Day 211 –  Write because you must write

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Why Write? The Untamed Truth About the Creative Urge

“If you want fame, be a prize fighter or a movie star. If you write, write because you must write.” – Sinclair Lewis

It’s a stark, uncompromising sentiment. In an era dominated by influencer culture, personal branding, and the relentless pursuit of going viral, this advice feels almost revolutionary—perhaps even a little discouraging at first glance.

We live in a world that practically worships visibility. Social media algorithms reward the loud, the flashy, and the prolific. Yet, true artists across the generations have continually reminded us that the engine of genuine literature cannot be fueled by the superficial desire for applause.

If you are picking up a pen or opening a blank document simply because you want people to know your name, you are playing the wrong game. Here is a deep dive into why true writing is an act of compulsion, not ambition, and why writing “because you must” is the only way to survive the page.

---

The Mirage of Literary Fame

Let’s address the elephant in the room: fame.

In the popular imagination, the writer’s life is often romanticised. We picture glittering book launches, glowing profiles in The New Yorker, packed readings, and the quiet satisfaction of shaping the cultural zeitgeist.

The reality is vastly different. Writing is, by its very nature, a solitary, gruelling, and largely unglamorous pursuit. It involves staring at a blinking cursor for hours, wrestling with self-doubt, rewriting the same paragraph seven times, and sending your deepest thoughts out into a vast, indifferent void.

If your primary motivation is fame, writing will inevitably break your heart. The publishing industry is notoriously fickle. Bestseller lists are crowded, trends shift overnight, and the correlation between literary merit and public recognition is notoriously weak.

Worse yet, chasing fame fundamentally alters what you write. When you write for an audience’s approval, you begin to self-censor. You write what is marketable, what is trendy, or what is palatable. You trade your authentic voice for algorithmic compliance. And in doing so, you lose the very thing that makes your writing worth reading in the first place.

What Does It Mean to “Write Because You Must”?

When the legendary author (or wise observer, as echoed in sentiments by writers from Bukowski to Orwell) suggests writing because you must, they are pointing to a psychological and emotional necessity.

Writing out of compulsion looks different. It is:

• An itch that refuses to be scratched: It’s the story that wakes you up at 3:00 AM demanding to be told. It’s the observation about human nature that you can’t shake until you trap it in a sentence.
• A method of survival: For many writers, putting words on a page isn’t a hobby; it is a way of processing grief, confusion, joy, and the chaotic experience of being alive. As Joan Didion famously wrote, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means.”
• An involuntary reflex: You write not because you want to be a writer, but because not writing leaves you feeling hollow, anxious, and disconnected from yourself.

When you operate from this space of necessity, the external markers of success—book sales, follower counts, critical acclaim—become secondary. They are nice if they happen, but they are not the point. The point is the work itself.

The Freedom of the Compulsive Writer

Paradoxically, letting go of the desire for fame is the most liberating thing a writer can do.

When you write strictly because you must, you give yourself permission to fail. You give yourself permission to write a terrible first draft, to explore weird themes, and to tell stories that appeal to an audience of one: yourself.

• You reclaim your voice: Without the pressure to please the masses, your prose becomes sharper, stranger, and more honest.
• You build resilience: Rejection hurts, but it doesn’t destroy you. If a publisher passes on your manuscript, it stings—but you will keep writing anyway, because stopping was never really an option.
• You find your true tribe: Ironically, readers can smell authenticity a mile away. The work that resonates the most deeply across generations is almost always the work that was written with utter disregard for market trends, born purely from an author’s urgent need to express a truth.

How to Know Why You Are Writing

Take a moment to check your creative pulse. Ask yourself honestly:

• If no one ever read what I am writing right now, would I still write it?
• Am I dreaming more about holding my published book, or more about solving the puzzle of the chapter I’m working on?
• Does writing feel like a chore I endure for status, or a fire I have to tend to stay warm?

If your answers lean toward the former in each scenario, it’s time to recalibrate. Lower the stakes. Stop writing for the applause sign.

Final Thoughts: Answer the Call

If you want to be a celebrity, go audition for a reality show, start a viral TikTok channel, or train for the ring. There are much faster, more efficient ways to achieve fame than writing a novel.

