Day 103 – It’s easy, all I have to do is write stories

…

Beyond the Myth: Leigh Brackett and the Hard Truth of Professional Fiction

For many aspiring writers, the dream begins early. It’s a seductive, glittering mirage: the idea that you can simply sit down, tap a few keys or scrawl across a page, and “easy money” will flow forth in exchange for your tales.

Leigh Brackett, the legendary “Queen of Space Opera” and the force behind iconic screenplays like The Big Sleep and The Empire Strikes Back, began her journey with that very notion. For Brackett, the idea of writing as a living wasn’t just a career path; it was a beckoning light that captivated her at the age of thirteen.

But as Brackett’s prolific career eventually proved, the distance between the idea of easy money and the reality of a professional writing career is vast. To turn a childhood fascination into a lifelong vocation, Brackett—and anyone who follows in her footsteps—had to learn that writing is not a shortcut to riches; it is a discipline of iron.

The Myth of the “Easy” Vocation

When you are thirteen, the act of storytelling feels like magic. It is unburdened by deadlines, market trends, or the daunting weight of editorial rejection. Brackett, like many others, viewed the pen as a wand.

However, Brackett quickly learned that the “easy money” myth is a dangerous trap. It ignores the cold, hard reality that writing for a living is a business. It requires more than just a vivid imagination; it requires the fortitude to treat your craft with the same seriousness as an architect treats a blueprint or a surgeon treats a theatre.

What Else Does It Take?

If not “easy money,” then what fueled Brackett’s longevity in a field as fickle as pulp fiction and Hollywood screenwriting? It takes a combination of grit, adaptability, and a relentless evolution of craft.

1. The Discipline of the “Daily Grind”

Brackett didn’t wait for the Muses to descend. She understood that a professional writer shows up. She treated writing as a job, sitting down at the typewriter day after day, regardless of whether the words flowed like water or felt like pulling teeth. Inspiration is for amateurs; professionals have a schedule.

2. Radical Adaptability

Brackett’s career path was a testament to survival. She moved from the pulps of the 1940s to the high-stakes world of Hollywood noir, and eventually to the blockbusters of the late 70s. She didn’t cling to one medium. She learned the nuances of dialogue, the structure of a screenplay, and the pacing of a novel. To succeed for decades, you must be willing to learn new languages of storytelling and pivot when the industry shifts.

3. Developing a “Thick Skin”

The myth suggests that writing is a form of self-expression where your soul is the product. The reality is that your work is a commodity subject to intense scrutiny, brutal edits, and rejection. Brackett’s ability to take the “notes” from studio executives or editors without losing the integrity of her voice was vital. She understood that being edited wasn’t a personal attack; it was part of the refinement process.

4. The Craft over the Ego

Finally, it takes a genuine, unyielding love for the craft itself. Brackett didn’t just love the “money” or the “status”; she loved the challenge of building worlds. When the money was thin, and the deadlines were crushing, it was the intellectual puzzle of constructing a narrative—of finding the right word, the perfect plot twist, the emotional anchor—that kept her in the chair.

The Takeaway

Leigh Brackett’s journey from a thirteen-year-old dreamer to a titan of science fiction reminds us that while writing can become a career, it is never “easy.”

If you are looking for easy money, there are faster ways to find it. But if you are looking for a vocation—a calling that demands your best, pushes your limits, and forces you to grow every single day—then you are in the right place. Just remember: professional writing is earned in the trenches, one word at a time, long after the myth of “easy” has faded away.

Day 103 – It’s easy, all I have to do is write stories

…

Beyond the Myth: Leigh Brackett and the Hard Truth of Professional Fiction

For many aspiring writers, the dream begins early. It’s a seductive, glittering mirage: the idea that you can simply sit down, tap a few keys or scrawl across a page, and “easy money” will flow forth in exchange for your tales.

Leigh Brackett, the legendary “Queen of Space Opera” and the force behind iconic screenplays like The Big Sleep and The Empire Strikes Back, began her journey with that very notion. For Brackett, the idea of writing as a living wasn’t just a career path; it was a beckoning light that captivated her at the age of thirteen.

