough to wear many hats.

The Art of Balancing Act

Ultimately, mastering style involves a fascinating dance between these three aspects. How do you maintain your unique personal voice while writing in a minimalist style for a publisher with strict guidelines aimed at a niche audience?

The answer lies in understanding that style is not monolithic but a dynamic interplay. Your personal style forms the foundation; categorical styles offer a palette of expressive tools; and contextual styles provide the framework for effective delivery.

Embrace the journey of discovering your own unique style, explore the vast landscapes of established aesthetics, and cultivate the wisdom to adapt your approach when the situation demands it. For understanding “style” in all its forms, you unlock a powerful key to self-expression, communication, and connection.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 178/179

Days 178 and 179 – Writing Exercise

The Prince rescuing a damsel needs rescuing himself

…

I was not in the business of saving damsels in distress. In fact, I had not seen a damsel in distress. What I did was live in the shadow of the eldest son and heir to the throne, otherwise known as my brother.

He was the one who would be saving damsels in distress if there were any.

And if he could be bothered.

He had just become a knight after years of training. It was hard, and as the King said, it would make a man of him.

He looked every bit the man his father had expected of him. What bothered me was that our father did not expect it of me, and had rebuffed any and all of my requests to train as a knight.

Instead, I got to dress up as a palace guard, not as a Sergeant at Arms, but just a guard. I had to start at the bottom. In a job that all the other guards thought was a joke.

There were no wars, no battles, no enemy hordes coming up the side of the hill to storm the castle. I didn’t think the drawbridge raised or the main gates closed; it had been so long since they had been used.

No, put simply, my life was hell.

I went out to the stables, put on my guard armour, got on my horse and headed for the main gate. Instead of stopping and reporting for duty, I just kept going. What was the point? Who was I guarding the castle from?

…

It was a long and winding road and a warm day. I was beginning to regret wearing the armour.

I was heading to the next village, half a day’s ride away, and was going to look up Angel, one of the servant girls’ sisters, with whom I had spoken several times. I liked her, but I didn’t think it went both ways.

I may be a prince, but not one worth marrying.

Up ahead, a man was travelling on foot with a woman. In the distance, he looked like he was having trouble with her, so I thought I would be chivalrous and see if she needed help

That became more apparent as I got closer. He was almost dragging her by her hair.

He saw me coming but chose to ignore me. Even in my armour, I was not as impressive a sight as my brother.

I drew alongside. He was not treating her well.

“You will treat this good woman more respectfully, sir.”

They stopped, and he turned. “Who are you, sonny?”

“I am the King’s second son, Richard.”

“Yeah, right, and I’m the King’s brother.”

Insolence. My father rarely tolerated it and had told us it was a problem that had to be handled.

“I am who I say I am.”

“Then prove it.”

I could see he was raring for a fight. I wasn’t. Another adage I was taught was not to get involved in fights that didn’t make sense.

“Give me your word of honour you will treat this woman with the respect she deserves.”

He glared at me. “Respect. I paid good money for this woman, from the owner who said she was nothing but lazy and indolent. I intend to teach her respect.”

“No man can own another person.”

He laughed. “And your King does not own his servants and use them any way he pleases. You are a fool, sonny. Go before I put you to the sword for wasting my time.”

He drew his sword and brandished it in my direction. A direct challenge that could not be ignored.

I slid off my horse, gave him a pat and hoped he would stay put. I walked the ten paces, drawing my sword. I stopped short of the man, now looking slightly more aware.

“What are you doing?” Perhaps he hadn’t expected me to get off my horse.

“You just laid down a challenge. Being a gentleman, I cannot let that pass.”

“You’re going to fight me over this piece of garbage?”

“She is a young lady worthy of your respect, sir. If I have to teach you respect, then I shall.”

He snorted, turned his back, and suddenly came swinging his sword. Unawares, he might have taken my head off.

The girl jumped back out of the way

I was ready, and we exchanged thrusts and parries. His sword was slightly heavier than mine, and the metal clanged at each blow.

I was dressed for a fight. He wasn’t. Nor was he fit, and by the look of him, the worse for wear after many tankards of ale. He didn’t smell very nice.

We exchanged blows until he collapsed. Definitely not fit. I was feeling a little tired too, the exertion under the blue sky making it hot work.

The last thrust had knocked his sword out of his hands, and I pointed the point of mine at his throat.

“I should kill you for being insolent.”

He looked up at me with an odd expression. “Then get on with it. My life isn’t worth living anyway.”

I shrugged and withdrew the sword. “Any other day, maybe. Not today. The truth, how much did you pay for this girl?”

“Five coins,” the girl yelled out. “Don’t let him tell you different.”

“Shut your mouth, wench.”

I dug out 5 coins and put them in his hand. “Get up and leave now before I change my mind.”

