Day 322

Writing exercise – The tea cart was at least five minutes late; something had to be done.

…

I worked in an office full of self-absorbed people, who cared only about themselves and what the company could do for them.

It was always about the bonus, about the amenities, about anything they can get for nothing.

So, don’t get me started on the morning tea.

And afternoon tea.

Because of the nature of the work, it wasn’t a good idea to leave the desk, except at lunch when they had to have a break, and when they went home, which sometimes some forgot to.

Or so they said.

I wasn’t that dedicated, so perhaps that was the only reason why I wasn’t rocketing up the promotions ladder.  The higher you went, the more the company owned you.

I looked around.  Five-thousand-dollar suits, car keys for Maseratis and Ferraris proudly on display.  An ancient Ford wasn’t a status symbol, but then I was never about status, just about getting the job done.

Walters, the current ‘ace employee of the month’, was sitting back in his chair and looking at his watch, a Rolex, of course, then the office clock, which was never on time.

“Where’s the tea lady?”

There were two options: going up to the breakout area on the floor below the executive suite or having it at the desk.

Several elderly ladies ran the trolley, a nice, easy job for an hour or so in the morning and the afternoon.  The three that serviced our floor were Doris, my favourite, Matilda, who always had a dour demeanour, and Lizzie, younger, once a showgirl, or so she said.

I was never quite sure what ‘showgirl’ meant.

Today, it should have been Lizzie.

“Still boiling the water.”  Frazer, equally boorish as Walters, was known for smart ass remarks.

“It’s not as if you haven’t been late when you have to be somewhere.”

Like any appointment with his supervisor.

“Be a good chap, Roly, and find out where it is.”

I glared at him.  My name was Rollins, but he called me Rolly.  He had a name for everyone he considered beneath him in status.

His other name, Roly Poly, he said when he was with the others at the Friday night drinks at a nearby bar.  I went once, heard his slanging off the lesser employees and the others laughing, and decided it was not my thing.

I was going to tell him off, but it would simply go through one ear and out the other.

The breakout area had an annexe where the tea ladies prepared before coming down to their designated food by the freight elevator.

I’d been in it once, and it was lucky to be working.  The day I was in it, it stopped twice without reason and missed the floor by a foot which would make it impossible to unload a negotiating.

I went up via the main elevator lobby.  Mt first thought was that the freight elevator was stuck, and she was in it

I crossed the breakout area, very spacious and airy, walls without windows lined with vending machines, free tea, coffee and cold water all day.

Today, there were cookies, which sometimes found their way onto the tea cart.

I knocked on the door to the tea lady’s room, and there was no answer.  I opened the door and stepped in.  It was a restricted area, but there was no key card entry required.

The room was a mess.  It looked to me as though someone had a tantrum and started throwing stuff.  Until I looked closely and realised someone had been searching through everything in a methodical manner.

There was another door on the other side of the room.  I picked my way carefully through the mess; security was going to have to find out what happened here.

Again, I knocked, but there was no answer.

I opened the door

The three ladies were bound and gagged, sitting on the floor.  It was then that I realised the tea carts were missing.

I called security.  “You have a situation.   The tea ladies are bound and gagged, and their trolleys are missing.”

No questions or instructions, a few seconds later, the fire evacuation siren was blaring, a voice over, “This is not a drill.  I repeat, this is not a drill.  Please evacuate the building in a calm and orderly manner as directed.  Floor wardens are to immediately supervise and evaluate floors as directed.”

While that announcement was being made, I untied and removed Lizzie’s gag, then she helped one and I the other.

When they were free, I asked, “What happened?”

Two men and a woman came in and started asking questions.  We thought they were health inspectors until they started tossing stuff everywhere, looking for a pass.”

“A pass?”

“Floor access key.  Or maybe a master key.  Then, because Lizzie went for the phone we finished up where you found us.”

“Did they say anything else?”

“Only they were going to kill some bloke because he didn’t do his job properly.”

“Someone who works here?”

“That would be my guess,” Lizzie said. “Anything important happening?”

Important in this place.  Nothing that was ever exciting enough to incite what just happened.”

“Did they find the pass?”

“Yes.  It had a man’s face on it, but it was too far away to recognise it.”

I called security again.

“You’re looking for two men, a woman, three tea carts, and they have a pass key that someone else left for them to collect.  Do you have CCTV up here?”

He didn’t answer, just hung up.  I took that as a no.

When I turned around to tell the ladies we had to evacuate the building, Lizzie was by the door holding a gun.

A gun.  Where did she get it? Why did she have it?

“Join the other two and go back into the room.” She motioned with the gun for emphasis.  “Now.”

She looked at her watch.

Time was a factor.  

“Why are you doing this?  Are you in league with those criminals?”

“They’re not criminals.  You lot are the criminals.  Get in the room, I won’t ask again.”

You can’t argue with a gun.  “Let’s go, do as she asks.  Not worth the trouble refusing.”

They looked to me like they were going to say something, then thought twice about it and went into the room.  I followed, and before she shut the door, I said, “Whatever you’re doing, I hope it’s worth it.”

“It will be.”

The door closed, and I heard the turn of the key in the lock.  It was a flimsy door, but this wasn’t the time to kick it in.  I waited by the door, and a minute or so later, I heard the outer room door close and I assumed she had locked that too.

“If I hadn’t come, she would have got away with it,” I said.

“She didn’t look like she was working with them.  Just goes to show, you think you know someone.”

“And there’s someone else out there working with them.”

“To do what?”

Good question.  I was wondering that myself.  Lizzie had called the company criminals.  All we did was invest money, make the clients richer.  Admittedly, it had become that much harder to pick the market given the volatility, which, some argued, was deliberately being manipulated.

One negative word from a government official could send a stock higher or plummet in value, leaving investors with huge losses.

Walters had been flying high on a lot of good tips, but the last stock that went up, he should have sold, instead, waited just a little too long.  Perhaps he’d crossed his tipster.  That would mean he was effectively insider trading.

Interesting how something comes together with the right catalyst. 

The thing is, investors knew who their trader was, so if anyone was upset, they could complain or demand an explanation.  The supervisor was tough but fair. You cause a mess, you clean it up.

