Days 95 and 96

Story and book titles

…

This is an exercise in getting you to work on book titles, looking at the existing titles and working on whether there could be a better alternative, and as an aside, considering why you chose the one you did.

Often, to me, it seems like it’s very much akin to plucking a piece of paper out of the air, one of about a thousand.

The quest for a title for my current project took many a twist and turn, starting out with When The Planets Line Up, which, of course, was going to happen, but it was not the crux of the story. What came to me, when the story moved from a short story to a novel was “The Fourth Son, simple because that was what he is, and from all the woes and sour grapes we’ve endlessly heard from the infamous Second Son, or Spare, I thought, what if the impossible happened.

Titles have not always been that easy, and my editor sometimes has a few words to say about the titles I pick.

It was just the case with my David and Susan novels. I was going with Double Trouble and the Triple Trouble, but it seems What Sets Us Apart and Strangers We’ve Become were more suitable. There’s a third, and I have tentatively titled it “From Russia With…” but that might not last.

Quite often, stories I have written quite a few years back are still looking for an appropriate title, and three in particular that I wrote as a trilogy suddenly found themselves with titles after I read a series of Robert Ludlum novels and noted how he titled his stories.

The bottom line is that sometimes finding the right title is like creating the right cover, and then editing.

More about my story

…

Is this one of those moments where it is a good thing he has a partner, and a bad thing that she is a woman?

We all know pain killers and alcohol at a bad mix, and trying to ward off the despondency of messing up what could have been a useful interrogation, he drinks too much, makes a pass at the partner and fails miserably at achieving anything but collapsing on the floor.

She is amused.  And annoyed he took matters into his own hands.

Of course, there are questions to answer, like,

Why did he go back and tackle the men who, as he said, were acting suspiciously?  Firstly, the police inspector and then, with a lot more suspicion and threatening behaviour, the head of the secret police.

Yes, a man in the street type would not be talking about anything, especially when he knew there were suspicious types, like the rebels, around.

Who is he, then, to be doing this?

Nosey reporter, very nosey reporter, with a little too much devil may care, ergo the bullet wound.

But if you want the story, you need to take the risks.

The inspector wants to know how there was an exchange of gunfire, without saying that the rebels didn’t shoot at each other, and he simply says he was shot, it was a shock, and by the time I got over the shock of it, they were gone.

After all, if he was complicit, where was the gun?

More about my story

…

Is this one of those moments where it is a good thing he has a partner, and a bad thing that she is a woman?

We all know pain killers and alcohol at a bad mix, and trying to ward off the despondency of messing up what could have been a useful interrogation, he drinks too much, makes a pass at the partner and fails miserably at achieving anything but collapsing on the floor.

She is amused.  And annoyed he took matters into his own hands.

Of course, there are questions to answer, like,

Why did he go back and tackle the men who, as he said, were acting suspiciously?  Firstly, the police inspector and then, with a lot more suspicion and threatening behaviour, the head of the secret police.

Yes, a man in the street type would not be talking about anything, especially when he knew there were suspicious types, like the rebels, around.

Who is he, then, to be doing this?

Nosey reporter, very nosey reporter, with a little too much devil may care, ergo the bullet wound.

But if you want the story, you need to take the risks.

The inspector wants to know how there was an exchange of gunfire, without saying that the rebels didn’t shoot at each other, and he simply says he was shot, it was a shock, and by the time I got over the shock of it, they were gone.

After all, if he was complicit, where was the gun?

Day 94

Honesty in writing – can there be too much, as in writing an autobiography?

…

To me there’s honesty and there’s truth.

I read autobiographies and biographies, but there are recollections laced with factual surrounding events. However, quite often, a lot of these events can be taken with a grain of salt.

I do it myself. I tell the truth, but it’s the embellishment that makes events grander, or the strategic omissions that make it larger or smaller than life.

The more embellishment, the better the sales. Everyone wants to read about heroes, people who get things done, and sometimes just to read the other side of the story.

Fiction, though, requires no semblance of the truth, and when weaving it with real events, it’s always a good idea not to try and improve on or demean people who were real and involved. I’m always weaving real places and real events into historical stories, and I work very hard to understand the people, the places, and the events.

And just remember not to make people you know too identifiable in your stories.

As for my autobiography, it will be better than the life I wish I could lead in my books, because 300 pages of utterly boring stuff will not sell.

Day 94

Honesty in writing – can there be too much, as in writing an autobiography?

…

To me there’s honesty and there’s truth.

I read autobiographies and biographies, but there are recollections laced with factual surrounding events. However, quite often, a lot of these events can be taken with a grain of salt.

I do it myself. I tell the truth, but it’s the embellishment that makes events grander, or the strategic omissions that make it larger or smaller than life.

