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 The hardware store was a dinosaur from the past and would soon be superseded by the online suppliers who were cheaper and always in stock.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

Day 90

Never be afraid to ask for or give advice

…

It’s part of the reason why I have a writing blog.

In the first instance, it is to highlight the issues I have in every aspect of writing, from constructing a sentence to describing a scene, to conversing between characters, and not losing the plot.

But it cuts a lot deeper than just the writing; there’s all that other tacky stuff, like marketing. The self-published author also has to be a consummate ad man, right out of the fifties and sixties, with all the slick means of selling what some might call the unsellable.

I have managed to hit every pot home and brick wall; there is.

Perhaps the best part is showcasing my writing, whether it is an episode of a long book, a short story, or parts of a novella.

But what is the most satisfying is the comments where nearly everyone is positive about my work, and sometimes, they will buy a book.

I confess I’m not going to become an international best-selling author overnight, in a week, month or even a year. But it is still a thrill when a book registers in the same column.

Conversely, I have quite a number of other authors’ websites and blogs that I read, and I make time every week to read other authors’ work, offer my opinion, and give a review, that rare thing that all authors need as part of their marketing strategy.

Day 90

Never be afraid to ask for or give advice

…

It’s part of the reason why I have a writing blog.

In the first instance, it is to highlight the issues I have in every aspect of writing, from constructing a sentence to describing a scene, to conversing between characters, and not losing the plot.

But it cuts a lot deeper than just the writing; there’s all that other tacky stuff, like marketing. The self-published author also has to be a consummate ad man, right out of the fifties and sixties, with all the slick means of selling what some might call the unsellable.

I have managed to hit every pot home and brick wall; there is.

Perhaps the best part is showcasing my writing, whether it is an episode of a long book, a short story, or parts of a novella.

But what is the most satisfying is the comments where nearly everyone is positive about my work, and sometimes, they will buy a book.

I confess I’m not going to become an international best-selling author overnight, in a week, month or even a year. But it is still a thrill when a book registers in the same column.

Conversely, I have quite a number of other authors’ websites and blogs that I read, and I make time every week to read other authors’ work, offer my opinion, and give a review, that rare thing that all authors need as part of their marketing strategy.

Days 88 and 89

Writing exercise – Things are not what they seem

…

Include the elements, who does this person think they are, who are they really, what are they running from or to, and what just happened they cannot undo.

…

I knew her simply as Emma, the enigmatic woman who lived in Apartment 772, five doors up from me. Sometimes she would be alone, sometimes with a man whom I assumed was her husband. They were quiet and unassuming and had lived in the block for about a year.

Amonth the others on our floor, there were the busybodies, the people who had more time than sense and spent their time talking about matters they generally knew nothing about. Emma was one of those subjects.

To them, she was not married, the man was really two who looked the same, possibly brothers, and that arguments had been heard, up the stairs, and from within the apartment. I simply told them it was none of their business.

Each morning, I would leave for work at the same time. Emma was more erratic but would also leave for work about the same time. I took the bus from the stop outside the building; she took a bus from the other side in the opposite direction.

Each evening, I would come home on the bus, stopping on the other side of the street. Not so often, Emma would come home in a car, driven by the man she was seen with in the building. She would get out, and he would drive off, only to return a half hour later on foot.

No, I wasn’t a stalker; she had simply piqued my interest.

…

This morning was different.

I came down to join the others at the bus stop, waiting for the bus that was three minutes late. i was running late.

Emma was on the other side of the road, standing next to the shelter, but there was something else. A case, not a large one, not a small one, but one just enough for her to pack enough for a free days away.

This sent my deductive mind into overdrive.

IT was cold but the sun was out, and she was holding rather than wearing her red coat with the fur collar. She was not wearing her usual white blouse and black pants, but a summery yellow dress with flowers on it, a yellow ribbon in her hair, and instead of practical flat heeled shoes she was earing high heels. It completely transformed her into someone else.