He dragged himself to his feet and shook off the dust. Looking at her, he muttered, “Good riddance to bad rubbish. May you never have a day’s luck with her.”

With that, a final glare at her, he walked off.

She sat on the ground and looked at me. “What now?”

“You’re free. You can go anywhere you like.”

“You don’t get it. I’m not free. No matter where I go, someone will own me. I mean, where did you come from? Certainly not around here. No one is free.”

“Well, now you are.”

She shook her head. “I belong to you now. You paid for me. I promise not to be lazy or insolent, not unless you give me reason.”

She stood up and dusted herself off.

“I have no use for you.”

“Where do you live?”

“In Ryebourne Castle.”

“Where the King lives? Are you really a prince?”

“I’m the second son, and of no importance or has any status. I have no need for a servant girl.”

“I can be a companion. You can’t leave me here. Someone just as bad as Harold, or worse, will take me. At least with you I’d be safe.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Then take me to the castle, and I’ll sort out my problem myself.”

I didn’t need a servant girl, I didn’t want a companion, though I knew what she was referring to; my brother took servant girls, and others, for his amusement, and I didn’t agree that it was his right.

But I couldn’t leave her there with nothing.

“The castle. That’s it. You can get some work there. I assume you have worked before?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

I helped her up on the horse, then sat behind her. It might have been my imagination, but she didn’t smell like a servant, but more like the daughter of one of the noblemen in and around the castle.

…

If I were hoping to get to the stables without any sort of recognition, that was dashed in the last few years.

Normally, I attracted very little attention because I never made a big event of mingling with the ‘peasants’ as my brother called them.

The next King was in training, if he could be called that, with him being seen by the people and being involved in castle matters, was always a big event.

He was the magistrate for minor offences, where the King decided on only serious matters.

He dealt with land matters and the employment of people on the farms and in the castle. He was also the Master at Arms for the castle guard.

When not on duty, he could be found in the tavern with several of the noble families’ sons.

This day, he was near the stables with two friends, making life difficult for two of the servant girls who just wanted to get home.

They both knew what he was capable of and what he could do. So was I, and it wasn’t pleasant, but until the King chastised him, nothing would change.

Then he saw me. They made their escape the moment his focus changed.

“Well, what have we here?”

His two friends stood behind him, blocking the short journey to the stables. The stable hand stopped short, not wanting to get involved.

“Have you lost your memory?” I asked, starting with a polite tone.

“Not you, idiot, the young lady.”

“It’s nothing that concerns you.”

“Everything concerns me. Who is she?”

Good question. Up till now, I hadn’t bothered to ask for her name.

“Still none of your business.”

I slid down off the horse and motioned to the stable hand to collect the horse. He came over and took the reins.

The girl was looking at my brother, and it wasn’t a curious look. Perhaps his reputation preceded him.

“Wait for me in the stable,” I said to her. To the stable hand, “Go.”

My brother went to stop him, but I stood in his way. He went to shove me out of his way, but I shoved him first, sending him backwards into the dirt.

I glared at his two friends. “You’d better leave before it becomes a mess you don’t want to be explaining to the King.”

They didn’t need a second invitation, glancing at my brother, shrugging, then scuttling away. It was not the first time my brother and I scuffled in public. A few of the castle people had gathered in groups to watch.

He dragged himself up from the ground and tried to wipe off the dust and dirt. He was very angry, and the red tinges in his cheeks were the first indication.

“You would have been better off staying on the ground,” I said, with far more bravado than I felt.

“Who is she that you would risk my wrath?” There was almost curiosity in his tone.

“Not someone who needs your attention. I simply brought her here to be safe. Apparently, that isn’t one of your main interests.”

“She’s a disgusting, lowly servant girl. She’s nothing to you.”

“She’s a person who deserves respect. I’m sure that’s not a word in your vocabulary, so you wouldn’t understand. You want a fight, good. You can teach me another lesson in humility.”

“And the winner takes all.”

With that, he came at me. I was used to his tactics, once catching me by surprise. He had no rules, no etiquette, and for a supposed Knight of the Realm, no chivalry, unless among his contemporaries.

I dodged in time as he ran past and had to stop quickly. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the girl standing next to the stable hand in the doorway.

She looked concerned.

He came again, after circling, waiting for that moment when I might be distracted. Normally, I would be thinking how bad a beating this was going to be. This time, I was angry.

Not far from me again, I swayed out of the way of his fist and landed a glancing blow that, combined with his momentum, propelled him face-first into the ground, and it made a smacking sound.

Before he could move, I jumped on him, propelling both knees into his back and hearing a satisfying groan as he felt the full weight.

He could not get up, and he could barely move his arms.

I pushed my knees harder into his back. “Are we done?”

“You’ll regret this.”