But if there is a quiet, persistent voice inside you that demands expression—if stories form behind your eyes when you walk down the street, and if words are the only way you know how to make sense of this wild world—then pick up the pen.

Don’t write for the claps. Don’t write for the bestseller lists. Write because you must. Everything else is just noise.

…

Day 211 –  Write because you must write

…

Why Write? The Untamed Truth About the Creative Urge

“If you want fame, be a prize fighter or a movie star. If you write, write because you must write.” – Sinclair Lewis

It’s a stark, uncompromising sentiment. In an era dominated by influencer culture, personal branding, and the relentless pursuit of going viral, this advice feels almost revolutionary—perhaps even a little discouraging at first glance.

We live in a world that practically worships visibility. Social media algorithms reward the loud, the flashy, and the prolific. Yet, true artists across the generations have continually reminded us that the engine of genuine literature cannot be fueled by the superficial desire for applause.

If you are picking up a pen or opening a blank document simply because you want people to know your name, you are playing the wrong game. Here is a deep dive into why true writing is an act of compulsion, not ambition, and why writing “because you must” is the only way to survive the page.

---

The Mirage of Literary Fame

Let’s address the elephant in the room: fame.

In the popular imagination, the writer’s life is often romanticised. We picture glittering book launches, glowing profiles in The New Yorker, packed readings, and the quiet satisfaction of shaping the cultural zeitgeist.

The reality is vastly different. Writing is, by its very nature, a solitary, gruelling, and largely unglamorous pursuit. It involves staring at a blinking cursor for hours, wrestling with self-doubt, rewriting the same paragraph seven times, and sending your deepest thoughts out into a vast, indifferent void.

If your primary motivation is fame, writing will inevitably break your heart. The publishing industry is notoriously fickle. Bestseller lists are crowded, trends shift overnight, and the correlation between literary merit and public recognition is notoriously weak.

Worse yet, chasing fame fundamentally alters what you write. When you write for an audience’s approval, you begin to self-censor. You write what is marketable, what is trendy, or what is palatable. You trade your authentic voice for algorithmic compliance. And in doing so, you lose the very thing that makes your writing worth reading in the first place.

What Does It Mean to “Write Because You Must”?

When the legendary author (or wise observer, as echoed in sentiments by writers from Bukowski to Orwell) suggests writing because you must, they are pointing to a psychological and emotional necessity.

Writing out of compulsion looks different. It is:

• An itch that refuses to be scratched: It’s the story that wakes you up at 3:00 AM demanding to be told. It’s the observation about human nature that you can’t shake until you trap it in a sentence.
• A method of survival: For many writers, putting words on a page isn’t a hobby; it is a way of processing grief, confusion, joy, and the chaotic experience of being alive. As Joan Didion famously wrote, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means.”
• An involuntary reflex: You write not because you want to be a writer, but because not writing leaves you feeling hollow, anxious, and disconnected from yourself.

When you operate from this space of necessity, the external markers of success—book sales, follower counts, critical acclaim—become secondary. They are nice if they happen, but they are not the point. The point is the work itself.

The Freedom of the Compulsive Writer

Paradoxically, letting go of the desire for fame is the most liberating thing a writer can do.

When you write strictly because you must, you give yourself permission to fail. You give yourself permission to write a terrible first draft, to explore weird themes, and to tell stories that appeal to an audience of one: yourself.

• You reclaim your voice: Without the pressure to please the masses, your prose becomes sharper, stranger, and more honest.
• You build resilience: Rejection hurts, but it doesn’t destroy you. If a publisher passes on your manuscript, it stings—but you will keep writing anyway, because stopping was never really an option.
• You find your true tribe: Ironically, readers can smell authenticity a mile away. The work that resonates the most deeply across generations is almost always the work that was written with utter disregard for market trends, born purely from an author’s urgent need to express a truth.

How to Know Why You Are Writing

Take a moment to check your creative pulse. Ask yourself honestly:

• If no one ever read what I am writing right now, would I still write it?
• Am I dreaming more about holding my published book, or more about solving the puzzle of the chapter I’m working on?
• Does writing feel like a chore I endure for status, or a fire I have to tend to stay warm?

If your answers lean toward the former in each scenario, it’s time to recalibrate. Lower the stakes. Stop writing for the applause sign.