I doubted Lizzie was one of those high roller investors, but in such a job, a few bucks to supply a pass key was nothing to her.  Unless it turned into a murder.  Brandishing guns in a highly volatile situation was a recipe for disaster.

“It might have something to do with bad investments.”

And something else just dredged up from the back of my mind.  A sighting about a month back of one of the directors of the company having lunch at a fancy restaurant I had wanted to go to, passed most days on the way home from work.

It was not because he was dining there; it was the woman he was with.  I thought he might be having an affair, but several days after that, her face popped up on TV, and she was being linked to a government project that was worth billions of dollars.

And the report was about the next big thing in the construction industry

Interesting.

“Not a good look for an investment company to have bad investments.”

“It’s a volatile market, and a lot of investment houses have problems.  But you’re right, not a good look, and very problematic if the investors start getting itchy feet.”

“And that happened here?”

“Everyone praises you when you back the right horse, but like a horse race, you never really know which horse is going to win.  Sometimes, even dead certs lose.  It happens everywhere.”

I don’t think I sold the ‘we are the best of the best’ to her.  At that moment, the fire alarm stopped, and the silence was blessed.  She just shrugged and produced a set of keys.

“You have the keys to the door?”

“Of course.  Senior tea lady.  It just wasn’t safe to go out there, until now.”

I stepped back, and she unlocked the door. 

“You open it.  Lizzie must still be out there.”

I debated whether I should tell her I heard Lizzie leave, but decided not to.  I opened the door a crack and peered out.

Nothing.

I pushed the door open and came out into the room.

Silence, which was strange in itself.  There was always noise.

She gave me the keys to open the outset door and check.  Once again, only opening it slightly, I glanced down both sides of the corridor.  If Lizzie had any sense, she would have left quickly

“Stay here and lock the door.  I’ll go and see what’s happening.”

I took the closest staircase to go down.  In a fire alarm, all the doors on each floor were unlocked.  It was eerily quiet on the stairwell as I slowly went down to my floor.  I told myself that it could not have been about Walters and the others.

At the level, I slowly opened the door.  Silence.  If anyone was there, there would be noise, at the very least, Walters babbling on about the intrusion.

I waited a minute.  Two.  Nothing.

Then, slowly walking up the corridor to the pit, the workspaces of the half dozen of us in the group, and in the office overlooking the outside, the supervisor.

I stopped at the door and nearly vomited.  They were all dead, shot multiple times, with blood and bodies everywhere.  My five colleagues and the supervisor.  Dead.

Walters had done me a favour by sending me off to find the tea lady.  Otherwise, I’d be with them, just another dead body.

That’s when the police arrived, about a dozen of them screaming for me to get on the floor, hands behind my head.

…

©  Charles Heath 2025

Day 321

What will happen to the hero?

…

The Novelist’s Secret: We’re Just As Curious As You Are

We all know the feeling. It’s midnight, the house is dark, and you are gripping the latest thriller, utterly unable to put it down. Your heart pounds, palms sweat, and the only certainty in the universe is the desperate need to know: Will the hero survive?

This is the glorious, undeniable suspense of the reader. We assume this thrill is exclusive to us—the consumers of the story.

But what if I told you that, sitting across the desk, hunched over a lukewarm cup of coffee and a blinking cursor, the person crafting the plot is often experiencing the very same, stomach-dropping curiosity?

The prevailing image of the novelist is that of an omniscient deity, a master architect meticulously placing every brick, knowing how the structure must inevitably fall. While some writers certainly embody this role—the celebrated “plotters”—the deepest, most resonant stories often emerge when the creator surrenders control and becomes, quite simply, the hero’s most dedicated and most anxious first reader.

The suspense of a novel is not only in the reader but also in the novelist, who is equally curious about what will happen to the hero. This is the great secret of discovery writing: The story is not written; it is uncovered.

The Myth of the Master Plan

For those who write by “discovery” (often affectionately termed “pantsers,” because they write by the seat of their pants), the process is less like following a blueprint and more like exploring a vast, uncharted cave. You have a flashlight (your protagonist’s core motivation) and a general direction, but you have no idea if the path ahead leads to a treasure chamber or a sudden, terrifying drop.

When a writer starts a story this way, the suspense is inherent in every word. Every time the protagonist is confronted with a choice, the author holds their breath, asking:

Will he take the risk, or play it safe?
Will she finally tell the truth, even though it ruins everything?
Is this conflict a dead end, or a pivot point?
This is not simple intellectual curiosity; it is a genuine, existential stake in the outcome. The novelist is betting their time, their craft, and the integrity of the entire manuscript on the hero making an organic, believable next move—a move the novelist themselves must wait to witness.

When Characters Take the Wheel

The moment a character truly comes alive is the moment they cease being a puppet for the writer’s agenda and become an autonomous force.

This is the thrilling, terrifying point of no return for the author. The character stops doing what the outline demands and starts doing what they would logically do, given their history, flaws, and desires.

Many authors describe this sensation. Characters rebel. They refuse to fall in love with the intended partner. They walked out of the room when they were supposed to deliver a crucial monologue. They exhibit an inconvenient, but utterly truthful, streak of self-sabotage that the author never planned.

When this happens, the novelist’s job shifts from creator to witness. We are no longer designing the journey; we are scrambling to keep up, racing down the page just to see how our heroes will resolve the mess they’ve just made.

This is the purest form of writerly suspense. We are tied to the narrative not just by obligation, but by a sudden, intense fear for our creation. Will this impulsive decision ruin the story? Or will it, astonishingly, unlock the one perfect plot twist we never saw coming?

The Unique Burden of the Author’s Suspense

The reader’s suspense is passive; it is the anticipation of consumption. The author’s suspense, however, is active; it is the anxiety of creation and execution.

An author’s curiosity isn’t just about what happens, but about how they are going to manage to write it convincingly.

If the hero is trapped in a burning building, the reader wonders: How will he get out?

The novelist wonders: How will he get out, and can I write that scene with enough detail, tension, and structural integrity that the whole book doesn’t collapse at this crucial moment?

