Daya 46 and 47

A writing exercise

…

This end-of-week writing exercise is to take a particular painting, one of three suggestions, and write a story.

Well, I haven’t exactly been doing this forever, but as a variation, I take photographs and write stories around them.

I call it ‘A photograph from the inspiration bin’.

Nearly all of my short stories come from a photograph, either one I’ve taken or one that I’ve found on a royalty-free site.

However, today, it’s going to be different. I’m picking a painting and writing a story.

…

Night Windows by Edward Hopper, 1928

…

It’s not so much that my apartment building was across the street, that it was overlooking another that had an occupant who was not afraid to pull the curtains and take what privacy that might offer.

At first, it was disconcerting, because I had a little balcony and on the warm summer nights I would put a blanket down and lie down, staring up at the sky, not that any part of it could be clearly discerned.

What that balcony offered was any coolness that was on offer and the sounds of the city gently drifting up to my level. Sounds often soothing enough to put me to sleep.

But it was the apartment opposite, one level lower, a corner with three windows, and the room that was clearly set aside to sit and relax.

The first time Josie appeared in that room, the first time I saw her was the day after she moved in. It was not hard, in the confines of the apartment building on that part of the street, to notice who came and who went.

She stood at the window and surveyed what were to be her neighbours, her eyes finally resting on my balcony, not that I was looking, but when I did, our eyes met, and she smiled.

It was the beginning of summer. Life was easy, and the post-war malaise had long dissipated into a feeling that things could only get better. The newspapers were calling it the Roaring Twenties.

Over the next few weeks, she appeared at odd times, opening the windows and taking in the breeze. I took to speculating what her profession might be and landed on the most obvious showgirl.

Then, one night, I saw her peering out into the night, glancing in every direction as the rain began to fall, and I had to beat a hasty retreat.

Ten minutes later, there was a light rapping on my door; a surprise because I had yet to cultivate any acquainted in my building even though I had seen and briefly spoken to several.

I waited until a second knock and then went over to the door and opened it.

The girl from across the road, half damp from walking in the rain, water in her hair, and a few drops running down the side of her face.

“Hello,” she said.

I thought she had come to tell me to stop looking over. It was difficult not to, given how close the buildings were, and it was not as if one could look in that direction and not see her.

“Hello to you.”

“May I come on?”

I nodded and stood to one side to let her pass. A passing thought, she was very brave to enter the apartment, not knowing who was there.

I closed the door but did not lock it. She crossed to the window and looked out, then turned.

“Would you like a towel?”

“I am a bit damp, aren’t I. I misjudged how heavy it was. Yes, if you have a spare.”

I did, fetched it, and gave it to her, then I waited until she’d finished. I think it was an advantage that her hair was short.

Then, after another glance over at her apartment, one indeed partially open, the soft lighting left on casting a subdued glow over the room, she looked at me.

“I wanted to look at what my living room looked like from the outside.”

“I believe some people would kill just to get that room. You were lucky if you were rich, perhaps?”

“My grandmother’s, I’m afraid, and I am only staying there while she takes the steamer to Europe for the summer. Then it’s back to the farm.”

“First time?”

“No, we come once a year. I came this time to audition for dancing roles in stage productions or cabarets, but it’s a brutal business. A country girl like me has a lot to learn, and I’d hate to come here without anything, and try to make it.”

“Have you had any success?”

I had to admit I was surprised that she made the effort to come over, in fact, to work out which apartment I was in, that she would want to.

“No. Got sore feet and aches in places I never knew existed. It’s a lonely business. I see you out there soaking up what little breeze there is, and I wondered how you manage.”

“You should not be so trusting.”

“Call it country girl common sense, but I can tell good from bad. You spend more time pretending I’m not there. That, to me, says a little about your character. My name is Josie, short for Josephine, but I hate Jo.”

“Tim, short for Timothy, and only my parents use Timothy when they’re angry with me, which was most of the time.”

We shook hands or perhaps touched hands.

“City boy?”

