Day 215 – Too many adjectives?

…

Kill Your Darlings: Why Simple, Strong Words Beat Over-Adjectifying Every Time

We’ve all been there. You’re writing a blog post, a novel, or even a professional email, and you look at a sentence like this:

“The large, menacing, ferocious hound ran quickly across the damp, muddy, desolate field.”

It sounds descriptive, right? But to an experienced reader or an SEO expert looking at user engagement, it actually reads like linguistic clutter. It feels heavy, breathless, and—ironically—weak.

Many writers fall into the trap of believing that the more adjectives they use, the better their writing will become. Surely, adding more descriptors paints a clearer picture?

In reality, trying to use too many adjectives is often a symptom of weak writing. As the old saying goes: Simple, strong words are best—and you should avoid any words that leave people reaching for a dictionary.

Here is why less is almost always more when it comes to adjectives, and how you can transform your writing by embracing simplicity and strength.

---

The Adjective Trap: Why We Over-Decorate

Why do we do it? Why do we stack adjectives like cordwood?

1. The Fear of Being Boring: We worry that without modifiers, our writing will sound dry and academic.
2. The “Show, Don’t Tell” Shortcut: Instead of describing how a character feels through action, we slap an emotion word in front of them (e.g., “the deeply depressed, profoundly sad man”).
3. The Myth of Granularity: We think precision requires length. We assume that saying “a glistening, shimmering, multifaceted diamond” is more effective than just saying “a diamond.”

The truth? Adjectives are the makeup of writing. A little bit highlights the natural features, but caking it on makes everything look fake, muddy, and overdone.

---

3 Reasons Why Too Many Adjectives Kill Your Writing

1. They Slow Down the Reader’s Momentum

Good writing has rhythm. It flows like a river, pulling the reader effortlessly downstream. Piling on adjectives acts like dropping boulders into that river. Every extra modifier forces the reader’s brain to pause, process, and adjust the mental image.

Compare these two sentences:

• Over-adjectified: “The ancient, crumbling, dilapidated, forgotten wooden cabin stood alone.” (Exhausting.)
• Simple and strong: “The ruin stood alone.” or “The rotting cabin stood alone.” (Punchy and immediate.)

2. They Weaken the Noun

Your nouns and verbs should be doing the heavy lifting. When you rely on adjectives to create impact, you rob your primary words of their power.

Instead of writing “a very large, towering hill,” use “a mountain.” Instead of writing “walked very quietly and stealthily,” use “prowled.”

By choosing a stronger noun or verb in the first place, you eliminate the need for adjectives entirely.

3. Obscure Words Alienate Your Audience

Another common pitfall when trying to “elevate” writing is using overly complex, high-register adjectives that most people don’t use in everyday conversation. Words like pusillanimous, lugubrious, or perspicacious.

Unless you are writing for an academic journal, using obscure words doesn’t make you look smart—it makes you hard to read. If a reader has to stop and look up the definition of a word, you’ve broken their immersion. Clear communication always trumps vocabulary flexing. If people have trouble understanding the meaning of your words, they will simply click away.

---

How to Write with Simplicity and Strength

If you want to clean up your prose, boost your readability, and keep your readers hooked, adopt these three copywriting rules today:

Rule 1: One Adjective is a Maximum, Zero is Often Better

Before you publish a sentence, look at every noun. Does it have two or three adjectives attached to it? Delete at least half of them. Challenge yourself to find the exact right noun instead of modifying a weak one.

Rule 2: Audit Your Adverbs and Adjectives

Run your drafts through a readability checker or read them out loud. If you find yourself using filler modifiers like very, really, truly, quite, or extremely, hit the backspace key. These words are crutches. They signal that the adjective (or verb) that follows isn’t strong enough on its own.

Rule 3: Write for the 8th-Grade Level (Even for Professionals)

Simplicity is not the same as dumbing down. The greatest writers in history—Ernest Hemingway, Stephen King, Maya Angelou—used remarkably simple language. Hemingway’s prose is famous for its punchy, unadorned strength. Write so that a general audience can grasp your meaning instantly, effortlessly, and with maximum emotional resonance.

---

The Bottom Line

Great writing isn’t about how many impressive words you can cram into a paragraph; it’s about how clearly you can transmit an idea from your brain to the reader’s.

The next time you’re tempted to write “a profoundly complex, deeply fascinating, intricately detailed problem,” stop. Take a breath.

Delete the makeup. Trust your nouns. Use simple, strong words—and let your ideas speak for themselves.

…

Day 215 – Too many adjectives?

…

Kill Your Darlings: Why Simple, Strong Words Beat Over-Adjectifying Every Time

We’ve all been there. You’re writing a blog post, a novel, or even a professional email, and you look at a sentence like this:

“The large, menacing, ferocious hound ran quickly across the damp, muddy, desolate field.”

It sounds descriptive, right? But to an experienced reader or an SEO expert looking at user engagement, it actually reads like linguistic clutter. It feels heavy, breathless, and—ironically—weak.