The novelist’s curiosity is perpetually interwoven with the demands of craft. We are curious about the outcome, but we are also desperately curious about our own ability to deliver that outcome flawlessly. We are thrilled by the uncertainty, but burdened by the knowledge that we are responsible for making that uncertainty pay off.

The Beautiful Surrender

To create genuine suspense for the reader, the writer must first allow themselves to feel it. The greatest narratives are not those where the author is in total control, but those where the author has surrendered enough control to be genuinely surprised.

If the author already knows every character beat, every twist, and every final line, the writing process can become mechanical and stale—and that flatness will invariably translate to the finished page.

The writer who is slightly nervous, slightly unsure, and deeply invested in the fate of their protagonist is the writer who is pouring genuine, fresh energy into the text.

So the next time you are lost in a book, turning pages in a fever pitch of excitement, remember the person who wrote it. They may have been turning those internal pages just as quickly, hoping, fearing, and discovering the story right alongside you.

This shared curiosity—this simultaneous suspense binding creator and consumer—is perhaps the purest magic of the human-authored novel. It is the moment we realise that writing is not the act of manufacturing an inevitability, but the wondrous challenge of documenting a life that insists on being lived.

Day 321

What will happen to the hero?

…

The Novelist’s Secret: We’re Just As Curious As You Are

We all know the feeling. It’s midnight, the house is dark, and you are gripping the latest thriller, utterly unable to put it down. Your heart pounds, palms sweat, and the only certainty in the universe is the desperate need to know: Will the hero survive?

This is the glorious, undeniable suspense of the reader. We assume this thrill is exclusive to us—the consumers of the story.

But what if I told you that, sitting across the desk, hunched over a lukewarm cup of coffee and a blinking cursor, the person crafting the plot is often experiencing the very same, stomach-dropping curiosity?

The prevailing image of the novelist is that of an omniscient deity, a master architect meticulously placing every brick, knowing how the structure must inevitably fall. While some writers certainly embody this role—the celebrated “plotters”—the deepest, most resonant stories often emerge when the creator surrenders control and becomes, quite simply, the hero’s most dedicated and most anxious first reader.

The suspense of a novel is not only in the reader but also in the novelist, who is equally curious about what will happen to the hero. This is the great secret of discovery writing: The story is not written; it is uncovered.

The Myth of the Master Plan

For those who write by “discovery” (often affectionately termed “pantsers,” because they write by the seat of their pants), the process is less like following a blueprint and more like exploring a vast, uncharted cave. You have a flashlight (your protagonist’s core motivation) and a general direction, but you have no idea if the path ahead leads to a treasure chamber or a sudden, terrifying drop.

When a writer starts a story this way, the suspense is inherent in every word. Every time the protagonist is confronted with a choice, the author holds their breath, asking:

Will he take the risk, or play it safe?
Will she finally tell the truth, even though it ruins everything?
Is this conflict a dead end, or a pivot point?
This is not simple intellectual curiosity; it is a genuine, existential stake in the outcome. The novelist is betting their time, their craft, and the integrity of the entire manuscript on the hero making an organic, believable next move—a move the novelist themselves must wait to witness.

When Characters Take the Wheel

The moment a character truly comes alive is the moment they cease being a puppet for the writer’s agenda and become an autonomous force.

This is the thrilling, terrifying point of no return for the author. The character stops doing what the outline demands and starts doing what they would logically do, given their history, flaws, and desires.

Many authors describe this sensation. Characters rebel. They refuse to fall in love with the intended partner. They walked out of the room when they were supposed to deliver a crucial monologue. They exhibit an inconvenient, but utterly truthful, streak of self-sabotage that the author never planned.

When this happens, the novelist’s job shifts from creator to witness. We are no longer designing the journey; we are scrambling to keep up, racing down the page just to see how our heroes will resolve the mess they’ve just made.

This is the purest form of writerly suspense. We are tied to the narrative not just by obligation, but by a sudden, intense fear for our creation. Will this impulsive decision ruin the story? Or will it, astonishingly, unlock the one perfect plot twist we never saw coming?

The Unique Burden of the Author’s Suspense

The reader’s suspense is passive; it is the anticipation of consumption. The author’s suspense, however, is active; it is the anxiety of creation and execution.

An author’s curiosity isn’t just about what happens, but about how they are going to manage to write it convincingly.

If the hero is trapped in a burning building, the reader wonders: How will he get out?

The novelist wonders: How will he get out, and can I write that scene with enough detail, tension, and structural integrity that the whole book doesn’t collapse at this crucial moment?

The novelist’s curiosity is perpetually interwoven with the demands of craft. We are curious about the outcome, but we are also desperately curious about our own ability to deliver that outcome flawlessly. We are thrilled by the uncertainty, but burdened by the knowledge that we are responsible for making that uncertainty pay off.

The Beautiful Surrender

To create genuine suspense for the reader, the writer must first allow themselves to feel it. The greatest narratives are not those where the author is in total control, but those where the author has surrendered enough control to be genuinely surprised.

If the author already knows every character beat, every twist, and every final line, the writing process can become mechanical and stale—and that flatness will invariably translate to the finished page.

The writer who is slightly nervous, slightly unsure, and deeply invested in the fate of their protagonist is the writer who is pouring genuine, fresh energy into the text.

So the next time you are lost in a book, turning pages in a fever pitch of excitement, remember the person who wrote it. They may have been turning those internal pages just as quickly, hoping, fearing, and discovering the story right alongside you.

This shared curiosity—this simultaneous suspense binding creator and consumer—is perhaps the purest magic of the human-authored novel. It is the moment we realise that writing is not the act of manufacturing an inevitability, but the wondrous challenge of documenting a life that insists on being lived.

Days 319 and 320

Writing exercise – using other words for hate, run, disappointed, joyful, and frightened

…

Hate is such a strong word, but then so are detest, abhor, and perhaps disgust.  The thing is, does everyone understand these other words?

I hated my parents, I hated my brothers, and I think at one particular time in my life, I hated the world.  I guess when everything you planned for just hot pulled out from under you, it’s easy to blame everything and everyone else.

At the time, there wasn’t another word strong enough.