My assumption that she was an office clerk or shop salesperson was shattered. Perhaps she was something else entirely. Had my bus been on time, I would have missed this transformation. Perhaps she was emulating the epitome of a 1950s housewife.

She was certainly nothing like the type of woman that would be associated with the man who brought her home. He was rough, unkempt, perhaps a factory worker or something else. My mind briefly went to a dark place and back again. No, it was not possible.

Of course, all of this speculation could be resolved in an instant if only I had the courage to talk to her, and now that I had seen her in this guise, that might never happen. She was far too nice for the likes of me.

I;d seen her glance nervously over the road, as if she was looking for the man in the car, the man we saw with her in the corridors of our building. Did he bring her home last night? Was she running away from him? It would explain the nervous glances. Those nervous glances extended to the direction the bus came from, and she was willing it to arrive so she could get away.

If he did come out and saw her trying to escape, would I try to intervene and save her? No. I was too much of a coward to do that. Those furtive and apprehensive looks confirmed my suspicion that she was leaving. He was not her type, and maybe was once, but not now. Not this version of her.

Had they argued? Had it got violent? I hadn’t heard anything, but then I never did. I went to bed early so that I was fresh for the next day. What could have happened that precipitated this? If she was trying to get away, would she come back?

…

My attention was diverted for a moment on a pair of badly behaving school children. when I looked back, I could see the stricken look on her face, staring at the entrance to the building. I turned around and saw the man, quickly looking up and down the street, then over the road.

His manner told me he had seen her, and he was almost running towards her.

I looked up the road and the bus wasn’t coming. She had picked up the suitcase but in the motion of doing that she had dropped her coat, and buy the time she picked it up he was there. He grabbed her by the arms and was yelling, not too loudly, at her.

I couldn’t understand the language he was speaking.

She looked devastated and didn’t put up any resistance. He was trying to take her case and she wouldn’t let him. Others at the bus stop were moving away, not wanting to get involved.

I made a decision. it might not be the right one, it might be none of my business, but to me it looked like he was hurting her.

I crossed the road and stepped up to them.

He stopped and glared at me. “You want to go away, little man.” Full of himself and arrogant. I knew then what he was. Italian, recently arrived, with halting English. There were a few near where I worked, men who were recently arrived, looking for a new life.

I pulled out my badge and showed it to him. “You might want to rethink that, sir.” He stepped back slightly. My detective’s badge carried only so much weight, and people like him generally had no respect for the law.

I looked at her. “Are you alright? Is this man bothering you?”

She looked at me, trying to remember where she had seen me. It was certainly not as a policeman. I rarely let anyone know who or what I was.

Over the other side of the road, my bus came and went. Damn.

“Yes,” she said. “You are from apartments. A policeman. Yes, this man is annoying me.
I wish to go to my sisters.”

“And this man?”

“Comes from home, thinks we are still,” she hesitated, looking for a word, “friends. That is home, not here. He is terrible man at home, why I leave. I do not wish to see him, now or ever again.”

“OK.” I turned back to him. “Leave now, sir. She does not want to see you.”

“Not true. This is wife, my woman, she is mine, do what I tell her!”

She came and stood beside me. “Was married, divorced now. I am not his.”

He took a step towards me and tried to push me aside to get to her, as she moved backwards to stand behind me. Perhaps I acted on instinct, perhaps it was the fact he was going to shove me, but I grabbed his arm, twisted him to one side, and when he tried to resist, I levered him onto the ground, pinning his arms behind him.

A patrol car pulled up just as he hit the ground, and two uniformed officers jumped out, one with a hand on his gun. I held up my badge and said, “This man was trying to take this woman away forcefully, I told him to stop after identifying myself as a police officer, and when he didn’t, I had to restrain him.

The bus arrived and pulled in front of the police car. The two policemen had the man in custody and were holding him.

She looked at the very angry man, and at the bus. “May I catch bus. My sister is waiting for my arrival.”

“You want to prefer charges against this man?” I asked.