But as Brackett’s prolific career eventually proved, the distance between the idea of easy money and the reality of a professional writing career is vast. To turn a childhood fascination into a lifelong vocation, Brackett—and anyone who follows in her footsteps—had to learn that writing is not a shortcut to riches; it is a discipline of iron.

The Myth of the “Easy” Vocation

When you are thirteen, the act of storytelling feels like magic. It is unburdened by deadlines, market trends, or the daunting weight of editorial rejection. Brackett, like many others, viewed the pen as a wand.

However, Brackett quickly learned that the “easy money” myth is a dangerous trap. It ignores the cold, hard reality that writing for a living is a business. It requires more than just a vivid imagination; it requires the fortitude to treat your craft with the same seriousness as an architect treats a blueprint or a surgeon treats a theatre.

What Else Does It Take?

If not “easy money,” then what fueled Brackett’s longevity in a field as fickle as pulp fiction and Hollywood screenwriting? It takes a combination of grit, adaptability, and a relentless evolution of craft.

1. The Discipline of the “Daily Grind”

Brackett didn’t wait for the Muses to descend. She understood that a professional writer shows up. She treated writing as a job, sitting down at the typewriter day after day, regardless of whether the words flowed like water or felt like pulling teeth. Inspiration is for amateurs; professionals have a schedule.

2. Radical Adaptability

Brackett’s career path was a testament to survival. She moved from the pulps of the 1940s to the high-stakes world of Hollywood noir, and eventually to the blockbusters of the late 70s. She didn’t cling to one medium. She learned the nuances of dialogue, the structure of a screenplay, and the pacing of a novel. To succeed for decades, you must be willing to learn new languages of storytelling and pivot when the industry shifts.

3. Developing a “Thick Skin”

The myth suggests that writing is a form of self-expression where your soul is the product. The reality is that your work is a commodity subject to intense scrutiny, brutal edits, and rejection. Brackett’s ability to take the “notes” from studio executives or editors without losing the integrity of her voice was vital. She understood that being edited wasn’t a personal attack; it was part of the refinement process.

4. The Craft over the Ego

Finally, it takes a genuine, unyielding love for the craft itself. Brackett didn’t just love the “money” or the “status”; she loved the challenge of building worlds. When the money was thin, and the deadlines were crushing, it was the intellectual puzzle of constructing a narrative—of finding the right word, the perfect plot twist, the emotional anchor—that kept her in the chair.

The Takeaway

Leigh Brackett’s journey from a thirteen-year-old dreamer to a titan of science fiction reminds us that while writing can become a career, it is never “easy.”

If you are looking for easy money, there are faster ways to find it. But if you are looking for a vocation—a calling that demands your best, pushes your limits, and forces you to grow every single day—then you are in the right place. Just remember: professional writing is earned in the trenches, one word at a time, long after the myth of “easy” has faded away.

Days 101 and 102 – Writing exercise

A random few pages of a novel you might write – the idea of a story

…

It was a perfect day for a funeral.  Overcast, cold, snow imminent, after a week of snow culminating on a blizzard the night before.

I shivered.  Was it her Ghost?

No one had told me Gwen had died, and I had to find out from a newspaper.  I guess that was the price to be paid for being an ex.

It was not my choice; she had decided to move on to bigger and better things with a man who was, in her words, aspired to far more than I ever would.

At the time, I would have agreed with her.  I didn’t make a fuss when I discovered the affair, nor did I make it difficult for her to do as she wished.  I loved her, always would, and it was better to let her follow her heart.

The children, Ben and Amber, decided they wanted to go with her; the thought of living in a mansion and having a life of luxury was more appealing than staying with me.

Again, I didn’t object, believing they would be happier there.

And now, twenty years almost to the day she left, here we were.  A cemetery.  The last place I expected to be ten days before Christmas.

Oh, by the way, I hadn’t been invited to the funeral service, so I didn’t get into the church, which was for families and celebrities only. No, I was at the burial plot, waiting to have the last word.