So, when the world has taken you by the scruff of the neck and starts strangling the life out of you, what do you do?  You run.  Anywhere is better than where you are.

Isn’t it?

I’d it running though, or a strategic exit.  It depends on who you are.

Disappointed?  Hell, yeah!

To see a relationship that had been nurtured from the beginning of grade school to the end of high school, to have in place a plan for the rest of your life, and then in a few weeks before the Prom, and graduation, see it all thrown on the scrap heap because the new boy in town had swept the girl of your dreams off her feet, well that was devastation, and a dozen other ‘d’ words.  Disappointment didn’t even scratch the surface.

Stamping out all those years of joy, though, as I was reminded several times by well-meaning people, I wasn’t old enough time know what love, pain and the damn thing of life, it was better to get the love and loss thing over so that the next time, if there was a next time, I’d know what to do.

Wrong.

My next foray into a serious relationship lasted a few years but fell apart when she had an accident.  I wasn’t there at the time, but she had taken it upon herself to take on the hardest slope without telling me and got injured.

I went up with the rescue team, but it seemed the sight of me only made the accident far worse than it was: a broken leg, failing to take a tight turn, one I knew needed a little more practice than she had.

It didn’t matter that I was not judging or critical, only concerned for her.

She was taken by air ambulance to the hospital, and then I didn’t see her again.

I was starting to think that I was never meant to find the true meaning of joy, or being happy, or content, or just be comfortable in the company of that woman I was told was out there somewhere waiting for me.

Right.

I’d like to see that prophecy come true.

So, of course, the opposite of joy was despair, frightened that I was never going to find true love.

Just saying that out loud scares the hell out of me.

Frightened, scared, paralysed with fear, simply paralysed.

My job hadn’t found anyone suitable.  Dating girls at the office was a minefield, especially when it all goes south.  I’d seen it happen far too many times, with devastating results for both parties.

So …

What’s the story? My story, really, with a few embellishments.

It’s there in parts, a story I tried to write a few years back, but started pottering anew.

The disappointment, the girlfriend moving on, plans destroyed, and not being the son and an heir, having a father who expected more than a lesser son could give, forced him to reconsider his life.

Instead of going to a local college and being at home, he moved across the country to go to a better university, having attained the necessary GPA to do an undergraduate degree in Economics, and then an MBA.  Five and a half to six years.

Tried to come home one and got into a fight with the son and heir and left.

Perhaps others got to share his disappointment.

Another few years pass.  His sister asks him to come home to see a sick mother.  It’s Christmas.

He gets on the plane.

Had he finally decided to stop running?

It is time to put the hate aside and try to get along.

Can help stifle the disappointment.

Can he find the joy of living at home again?

What was it, in stepping on that plane, that brought back all the disappointment, all the pain, and no chance of ever bringing back that childhood that wasn’t all that bad until he hit middle school.

Christmas is the time for joy.

Will he find it again?

Sit back, relax, and enjoy the in-flight service.

Days 319 and 320

Writing exercise – using other words for hate, run, disappointed, joyful, and frightened

…

Hate is such a strong word, but then so are detest, abhor, and perhaps disgust.  The thing is, does everyone understand these other words?

I hated my parents, I hated my brothers, and I think at one particular time in my life, I hated the world.  I guess when everything you planned for just hot pulled out from under you, it’s easy to blame everything and everyone else.

At the time, there wasn’t another word strong enough.

So, when the world has taken you by the scruff of the neck and starts strangling the life out of you, what do you do?  You run.  Anywhere is better than where you are.

Isn’t it?

I’d it running though, or a strategic exit.  It depends on who you are.

Disappointed?  Hell, yeah!

To see a relationship that had been nurtured from the beginning of grade school to the end of high school, to have in place a plan for the rest of your life, and then in a few weeks before the Prom, and graduation, see it all thrown on the scrap heap because the new boy in town had swept the girl of your dreams off her feet, well that was devastation, and a dozen other ‘d’ words.  Disappointment didn’t even scratch the surface.

Stamping out all those years of joy, though, as I was reminded several times by well-meaning people, I wasn’t old enough time know what love, pain and the damn thing of life; it was better to get the love and loss thing over so that the next time, if there was a next time, I’d know what to do.

Wrong.

My next foray into a serious relationship lasted a few years but fell apart when she had an accident.  I wasn’t there at the time, but she had taken it upon herself to take on the hardest slope without telling me and got injured.

I went up with the rescue team, but it seemed the sight of me only made the accident far worse than it was: a broken leg, failing to take a tight turn, one I knew needed a little more practice than she had.

It didn’t matter that I was not judging or critical, only concerned for her.

She was taken by air ambulance to the hospital, and then I didn’t see her again.

I was starting to think that I was never meant to find the true meaning of joy, or being happy, or content, or just be comfortable in the company of that woman I was told was out there somewhere waiting for me.

Right.

I’d like to see that prophecy come true.

So, of course, the opposite of joy was despair, frightened that I was never going to find true love.

Just saying that out loud scares the hell out of me.

Frightened, scared, paralysed with fear, simply paralysed.

My job hadn’t found anyone suitable.  Dating girls at the office was a minefield, especially when it all goes south.  I’d seen it happen far too many times, with devastating results for both parties.

So …

What’s the story?

It’s there in parts, a story I tried to write a few years back, but started pottering anew.

The disappointment, the girlfriend moving on, plans destroyed, and not being the son and an heir, having a father who expected more than a lesser son could give, forced him to reconsider his life.

Instead of going to a local college and being at home, he moved across the country to go to a better university, having attained the necessary GPA to do an undergraduate degree in Economics, and then an MBA.  Five and a half to six years.

Tried to come home one and got into a fight with the son and heir and left.

Perhaps others got to share his disappointment.

Another few years pass.  His sister asks him to come home to see a sick mother.  It’s Christmas.

He gets on the plane.

Had he finally decided to stop running?

It is time to put the hate aside and try to get along.

Can help stifle the disappointment.

Can he find the joy of living at home again?

What was it, in stepping on that plane, that brought back all the disappointment, all the pain, and no chance of ever bringing back that childhood that wasn’t all that bad until he hit middle school?