“No. Midwest, I learned to ride a horse before I could walk. I don’t hate it, but there’s a lot of worlds out there, and I want to see some of it before I have to go back. How long are you here?”

“A couple of months. I don’t see success on the horizon. I thought my dancing skills were quite good. Perhaps back in Wisconsin, maybe, but not here. Can I call you a friend?”

“If you are in need of one.”

She smiled. “In a place like this, at least one.”

“Would you like to have dinner one night? There’s a diner not far away, and the food is quite good.”

“A date?”

“Dinner. Is that a date?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be. If you can work out my apartment number, call on me tomorrow night.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Daya 46 and 47

A writing exercise

…

This end-of-week writing exercise is to take a particular painting, one of three suggestions, and write a story.

Well, I haven’t exactly been doing this forever, but as a variation, I take photographs and write stories around them.

I call it ‘A photograph from the inspiration bin’.

Nearly all of my short stories come from a photograph, either one I’ve taken or one that I’ve found on a royalty-free site.

However, today, it’s going to be different. I’m picking a painting and writing a story.

…

Night Windows by Edward Hopper, 1928

…

It’s not so much that my apartment building was across the street, that it was overlooking another that had an occupant who was not afraid to pull the curtains and take what privacy that might offer.

At first, it was disconcerting, because I had a little balcony and on the warm summer nights I would put a blanket down and lie down, staring up at the sky, not that any part of it could be clearly discerned.

What that balcony offered was any coolness that was on offer and the sounds of the city gently drifting up to my level. Sounds often soothing enough to put me to sleep.

But it was the apartment opposite, one level lower, a corner with three windows, and the room that was clearly set aside to sit and relax.

The first time Josie appeared in that room, the first time I saw her was the day after she moved in. It was not hard, in the confines of the apartment building on that part of the street, to notice who came and who went.

She stood at the window and surveyed what were to be her neighbours, her eyes finally resting on my balcony, not that I was looking, but when I did, our eyes met, and she smiled.

It was the beginning of summer. Life was easy, and the post-war malaise had long dissipated into a feeling that things could only get better. The newspapers were calling it the Roaring Twenties.

Over the next few weeks, she appeared at odd times, opening the windows and taking in the breeze. I took to speculating what her profession might be and landed on the most obvious showgirl.

Then, one night, I saw her peering out into the night, glancing in every direction as the rain began to fall, and I had to beat a hasty retreat.

Ten minutes later, there was a light rapping on my door; a surprise because I had yet to cultivate any acquainted in my building even though I had seen and briefly spoken to several.

I waited until a second knock and then went over to the door and opened it.

The girl from across the road, half damp from walking in the rain, water in her hair, and a few drops running down the side of her face.

“Hello,” she said.

I thought she had come to tell me to stop looking over. It was difficult not to, given how close the buildings were, and it was not as if one could look in that direction and not see her.

“Hello to you.”

“May I come on?”

I nodded and stood to one side to let her pass. A passing thought, she was very brave to enter the apartment, not knowing who was there.

I closed the door but did not lock it. She crossed to the window and looked out, then turned.

“Would you like a towel?”

“I am a bit damp, aren’t I. I misjudged how heavy it was. Yes, if you have a spare.”

I did, fetched it, and gave it to her, then I waited until she’d finished. I think it was an advantage that her hair was short.

Then, after another glance over at her apartment, one indeed partially open, the soft lighting left on casting a subdued glow over the room, she looked at me.

“I wanted to look at what my living room looked like from the outside.”

“I believe some people would kill just to get that room. You were lucky if you were rich, perhaps?”

“My grandmother’s, I’m afraid, and I am only staying there while she takes the steamer to Europe for the summer. Then it’s back to the farm.”

“First time?”

“No, we come once a year. I came this time to audition for dancing roles in stage productions or cabarets, but it’s a brutal business. A country girl like me has a lot to learn, and I’d hate to come here without anything, and try to make it.”

“Have you had any success?”