Perhaps not getting an invite was a blessing in disguise.

To say that I abhorred Jerry Northington-Jobson from the very first moment I saw him would be an understatement.

He was the only child of perhaps the fifth richest noble family in the country, spoilt beyond reason, indolent, rude, and the last man I expected Gwen would so much as look once at let alone twice.

When his parents died, in suspicious circumstances, I might add, he became the seventh Earl of something or other, the owner of a dozen estates in England and throughout Europe, and then Gwen’s second husband.

He was a lucky man.

Until she died.

In the last week, there was little else in the newspapers, every minute detail of his affairs, of his company’s misdemeanours, and the most telling of all, how he had, in twenty-plus years, spent every penny of his inheritance, and then some, on bad investments, gambling, and simply travelling around the world.

Had Gwen been alive to see it, it would have destroyed her.  I honestly believed she had no idea what their financial state would have been.

Nor would she, or any of her friends, had they been invited, have appreciated the funeral he had planned.

My cell phone vibrated in my hand.

“It’s over, sir.”

“Thank you.”

I felt, for a second, like I was in a spy novel.  It was nothing like that, just a friend who had got into the church where the service was being held, so I’d know when the coffin would arrive at the plot.

It seemed an odd way of seeing her to her final resting place, but it was the only way.  My request for a seat in the church had been denied.

It took about ten minutes before the procession came into view, with the priest leading the way.  Jerry Northington-Jobson, at the head of the coffin bearers, looked every bit the stricken husband over the loss of his wife.

Yet, according to the message I just received on the service, he had delivered a somewhat emotional eulogy that lacked, yes, real emotion.

It took five more minutes before the coffin was laid on the struts over the open grave, and those willing to brave the minus temperature to hear the last eulogy before her body was committed to the ground.

Fittingly, light snow began to fall at the same time the priest uttered his first words, in Latin.

I had forgotten they were both Roman Catholic.  That had been another strike against me; I did not have the same faith in God.

Then it was over, and the cold scattered the participants, and within a quarter hour, everyone was gone.  Everyone but this strange old man, standing at the grave, shedding a tear or two.

“Are you really an irascible old man?”

I turned, then looked down.  It was a girl, dressed in black, about five or six years old.

“It depends on who told you that.”

“My mother.  She tells me you are my long-lost grandfather, the one we never talk about.”

OK, that was a surprise.  Having not heard about any children, the children were too busy making asses of themselves in public as befitting the rich and somewhat famous; it was not improbable that this was my great-granddaughter.

“And why is that?”  I kept my voice in the same low conspiratorial tone.

“He deserted my grandmother, but I think he dodged a bullet.”

I almost laughed, just managing to keep a straight face.  She was obviously repeating what she had heard elsewhere, but it was hard to believe it would come from Amber.  The last words I spoke to her, she hated me.

“What’s your name?”

“Daisy “

“I’m Ken.  Sometimes irascible, but I don’t go out very often.”

“Do you always hide?”

“Not usually, but today it was prudent.  I don’t want to cause trouble at your grandmother’s funeral.”

“You don’t have to worry.  My grandfather has already done that.  My mother says he’s an ass too, so it must be something all grandfathers have in common.”

A distinct possibility, I thought.  I scanned the few people remaining, the snow falling harder now, and her mother was not one of them, or at least anyone I might recognise as Amber.  It had been so long that she may have changed, and I’d not know her.

“It is most likely because we are old.  Where is your mother?”

“In the church still.  She is not very well.  She told me to come out and see if you had come.  Her description was quite accurate.”

I had changed, too, so how could she know what I looked like?  Unless she had guessed that I might turn up at the funeral, invited or not.

“Do you think she might want to see me?”

“I think so.  It’s a bit hard sometimes to tell what she’s thinking.  Perhaps we should go and find out.”

The snow had settled in, falling steadily.  It was time to get indoors, preferably near a large fire.  There was one waiting for me back at the inn where I was staying for a few days.