Christmas is the time for joy.

Will he find it again?

Sit back, relax, and enjoy the in-flight service.

Day 318

The use of flashbacks

…

The Flashback Dilemma: Craft Tool or Narrative Crutch?

Ah, the flashback. That sudden warp in the narrative, pulling us from the present action into a scene from the past. For some readers, it’s a thrilling unravelling of mystery and character. For others, it’s a jarring interruption, a moment to sigh and wonder if the story will ever get back on track.

So, is the use of flashbacks good writing or bad writing? The short answer, like with most literary devices, is: it depends entirely on how it’s executed.

A flashback, by its very nature, is a pause in the forward momentum of your story. This pause can be a powerful strategic move, deepening the reader’s understanding and enriching the narrative tapestry. Or, it can be a clumsy misstep that derails the plot and tests your reader’s patience.

Let’s break down the difference between a lazily written and a well-constructed flashback.

The Pitfalls of a Lazily Written Flashback

A lazy flashback is often a symptom of one of two things: a writer struggling to convey information, or a writer avoiding present conflict.

1. The Information Dump: This is perhaps the most common offender. The writer needs to inform the reader about a character’s past, a world detail, or a previous event, but instead of weaving it organically into the current narrative, they simply stop the action and insert a lengthy, undigested chunk of backstory.
   • How it feels to the reader: “Why am I being told this now? Does this really matter? Can we get back to what was happening?” It breaks immersion and feels like exposition masquerading as a scene.
   • Example: A character is about to face a dragon, and suddenly, we get three pages detailing their entire childhood trauma with kittens, completely unrelated to dragons or their immediate fear.
2. Avoiding Present Conflict: Sometimes a writer introduces a flashback not because it’s crucial to the immediate scene, but because they’re unsure how to resolve or advance the current plot point. It’s a way to hit the “pause” button on a difficult scene.
   • How it feels to the reader: Frustrating. It feels like the story is treading water, or deliberately holding back for no good reason. The tension dissipates.
3. Lacks a Clear Trigger or Purpose: A lazy flashback often appears out of nowhere, without a clear sensory trigger (a smell, a song, a phrase) or a strong narrative reason tied to the present moment. It just… happens.
4. Telling, Not Showing: These flashbacks often recount events rather than immersing the reader in them. They summarise, rather than allow the reader to experience the past as if it were happening now.

The Art of a Well-Constructed Flashback

A well-constructed flashback is a precision tool, used sparingly and with surgical intent. It doesn’t halt the story; it deepens it, providing vital context that reshapes the reader’s understanding of the present.

Here’s what makes a flashback effective:

1. Purpose-Driven and Relevant: Every successful flashback serves a clear, immediate purpose for the current narrative.
   • Context: It provides a crucial piece of information that makes the current events, character motivations, or mystery suddenly click into place.
   • Character Development: It reveals the origins of a character’s present fears, desires, strengths, or flaws, adding layers to their personality. Instead of telling us a character is brave, we see a past event that forged that bravery.
   • Mystery/Suspense: It offers a tantalising clue, a half-remembered moment that hints at a larger secret, building tension and propelling the reader forward to discover more.
   • Dramatic Irony: The reader gains knowledge that the present-day characters don’t have, intensifying the stakes.
2. Seamless Integration and Clear Transitions: An excellent flashback is often triggered organically. A scent, a sound, a familiar face, a particular phrase – something in the present moment pulls the character (and the reader) back to the past. The transition should be clear, too, whether through distinct paragraph breaks, italics, or a narrative device.
3. Concise and Focused: Like any good scene, a flashback should only include what’s absolutely necessary. It’s not an excuse for extraneous detail. It’s a snapshot, not a whole album.
4. Impact on the Present: The most crucial element: a good flashback changes the reader’s perception of the present story. When the flashback ends, the reader should return to the main narrative with new information, a deeper emotional connection, or a shifted perspective that makes the current events more resonant. It should propel the story forward, not bog it down.
5. Engaging as a Scene: Treat your flashback like any other critical scene. It should have its own mini-arc, vivid details, sensory descriptions, and emotional resonance. It shouldn’t feel like a summary.

Conclusion: A Tool for the Master, Not the Apprentice

Flashbacks are neither inherently good nor bad writing. They are a powerful, but dangerous, narrative device. In the hands of a skilled writer, they can unlock profound understanding, build unbearable tension, and imbue characters with incredible depth. In the hands of a novice, they can be a clunky, confusing obstacle.

Before you insert a flashback, ask yourself:

• Why now? Why can’t this information be revealed through dialogue, internal thought, or action in the present?
• What vital purpose does this serve for the current story?
• Will it clarify or confuse?
• Will it deepen character or merely delay plot?

If you can answer these questions with conviction, then by all means, employ the flashback. Just ensure it’s a finely crafted key, not a blunt instrument, to unlock the true potential of your story.

---

What are your thoughts on flashbacks? Do you have a favourite example of a story that uses them masterfully, or one that fumbled the ball? Share your insights in the comments below!

Day 318

The use of flashbacks

…

The Flashback Dilemma: Craft Tool or Narrative Crutch?

Ah, the flashback. That sudden warp in the narrative, pulling us from the present action into a scene from the past. For some readers, it’s a thrilling unravelling of mystery and character. For others, it’s a jarring interruption, a moment to sigh and wonder if the story will ever get back on track.

So, is the use of flashbacks good writing or bad writing? The short answer, like with most literary devices, is: it depends entirely on how it’s executed.

A flashback, by its very nature, is a pause in the forward momentum of your story. This pause can be a powerful strategic move, deepening the reader’s understanding and enriching the narrative tapestry. Or, it can be a clumsy misstep that derails the plot and tests your reader’s patience.

Let’s break down the difference between a lazily written and a well-constructed flashback.

The Pitfalls of a Lazily Written Flashback

A lazy flashback is often a symptom of one of two things: a writer struggling to convey information, or a writer avoiding present conflict.