The more embellishment, the better the sales. Everyone wants to read about heroes, people who get things done, and sometimes just to read the other side of the story.

Fiction, though, requires no semblance of the truth, and when weaving it with real events, it’s always a good idea not to try and improve on or demean people who were real and involved. I’m always weaving real places and real events into historical stories, and I work very hard to understand the people, the places, and the events.

And just remember not to make people you know too identifiable in your stories.

As for my autobiography, it will be better than the life I wish I could lead in my books, because 300 pages of utterly boring stuff will not sell.

Day 93

Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?

…

Perhaps not in the beginning, but as time passed, yes.

In my younger years, as an awkward child who didn’t fare well in school, with the sort of boys who treated the weaker kids with aggression, and at home where we were victims of domestic violence, it became necessary to immerse myself in another world than the one that I lived in.

That’s when I began to invent different lives, mostly generated from reading books morning, noon and night and spending any spare time in the school library, anywhere other than in the schoolyard.

Those books fuelled my imagination. I could be anyone else other than who I was, go anywhere, and do anything. The Secret Seven, The Famous Five, Biggles, Billy Bunter, all those characters that today would never get a fair chance.

Soon, those imaginings became scribbles, and the first story I wrote was one of a spy landing on a distant beach in another country and executing a mission which, when I look back, was rather strange, but it kept me busy.

Then a thousand or so books later, fuelled by Alistair MacLean, Hammond Innes, James Patterson, Clive Cussler, Steve Berry, David Baldacci, and countless others, I improved my writing skills, the story became more focussed and less childish, and I decided thrillers were the go.

And when romance didn’t seem to work out all that well, I decided to write myself into one, imagining how it would be. For that, I devoured a few Mills and Boons, but when it came time to write a similar story, it got half way then veered into thriller territory.

I think, in that first effort, I was not the hero, but the forever tired, always battling to stay alive and discovering the love of his life, found ways they could not be together. A bit like real life at times.

My latest effort, I used to read stories for my grandchildren, and then foolishly one night told her I would write a better fair tale. After 11 years, much toiling and excuses for not having it done, I have finished it. 3 volumes, 1,000 plus pages, it is an epic.

Did I always want to be a writer?

Maybe I did and just didn’t realise it back when I was too young to know.

Day 93

Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?

…

Perhaps not in the beginning, but as time passed, yes.

In my younger years, as an awkward child who didn’t fare well in school, with the sort of boys who treated the weaker kids with aggression, and at home where we were victims of domestic violence, it became necessary to immerse myself in another world than the one that I lived in.

That’s when I began to invent different lives, mostly generated from reading books morning, noon and night and spending any spare time in the school library, anywhere other than in the schoolyard.

Those books fuelled my imagination. I could be anyone else other than who I was, go anywhere, and do anything. The Secret Seven, The Famous Five, Biggles, Billy Bunter, all those characters that today would never get a fair chance.

Soon, those imaginings became scribbles, and the first story I wrote was one of a spy landing on a distant beach in another country and executing a mission which, when I look back, was rather strange, but it kept me busy.

Then a thousand or so books later, fuelled by Alistair MacLean, Hammond Innes, James Patterson, Clive Cussler, Steve Berry, David Baldacci, and countless others, I improved my writing skills, the story became more focussed and less childish, and I decided thrillers were the go.

And when romance didn’t seem to work out all that well, I decided to write myself into one, imagining how it would be. For that, I devoured a few Mills and Boons, but when it came time to write a similar story, it got half way then veered into thriller territory.

I think, in that first effort, I was not the hero, but the forever tired, always battling to stay alive and discovering the love of his life, found ways they could not be together. A bit like real life at times.

My latest effort, I used to read stories for my grandchildren, and then foolishly one night told her I would write a better fair tale. After 11 years, much toiling and excuses for not having it done, I have finished it. 3 volumes, 1,000 plus pages, it is an epic.

Did I always want to be a writer?

Maybe I did and just didn’t realise it back when I was too young to know.

Day 92

Writing Exercise – multiple views of the same event

…

I was given the brief to interview the witnesses regarding a theft, in plain sight, of a backpack from a university student who was engaged in conversation outside a cafe. I had been asking for more responsibility, and this, I was told, was the first test.

It was a simple set of questions: ask the witnesses what they saw and any means of identifying the thief.

Witness 1: Winifred Atkins, age 67

“What did you see?” was the first question.

“Not a lot. But…”

She looked the helpful sort, with a ready smile, some might call mischievous.

“There were six of them, students or teenagers perhaps. Pity they didn’t know how to dress properly, but these days, you know, anything goes.”

I nodded. I was sure the next witness would see them in an entirely different light.

“Anyway, they were talking, or maybe arguing. I could see the victim, the one who had her bag taken, was getting annoyed at the others. Something about a boy, but, then, isn’t it always at that age?”

