More about my second novel

…

It’s time to delve into the past that Zoe tries so hard not to remember because the memories are painful.

It was a time before she became the emotionless killer she was now, and the people who had turned her into one.

Friends, lovers, teachers, mentors, but, in the end, all people who wanted her for one thing or another because they were selfish.

Alistair’s mother, Olga, was one, the woman who first had the job of training her, the first to recognise that while gifted, she would be trouble.

She had been recommended to her by a man called Yuri, the first of many to take advantage of an innocent girl who didn’t know any better.

Once trained, she was placed with Alistair, and he too, wanted her for himself, until he found her replacement, a man who wrongly thought she was so emotionless she would be happy to share him with others.

It was a mistake he wouldn’t be making again.

It was Yuri she discovered who had been in contact with the kidnappers in Marsailles, and perhaps inadvertently inserting himself into her quest for those seeking to kill her. He would know who it was seeking her, and who the name Romanov referred to.

After ensuring John was safe, she contacted him.

There’s a conversation, and he agrees to meet her, reluctantly, as being seen with a fugitive might harm his reputation.

It’s going to be an interesting conversation and reunion.

More about my second novel

…

It’s time to delve into the past that Zoe tries so hard not to remember because the memories are painful.

It was a time before she became the emotionless killer she was now, and the people who had turned her into one.

Friends, lovers, teachers, mentors, but, in the end, all people who wanted her for one thing or another because they were selfish.

Alistair’s mother, Olga, was one, the woman who first had the job of training her, the first to recognise that while gifted, she would be trouble.

She had been recommended to her by a man called Yuri, the first of many to take advantage of an innocent girl who didn’t know any better.

Once trained, she was placed with Alistair, and he too, wanted her for himself, until he found her replacement, a man who wrongly thought she was so emotionless she would be happy to share him with others.

It was a mistake he wouldn’t be making again.

It was Yuri she discovered who had been in contact with the kidnappers in Marsailles, and perhaps inadvertently inserting himself into her quest for those seeking to kill her. He would know who it was seeking her, and who the name Romanov referred to.

After ensuring John was safe, she contacted him.

There’s a conversation, and he agrees to meet her, reluctantly, as being seen with a fugitive might harm his reputation.

It’s going to be an interesting conversation and reunion.

Day 107 – Six fundamental principles of writing

…

The Chekhovian Blueprint: 6 Principles for Crafting a Masterpiece

When it comes to the art of storytelling, few names command as much respect as Anton Chekhov. A master of the short story and the stage, Chekhov didn’t just write fiction; he dissected the human condition with the precision of a surgeon.

While Chekhov never penned a rigid “how-to” manual, his letters to fellow writers and his own body of work reveal a distinct philosophy. He believed that to create a truly great story, a writer must adhere to six fundamental principles. If you’re looking to elevate your prose, here is the Chekhovian blueprint for narrative excellence.

1. Objectivity

Chekhov famously argued that a writer should be an objective observer rather than a moral judge. He believed that the author’s job is to present the truth of a situation, not to lecture the reader on what is “right” or “wrong.”

• The Significance: By removing your personal judgment from the narrative, you allow the reader to draw their own conclusions, making the story feel more authentic and less like a sermon.

2. Truthful Descriptions of Persons and Objects

Chekhov had a disdain for flowery, abstract language. He believed that the world should be described through concrete details. Instead of telling the reader that a character is sad, he would describe the way the moonlight glinted off the neck of a broken bottle.

• The Significance: Specificity anchors the reader in the story. It transforms a vague concept into a visceral experience, forcing the reader to see and feel the world you’ve constructed.

3. Extreme Brevity

If you’ve ever heard the advice, “If you can say it in one word, don’t use two,” you are hearing an echo of Chekhov. He was a master of concision, stripping away every unnecessary adjective and redundant sentence until only the essential remained.

• The Significance: Brevity respects the reader’s time and intelligence. It sharpens the impact of your prose, ensuring that every word performs a specific function within the story.

4. Bold and Honest Declarations

Chekhov loathed “literary” language—the affectations and clichés that writers often use to sound clever. He advocated for honest, direct language that cut straight to the heart of the matter.

• The Significance: Honesty creates trust. When a writer speaks plainly and boldly, the reader feels they are in the hands of someone who isn’t hiding behind a mask of artifice. It creates an immediate, intimate connection.

5. Spontaneity (Nature)

Chekhov believed that a story should feel like it grew naturally, rather than being forced into a rigid mould. He advocated for a sense of “spontaneity,” where the narrative flows organically from the characters rather than being puppet-mastered by the author.