1. The Information Dump: This is perhaps the most common offender. The writer needs to inform the reader about a character’s past, a world detail, or a previous event, but instead of weaving it organically into the current narrative, they simply stop the action and insert a lengthy, undigested chunk of backstory.
   • How it feels to the reader: “Why am I being told this now? Does this really matter? Can we get back to what was happening?” It breaks immersion and feels like exposition masquerading as a scene.
   • Example: A character is about to face a dragon, and suddenly, we get three pages detailing their entire childhood trauma with kittens, completely unrelated to dragons or their immediate fear.
2. Avoiding Present Conflict: Sometimes a writer introduces a flashback not because it’s crucial to the immediate scene, but because they’re unsure how to resolve or advance the current plot point. It’s a way to hit the “pause” button on a difficult scene.
   • How it feels to the reader: Frustrating. It feels like the story is treading water, or deliberately holding back for no good reason. The tension dissipates.
3. Lacks a Clear Trigger or Purpose: A lazy flashback often appears out of nowhere, without a clear sensory trigger (a smell, a song, a phrase) or a strong narrative reason tied to the present moment. It just… happens.
4. Telling, Not Showing: These flashbacks often recount events rather than immersing the reader in them. They summarise, rather than allow the reader to experience the past as if it were happening now.

The Art of a Well-Constructed Flashback

A well-constructed flashback is a precision tool, used sparingly and with surgical intent. It doesn’t halt the story; it deepens it, providing vital context that reshapes the reader’s understanding of the present.

Here’s what makes a flashback effective:

1. Purpose-Driven and Relevant: Every successful flashback serves a clear, immediate purpose for the current narrative.
   • Context: It provides a crucial piece of information that makes the current events, character motivations, or mystery suddenly click into place.
   • Character Development: It reveals the origins of a character’s present fears, desires, strengths, or flaws, adding layers to their personality. Instead of telling us a character is brave, we see a past event that forged that bravery.
   • Mystery/Suspense: It offers a tantalising clue, a half-remembered moment that hints at a larger secret, building tension and propelling the reader forward to discover more.
   • Dramatic Irony: The reader gains knowledge that the present-day characters don’t have, intensifying the stakes.
2. Seamless Integration and Clear Transitions: An excellent flashback is often triggered organically. A scent, a sound, a familiar face, a particular phrase – something in the present moment pulls the character (and the reader) back to the past. The transition should be clear, too, whether through distinct paragraph breaks, italics, or a narrative device.
3. Concise and Focused: Like any good scene, a flashback should only include what’s absolutely necessary. It’s not an excuse for extraneous detail. It’s a snapshot, not a whole album.
4. Impact on the Present: The most crucial element: a good flashback changes the reader’s perception of the present story. When the flashback ends, the reader should return to the main narrative with new information, a deeper emotional connection, or a shifted perspective that makes the current events more resonant. It should propel the story forward, not bog it down.
5. Engaging as a Scene: Treat your flashback like any other critical scene. It should have its own mini-arc, vivid details, sensory descriptions, and emotional resonance. It shouldn’t feel like a summary.

Conclusion: A Tool for the Master, Not the Apprentice

Flashbacks are neither inherently good nor bad writing. They are a powerful, but dangerous, narrative device. In the hands of a skilled writer, they can unlock profound understanding, build unbearable tension, and imbue characters with incredible depth. In the hands of a novice, they can be a clunky, confusing obstacle.

Before you insert a flashback, ask yourself:

• Why now? Why can’t this information be revealed through dialogue, internal thought, or action in the present?
• What vital purpose does this serve for the current story?
• Will it clarify or confuse?
• Will it deepen character or merely delay plot?

If you can answer these questions with conviction, then by all means, employ the flashback. Just ensure it’s a finely crafted key, not a blunt instrument, to unlock the true potential of your story.

---

What are your thoughts on flashbacks? Do you have a favourite example of a story that uses them masterfully, or one that fumbled the ball? Share your insights in the comments below!

Day 317

What we give up to write

…

The Unnecessary Sacrifices: What We Really Give Up To Pursue Our Trade

The narrative of the struggling artisan is deeply ingrained in our culture. The solitary writer fueled by instant coffee, the entrepreneur sleeping on their office floor, the painter eating cold beans for dinner—we romanticise the idea that true devotion requires extreme hardship.

We constantly ask ourselves: What must I tell myself I can do without in order to ply my trade?

This line of questioning often leads us to scrutinise the basic necessities of life. Do we cut food? Do we wear patched clothes? Do we forgo self-care?

The truth, however, is far more subtle and far more strategic. If your trade is a marathon, sacrificing your fuel (physical, intellectual, or emotional) is not devotion—it’s self-sabotage. To thrive, we must learn the difference between necessary austerity and counterproductive deprivation.

Here is a professional perspective on what is truly shed when we commit to our craft, and what must absolutely be protected.

---

1. Shedding the Myth of Monetary Deprivation

The common wisdom suggests we must sacrifice the big three: food, clothes, and looking good.

If we are being honest, very few successful professionals or skilled tradespeople literally starve themselves or wear rags. What we sacrifice isn’t the necessity itself, but the performative consumption surrounding it.

Food: Quality Over Spectacle

We don’t give up food; we give up time-consuming dining experiences and expensive ingredients that don’t increase our productivity.

The sacrifice is the elaborate lunch hour, the $15 artisanal coffee every morning, or the weekend spent trying complicated new recipes. We trade the gourmet for the pragmatic, optimising our diet for consistent energy and focus. The decision isn’t “Should I eat?” it’s “Does this meal purchase me another hour of high-quality work?”

Clothes and Appearance: Utility Over Status

The sacrifice here is not looking presentable; it is the need to impress onlookers and the time spent shopping for trends.

The dedicated professional often adopts a uniform—a set of clothes that are comfortable, reliable, and require zero decision-making energy in the morning (the classic example of Steve Jobs’ turtlenecks or Mark Zuckerberg’s grey t-shirts). This is a strategic sacrifice of bandwidth. We give up the mental effort of fashion tracking and external validation so that our finite focus can be diverted entirely to the work itself.

---

2. Protecting the Intellectual Engine

The most dangerous question posed by the hustle culture mindset is whether we must give up books and writing to survive.