Final Thoughts: Answer the Call

If you want to be a celebrity, go audition for a reality show, start a viral TikTok channel, or train for the ring. There are much faster, more efficient ways to achieve fame than writing a novel.

But if there is a quiet, persistent voice inside you that demands expression—if stories form behind your eyes when you walk down the street, and if words are the only way you know how to make sense of this wild world—then pick up the pen.

Don’t write for the claps. Don’t write for the bestseller lists. Write because you must. Everything else is just noise.

…

Day 210 – The magic that comes with an idea

…

Where Do Ideas Actually Come From? The Hidden Mechanics of Inspiration

We’ve all been there. You’re staring at a blank document, a pristine canvas, or a lump of clay, waiting for the lightning bolt. You want that magical Aha! moment—that sudden flash of brilliance where an entirely original concept materialises out of thin air.

We romanticise creativity as something ethereal. We talk about waiting for inspiration to strike, as if ideas are floating spirits looking for a host body.

Here is the truth, and it might sting a little: Ideas just don’t appear out of nowhere. They come from somewhere, even if you don’t know where.

You saw something. You heard something. You did something. Sometime, somewhere, somehow.

Understanding this invisible assembly line of thought is the key to unlocking consistent creativity. Let’s dive into the fascinating mechanics of where ideas actually come from and how you can harness the unseen forces shaping your mind.

---

The Myth of the Immaculate Conception of Ideas

In the creative world, the “Immaculate Conception” is the belief that a truly original idea is born in a vacuum, untouched by outside influence.

It simply doesn’t happen.

Human beings are not creators in the sense of making something out of absolute nothingness; we are combiners. As the late, great writer and podcaster Maria Popova often highlights, creativity is simply connecting things that haven’t been connected before.

Steve Jobs famously said, “Creativity is just connecting things. When you ask creative people how they did something, they feel a little guilty because they didn’t really do it, they just saw something. It seemed obvious to them after a while.”

Those “obvious” connections are built on a foundation of subconscious data collection.

The Subconscious Sponge: You Saw, You Heard, You Did

Every second of every day, your brain acts as a voracious sponge. Even when you aren’t actively working on a problem, your senses are recording the world around you:

• What you saw: A peculiar shadow cast by a fire escape, a striking colour combination on a stranger’s jacket, the way light hits water in a puddle.
• What you heard: A snippet of an overheard conversation on the subway, the rhythmic clicking of a train track, the cadence of a stranger’s laughter.
• What you did: Tripped over a curb, burned your toast, took a different route home because of roadwork, read a biography on a 19th-century pirate.

You store these fragments in the vast archives of your subconscious. You forget about them. They get buried under grocery lists, work deadlines, and yesterday’s scrolling session on social media.

Then, weeks later, you sit down to write a story, design a logo, or solve a business problem, and boom—an idea appears. You think it’s magic. In reality, your brain quietly cross-referenced that peculiar shadow you saw three weeks ago with the rhythm of the train you heard yesterday, mashing them together into a brand-new concept.

The “Sometime, Somewhere, Somehow” Factor

Because the genesis of an idea is a delayed reaction, we rarely trace the breadcrumbs back to the source.

• Sometime: The input might have happened ten minutes ago or ten years ago. A childhood memory can trigger a breakthrough in an adult’s architectural design.
• Somewhere: It might not have happened at your desk. It probably happened in the shower, on a walk, while doing the dishes, or drifting off to sleep. (Ever wonder why the best ideas happen in the shower? It’s because your brain is finally relaxed enough to let the subconscious data bubble to the surface).
• Somehow: The neural handshake—the moment two unrelated concepts lock together—happens entirely beneath the threshold of your conscious awareness.

How to Feed the Machine (Actionable Creativity)

If ideas are merely the byproduct of what you feed your brain, then the quality of your output depends entirely on the quality of your input. If you want better ideas, you have to upgrade your raw materials.

Here is how you can weaponise this psychological phenomenon to become a more creative thinker:

1. Expand Your Input Diet

If you only consume content from your specific industry, your ideas will look like everyone else’s in your industry. To get truly novel ideas, read outside your niche. Watch foreign films, visit art museums, study botany, listen to genres of music you hate. Fill your subconscious with diverse, unusual ingredients.

