Day 52

Where does inspiration come from – 1

…

A particular author who wrote a book on writing, one of many it seems, opined that the main source of inspiration is … you!

Just look at your family … there’s a definite gold mine of characters right there, and mine is no exception. I could write a story for each of them, and what might happen if they all came together at a reunion. Yes, perhaps that’s not a good idea.

Who’s been to a wedding, or funeral, and …

Then there are your friends. You know the saying, you can pick your friends and not your relatives. Yes true, but sometimes they pick themselves. These friends are from school, though I no longer have any from that time, work, as you transition through your work life these change, and for me, the earlier characters were just that, characters, and a lot of them turn up in stories.

There is where you live, the city, the country, places you;ve been on holiday, the people you meet, the regions.

I know when I go on holiday it is another source of information and experiences and I take lots of photos and make copious notes of everything, people, food, sights, events, and experiences.

What happens to you in those first years, from primary school to graduation, then perhaps university or trade school, to where you start working, the changes in vocations for many different reasons, the partners you find, stay, leave, forget, or pine over, all these emotions are grist to the mill.

Later in life, those experiences are not quite as poignant or perhaps as memorable, but that’s most likely because you are more settled and less adventurous. I found that with the coming of grandchildren and reading to them as young children, it was a time when I started inventing my own stories for them, and then for them to read the stories back to me.

Now I have a three-volume princess story that was written over time for them, about their growing up, and exploration of the world around them becoming a vast source of material.

Inspiration is, quite literally, all around you.

Day 52

Where does inspiration come from – 1

…

A particular author who wrote a book on writing, one of many it seems, opined that the main source of inspiration is … you!

Just look at your family … there’s a definite gold mine of characters right there, and mine is no exception. I could write a story for each of them, and what might happen if they all came together at a reunion. Yes, perhaps that’s not a good idea.

Who’s been to a wedding, or funeral, and …

Then there are your friends. You know the saying, you can pick your friends and not your relatives. Yes true, but sometimes they pick themselves. These friends are from school, though I no longer have any from that time, work, as you transition through your work life these change, and for me, the earlier characters were just that, characters, and a lot of them turn up in stories.

There is where you live, the city, the country, places you;ve been on holiday, the people you meet, the regions.

I know when I go on holiday it is another source of information and experiences and I take lots of photos and make copious notes of everything, people, food, sights, events, and experiences.

What happens to you in those first years, from primary school to graduation, then perhaps university or trade school, to where you start working, the changes in vocations for many different reasons, the partners you find, stay, leave, forget, or pine over, all these emotions are grist to the mill.

Later in life, those experiences are not quite as poignant or perhaps as memorable, but that’s most likely because you are more settled and less adventurous. I found that with the coming of grandchildren and reading to them as young children, it was a time when I started inventing my own stories for them, and then for them to read the stories back to me.

Now I have a three-volume princess story that was written over time for them, about their growing up, and exploration of the world around them becoming a vast source of material.

Inspiration is, quite literally, all around you.

Day 51

Why do we write?

…

It seems everyone has a reason, and for all of those whom I have talked to, mostly say they do it for the love of writing.

If we were writing to make our fortune, I’d say none of us would last longer than a year. For some of us, myself included, I never gave up my day job until I retired and then could devote myself to it with more effectiveness.

That idea of doing a 10-hour day and then going home to do another was never possible. Writing took a back seat and was done when I could. I kept writing to keep the creative e juices flowing but my heart was not in it.

Yes, I finished a few stories, and a book or two, but the non-exciting part of the exercise, editing and marketing never was my strong point, and it wasn’t until I retired that it all came together, and five books were published and another twenty in various stages of completion.

I do not write with the intention of becoming an international bestselling author. It’s a nice thought, but it’s a field where there are millions of others toiling away, and some will get that break, while others may never. My stories sell, people read them, and the reviews are satisfying. That’s enough for me.

Still, one day it might happen. We can never predict the future. I might write a story that some editor might read and think it’s worthy of being published. That would be nice. But, in the meantime, I will keep creating my quirky characters who inhabit a strange world, meet others like them, and who are equally as different, and sometimes combine to create a little magic.