For the modern professional—be they a coder, a writer, a consultant, or a marketer—these are not luxuries; they are fundamental operating costs.

If your trade requires cognitive skill, problem-solving, or communication, sacrificing these inputs is akin to a carpenter giving up their hammer.

Books and Reading: Fueling the Engine

We cannot afford to stop learning. When we are deep in the trenches of a trade, reading books—whether they are technical manuals, industry reports, or even great fiction—is the only way to fill the well of knowledge needed to stay competitive.

The real sacrifice is often mindless entertainment: binge-watching television that contributes nothing to our professional growth, or endlessly scrolling validated social media feeds. We trade passive consumption for active learning.

Writing: Sharpening the Tool

Whether you write code, marketing copy, or detailed client briefs, writing is how we clarify thought, document processes, and communicate value. Giving up personal writing, journaling, or even drafting non-work-related essays inhibits our ability to structure complex ideas.

The sacrifice is not the act of writing; it is the expectation of perfectionism in every draft. We sacrifice the time spent trying to make the first sentence flawless so that we can get the crucial idea down quickly and move forward.

---

3. The True Sacrifices: Time, Comfort, and Bandwidth

When we are truly committed to a trade, the things that disappear are not our fundamental needs, but the luxurious buffers we previously relied upon. These are the real opportunity costs:

1. The Buffer of Time

The biggest sacrifice is spontaneity and unstructured time.

If you are serious about your craft, your schedule becomes deliberately rigid. You sacrifice the freedom to say “yes” to every last-minute social invitation, because that time has already been allocated to deep work, administration, or necessary rest. This is often misunderstood as anti-social behaviour, but it is actually the strategic protection of your workflow.

2. The Comfort of Stability

The trade requires a willingness to live closer to the edge of failure. You sacrifice the comfort of guaranteed outcomes.

Every new project, every pitch, every innovative attempt carries a genuine risk of falling short. This trade demands emotional resilience and the sacrifice of the secure, predictable path for one that offers significant growth but zero guarantees.

3. The Need for External Validation

Finally, we sacrifice the energy spent chasing approval.

When you are intensely focused on the quality of your output, you stop trying to manage the fickle opinions of others. This is where the sacrifice of “looking good” truly comes into play—not physically, but professionally. We stop sacrificing genuine progress for the sake of public performance.

---

The Wise Exchange

The commitment to a trade is not a vow of destitution; it is a vow of strategic alignment.

The professional does not ask, “What must I suffer through?” but rather, “What non-essential things are draining the time, energy, and resources I need to excel?”

Stop sacrificing your intellectual fuel (books, learning) and your physical fuel (health, decent food). Instead, identify and eliminate the silent drains: the distraction, the excessive consumerism, the need for immediate gratification, and the fear of saying “no.”

Ply your trade, but do so from a position of strength, not starvation. Sacrifice wisely, or risk burning out before the real work ever begins.

Day 317

What we give up to write

…

The Unnecessary Sacrifices: What We Really Give Up To Pursue Our Trade

The narrative of the struggling artisan is deeply ingrained in our culture. The solitary writer fueled by instant coffee, the entrepreneur sleeping on their office floor, the painter eating cold beans for dinner—we romanticise the idea that true devotion requires extreme hardship.

We constantly ask ourselves: What must I tell myself I can do without in order to ply my trade?

This line of questioning often leads us to scrutinise the basic necessities of life. Do we cut food? Do we wear patched clothes? Do we forgo self-care?

The truth, however, is far more subtle and far more strategic. If your trade is a marathon, sacrificing your fuel (physical, intellectual, or emotional) is not devotion—it’s self-sabotage. To thrive, we must learn the difference between necessary austerity and counterproductive deprivation.

Here is a professional perspective on what is truly shed when we commit to our craft, and what must absolutely be protected.

---

1. Shedding the Myth of Monetary Deprivation

The common wisdom suggests we must sacrifice the big three: food, clothes, and looking good.

If we are being honest, very few successful professionals or skilled tradespeople literally starve themselves or wear rags. What we sacrifice isn’t the necessity itself, but the performative consumption surrounding it.

Food: Quality Over Spectacle

We don’t give up food; we give up time-consuming dining experiences and expensive ingredients that don’t increase our productivity.

The sacrifice is the elaborate lunch hour, the $15 artisanal coffee every morning, or the weekend spent trying complicated new recipes. We trade the gourmet for the pragmatic, optimising our diet for consistent energy and focus. The decision isn’t “Should I eat?” it’s “Does this meal purchase me another hour of high-quality work?”

Clothes and Appearance: Utility Over Status

The sacrifice here is not looking presentable; it is the need to impress onlookers and the time spent shopping for trends.

The dedicated professional often adopts a uniform—a set of clothes that are comfortable, reliable, and require zero decision-making energy in the morning (the classic example of Steve Jobs’ turtlenecks or Mark Zuckerberg’s grey t-shirts). This is a strategic sacrifice of bandwidth. We give up the mental effort of fashion tracking and external validation so that our finite focus can be diverted entirely to the work itself.

---

2. Protecting the Intellectual Engine

The most dangerous question posed by the hustle culture mindset is whether we must give up books and writing to survive.

For the modern professional—be they a coder, a writer, a consultant, or a marketer—these are not luxuries; they are fundamental operating costs.

If your trade requires cognitive skill, problem-solving, or communication, sacrificing these inputs is akin to a carpenter giving up their hammer.

Books and Reading: Fueling the Engine

We cannot afford to stop learning. When we are deep in the trenches of a trade, reading books—whether they are technical manuals, industry reports, or even great fiction—is the only way to fill the well of knowledge needed to stay competitive.

The real sacrifice is often mindless entertainment: binge-watching television that contributes nothing to our professional growth, or endlessly scrolling validated social media feeds. We trade passive consumption for active learning.

Writing: Sharpening the Tool

Whether you write code, marketing copy, or detailed client briefs, writing is how we clarify thought, document processes, and communicate value. Giving up personal writing, journaling, or even drafting non-work-related essays inhibits our ability to structure complex ideas.

The sacrifice is not the act of writing; it is the expectation of perfectionism in every draft. We sacrifice the time spent trying to make the first sentence flawless so that we can get the crucial idea down quickly and move forward.