I had to admit I was surprised that she made the effort to come over, in fact, to work out which apartment I was in, that she would want to.

“No. Got sore feet and aches in places I never knew existed. It’s a lonely business. I see you out there soaking up what little breeze there is, and I wondered how you manage.”

“You should not be so trusting.”

“Call it country girl common sense, but I can tell good from bad. You spend more time pretending I’m not there. That, to me, says a little about your character. My name is Josie, short for Josephine, but I hate Jo.”

“Tim, short for Timothy, and only my parents use Timothy when they’re angry with me, which was most of the time.”

We shook hands or perhaps touched hands.

“City boy?”

“No. Midwest, I learned to ride a horse before I could walk. I don’t hate it, but there’s a lot of worlds out there, and I want to see some of it before I have to go back. How long are you here?”

“A couple of months. I don’t see success on the horizon. I thought my dancing skills were quite good. Perhaps back in Wisconsin, maybe, but not here. Can I call you a friend?”

“If you are in need of one.”

She smiled. “In a place like this, at least one.”

“Would you like to have dinner one night? There’s a diner not far away, and the food is quite good.”

“A date?”

“Dinner. Is that a date?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be. If you can work out my apartment number, call on me tomorrow night.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

My story 4

Most spies are loners.  They don’t like help, except in rare circumstances, and certainly don’t want a partner that could at any time be used for leverage.

Those are the rules, be responsible for or to anyone else, no permanent home, and with the motto, by any and all means available.

Oh, and the one attribute that makes them look like everyone else, that ability to blend in, anywhere, and not look like exactly what they are.

I personally have that down to a fine art.  No one notices me, even when I stand at the bar waiting to get a drink.  People seem to not see me, or there are too many other distractions to get their attention.

This time our protagonist is going to be on the way back from a disastrous mission that almost killed him.  After a year of rehabilitation, the aches and pains are still there, and the mental scars have not healed.

There are questions, so far with no answers, and that will be a thread we’ll be following.

Of course, if the protagonist is male, then the partner is female, and, of course, is the type that commands the attention of every male in a crowded bar.

Whatever happened to ordinary women?

Well, this is the spy business.  We don’t do ordinary.

But…

There’s always a first time.

I’m thinking; the proverbial shy and reserved librarian, conservatively dressed, hair always in a severe bun, glasses, and ten years off the pace for fashion trends.

Clever, and dangerous, the type of woman who goes hang gliding, or parachuting, just for the hell of it.

Maybe this time we might make a slight adjustment, she was once a librarian, one that fell for a chap from the wrong side of the tracks.  He escaped and she got five years in jail.

And there’s nothing like jail to take the innocence away and leave something very savage behind.

It’s not beyond the realms of possibility she will have fake blonde hair with green streaks.

My story 4

Most spies are loners.  They don’t like help, except in rare circumstances, and certainly don’t want a partner that could at any time be used for leverage.

Those are the rules, be responsible for or to anyone else, no permanent home, and with the motto, by any and all means available.

Oh, and the one attribute that makes them look like everyone else, that ability to blend in, anywhere, and not look like exactly what they are.

I personally have that down to a fine art.  No one notices me, even when I stand at the bar waiting to get a drink.  People seem to not see me, or there are too many other distractions to get their attention.

This time our protagonist is going to be on the way back from a disastrous mission that almost killed him.  After a year of rehabilitation, the aches and pains are still there, and the mental scars have not healed.

There are questions, so far with no answers, and that will be a thread we’ll be following.

Of course, if the protagonist is male, then the partner is female, and, of course, is the type that commands the attention of every male in a crowded bar.

Whatever happened to ordinary women?

Well, this is the spy business.  We don’t do ordinary.

But…

There’s always a first time.

I’m thinking; the proverbial shy and reserved librarian, conservatively dressed, hair always in a severe bun, glasses, and ten years off the pace for fashion trends.

Clever, and dangerous, the type of woman who goes hang gliding, or parachuting, just for the hell of it.