And as the purveyor of happy endings, and in these perilous times where we all need a little cheering up more than we realise, perhaps after the story is over, they can look back over that short period of getting to know those people that it was time well spent.

Day 51

Why do we write?

…

It seems everyone has a reason, and for all of those whom I have talked to, mostly say they do it for the love of writing.

If we were writing to make our fortune, I’d say none of us would last longer than a year. For some of us, myself included, I never gave up my day job until I retired and then could devote myself to it with more effectiveness.

That idea of doing a 10-hour day and then going home to do another was never possible. Writing took a back seat and was done when I could. I kept writing to keep the creative e juices flowing but my heart was not in it.

Yes, I finished a few stories, and a book or two, but the non-exciting part of the exercise, editing and marketing never was my strong point, and it wasn’t until I retired that it all came together, and five books were published and another twenty in various stages of completion.

I do not write with the intention of becoming an international bestselling author. It’s a nice thought, but it’s a field where there are millions of others toiling away, and some will get that break, while others may never. My stories sell, people read them, and the reviews are satisfying. That’s enough for me.

Still, one day it might happen. We can never predict the future. I might write a story that some editor might read and think it’s worthy of being published. That would be nice. But, in the meantime, I will keep creating my quirky characters who inhabit a strange world, meet others like them, and who are equally as different, and sometimes combine to create a little magic.

And as the purveyor of happy endings, and in these perilous times where we all need a little cheering up more than we realise, perhaps after the story is over, they can look back over that short period of getting to know those people that it was time well spent.

Day 50

Today’s discussion point: autobiography.

…

Who’s to say whose life would be more interesting than another.

Of course, we all think our lives are meaningful, and we have done many things that would interest someone else if we were to put them down on paper.

I have read a few, and some were quite good, they went on about a specific period, or periods where they had a role that, at the time, would have been designated secret, but once that had past, people could be told what really happened.

I speak of one person who was very involved in the machinations of World War Two from the British standpoint, and I found it fascinating.

Someone else, however, would have found it very boring. It was not Winston Churchill, whose life I did read about, but someone else that very few would remember.

I like reading the life stories of other writers and some of the material is quite fascinating, and sometimes blatant name-dropping. That period between the two world wars still fascinates me, and I would have loved to be involved with that group of writers.

Just to meet and talk to Ernest Hemmingway, for one. Or F Scott Fitzgerald as another. Then there is Agatha Christie or Ngaio Marsh, or Ian Fleming. The stories he must have to tell.

Going back in time, perhaps Wilkie Collins and very definitely Charles Dickens, Anthony Trollop and a quick trip over to Russia to drop in on Leo Tolstoy or even Boris Pasternak.

As for my story …. it would be thirty-five shades of boring.

Day 50

Today’s discussion point: autobiography.

…

Who’s to say whose life would be more interesting than another.

Of course, we all think our lives are meaningful, and we have done many things that would interest someone else if we were to put them down on paper.

I have read a few, and some were quite good, they went on about a specific period, or [periods where they had a role that, at the time, would have been designated secret, but once that had past, people could be told what really happened.

I speak of one person who was very involved in the machinations of World War Two from the British standpoint, and I found it fascinating.

Someone else, however, would have found it very boring. It was not Winston Churchill, whose life I did read about, but someone else that very few would remember.

I like reading the life stories of other writers and some of the material is quite fascinating, and sometimes blatant name-dropping. That period between the two world wars still fascinates me, and I would have loved to be involved with that group of writers.

Just to meet and talk to Ernest Hemmingway, for one. Or F Scott Fitzgerald as another. Then there is Agatha Christie or Ngaio Marsh, or Ian Fleming. The stories he must have to tell.

Going back in time, perhaps Wilkie Collins and very definitely Charles Dickens, Anthony Trollop and a quick trip over to Russia to drop in on Leo Tolstoy or even Boris Pasternak.

As for my story …. it would be thirty-five shades of boring.