“OK.  Lead the way.”

Her little hand slipped into mine, and we headed towards the church.  A thought did cross my mind that she was far too trusting of strangers, but then, I didn’t feel like one.  Perhaps she had sensed that.

Still, I would have a word with her mother about it.

We dusted off the snow before going into the church.  Not far from the entrance, a solitary person was sitting, head in hands.

Daisy left me and went up to her mother, shaking her.  “Mummy, mummy, I found the man.”

Her mother lifted her head slowly and turned towards me.

Amber.  All grown up.  That was the first shock; the second was that she was the spitting image of her mother, exactly as I had seen her that first day I met her.  So flawless, so beautiful, so English.

The second shock was that she was very, very ill.

“Hello, daddy.”

I walked over as she stood and held out her arms.  The next moment, she collapsed, and I just managed to catch her.

She was not just ill; she was very near death.  I recognised the signs; she had the disease that finally killed her mother.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Days 101 and 102 – Writing exercise

A random few pages of a novel you might write – the idea of a story

…

It was a perfect day for a funeral.  Overcast, cold, snow imminent, after a week of snow culminating on a blizzard the night before.

I shivered.  Was it her Ghost?

No one had told me Gwen had died, and I had to find out from a newspaper.  I guess that was the price to be paid for being an ex.

It was not my choice; she had decided to move on to bigger and better things with a man who was, in her words, aspired to far more than I ever would.

At the time, I would have agreed with her.  I didn’t make a fuss when I discovered the affair, nor did I make it difficult for her to do as she wished.  I loved her, always would, and it was better to let her follow her heart.

The children, Ben and Amber, decided they wanted to go with her; the thought of living in a mansion and having a life of luxury was more appealing than staying with me.

Again, I didn’t object, believing they would be happier there.

And now, twenty years almost to the day she left, here we were.  A cemetery.  The last place I expected to be ten days before Christmas.

Oh, by the way, I hadn’t been invited to the funeral service, so I didn’t get into the church, which was for families and celebrities only. No, I was at the burial plot, waiting to have the last word.

Perhaps not getting an invite was a blessing in disguise.

To say that I abhorred Jerry Northington-Jobson from the very first moment I saw him would be an understatement.

He was the only child of perhaps the fifth richest noble family in the country, spoilt beyond reason, indolent, rude, and the last man I expected Gwen would so much as look once at let alone twice.

When his parents died, in suspicious circumstances, I might add, he became the seventh Earl of something or other, the owner of a dozen estates in England and throughout Europe, and then Gwen’s second husband.

He was a lucky man.

Until she died.

In the last week, there was little else in the newspapers, every minute detail of his affairs, of his company’s misdemeanours, and the most telling of all, how he had, in twenty-plus years, spent every penny of his inheritance, and then some, on bad investments, gambling, and simply travelling around the world.

Had Gwen been alive to see it, it would have destroyed her.  I honestly believed she had no idea what their financial state would have been.

Nor would she, or any of her friends, had they been invited, have appreciated the funeral he had planned.

My cell phone vibrated in my hand.

“It’s over, sir.”

“Thank you.”

I felt, for a second, like I was in a spy novel.  It was nothing like that, just a friend who had got into the church where the service was being held, so I’d know when the coffin would arrive at the plot.

It seemed an odd way of seeing her to her final resting place, but it was the only way.  My request for a seat in the church had been denied.

It took about ten minutes before the procession came into view, with the priest leading the way.  Jerry Northington-Jobson, at the head of the coffin bearers, looked every bit the stricken husband over the loss of his wife.

Yet, according to the message I just received on the service, he had delivered a somewhat emotional eulogy that lacked, yes, real emotion.

It took five more minutes before the coffin was laid on the struts over the open grave, and those willing to brave the minus temperature to hear the last eulogy before her body was committed to the ground.

Fittingly, light snow began to fall at the same time the priest uttered his first words, in Latin.

I had forgotten they were both Roman Catholic.  That had been another strike against me; I did not have the same faith in God.