“I regret being born second every day of my life. But I’m darned if I’m going to let you take anything else from me. You want war, then you’ve got war.”

I got off him and stood up. Then I dragged him to his feet. Blood was streaming from several cuts to his head.

“Winner takes all,” I said. “You’re lucky you didn’t challenge me to a sword fight.”

His squire suddenly appeared, though I suspect he had been watching from close by. “Come, sir, we need to fix those wounds.”

He glowered at me, said nothing, but allowed the squire to take him away.

I was going to pay dearly for this skirmish.

…

I just stood there watching my brother retreat. He only turned once, looking at me over his shoulder, a look that I’d not seen on his face before.

A boy trying to be a man, and coming off only as a bully, who just took a beating. He was the one who, up to now, had handed out the punishment, the big brother, the one we had to look up to.

Losing had never been factored into who he was to become. The fact that a number of the castle people had seen it wasn’t going to make it go away.

The girl, whoever she was, came over to me.

“No one has ever taken my side in anything. Ever. You didn’t have to do that, not against what I think was your older brother. Eldest son? If you are a prince, that makes him…”

“A very sore lover. Don’t remind me.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I don’t see you as a servant, but just another person trying to get on with your life, and we should respect that.”

“That will never really happen. Kings, Queens, noblemen and women, they believe they have the fundamental right to rule. The rest are there just to serve them. We are taught to take what they give us and be thankful.”

I shrugged. “Don’t include me in that lot. I might as well be a peasant as a prince. I have no say and no life to speak of. Less so, now that I just dented the pride of our next King.”

“Not the forgive and forget type?’

“Cedric? No. You’re free now. If you go to the marketplace, someone there will tell you where there’s some work. It won’t be safe for you in the castle. That’s my fault and I’m sorry. By the way, what is your name?”

She smiled. “Anne. You are?”

“Richard. I’m sorry. Maybe if I’d left you alone things might be better. I fear I’ve just made them worse.”

“No. I’m grateful you rescued me. At least I discovered there is one person in this realm who cares about what happens to me. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. Besides, you paid five coins for me, so until you sell me to someone else, I’m yours.”

I gave my severest expression. “Neither I nor anyone else, for that matter, can own another person.”

“Not in your world, maybe, but in my world it’s very, very different. Until I can work out what I’m going to do next, I want to stay with you. I’m still, technically, a damsel in distress.”

I shook my head. I wasn’t going to get rid of her anytime soon.

….

There were several ways to get to my quarters in the castle, mercifully in another wing away from all the others. Cedric was near the King and Queen.

Elizabeth and Mary, my sisters, were in another part, and I was as far away from all of them as possible.

My quarters were made up of half a dozen chambers, which made it easier to house her away from me. I was not like my brother, bringing women to his chamber, conveniently forgetting he was betrothed to a princess from a distant kingdom.

I’d considered more than once to take a ride over there and tell her what her prospective husband was up to. Then, it’s probably what all first sons did.

Bertram, my head servant, was on his way to find me, obviously having heard about the scuffle. He stopped short when he saw the girl.

For some odd reason, I got the impression he knew her.

“We have a guest, Bertram. Get the guest room made up. And find Marion, the young lady, will need some clean clothes, and whatever.”

“Yes, sir.” He followed behind. “His Majesty was looking for you this morning. He seems displeased that I could not tell him where you were.”

“He usually doesn’t care.”

“Master Cedric was also looking for you.”

That explained why he was near the stables. He knew I liked to escape and go for a ride. Sometimes I didn’t come back for days. No one usually missed me

As we entered the main hall of my chambers, my mother was sitting down, flanked by two of her ladies’ maids, looking very regal. I knew this was the mother who had been sent to give me a strong talking to.

Before the yelling and posturing, my father was going to hand out.

Except when she saw Anne, she stood and bowed her head.

Anne stopped and looked straight at her. “Hello, Aunty Morgana.”

My mother bowed to no one other than her contemporaries and curtsied only to other Kings.

“You did not send word that you would be visiting. This is highly irregular.”

“It wouldn’t be if you did not have an ass for a son.”

My mother looked at me. “I’m sorry if Richard has treated you badly…”

I was still catching up with the fact that Anne was not a servant girl but a princess.

Anne glared at her, “You are seriously mistaken. Aunt. It’s Cedric who is the ass. Richard is the only one who defended me.”

“That is not possible.” My mother sounded horrified.

“You would be wise not to add to the bad report I am compiling on this Kingdom. I was told Cedric was a kind and gentle man who had the respect of his people, and he respected them. He just tried to beat the one person who defended me, no questions asked, in Cedric’s own words, a disgusting, dirty servant girl. There was no doubt what he intended to do to me if he won that fight. Now, it’s been an arduous and eventful trip to get here, and I need to clean up. Aunt.” For effect, she curtsied, then joined Marion and went to her room.