2. Carry a Capture Tool Everywhere

Because ideas are slippery and often stem from fleeting moments (“you saw something, you heard something”), you need to catch them before they sink back into the mud of your subconscious. Whether it’s a Moleskine notebook, the notes app on your phone, or a voice recorder, build a habit of capturing fragments.

3. Give Your Brain Empty Space

Your subconscious cannot connect the dots if you never stop talking long enough for the dots to touch. Constant stimulation—scrolling, podcasts, background TV—chokes creativity. Boredom is not the enemy of productivity; it is the incubator of genius. Go for walks without your headphones. Stare out the window. Let your mind wander.

---

Conclusion: Respect the Process

The next time an incredible idea hits you, don’t just pat yourself on the back for being a genius. Appreciate the invisible machinery at work. Thank the stranger whose unusual coat you saw last Tuesday, the podcast you half-listened to on a road trip last year, and the quiet walk that gave your brain the space to connect the dots.

Ideas don’t just appear out of thin air. They are the echoes of your lived experience, waiting for the right moment to transform into something new.

So, go out there, pay attention, and feed your mind well. You never know what you’ll make with it later.

…

Day 210 – The magic that comes with an idea

…

Where Do Ideas Actually Come From? The Hidden Mechanics of Inspiration

We’ve all been there. You’re staring at a blank document, a pristine canvas, or a lump of clay, waiting for the lightning bolt. You want that magical Aha! moment—that sudden flash of brilliance where an entirely original concept materialises out of thin air.

We romanticise creativity as something ethereal. We talk about waiting for inspiration to strike, as if ideas are floating spirits looking for a host body.

Here is the truth, and it might sting a little: Ideas just don’t appear out of nowhere. They come from somewhere, even if you don’t know where.

You saw something. You heard something. You did something. Sometime, somewhere, somehow.

Understanding this invisible assembly line of thought is the key to unlocking consistent creativity. Let’s dive into the fascinating mechanics of where ideas actually come from and how you can harness the unseen forces shaping your mind.

---

The Myth of the Immaculate Conception of Ideas

In the creative world, the “Immaculate Conception” is the belief that a truly original idea is born in a vacuum, untouched by outside influence.

It simply doesn’t happen.

Human beings are not creators in the sense of making something out of absolute nothingness; we are combiners. As the late, great writer and podcaster Maria Popova often highlights, creativity is simply connecting things that haven’t been connected before.

Steve Jobs famously said, “Creativity is just connecting things. When you ask creative people how they did something, they feel a little guilty because they didn’t really do it, they just saw something. It seemed obvious to them after a while.”

Those “obvious” connections are built on a foundation of subconscious data collection.

The Subconscious Sponge: You Saw, You Heard, You Did

Every second of every day, your brain acts as a voracious sponge. Even when you aren’t actively working on a problem, your senses are recording the world around you:

• What you saw: A peculiar shadow cast by a fire escape, a striking colour combination on a stranger’s jacket, the way light hits water in a puddle.
• What you heard: A snippet of an overheard conversation on the subway, the rhythmic clicking of a train track, the cadence of a stranger’s laughter.
• What you did: Tripped over a curb, burned your toast, took a different route home because of roadwork, read a biography on a 19th-century pirate.

You store these fragments in the vast archives of your subconscious. You forget about them. They get buried under grocery lists, work deadlines, and yesterday’s scrolling session on social media.

Then, weeks later, you sit down to write a story, design a logo, or solve a business problem, and boom—an idea appears. You think it’s magic. In reality, your brain quietly cross-referenced that peculiar shadow you saw three weeks ago with the rhythm of the train you heard yesterday, mashing them together into a brand-new concept.

The “Sometime, Somewhere, Somehow” Factor

Because the genesis of an idea is a delayed reaction, we rarely trace the breadcrumbs back to the source.

• Sometime: The input might have happened ten minutes ago or ten years ago. A childhood memory can trigger a breakthrough in an adult’s architectural design.
• Somewhere: It might not have happened at your desk. It probably happened in the shower, on a walk, while doing the dishes, or drifting off to sleep. (Ever wonder why the best ideas happen in the shower? It’s because your brain is finally relaxed enough to let the subconscious data bubble to the surface).
• Somehow: The neural handshake—the moment two unrelated concepts lock together—happens entirely beneath the threshold of your conscious awareness.