• The Significance: When a story feels forced or overly engineered, the reader notices the “gears” turning. Spontaneity preserves the magic; it makes the story feel like a discovery rather than a lecture.

6. The Absence of Falsehood and Rottenness

By “rottenness,” Chekhov meant the artificiality of sentimentality and forced happy endings. He insisted that writers should avoid the temptation to provide easy answers or sugar-coat the complexities of life.

• The Significance: Real life is messy, often unresolved, and frequently bittersweet. By avoiding “rotten” shortcuts, you honour the complexity of the human experience. A story that ends on a note of ambiguous truth is always more powerful than one that ties every loose end in a neat, dishonest bow.

The Takeaway

Anton Chekhov’s principles are not just technical rules; they are a call to emotional honesty. He teaches us that the greatest power of a writer lies in the ability to observe the world clearly, describe it concisely, and let the characters live their own lives without interference.

The next time you sit down to write, ask yourself: Am I judging the characters, or showing them? Are these words necessary, or just pretty? Is this ending earned, or is it a shortcut?

Follow the Chekhovian path, and you won’t just be writing a story—you’ll be capturing a piece of life itself.

Day 107 – Six fundamental principles of writing

…

The Chekhovian Blueprint: 6 Principles for Crafting a Masterpiece

When it comes to the art of storytelling, few names command as much respect as Anton Chekhov. A master of the short story and the stage, Chekhov didn’t just write fiction; he dissected the human condition with the precision of a surgeon.

While Chekhov never penned a rigid “how-to” manual, his letters to fellow writers and his own body of work reveal a distinct philosophy. He believed that to create a truly great story, a writer must adhere to six fundamental principles. If you’re looking to elevate your prose, here is the Chekhovian blueprint for narrative excellence.

1. Objectivity

Chekhov famously argued that a writer should be an objective observer rather than a moral judge. He believed that the author’s job is to present the truth of a situation, not to lecture the reader on what is “right” or “wrong.”

• The Significance: By removing your personal judgment from the narrative, you allow the reader to draw their own conclusions, making the story feel more authentic and less like a sermon.

2. Truthful Descriptions of Persons and Objects

Chekhov had a disdain for flowery, abstract language. He believed that the world should be described through concrete details. Instead of telling the reader that a character is sad, he would describe the way the moonlight glinted off the neck of a broken bottle.

• The Significance: Specificity anchors the reader in the story. It transforms a vague concept into a visceral experience, forcing the reader to see and feel the world you’ve constructed.

3. Extreme Brevity

If you’ve ever heard the advice, “If you can say it in one word, don’t use two,” you are hearing an echo of Chekhov. He was a master of concision, stripping away every unnecessary adjective and redundant sentence until only the essential remained.

• The Significance: Brevity respects the reader’s time and intelligence. It sharpens the impact of your prose, ensuring that every word performs a specific function within the story.

4. Bold and Honest Declarations

Chekhov loathed “literary” language—the affectations and clichés that writers often use to sound clever. He advocated for honest, direct language that cut straight to the heart of the matter.

• The Significance: Honesty creates trust. When a writer speaks plainly and boldly, the reader feels they are in the hands of someone who isn’t hiding behind a mask of artifice. It creates an immediate, intimate connection.

5. Spontaneity (Nature)

Chekhov believed that a story should feel like it grew naturally, rather than being forced into a rigid mould. He advocated for a sense of “spontaneity,” where the narrative flows organically from the characters rather than being puppet-mastered by the author.

• The Significance: When a story feels forced or overly engineered, the reader notices the “gears” turning. Spontaneity preserves the magic; it makes the story feel like a discovery rather than a lecture.

6. The Absence of Falsehood and Rottenness

By “rottenness,” Chekhov meant the artificiality of sentimentality and forced happy endings. He insisted that writers should avoid the temptation to provide easy answers or sugar-coat the complexities of life.

• The Significance: Real life is messy, often unresolved, and frequently bittersweet. By avoiding “rotten” shortcuts, you honour the complexity of the human experience. A story that ends on a note of ambiguous truth is always more powerful than one that ties every loose end in a neat, dishonest bow.

The Takeaway

Anton Chekhov’s principles are not just technical rules; they are a call to emotional honesty. He teaches us that the greatest power of a writer lies in the ability to observe the world clearly, describe it concisely, and let the characters live their own lives without interference.

The next time you sit down to write, ask yourself: Am I judging the characters, or showing them? Are these words necessary, or just pretty? Is this ending earned, or is it a shortcut?

Follow the Chekhovian path, and you won’t just be writing a story—you’ll be capturing a piece of life itself.