Day 49

A writing exercise – starting with:

…

The day he sold the house on Mulberry Lane where he had laid his head to sleep every night of his life was, he thought, the happiest he had ever been.

It was not as if it started out as a house of horrors, in fact, from the moment he could remember the house, about six or seven, it had been an idyllic refuge. That was what his mother had told him, before he went to boarding school, before she remarried, before that man who told him the first day they met he was going to send him away, as far away as possible.

Those days before his world was turned upside down…

…

He stood in from of the cottage, now almost resumed by the forest it had been nestled in. He just just barely see the window on the second floor, a special room his first father had built into the roof, a room with a view of the valley and the small stream that ran through it, of the fields with the cattle and sheep, or crops, and then grass as far as they could see.

It was his playground, the play hide and seek, to go down to the stream and swin on hot days in the summer, or pretend that he was a pirate on the high seas.

And then after dinner, a story from his mother, he lay his head on the pillow and dreamed of the adventures he would have when he grew up.

Then, on a cold stormy night that world changed a little. His father had been in an accident and he was not coming home. it was just going to be them, and that life would not change.

For what seemed a long time, it didn’t. Then another man came, a man who seemed to make his mother happy, but there was something about him. He didn’t like him, and he soon discovered the man didn’t like him.

There was a wedding, and they went away, leaving him with his Aunt, a rather severe woman who lived in Scotland, a long way away from his house in the forest. He was there for what seemed a long time, then hos mother returned alone and told him that his new father wanted to travel, and that she was going to travel with him and he would be going to a special school for children with parents that travelled.

He asked why he couldn’t go with them, but she said was that he was better off in the special school. He would live there, and get a special education, one that if he stay with them, he wouldn’t. Then, as suddenly as she appeared, she was gone.

…

He did not know that it would be the last time he would see her. He did not know that his mother had left responsibility for him with his Aunt. He was upset when she didn’t visit him at the school, or come get him during the holidays. Those times he went to Scotland to stay with his aunt.

He did not know until he left the school that his mother had died that first year in boarding school, or that his new father had murdered he and stole her fortune and his inheritance.

And now, standing in front of that house where he had been happiest, he tried very hard to remember his father and his mother, but not remember either of them. Only that horrid man who had stolen everything from them.

That man he had buried at the back of the house down the bottom of the well.

He spend six years tracking him down, and when he made an appointment to see him, the man had not recognised him. It took a week to assume his identity and take everything back. What was left of the fortune, the inheritance which hadn’t been touched, and the house which he discovered the man had not visited or maintained. The man had perpetrated the same evil of a dozen other women, and he took all of that too.

Then he told the man what he’d done and told him if he wanted it back to come to the cottage in the forest. He was surprised the man agreed.

He had advertised the property, and had a single buyer contact him. The original owner of the property. The offer was acceptable, they shok hands on the deal, and after a final look, and a lot of memories returning briefly, he left.

Those memories were of his childhood, and now that chapter had closed, he could finally get on with his life.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 49

A writing exercise – starting with:

…

The day he sold the house on Mulberry Lane where he had laid his head to sleep every night of his life was, he thought, the happiest he had ever been.

It was not as if it started out as a house of horrors, in fact, from the moment he could remember the house, about six or seven, it had been an idyllic refuge. That was what his mother had told him, before he went to boarding school, before she remarried, before that man who told him the first day they met he was going to send him away, as far away as possible.

Those days before his world was turned upside down…

…

He stood in from of the cottage, now almost resumed by the forest it had been nestled in. He just just barely see the window on the second floor, a special room his first father had built into the roof, a room with a view of the valley and the small stream that ran through it, of the fields with the cattle and sheep, or crops, and then grass as far as they could see.

It was his playground, the play hide and seek, to go down to the stream and swin on hot days in the summer, or pretend that he was a pirate on the high seas.

And then after dinner, a story from his mother, he lay his head on the pillow and dreamed of the adventures he would have when he grew up.

Then, on a cold stormy night that world changed a little. His father had been in an accident and he was not coming home. it was just going to be them, and that life would not change.