How to Feed the Machine (Actionable Creativity)

If ideas are merely the byproduct of what you feed your brain, then the quality of your output depends entirely on the quality of your input. If you want better ideas, you have to upgrade your raw materials.

Here is how you can weaponise this psychological phenomenon to become a more creative thinker:

1. Expand Your Input Diet

If you only consume content from your specific industry, your ideas will look like everyone else’s in your industry. To get truly novel ideas, read outside your niche. Watch foreign films, visit art museums, study botany, listen to genres of music you hate. Fill your subconscious with diverse, unusual ingredients.

2. Carry a Capture Tool Everywhere

Because ideas are slippery and often stem from fleeting moments (“you saw something, you heard something”), you need to catch them before they sink back into the mud of your subconscious. Whether it’s a Moleskine notebook, the notes app on your phone, or a voice recorder, build a habit of capturing fragments.

3. Give Your Brain Empty Space

Your subconscious cannot connect the dots if you never stop talking long enough for the dots to touch. Constant stimulation—scrolling, podcasts, background TV—chokes creativity. Boredom is not the enemy of productivity; it is the incubator of genius. Go for walks without your headphones. Stare out the window. Let your mind wander.

---

Conclusion: Respect the Process

The next time an incredible idea hits you, don’t just pat yourself on the back for being a genius. Appreciate the invisible machinery at work. Thank the stranger whose unusual coat you saw last Tuesday, the podcast you half-listened to on a road trip last year, and the quiet walk that gave your brain the space to connect the dots.

Ideas don’t just appear out of thin air. They are the echoes of your lived experience, waiting for the right moment to transform into something new.

So, go out there, pay attention, and feed your mind well. You never know what you’ll make with it later.

…

Day 209 – Writing Exercise – Haven’t you heard?

…

The interesting thing about living in a large family and being the youngest was that you were always last to be told about anything.

Last year it was the vacation.  The family, all fifty-odd members, were converging on my grandmother’s ranch way out there in Colorado.

It was a disaster in the making, and I don’t think my parents, uncles and aunts had any idea the stress it put on their mother.

They told me at the very last minute, and with family obligation ladled out in spades, I had to break off the arrangements I’d made, and lost the one girl I thought was the one.

She preferred stability and predictability to last-minute chaos.  Nobody cared, and for those who had met her, she didn’t fit their family criteria.

It was the last time I would introduce a girlfriend to any of them or mention that I had one, which, following the last debacle, I didn’t.  A year later, I was still heartbroken.

So, having finally moved away for college and no longer having to endure the continual banter the youngest child had to endure, I was basically out of the loop.

It was a good thing and a bad thing.

It simply exacerbated the ‘last to know’ thing, which is why I heard the news by a completely different source, the ex girl friend on my second eldest brother, Eugene.

She was a teacher at the college I’d enrolled with.  Out of all the girls my brothers had dated, Ella was the most grounded and personable.  The trouble was, she could think for herself, she was independent, and was career-minded.

The women who ended up in the Curruthers family had to be dependent, motherly, and homely.  None of the career and work stuff, beyond perhaps waitressing, though someone forgot to tell the men in my family that waitressing was a means to an end, not a career choice.

To me it seemed that my brothers were afraid they might end up with a woman smarter than them.  It might also be the reason why only two of my brothers were married, and in both cases they were struggling, because over time their wives changed; my brothers did not.

That day Ella was sitting alone in the cafe looking rather glum.  It was not a usual look for her because every time I saw her, she was like a bright summer’s day.

I collected my coffee and went over to her.

“Mind if I sit?”

She did not.

“Anything I can help you with?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

My first thought she had been fired.  The college was going through a restructuring, and there were rumours of staff cuts.

“Heard what?”

“Eugene is getting married.”

First I’d heard of it, but no surprise there.  The question was, why did it affect her?

“No, but then no one tells me anything until it’s too late.  Why should that bother you?”

“You remember Alice, she your sumisyer Miranda and me, inseparable.  She rang to tell me the news.  She’s my best friend, or was.  I should have been happy for her, but instead it descended into a bitter argument.  We both said things that we shouldn’t;  seeing red is never a good time to speak. Apparently I’m jealous.”

“Are you?”

“Perhaps a little.  Until I discovered his true nature, he was my first true love.  Those are the ones that are hardest to forget.”