Maybe this time we might make a slight adjustment, she was once a librarian, one that fell for a chap from the wrong side of the tracks.  He escaped and she got five years in jail.

And there’s nothing like jail to take the innocence away and leave something very savage behind.

It’s not beyond the realms of possibility she will have fake blonde hair with green streaks.

Day 45

Time management, or not so much time management, to set a daily routine so a project can be completed.

It’s not so hard, really.  After all, to build underground railways or any multi-billion-dollar project, they trot out a project management tool and plan it from start to finish.

For me, I use the simplistic method of planning a novel based on the fact that I’m trying to write 50,000 words a day for 30 days in November.

Yes, you guessed it – NANOWRIMO.

That’s 1,633 words a day, and that’s easy, isn’t it?.

Well, over time, I have managed to get the hang of writing a novel every November.  I will admit that I
Start thinking about the process much earlier than just sitting down on November I and start writing.

The reason for that it I tried the first time and like any novel written from the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants method, you can only go so far before the ideas dry up and suddenly with pressure mounting writer’s block sets in.

I still don’t necessarily plan every detail, but I do have the start, which is usually a short story written in April as part of the A to Z month.

And in the period between April and November, a few more stories might appear, basically giving me a head start.  So despite the fact I say I’m what they call a panther, I really do some sort of planning before I tackle a novel.

Of course, that is not the only novel I write for the year, there is my series of books, long and short, The Cinema of my Dreams, and series like those involving Zoe the Assassin.  They take longer, and a few years to write, in between everything else.

However, what works for me may not work for you.  It’s just a starting point, and over time, you will find your groove. 

Day 45

Time management, or not so much time management, to set a daily routine so a 4oject can be completed.

It’s not so hard, really.  After all, to build underground railways or any multi-billion dollar project, they trot out a project management tool and plan it from start to finish.

For me, I use the simplistic method of planning a novel based on the fact that I’m trying to write 50,000 words a day for 30 days in November.

Yes, you guessed it – NANOWRIMO.

That’s 1,633 words a day, and that’s easy, isn’t it?.

Well, over time, I have managed to get the hang of writing a novel every November.  I will admit that I
Start thinking about the process much earlier than just sitting down on November I and start writing.

The reason for that it I tried the first time and like any novel written from the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants method, you can only go so far before the ideas dry up and suddenly with pressure mounting writer’s block sets in.

I still don’t necessarily plan every detail, but I do have the start, which is usually a short story written in April as part of the A to Z month.

And in the period between April and November, a few more stories might appear, basically giving me a head start.  So despite the fact I say I’m what they call a panther, I really do some sort of planning before I tackle a novel.

Of course, that is not the only novel I write for the year, there is my series of books, long and short, The Cinema of my Dreams, and series like those involving Zoe the Assassin.  They take longer, and a few years to write, in between everything else.

However, what works for me may not work for you.  It’s just a starting point, and over time, you will find your groove. 

Day 44

Why do we do it?

That’s the eternal question asked of nearly every writer/author whether successful or not.

Of course for the successful writer, though it’s hard to put a correct label on what constitutes successful, it’s either because we can make an adequate living out of it, and if it’s not that, for me anyway, it is the life of writing and the joy when someone reads a piece and leaves s review that makes it all worthwhile.

It’s not always about the money.

Most writers have a day job and squirrel themselves away in a variety of places they call their writing space and yoil long into the night, or over the weekends, trying to fit in everything else.

For most out happy times are when we are constructing a story, lost in another world, away from the everyday hustle bustle and problems usually left behind when the kids go to sleep.

I’m sure I would like to travel the world but it would only to be in search of locations of my stories, there is no such thing as a holiday that is just a holiday, and there’s a reason why Venice is a favoured location, as is London, as is New York.

These days when my other half is visiting doctors, hospitals, and specialists, those long hours in the waiting room are spent conjuring up new stories, working on current projects and just dreaming.