For what seemed a long time, it didn’t. Then another man came, a man who seemed to make his mother happy, but there was something about him. He didn’t like him, and he soon discovered the man didn’t like him.

There was a wedding, and they went away, leaving him with his Aunt, a rather severe woman who lived in Scotland, a long way away from his house in the forest. He was there for what seemed a long time, then hos mother returned alone and told him that his new father wanted to travel, and that she was going to travel with him and he would be going to a special school for children with parents that travelled.

He asked why he couldn’t go with them, but she said was that he was better off in the special school. He would live there, and get a special education, one that if he stay with them, he wouldn’t. Then, as suddenly as she appeared, she was gone.

…

He did not know that it would be the last time he would see her. He did not know that his mother had left responsibility for him with his Aunt. He was upset when she didn’t visit him at the school, or come get him during the holidays. Those times he went to Scotland to stay with his aunt.

He did not know until he left the school that his mother had died that first year in boarding school, or that his new father had murdered he and stole her fortune and his inheritance.

And now, standing in front of that house where he had been happiest, he tried very hard to remember his father and his mother, but not remember either of them. Only that horrid man who had stolen everything from them.

That man he had buried at the back of the house down the bottom of the well.

He spend six years tracking him down, and when he made an appointment to see him, the man had not recognised him. It took a week to assume his identity and take everything back. What was left of the fortune, the inheritance which hadn’t been touched, and the house which he discovered the man had not visited or maintained. The man had perpetrated the same evil of a dozen other women, and he took all of that too.

Then he told the man what he’d done and told him if he wanted it back to come to the cottage in the forest. He was surprised the man agreed.

He had advertised the property, and had a single buyer contact him. The original owner of the property. The offer was acceptable, they shok hands on the deal, and after a final look, and a lot of memories returning briefly, he left.

Those memories were of his childhood, and now that chapter had closed, he could finally get on with his life.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 48

Heartbreak as inspiration

…

It’s the one feeling we never want to feel, and yet we can experience it in various forms, many times during our lifetime.

Reading the average Mills and Book, there are always large doses of heartbreak, whether it is at the start when the girl expects that a particular dinner date is a proposal, but instead is the breakup, to the middle where misinterpretation of events with exes or rivals sends one or the other into a heartbreaking spiral.

it depends on the story you want to tell. You can have a spy story with an incidental affair that might lead to something more interesting, only to have one or the other caught in the crossfire. I remember one particular James Bond film where Mrs Bond was killed in a drive-by.

I must say the actress playing her was my favourite at the time, and I was very, very unhappy.

Undoubtedly, a break-up and the memories of that relationship could lead to writing a compelling narrative, and in fact, some of the more starker memories of my own have been translated into several stories and one book. So far.

Something else I realised, quite a number of autobiographies I have read have touched on the subject in many different ways, some benefitting from the experience, others finding it hard to get over, particularly when it is a first love. They are the most potent, and the most painful when it comes to an end.

Day 48

Heartbreak as inspiration

…

It’s the one feeling we never want to feel, and yet we can experience it in various forms, many times during our lifetime.

Reading the average Mills and Book, there are always large doses of heartbreak, whether it is at the start when the girl expects that a particular dinner date is a proposal, but instead is the breakup, to the middle where misinterpretation of events with exes or rivals sends one or the other into a heartbreaking spiral.

it depends on the story you want to tell. You can have a spy story with an incidental affair that might lead to something more interesting, only to have one or the other caught in the crossfire. I remember one particular James Bond film where Mrs Bond was killed in a drive-by.

I must say the actress playing her was my favourite at the time, and I was very, very unhappy.

Undoubtedly, a break-up and the memories of that relationship could lead to writing a compelling narrative, and in fact, some of the more starker memories of my own have been translated into several stories and one book. So far.

Something else I realised, quite a number of autobiographies I have read have touched on the subject in many different ways, some benefitting from the experience, others finding it hard to get over, particularly when it is a first love. They are the most potent, and the most painful when it comes to an end.