Then it was over, and the cold scattered the participants, and within a quarter hour, everyone was gone.  Everyone but this strange old man, standing at the grave, shedding a tear or two.

“Are you really an irascible old man?”

I turned, then looked down.  It was a girl, dressed in black, about five or six years old.

“It depends on who told you that.”

“My mother.  She tells me you are my long-lost grandfather, the one we never talk about.”

OK, that was a surprise.  Having not heard about any children, the children were too busy making asses of themselves in public as befitting the rich and somewhat famous; it was not improbable that this was my great-granddaughter.

“And why is that?”  I kept my voice in the same low conspiratorial tone.

“He deserted my grandmother, but I think he dodged a bullet.”

I almost laughed, just managing to keep a straight face.  She was obviously repeating what she had heard elsewhere, but it was hard to believe it would come from Amber.  The last words I spoke to her, she hated me.

“What’s your name?”

“Daisy “

“I’m Ken.  Sometimes irascible, but I don’t go out very often.”

“Do you always hide?”

“Not usually, but today it was prudent.  I don’t want to cause trouble at your grandmother’s funeral.”

“You don’t have to worry.  My grandfather has already done that.  My mother says he’s an ass too, so it must be something all grandfathers have in common.”

A distinct possibility, I thought.  I scanned the few people remaining, the snow falling harder now, and her mother was not one of them, or at least anyone I might recognise as Amber.  It had been so long that she may have changed, and I’d not know her.

“It is most likely because we are old.  Where is your mother?”

“In the church still.  She is not very well.  She told me to come out and see if you had come.  Her description was quite accurate.”

I had changed, too, so how could she know what I looked like?  Unless she had guessed that I might turn up at the funeral, invited or not.

“Do you think she might want to see me?”

“I think so.  It’s a bit hard sometimes to tell what she’s thinking.  Perhaps we should go and find out.”

The snow had settled in, falling steadily.  It was time to get indoors, preferably near a large fire.  There was one waiting for me back at the inn where I was staying for a few days.

“OK.  Lead the way.”

Her little hand slipped into mine, and we headed towards the church.  A thought did cross my mind that she was far too trusting of strangers, but then, I didn’t feel like one.  Perhaps she had sensed that.

Still, I would have a word with her mother about it.

We dusted off the snow before going into the church.  Not far from the entrance, a solitary person was sitting, head in hands.

Daisy left me and went up to her mother, shaking her.  “Mummy, mummy, I found the man.”

Her mother lifted her head slowly and turned towards me.

Amber.  All grown up.  That was the first shock; the second was that she was the spitting image of her mother, exactly as I had seen her that first day I met her.  So flawless, so beautiful, so English.

The second shock was that she was very, very ill.

“Hello, daddy.”

I walked over as she stood and held out her arms.  The next moment, she collapsed, and I just managed to catch her.

She was not just ill; she was very near death.  I recognised the signs; she had the disease that finally killed her mother.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

More about my second novel

…

It’s time to delve into the past that Zoe tries so hard not to remember because the memories are painful.

It was a time before she became the emotionless killer she was now, and the people who had turned her into one.

Friends, lovers, teachers, mentors, but, in the end, all people who wanted her for one thing or another because they were selfish.

Alistair’s mother, Olga, was one, the woman who first had the job of training her, the first to recognise that while gifted, she would be trouble.

She had been recommended to her by a man called Yuri, the first of many to take advantage of an innocent girl who didn’t know any better.

Once trained, she was placed with Alistair, and he, too, wanted her for himself, until he found her replacement, a man who wrongly thought she was so emotionless she would be happy to share him with others.

It was a mistake he wouldn’t be making again.

It was Yuri she discovered who had been in contact with the kidnappers in Marsailles, and perhaps inadvertently inserting himself into her quest for those seeking to kill her. He would know who it was seeking her, and who the name Romanov referred to.

After ensuring John was safe, she contacted him.

There’s a conversation, and he agrees to meet her, reluctantly, as being seen with a fugitive might harm his reputation.

It’s going to be an interesting conversation and reunion.