I understood that.  I felt the same amount Wendy, my first true love, and only, it seemed.

“She was having a relationship with him while we were together, and others from what I heard later.  That’s probably what really hurts.”

I thought about going home and giving him a bollocking, but it was pointless.

“I thought Alice was going to be a doctor.”

“Fainted the first time she saw blood.  Not an ideal thing to be doing if someone’s life depends on you.  She doesn’t know what she wants any more.  But marrying Eugene will turn her into a vegetable.”

I hated to agree with her, but that was exactly what would happen.

“When?” I asked.

“Two weeks.  And here’s what really bugs me.  They’re having it at your grandmother’s ranch, and if I know your family, no offence, they’ll make her do all the work and just turn up on the day.”

She knew our family so well.  After all, she did go on a family vacation once and left two days later, after discovering the onus put on the women while the men sat around doing nothing.

“That’s terrible.”  Especially after our last vacation there.  It nearly killed her. 

I had to do something, anything, before this became a tragedy.

“We have to do something,” she said.

“I agree, but you escaped.  It’s not your problem.”

“Be that as it may, I feel responsible, which, when you think about it, is silly, but I care about Alice and what she’s getting into.  I have to stop it if I can.  And the unnecessary burden on your grandmothers.  Your mother would not have taken no as an answer “

True.  But it was pointless going home.

“How do you feel about a vacation in the country?  Home cooked meals, wide open spaces, starry skies at night, perhaps some snow-peaked mountains in the distance?”

“I’ll ask if I can get some vacation time.  I think I have some.  When are we going?”

“The sooner the better.  Tomorrow, or if you have a more convenient time.”

“Tomorrow afternoon.  I travel light.”

“OK.  I’ll take care of the travel arrangements.  Welcome to my nightmare!”

…

I had a brief conversation with grandmother the night before, telling her that I was coming to help, and that Ella was coming.

It was odd that she thought Ella and I were dating, but I said Ella was six years older than me and a teacher at the college I was a student at, which made it all kinds of wrong.

It had not crossed my mind, and even I knew that it was inappropriate. I said she was coming to talk to her friend, the soon-to-be Mrs Eugene.

I had thought I’d better come and be the conduit between my mother and her because my mother could be overwhelming and I was used to her behaviour.  And two heads were better than one.

Aside from the fact that I just wanted to see my favourite grandmother again.  That admission, I hoped, pleased her.  I was, in some small way, her favourite grandson.  After all, she taught me to ride a horse before I could walk.

…

Ella was quiet, not pensive, during the flight.  I had thought she might be a nervous flyer, but perhaps she was considering the motivation behind such a decision.

She had been to grandmothers before, once when she and Eugene had just started going out together.  I had thought her an odd choice for him, but in those heady first few weeks, we all tended to overlook certain aspects of the relationship.

I liked her, but the others, well, they were, by the time they were returning home, began to consider she was not quite suitable.

It all fell apart soon after they returned.  Mother had no small part in it, and made her views known.  No one crossed Mother, not even me.  It’s why I never brought another girl home, and never would.

It didn’t stop her from trying to find me a suitable girl, and I was glad Myra visits were far and few between.

Grandmother liked Ella, and she would have liked Wendy.  She tolerated the others as much as she tolerated her daughter.  She had confided once that somewhere her daughter had lost her way, and that one day she would find her way back.

I told her not to hold her breath.

By the time the plane touched down, darkness was starting to settle on the countryside, and it was no less beautiful flying over the lush countryside, sprawling ranches, and small towns. 

After I tried to imagine what it was like when the first settlers came out in their wagons, running the gamut of Indians and Wild West characters immortalised by Hollywood, and wondering if any of it was true.

Perhaps some, but it would have been fanciful for those early settlers to imagine the railway, and then cars, and then planes that were to come.

Inside the terminal I got my first surprise, one I had never imagined.  Wendy was waiting, with a small sign with my name on it.

“Who is that?” Ella asked, expecting as I was to see grandmother.

“The love of my life, whom I never expected to see again.”

I stopped in front of her and caught my breath.  She had an effect on me I could never explain.