We spend a lot of time in these places, and she gets to read and I get to write. I’m sure a lot of the others wonder what it is that I am up to. Our GP whom we visit at least once a month and the wait can be up to about an hour has noticed when he comes out to call us in, and always asks what I’m up to.

If I didn’t have something to write, I think I would go bonkers.

Day 44

Why do we do it?

That’s the eternal question asked of nearly every writer/author whether successful or not.

Of course for the successful writer, though it’s hard to put a correct label on what constitutes successful, it’s either because we can make an adequate living out of it, and if it’s not that, for me anyway, it is the life of writing and the joy when someone reads a piece and leaves s review that makes it all worthwhile.

It’s not always about the money.

Most writers have a day job and squirrel themselves away in a variety of places they call their writing space and yoil long into the night, or over the weekends, trying to fit in everything else.

For most out happy times are when we are constructing a story, lost in another world, away from the everyday hustle bustle and problems usually left behind when the kids go to sleep.

I’m sure I would like to travel the world but it would only to be in search of locations of my stories, there is no such thing as a holiday that is just a holiday, and there’s a reason why Venice is a favoured location, as is London, as is New York.

These days when my other half is visiting doctors, hospitals, and specialists, those long hours in the waiting room are spent conjuring up new stories, working on current projects and just dreaming.

We spend a lot of time in these places, and she gets to read and I get to write. I’m sure a lot of the others wonder what it is that I am up to. Our GP whom we visit at least once a month and the wait can be up to about an hour has noticed when he comes out to call us in, and always asks what I’m up to.

If I didn’t have something to write, I think I would go bonkers.

Day 43

When a short story becomes a novel

It Started as an A to Z blog post and took NaNoWriMo to make it happen

…

Of late, I have been writing this year’s A to Z blog, which, since 2019, have been 26 short stories themed on the alphabet.

Last year, when I was writing a particular story, when I finished it, it seemed like there was more.

That’s when an idea hit me, and I started writing.  Some years, a particular story captures my attention, and I write another, which will come another of the 26, and rarely, I will write a third.

The thing is, it turned out to be a more interesting subject that had a larger story and do it began, adding chapters as the story developed in my mind, so that by the time November, and NANOWRIMO arrived it was almost a full length novel.

By the way, NANOWRIMO is short for National November Writers Month.  It has a website site, and the Writing Task, it is not a competition, is to write a novel of over 50,000 words over the 39 days of November.

I have done this for the last seven or eight years and managed to complete at least seven full-length novels.

Two of them so far have started as short stories, and I think there will be another this year.

The A to Z blog event is held in April and runs for 26 days, excluding Sundays.  Each blog entry is about a letter, starting with A.

In the first year, I did it with words. From then on, I decided to write short stories, starting with A is for: along with the title of the story.

So far, I have written nearly 250 short stories, of which about 20 have become what I call long short stories.

Day 43

When a short story becomes a novel

It Started as an A to Z blog post and took NaNoWriMo to make it happen

…

Of late, I have been writing this year’s A to Z blog, which, since 2019, have been 26 short stories themed on the alphabet.

Last year, when I was writing a particular story, when I finished it, it seemed like there was more.

That’s when an idea hit me, and I started writing.  Some years, a particular story captures my attention, and I write another, which will come another of the 26, and rarely, I will write a third.

The thing is, it turned out to be a more interesting subject that had a larger story and do it began, adding chapters as the story developed in my mind, so that by the time November, and NANOWRIMO arrived it was almost a full length novel.

By the way, NANOWRIMO is short for National November Writers Month.  It has a website site, and the Writing Task, it is not a competition, is to write a novel of over 50,000 words over the 39 days of November.

I have done this for the last seven or eight years and managed to complete at least seven full-length novels.

Two of them so far have started as short stories, and I think there will be another this year.

The A to Z blog event is held in April and runs for 26 days, excluding Sundays.  Each blog entry is about a letter, starting with A.

In the first year, I did it with words. From then on, I decided to write short stories, starting with A is for: along with the title of the story.

So far, I have written nearly 250 short stories, of which about 20 have become what I call long short stories.