“Is that what drew your attention to the group?”

“That, and that one of the other girls called her a rather bad name. It upset her, and that’s where the arguing started. It was distracting.”

“The victim was distracted?”

“No, I was. That’s why, when my attention was on the two of them, one almost trying to strangle the other, and I think I would too given the language, that’s when the thief came and went so quickly it was a blur.”

“From where?”

“Inside the cafe. By now, everyone was watching the two girls trying to strangle each other and the boys egging them on. Someone should strangle them. That’s when he picked up the bag as he walked past, and no one at that table noticed. No one. Not surprised.”

“Can you describe the thief?”

“Young, their age or a little older, hat covering his face, clothes shabby, those jeans with cuts in them, sandshoes, green t-shirt.”

“Any identifying marks?”

“None I could see. Only saw him for a fraction of a second; the fight was getting heated. That’s all I’ve got.”

…

That was the first. The second witness was Janet Wakely, aged 15.

“What did you see?”

“A fight. Some girl called the other girl a slut, and they went at it. I would have videoed it and posted it on the Internet, but I know you lot would have got in a twist over it.”

My boss would. I would have been able to use it as evidence. Pity.

“Then…”

“The victim wasn’t a very nice person, stealing that other girl’s boyfriend. Maybe you could charge her with theft.”

I tried to explain that the law didn’t work like that; it had to be a criminal offence like stealing property, like the girl’s backpack. “Did you see it happen?”

“Some old guy came out of the cafe with a coffee, walked past the table, and just picked it up. They were all carrying on so, they never noticed a thing. Brazen.”

“Can you describe the thief?”

“Oldish, about 30, maybe 40, you know. Levis, Nike shoes, the expensive sort, and one of them expensive polo shirts, you know, with the horse emblem. He had a hat with a maple leaf, which was odd for someone in this country to wear; maybe he was a foreigner.”

At least, at the end, she said he had gone up the same street as the previous witness.”

…

I made a call to our IT person and asked if any video had been posted on social media, guessing that my previous witness had, in fact, filmed the whole argument and posted it, and I was right.

And viewing it, I wasn’t surprised that both of them were wrong. A man had come out of the cafe, but he had walked straight past them. It was one of the boys at the table who had detached himself at the high point of the fight and taken the backpack while all their attention was focussed on the fight.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 92

Writing Exercise – multiple views of the same event

…

I was given the brief to interview the witnesses regarding a theft, in plain sight, of a backpack from a university student who was engaged in conversation outside a cafe. I had been asking for more responsibility, and this, I was told, was the first test.

It was a simple set of questions: ask the witnesses what they saw and any means of identifying the thief.

Witness 1: Winifred Atkins, age 67

“What did you see?” was the first question.

“Not a lot. But…”

She looked the helpful sort, with a ready smile, some might call mischievous.

“There were six of them, students or teenagers perhaps. Pity they didn’t know how to dress properly, but these days, you know, anything goes.”

I nodded. I was sure the next witness would see them in an entirely different light.

“Anyway, they were talking, or maybe arguing. I could see the victim, the one who had her bag taken, was getting annoyed at the others. Something about a boy, but, then, isn’t it always at that age?”

“Is that what drew your attention to the group?”

“That, and that one of the other girls called her a rather bad name. It upset her, and that’s where the arguing started. It was distracting.”

“The victim was distracted?”

“No, I was. That’s why, when my attention was on the two of them, one almost trying to strangle the other, and I think I would too given the language, that’s when the thief came and went so quickly it was a blur.”

“From where?”

“Inside the cafe. By now, everyone was watching the two girls trying to strangle each other and the boys egging them on. Someone should strangle them. That’s when he picked up the bag as he walked past, and no one at that table noticed. No one. Not surprised.”

“Can you describe the thief?”

“Young, their age or a little older, hat covering his face, clothes shabby, those jeans with cuts in them, sandshoes, green t-shirt.”

“Any identifying marks?”

“None I could see. Only saw him for a fraction of a second; the fight was getting heated. That’s all I’ve got.”

…

That was the first. The second witness was Janet Wakely, aged 15.

“What did you see?”

“A fight. Some girl called the other girl a slut, and they went at it. I would have videoed it and posted it on the Internet, but I know you lot would have got in a twist over it.”

My boss would. I would have been able to use it as evidence. Pity.

“Then…”

“The victim wasn’t a very nice person, stealing that other girl’s boyfriend. Maybe you could charge her with theft.”

I tried to explain that the law didn’t work like that; it had to be a criminal offence like stealing property, like the girl’s backpack. “Did you see it happen?”

“Some old guy came out of the cafe with a coffee, walked past the table, and just picked it up. They were all carrying on so, they never noticed a thing. Brazen.”

“Can you describe the thief?”