“How…”

“Your grandmother called a week ago and said she was expecting you to turn up.  I spoke to her way back when I discovered you couldn’t come with me to France, and wanted to see the place you couldn’t shut up about.  And here I am.”  She turned to Ella. “You must be the one that got away.  I’m Wendy, David’s lost love.”

Ella smiled.  “You don’t seem to be lost.”

“Wait till I have to find my way back to the ranch.”

Ella looked at me.  “Well, give the girl a hug.”

I did as I was told, though she would not have to ask twice.

“You haven’t changed,” she said.

“I have found anyone else.  I haven’t got over you.”

“Good.  I never got over you either.”

“You could have called me.”

“And you could have called me, so now there’s no excuse.  Now go and get your bags before the light is gone and I do get lost.”

“I can drive.”

“What you think passes for driving.  No.  You can navigate.  I’ll bring you up to speed on the circus, what your grandmother calls the wedding arrangements, as we go.  Your mother sounds like she might be difficult.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Good.  I can deal with difficult.  Not so good with impossible, but then that’s where you started, and look at the progress we made.”

“We broke up.”

“We agreed to disagree.  I don’t remember ever saying I never wanted to see you again.”

Ella noted the byplay and decided this could wait.  “Bags, drive, circus, bed.  I can see you two are ideally suited, so save it for later.  How far is it again?”

“About two hours.”

“Then let’s get to it.”

…

“Haven’t you heard?  Three words that changed my life forever.”

I looked out across the large attendance who came to Eugene’s memorial service, and eventually my eyes rested on Ella and, sitting next to her, Wendy, both dressed in black, but carrying an elegance that was unmistakable.

“And I had Eugene to thank for it.  For those of us who knew Gene, making rash decisions in his early years was like taking the good with the bad.

“Until that early winter forty-six years ago when he announced that he was getting married.  Normally such pronouncements were taken with a grain of salt, or in our stride, but this one struck a chord.

“If it were not for a very odd coincidence, it probably passed like every other, and the world would have continued on its merry way.

“Ella would not have married the one and only true love of her life, and I would not have married the one true love of mine, Wendy.

“Most of you who attended that wedding are here, and bore witness to the events; a story, when I related it to my grandchildren, sounded very much like a fairy tale.  Perhaps it was.

“But to our Gene, my very special and amazing Gene, I will be eternally thankful, and sorry that his time on this earth was cut short.  We will all miss his special version of mayhem that came from even the simplest of decisions.  But that was our Gene.  God loved him, but we loved him more.”

…

To say he was the human version of the eye of the storm was putting it mildly.  In his world, everything was always calm.  In the periphery, there was chaos.

That was his wedding.

For him, the only part that mattered was to turn up, say I do, and live happily ever after.  I blame his parents for that, especially our father.

He never gave a thought to the feelings of others, especially Alice.  He thought it was all right to string along multiple girls until he picked one.  It mattered not what they felt.

Alice had never been aware that Ella was serious, because he told Ella that what they had was special, and she believed him.  He said to all of the girls he dated because that was what our father told us to do.

Don’t let them think that you are shopping for the right wife.  He called it that ‘shopping’ and it was a recipe for disaster.  Of course the added proviso was that it was until the family decided who he should marry.  That was Alice.

What I didn’t know, and what none of us did, was that he wanted to marry Ella.  It was why he couldn’t bring himself to tell her about Alice.

But perhaps that was all he needed to do. Tell Alice, and watch the ripple effect.

In those two weeks between Ella discovering the ‘news’, and the actual wedding date, Eugene was oblivious to the storm that was unfolding around him.

It was how he got the nickname, Hurricane Gene.

That night, Ella and I arrived at the ranch; there was a hastily organised meeting between everyone involved in the forthcoming wedding.  Or by the time it ended, the start of Operation Ella.

It was where I learned my grandmother was a fairy godmother who had the power to grant wishes, turn mice into horses, frogs into footmen, and pumpkins into carriages.

And Ella into the Princess she was always meant to be.

It was not a tale where the evil Alice ended up in the tower, or where my parents and family were vanquished to the castle dungeons, though if it had been up to me, that’s exactly where they deserved to be sent.

Instead, all they got was a lesson in humility.

Phase one was to invite the impending bride to the ranch.  Phase two was sending Ella and Wendy to collect her from the airport.