“No. I just want to leave. Please.”

I looked at the two officers. “Go. We’ll detain this man for a few minutes. Give him a warning.”

“Thank you.” She picked up her case and walked over to the bus. She took one last look back, and then she was gone.

I had no doubt I wouldn’t see her again.

They gave him a warming and then let him go, waiting until he had walked off. He gave the nastiest of looks, and I knew my business wasn’t done with him. He didn’t look the sort who would let it go.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Days 88 and 89

Writing exercise – Things are not what they seem

…

Include the elements, who does this person think they are, who are they really, what are they running from or to, and what just happened they cannot undo.

…

I knew her simply as Emma, the enigmatic woman who lived in Apartment 772, five doors up from me. Sometimes she would be alone, sometimes with a man whom I assumed was her husband. They were quiet and unassuming and had lived in the block for about a year.

Amonth the others on our floor, there were the busybodies, the people who had more time than sense and spent their time talking about matters they generally knew nothing about. Emma was one of those subjects.

To them, she was not married, the man was really two who looked the same, possibly brothers, and that arguments had been heard, up the stairs, and from within the apartment. I simply told them it was none of their business.

Each morning, I would leave for work at the same time. Emma was more erratic but would also leave for work about the same time. I took the bus from the stop outside the building; she took a bus from the other side in the opposite direction.

Each evening, I would come home on the bus, stopping on the other side of the street. Not so often, Emma would come home in a car, driven by the man she was seen with in the building. She would get out, and he would drive off, only to return a half hour later on foot.

No, I wasn’t a stalker; she had simply piqued my interest.

…

This morning was different.

I came down to join the others at the bus stop, waiting for the bus that was three minutes late. i was running late.

Emma was on the other side of the road, standing next to the shelter, but there was something else. A case, not a large one, not a small one, but one just enough for her to pack enough for a free days away.

This sent my deductive mind into overdrive.

IT was cold but the sun was out, and she was holding rather than wearing her red coat with the fur collar. She was not wearing her usual white blouse and black pants, but a summery yellow dress with flowers on it, a yellow ribbon in her hair, and instead of practical flat heeled shoes she was earing high heels. It completely transformed her into someone else.

My assumption that she was an office clerk or shop salesperson was shattered. Perhaps she was something else entirely. Had my bus been on time, I would have missed this transformation. Perhaps she was emulating the epitome of a 1950s housewife.

She was certainly nothing like the type of woman that would be associated with the man who brought her home. He was rough, unkempt, perhaps a factory worker or something else. My mind briefly went to a dark place and back again. No, it was not possible.

Of course, all of this speculation could be resolved in an instant if only I had the courage to talk to her, and now that I had seen her in this guise, that might never happen. She was far too nice for the likes of me.

I;d seen her glance nervously over the road, as if she was looking for the man in the car, the man we saw with her in the corridors of our building. Did he bring her home last night? Was she running away from him? It would explain the nervous glances. Those nervous glances extended to the direction the bus came from, and she was willing it to arrive so she could get away.

If he did come out and saw her trying to escape, would I try to intervene and save her? No. I was too much of a coward to do that. Those furtive and apprehensive looks confirmed my suspicion that she was leaving. He was not her type, and maybe was once, but not now. Not this version of her.

Had they argued? Had it got violent? I hadn’t heard anything, but then I never did. I went to bed early so that I was fresh for the next day. What could have happened that precipitated this? If she was trying to get away, would she come back?

…

My attention was diverted for a moment on a pair of badly behaving school children. when I looked back, I could see the stricken look on her face, staring at the entrance to the building. I turned around and saw the man, quickly looking up and down the street, then over the road.

His manner told me he had seen her, and he was almost running towards her.

I looked up the road and the bus wasn’t coming. She had picked up the suitcase but in the motion of doing that she had dropped her coat, and buy the time she picked it up he was there. He grabbed her by the arms and was yelling, not too loudly, at her.

I couldn’t understand the language he was speaking.