---

3. The True Sacrifices: Time, Comfort, and Bandwidth

When we are truly committed to a trade, the things that disappear are not our fundamental needs, but the luxurious buffers we previously relied upon. These are the real opportunity costs:

1. The Buffer of Time

The biggest sacrifice is spontaneity and unstructured time.

If you are serious about your craft, your schedule becomes deliberately rigid. You sacrifice the freedom to say “yes” to every last-minute social invitation, because that time has already been allocated to deep work, administration, or necessary rest. This is often misunderstood as anti-social behaviour, but it is actually the strategic protection of your workflow.

2. The Comfort of Stability

The trade requires a willingness to live closer to the edge of failure. You sacrifice the comfort of guaranteed outcomes.

Every new project, every pitch, every innovative attempt carries a genuine risk of falling short. This trade demands emotional resilience and the sacrifice of the secure, predictable path for one that offers significant growth but zero guarantees.

3. The Need for External Validation

Finally, we sacrifice the energy spent chasing approval.

When you are intensely focused on the quality of your output, you stop trying to manage the fickle opinions of others. This is where the sacrifice of “looking good” truly comes into play—not physically, but professionally. We stop sacrificing genuine progress for the sake of public performance.

---

The Wise Exchange

The commitment to a trade is not a vow of destitution; it is a vow of strategic alignment.

The professional does not ask, “What must I suffer through?” but rather, “What non-essential things are draining the time, energy, and resources I need to excel?”

Stop sacrificing your intellectual fuel (books, learning) and your physical fuel (health, decent food). Instead, identify and eliminate the silent drains: the distraction, the excessive consumerism, the need for immediate gratification, and the fear of saying “no.”

Ply your trade, but do so from a position of strength, not starvation. Sacrifice wisely, or risk burning out before the real work ever begins.

Day 316

The unexpected detour

…

The Unexpected Detour: Trading Familiar Fame for Fresh Inspiration

We are creatures of habit, especially when those habits have led to success. When we find our niche—that specific genre, that particular skill set, that familiar market where our reputation is solid—we settle in. We build our brand around it, we become known for it, and we reap the rewards of what I like to call “pout fame”—the reputation we tirelessly poured ourselves into earning.

But what happens when the GPS suddenly recalculates? What happens when a project falls through, a client demands a skill you rarely use, or a personal experience shoves you, politely or otherwise, onto an entirely different path?

The detour is mandatory. The question is: do you treat it as a road bump or a reconnaissance mission?

---

The Comfort (and Constraint) of the Known Road

For a professional writer, artist, or entrepreneur, the familiarity of the known path is powerful. If you are the established authority on historical fiction, stepping sideways to write a children’s book feels like a monumental risk or, worse, a waste of time. If you’re a renowned brand strategist, taking a temporary gig managing a local community centre seems completely off-brand.

We cling to our niche because it represents safety, predictability, and income. We fear that if we take our focus off the main product, the audience will forget us, or worse, perceive us as unfocused.

The irony is that this commitment to the familiar eventually becomes the most fertile ground for creative drought. When you do the same thing in the same way for too long, the machine might keep moving, but the spark fades. You are solving the same problems, using the same mental muscles, and drawing from the same well of inspiration.

This is precisely why the unintentional interlude is a gift.

The Power of the Accidental Assignment

The unexpected detour forces you to use different muscles. It is a creative palette cleanser.

Perhaps you, known for gritty memoirs, suddenly find yourself ghostwriting a guide on sustainable gardening. Perhaps your expertise in complex data architecture leads you to a temporary volunteer role organising a major arts festival. These interludes are not your core business, so the pressure is different, the stakes feel lower, and that pressure release is key to unlocking new thought patterns.

When you are led down another path, two crucial things happen:

1. You Gain New Data Sets

Every experience, especially those outside our comfort zone, feeds the creative core. The language you learn while writing about gardening might provide the perfect metaphor for a struggling relationship in your next memoir. The logistical problem-solving required for the arts festival might provide a brilliant structural framework for your next white paper.

The inspiration you gain from the detour is often fuel for your established genre—just in a subtler, richer form. It’s not about abandoning your genre; it’s about making your genre deeper.

2. You Break the Creative Feedback Loop

Our brains love efficient pathways. When we write in a genre (or work in a field) for years, we develop grooves. The unintentional interlude yanks the needle out of the groove. It forces you to think like a beginner again, look up new terminology, and engage with a world that doesn’t operate by your established rules. This struggle is where innovation resides.

The Crossroad: Take It or Take a Holiday?

The core question remains: When this unexpected inspiration strikes, do you embrace it completely, or is the detour simply a sign that you need a vacation?

Often, we frame creative exploration as a necessary rest. We believe that if we aren’t focusing on our ‘main thing,’ we must be taking a holiday. But this is a false dichotomy.

The Creative Detour is a Form of Necessary Rest.

If the unexpected path genuinely energises you, if it sparks ideas and makes you feel excited about the act of creating again—take it.

This is not a distraction; it is an investment in creative renewal. The mistake is equating productive time only with the activities that directly generated your “pout fame.” The new path might not lead to immediate income in your usual stream, but it will prevent the greater cost: burnout and creative stagnation.

If the detour feels like a chore, if it drains you, or if the new inspiration feels thin and forced—then you need a holiday. You need genuine downtime, silence, and recovery.

The differentiator is always energy. Does this unexpected road drain your reserves or replenish them?

Permission to Deviate

The most successful creators rarely stay tethered to a single, narrow output. They allow themselves to be influenced by the tangential, the accidental, and the unfamiliar. They treat their career not as a single railway line, but as a vast, interconnected landscape.

So, the next time life or work pushes you onto an unpaved road—whether you were led willingly or otherwise—don’t resist the scenery. Don’t immediately try to navigate back to the familiar highway just because it’s faster.

Look out the window. Collect the data. Listen to the new language.

The greatest inspiration for your next masterpiece might not be found in the genre you dominate, but in the unintentional interlude that showed you the world through brand new eyes. Take the inspiration. The holiday can wait until the tank is actually empty.