To this day, I still didn’t have a clear picture of what happened at the airport or on the drive from the airport to the ranch.  Wendy, even after 46 years, still won’t tell me.

By the time Alice, Ella and Wendy arrived at the ranch, phase three was underway. 

The wedding was going ahead, just not the intended bride.  From there it was a master class in event planning.

Eugene arrived the evening before the wedding.  He was greeted by Ella and Alice, and they disappeared into Grandfather’s study. 

When they came out two hours later, phase four was complete.

Phase five began when the wedding guests boarded their plane, everyone following instructions supplied by the planner.

Fifty-four people were expected to attend the wedding.  At 2:55pm in the marquee, without having seen either the bride or the groom, and just a short briefing by Eugene’s youngest brother, me, on how the programme would run, they were all seated.

Eugene was standing at the altar, the four groomsmen and the four bridesmaids lined up and waiting.  Even they didn’t know what was about to happen.  The maid of honour and best man were in the wings and would join when the bride appeared at the end of the aisle.

At 3 pm the bride appeared.

Everybody turned, and then a murmur went through the crowd.

The wedding march started, and Ella was accompanied by her father.  Alice appeared, now the matron of honour and another of my brothers, William, appeared as the best man.

My mother was about to have a fit until grandmother went over and sat next to her, and words were spoken.

From that moment, it was like it had always meant to happen just the way it did.  Alice was not angry or upset, nor did she hate her friend. She had known in her heart Eugene and Ella were perfect for each other.  Time has proven that it was meant to be.

A year later, almost to the day, Wendy and I married in the same place, at the same time, in front of the same people.  Alice married the man she was meant to, the year after that.

But perhaps the most significant thing to come out of it was finding my way out of the fog that was settling around me.  Until I ran into Ella on that fateful day, I was about to give up college and go home, resigned to the fact I was the failure everyone said I was.

Stepping onto the ranch, I felt something go through me that was energising.  The air, the freedom, the work.  It took a week to realise this was what I wanted to do.

I didn’t go home.

Wendy went back, but lasted a month before she returned.  The ranch bug had struck her too.

When grandmother died, Eugene returned with Ella to support me in running the ranch.  In time, we learned that she had left the ranch to me, the one person she believed would keep it going. The others got money, which was all they wanted.

Eugene didn’t.  Like me, his time at the ranch had given him focus.  He stayed, and we ran it together.

It was pleasing that at least one of both Eugene and my family’s children loved the ranch as much as we did, and would carry on the family tradition.

A fairy tale come true, a story the children and grandchildren of mine lived to hear as much as I like telling them. Especially the part when I said their grandmother was almost sent to the dungeons.

They didn’t like her very much, even after she had mellowed with age.

..

At the end of the last day of Fall, snow appeared for the first time on the distant mountains, and a cold chill in the breeze that just picked up, pulling the first dark clouds of winter with it.

Wendy and I sat on the porch looking out over the southern pastures.  There was a peacefulness that couldn’t be matched anywhere else.

“Could you have predicted this fifty-odd years ago?”

I turned to look at what was still the most beautiful woman I had ever known.  “I want to say yes, but the real answer is no.”

“Any regrets?”

“No.”

“You?”

“None.”

“That was a nice elegy for Gene.”

“I meant it.  If it wasn’t for him we wouldn’t be here.”

“Not true.  Your grandmother knew what happened that year you couldn’t come with me.  She had been keeping an eye on you.  And me.  Gene was just a catalyst that brought her plan ahead.  She was a very astute woman; she also knew your affinity with this land, for you and for me.  And in a way, Gene too.  He only thrived once he got away from your parents.  So did you, by the way.”

“So, what did happen that day at the airport?”

She smiled – what I called the Cheshire cat smile, the one where she knew the answer but was never going to tell me.

“Good try, David.  Maybe one day I’ll tell you.  I can’t break a pinkie promise.  You know that.”

I sighed.  One day.  Maybe.

Ellen, our eldest daughter, here on holiday, poked her head out the door.  “You two should get in here before you freeze to death.”

I shook my head.  Her years in the city had softened her resilience. “How long is she staying?”

I helped her out of her chair.

“Richie’s coming tomorrow.”

Childhood friend, went to school with her, salt of the earth type.

“You women and your plans.”

“It’s written in the stars, David.  It’s written in the stars.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026