She looked devastated and didn’t put up any resistance. He was trying to take her case and she wouldn’t let him. Others at the bus stop were moving away, not wanting to get involved.

I made a decision. it might not be the right one, it might be none of my business, but to me it looked like he was hurting her.

I crossed the road and stepped up to them.

He stopped and glared at me. “You want to go away, little man.” Full of himself and arrogant. I knew then what he was. Italian, recently arrived, with halting English. There were a few near where I worked, men who were recently arrived, looking for a new life.

I pulled out my badge and showed it to him. “You might want to rethink that, sir.” He stepped back slightly. My detective’s badge carried only so much weight, and people like him generally had no respect for the law.

I looked at her. “Are you alright? Is this man bothering you?”

She looked at me, trying to remember where she had seen me. It was certainly not as a policeman. I rarely let anyone know who or what I was.

Over the other side of the road, my bus came and went. Damn.

“Yes,” she said. “You are from apartments. A policeman. Yes, this man is annoying me.
I wish to go to my sisters.”

“And this man?”

“Comes from home, thinks we are still,” she hesitated, looking for a word, “friends. That is home, not here. He is terrible man at home, why I leave. I do not wish to see him, now or ever again.”

“OK.” I turned back to him. “Leave now, sir. She does not want to see you.”

“Not true. This is wife, my woman, she is mine, do what I tell her!”

She came and stood beside me. “Was married, divorced now. I am not his.”

He took a step towards me and tried to push me aside to get to her, as she moved backwards to stand behind me. Perhaps I acted on instinct, perhaps it was the fact he was going to shove me, but I grabbed his arm, twisted him to one side, and when he tried to resist, I levered him onto the ground, pinning his arms behind him.

A patrol car pulled up just as he hit the ground, and two uniformed officers jumped out, one with a hand on his gun. I held up my badge and said, “This man was trying to take this woman away forcefully, I told him to stop after identifying myself as a police officer, and when he didn’t, I had to restrain him.

The bus arrived and pulled in front of the police car. The two policemen had the man in custody and were holding him.

She looked at the very angry man, and at the bus. “May I catch bus. My sister is waiting for my arrival.”

“You want to prefer charges against this man?” I asked.

“No. I just want to leave. Please.”

I looked at the two officers. “Go. We’ll detain this man for a few minutes. Give him a warning.”

“Thank you.” She picked up her case and walked over to the bus. She took one last look back, and then she was gone.

I had no doubt I wouldn’t see her again.

They gave him a warming and then let him go, waiting until he had walked off. He gave the nastiest of looks, and I knew my business wasn’t done with him. He didn’t look the sort who would let it go.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

More about my story

…

So…

The conference is also having a dinner the night before it all gets under way, with dancing.  Someone had this notion that an orchestra should be supplied and play classics from the Glenn Miller/Benny Goodman/Dorsey Brothers era.

The idea behind this interesting development was intriguing, to say the least, after I watched a late-night movie that had Glenn Miller and his band in it, and the music was amazing.  I’ve always been a fan of it, and I have countless recordings of nearly all the big bands of the era.

It’s also a time when our protagonist will get a look at all of the participants and decide which people are going to be a problem or not.  It is also the first time he gets to meet the head of the secret police, and the description he was given was far kinder than the reality.  And, the evil man has more interest in his partner, one of the younger and more attractive of the women present.

But it’s more about what’s going to happen when our protagonist happened to notice some odd activity at the rear of the building near the kitchens and goes to investigate.

It goes from a friendly enquiry to a hostage situation to a shootout, to getting injured and sent to hospital.  Our protagonist is not carrying an injury.

But, the silver lining, he now knows who is the leader of the rebels.

More about my story

…

So…

The conference is also having a dinner the night before it all gets under way, with dancing.  Someone had this notion that an orchestra should be supplied and play classics from the Glenn Miller/Benny Goodman/Dorsey Brothers era.