My mother was left standing open-mouthed.

To say I was astonished was an understatement.

“Where did you find her?” My mother suddenly found her voice.

“On the road from Oberon, in rather dangerous circumstances. I did not know she was a Princess.”

“No. She was never one to trade on her royal status. Feisty, forthright, and what I had hoped would be an excellent match for Cedric.”

“Well, Cedric burned that bridge completely. She will want nothing to do with him.”

“And you?”

“I do not rate in the eligibility stakes for any Princess. I doubt she would give me a second look, let alone a first. Maybe if she were a servant girl…”

She shook her head. “You are worthy of better than that. We shall speak of that later. Right now, your father is livid.”

“Maybe now he’ll rein in that stupid son and try to turn him into a human being, though I suspect it might be too late.”

“What you did was unforgivable.”

“What I did was finally stop taking his nonsense. He got what he deserved. The people have a very low opinion of him, so good luck trying to salvage his reputation.”

“Explain that to your father. He’s waiting in the throne room.”

…

It was the room where the King handed out punishment. It didn’t matter whether it was the lowliest serf or a prince. We all got the same treatment.

There was usually a panel of nobles and officials.

Cedric would be there. Trying and failing to learn that justice was meant to be fair and equitable and not based on personal feeling.

I changed and went straight there. Best not to keep them waiting.

Oddly, this time it was only the King, sitting on the throne. Usually, his Queen joined him, but she was still in my chambers.

He looked up as I entered the room.

I stopped on the edge of the red carpet and stood silently. Speak only when spoken to. Do not embellish. State facts.

Even if he didn’t want to hear them.

“What have you got to say for yourself?” I wouldn’t say it was the angriest I heard from him, but it was clear he was displeased with me.

“Cedric was being an ass.”

“Cedric is still finding his way.”

Cedric was taught all the wrong lessons when he was too young to know better. The lesson I learned from my parents’ failure was to take an active interest in my children’s education.

“Cedric will never find his way unless someone with a proper sense of duty takes him in hand.”

“He is the future King.”

“Then maybe the gods will have mercy on us.”

“You would be wise to change your own attitude, Richard.”

The snort escaped before I could stop it.

“You think this is a joke?”

“Cedric is rapidly becoming one in the eyes of your subjects. What I think is that you should personally take him down to the dungeons and beat him until he promises to be a better person.”

“The people respect him.”

“The people fear him. And so did I until he finally pushed me too far. Do you not wonder why three eligible princesses have turned down offers of marriage? Obviously not.”

Clearly, he had no knowledge of, or hadn’t been told of, his son’s proclivities. It was not for me to say.

He sighed. “We will speak more on this later.”

“As you wish.” I bowed and left a man deep in thought.

…

When I returned, the Queen had gone.

Marion and her handmaidens were bustling over Anne. I retired to my chamber and lay down for a rest. It had been a busy day.

Several hours later, Bernard woke me. Dinner in the main hall was in an hour, and protocol demanded my presence.

I looked around the room, not for the first time, and wondered why I was there. Most mornings, I woke without a purpose.

This time, it was to see an astonishingly different Anne sitting in the seat beside the bed, just looking at me.

“You talk in your sleep.”

“Do I? Anything interesting?”

“You want to be anywhere but here.”

True. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

“I would not have got a clear picture of who you really are, Richard. Knowing I’m a princess tends to change people in very strange ways. Being a disgusting, dirty servant tends to get people to behave exactly how the are. Your brother and half a dozen others like him treated me like scum, you treated me like a princess, and wanted nothing from me in return. In this place, I’m beginning to see, it’s an impossibility to expect any better.”

“I don’t think it’s like that with everyone.”

“Rot starts at the top, Richard, and evidences itself in the firstborn son. I live in a world ruled by men, men who take us for granted, and treat us according to whim, not respect.”

“You came here to judge us.” What else could I assume as her reason for visiting incognito?

“I have been to six other kingdoms in the last year. Not as dramatic an entrance as with you, but things did go a little sideways before we met.”

“You could have been killed or worse.”

“I put my trust in the Gods, and they didn’t let me down.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Go to the hastily arranged banquet in my honour, then go home. Aunty Morgana has sent word for an escort. I was hoping you would come with me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think you’re that silly.”

“I thought my mother wanted you to marry Cedric.”

“No, that was never her intention.”

Then it dawned on me. My mother had known that I was never going to get out from under Cedric’s shadow unless I had a reason to. Anne was that reason.”

“Would you marry to marry a second son?”

“Would you want to marry a girl who’s always getting into trouble because she prefers adventure to needlework?”

“I’ve only known you for a few hours, enough to know you are infuriating.”

“Then life together isn’t going to be dull, is it?”

It was not.