“Oldish, about 30, maybe 40, you know. Levis, Nike shoes, the expensive sort, and one of them expensive polo shirts, you know, with the horse emblem. He had a hat with a maple leaf, which was odd for someone in this country to wear; maybe he was a foreigner.”

At least, at the end, she said he had gone up the same street as the previous witness.”

…

I made a call to our IT person and asked if any video had been posted on social media, guessing that my previous witness had, in fact, filmed the whole argument and posted it, and I was right.

And viewing it, I wasn’t surprised that both of them were wrong. A man had come out of the cafe, but he had walked straight past them. It was one of the boys at the table who had detached himself at the high point of the fight and taken the backpack while all their attention was focussed on the fight.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 91

Writing Exercise – Write about a place you’ve never been, with an out-of-sorts traveller, and a misunderstanding

…

Have you ever just decided on the spur of the moment to get away?

Anywhere but home, or whatever you think home is, but really it’s just four walls slowly closing in on you because it turns out it had become nothing like what you were hoping for.

A bit like life, really.

I ran away from home, not literally, but practically, because everything back home reminded me of the miserable life I had, no respect, no friends to speak of, and parents who couldn’t;t see past the asperations they had for me, my fathers to take over the hardware store, and my mother, to marry that nice girl Cindy, just up the road.

Cindy had no aspirations. The hardware store was a dinosaur from the past and would soon be superseded by the online suppliers who were cheaper and always in stock.

No one was listening, so I left.

Now, the same was happening. No one was listening, and I was getting stuck in a rut.

Time, I told myself, for a change.

New York Penn Station, the place to go anywhere other than New York.

I fired up my computer and found the first trip it showed me, from Penn Station on West 34th Street to Kansas City the next morning at 10:45, Via Chicago. I’d never been to Chicago, but I’d just watched a rather bad musical movie called Calamity Jane, and it was a place in it.

I think they called that serendipity.

…

I packed my trusty backpack for a two-day travelling experience after booking a business class seat. I would, at the very least, travel in a little comfort, and was no stranger to sleeping in seats, given the number of red-eye specials I took travelling for the company.

I found the train, and my seat, shown to me by a conductor, which was a surprise.

Then it was simply a matter of picking up my book, and reading until it was time to sleep.

Except…

Just before the train departed a young woman, about 30ish if I was to guess, came up the aisle, looking at seat numbers and then sitting next to me.

First reaction, she smelled of moth balls. An odd thought, had she been living in a clothes closit? Nothing would surprise me in New York.

Second creation, surprise she travelled with so little. Perhaps that was why she had so many clothes on: jeans, flannel shirt, jumper, jacket, scarf, gloves, sturdy boots.

She looked me up and down but said nothing. I tried not to look at her, but there was something about her. Had I seen her before, or was she ill? She looked very pale, and her eyes were watery. Did she have a cold or worse, a variant of COVID? I really didn’t want to get sick before I got started on this odyssey.

For a few minutes, before the train started rolling out of the station, I seriously considered getting off the train.

I didn’t and hoped I wouldn’t regret it.

…

Six hours out, she looked like death warmed up. There was definitely something wrong with her, and I was considering going to the conductor to see if there was a doctor on board.

Then she woke up.

I had to ask, “Are you alright?”

“Why?”

“You look very ill.”

“I just feel out of sorts. Time of the year, between seasons. Hot one minute, cold the next.”

I’m surprised she told me, after the instant dagger look she gave me before I asked.

“Why take the train when you can fly?”

“Going to see my parents in Kansas City.”

“You live there?”

“No.”

Didn’t answer the question. Like everyone else I spoke to it was impossible to get a straight answer to a clear question.

“But your parents live there?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t?”

“No.”

“They moved to Kansas City?”

“No. Lived there all their lives.”

“But you don’t?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t it be quicker to fly?”

“Not enough time.”

OK. Another strange answer that begged a hundred questions.

“For what?”

She gave me a seriously dangerous look, and I think if she had either a gun or a knife, I’d be dead now. “Do you always ask daft questions?”

“Mostly, it seems, but I’ll bite. Not enough time for what?”

“To think about what I will say to them?”

“About what?”

OK. That was not a question to ask, but she definitely piqued my interest.

“A guy I knew in Kansas City.”

“But you don;t live there?”

“He followed me to New York. Thought I was the one. Seems he thought that about three, so he had three ‘the one’s’. If you know what I mean.”

I seriously considered going back to sleep. Or reading the Gideon version of the bible I stole from a hotel room.

“But you didn’t live in Kansas City?”

“Not now. No.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it.”

“To what?”

“Thinking.”

“About?”

“The not ‘one’.”

She looked at me strangely. “Are you sure you’re not an axe murderer? I mean, it would be just my luck…”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025