The idea behind this interesting development was intriguing, to say the least, after I watched a late-night movie that had Glenn Miller and his band in it, and the music was amazing.  I’ve always been a fan of it, and I have countless recordings of nearly all the big bands of the era.

It’s also a time when our protagonist will get a look at all of the participants and decide which people are going to be a problem or not.  It is also the first time he gets to meet the head of the secret police, and the description he was given was far kinder than the reality.  And, the evil man has more interest in his partner, one of the younger and more attractive of the women present.

But it’s more about what’s going to happen when our protagonist happened to notice some odd activity at the rear of the building near the kitchens and goes to investigate.

It goes from a friendly enquiry to a hostage situation to a shootout, to getting injured and sent to hospital.  Our protagonist is not carrying an injury.

But, the silver lining, he now knows who is the leader of the rebels.

Day 87

Synonyms

…

Or, more to the point, we all want to use words that will emphasise the description or the point we want to make.

The trick is not to make it so obscure that we send the readers to the Thesaurus too many times before they get bored.

Then there is that other problem of using the same word over and over and that too gets boring.

Such a word is said. But you have to be careful not to use too flowery a description of what is being said, or the manner in which is being imparted.

Gushed – I mean, who gushes these days?

Snapped – that’s what alligators do, and they don’t speak.

Quietly, whispered, demanding, spitefully, angrily. Try to think of how you would impart the words if you were in the place of your character.

How would you feel on the other end of a verbal barrage?

Perhaps therein lies a possible solution to the problem of describing conversations, arguments, heated exchanges, or what do they call them these day, robust discussions.

How would you react?

Day 87

Synonyms

…

Or, more to the point, we all want to use words that will emphasise the description or the point we want to make.

The trick is not to make it so obscure that we send the readers to the Thesaurus too many times before they get bored.

Then there is that other problem of using the same word over and over and that too gets boring.

Such a word is said. But you have to be careful not to use too flowery a description of what is being said, or the manner in which is being imparted.

Gushed – I mean, who gushes these days?

Snapped – that’s what alligators do, and they don’t speak.

Quietly, whispered, demanding, spitefully, angrily. Try to think of how you would impart the words if you were in the place of your character.

How would you feel on the other end of a verbal barrage?

Perhaps therein lies a possible solution to the problem of describing conversations, arguments, heated exchanges, or what do they call them these day, robust discussions.

How would you react?

Day 86

Is there a story that matters to you?

…

Is there a reason why you would not want to tell it or that if you did, some people might find it uncomfortable?

The problem is, no matter what you write someone out there isn’t going to like it.

And there is a raft of subjects to write about that causes concern, but these are sometimes stories that have to be told.

I have one such story, and to me, the telling of it would not fit the mainstream opinion because people are very divided over it. There are reasons for this, and they are being, in my opinion, sensationalised to polarise a particular stance.

The subject: Transgenders.

Like I said, it’s a story I would like to write about, but I know what the response is going to be.

And that isn’t to say that I do not have my own biases, the baggage that we are given when we are younger, where schools and teachers teach us what is supposedly the norms they will need to work within for the rest of their lives.

In my day it was that the man went to work to earn the living that provided a house, food, and everything else, while the woman stayed home, had children and looked after the man.

Yes, I can hear 50 percent of the population laughing at that one, but how different is that societal norm to that where we are now taught that transgenders are sub humans that should be scorned and abandoned because they don’t fit the definition of man or woman?

Thankfully, I grew out of that, and women can vote, work, drive cars, and do anything they desire, though it seems there is a new movement that wants to take away all those rights and go back to the Stone Age.

Again, another very touchy subject, and that will eventually prevent the possibility of writers putting forward the various viewpoints for larger discussion.

Try going back another hundred years, when women were the sub-human species, little more than a man’s possession.

This is probably the only time I will raise the subject, as an instance of what writers may or may not write about, a highlight that public opinion fueled by people in power does eventually affect what can be written.

It’s something that we should all be mindful of, as well as keeping an open mind.