Many writers fall into the trap of believing that the more adjectives they use, the better their writing will become. Surely, adding more descriptors paints a clearer picture?

In reality, trying to use too many adjectives is often a symptom of weak writing. As the old saying goes: Simple, strong words are best—and you should avoid any words that leave people reaching for a dictionary.

Here is why less is almost always more when it comes to adjectives, and how you can transform your writing by embracing simplicity and strength.

---

The Adjective Trap: Why We Over-Decorate

Why do we do it? Why do we stack adjectives like cordwood?

1. The Fear of Being Boring: We worry that without modifiers, our writing will sound dry and academic.
2. The “Show, Don’t Tell” Shortcut: Instead of describing how a character feels through action, we slap an emotion word in front of them (e.g., “the deeply depressed, profoundly sad man”).
3. The Myth of Granularity: We think precision requires length. We assume that saying “a glistening, shimmering, multifaceted diamond” is more effective than just saying “a diamond.”

The truth? Adjectives are the makeup of writing. A little bit highlights the natural features, but caking it on makes everything look fake, muddy, and overdone.

---

3 Reasons Why Too Many Adjectives Kill Your Writing

1. They Slow Down the Reader’s Momentum

Good writing has rhythm. It flows like a river, pulling the reader effortlessly downstream. Piling on adjectives acts like dropping boulders into that river. Every extra modifier forces the reader’s brain to pause, process, and adjust the mental image.

Compare these two sentences:

• Over-adjectified: “The ancient, crumbling, dilapidated, forgotten wooden cabin stood alone.” (Exhausting.)
• Simple and strong: “The ruin stood alone.” or “The rotting cabin stood alone.” (Punchy and immediate.)

2. They Weaken the Noun

Your nouns and verbs should be doing the heavy lifting. When you rely on adjectives to create impact, you rob your primary words of their power.

Instead of writing “a very large, towering hill,” use “a mountain.” Instead of writing “walked very quietly and stealthily,” use “prowled.”

By choosing a stronger noun or verb in the first place, you eliminate the need for adjectives entirely.

3. Obscure Words Alienate Your Audience

Another common pitfall when trying to “elevate” writing is using overly complex, high-register adjectives that most people don’t use in everyday conversation. Words like pusillanimous, lugubrious, or perspicacious.

Unless you are writing for an academic journal, using obscure words doesn’t make you look smart—it makes you hard to read. If a reader has to stop and look up the definition of a word, you’ve broken their immersion. Clear communication always trumps vocabulary flexing. If people have trouble understanding the meaning of your words, they will simply click away.

---

How to Write with Simplicity and Strength

If you want to clean up your prose, boost your readability, and keep your readers hooked, adopt these three copywriting rules today:

Rule 1: One Adjective is a Maximum, Zero is Often Better

Before you publish a sentence, look at every noun. Does it have two or three adjectives attached to it? Delete at least half of them. Challenge yourself to find the exact right noun instead of modifying a weak one.

Rule 2: Audit Your Adverbs and Adjectives

Run your drafts through a readability checker or read them out loud. If you find yourself using filler modifiers like very, really, truly, quite, or extremely, hit the backspace key. These words are crutches. They signal that the adjective (or verb) that follows isn’t strong enough on its own.

Rule 3: Write for the 8th-Grade Level (Even for Professionals)

Simplicity is not the same as dumbing down. The greatest writers in history—Ernest Hemingway, Stephen King, Maya Angelou—used remarkably simple language. Hemingway’s prose is famous for its punchy, unadorned strength. Write so that a general audience can grasp your meaning instantly, effortlessly, and with maximum emotional resonance.

---

The Bottom Line

Great writing isn’t about how many impressive words you can cram into a paragraph; it’s about how clearly you can transmit an idea from your brain to the reader’s.

The next time you’re tempted to write “a profoundly complex, deeply fascinating, intricately detailed problem,” stop. Take a breath.

Delete the makeup. Trust your nouns. Use simple, strong words—and let your ideas speak for themselves.

…

Days 213 and 214 – Writing Exercise

…

I thought the end of my world came from the rejection and subsequent humiliation following my disastrous proposal to a girl I thought loved me as much as I loved her.

It was never going to be that simple.

It was nothing that time would heal.

And it was not my burden to carry on my own.  An event that completely wiped away the horror of that personal failure and replaced it with something far worse.

Created by the pressing of a single button.

June 14th 2029.

It wasn’t as if the world hadn’t already gone to hell in a handbasket.  The whole world had become a tinderbox.  Presidents argued, ultimatums given, elections lost.

It wasn’t just one man who decided the fate of the world.  It was more than that.  Men had decided they wanted power, and to get power they used leverage, and leverage came from withdrawing the one necessity we had come to take for granted.

Fuel.  In every form.  Oil, gas, uranium, water.

A single ultimatum was issued.  No one honestly believed it would be followed through because there had been similar threats before.

No one in their right mind would launch a single nuclear weapon of such destructive power; it would destroy a city and millions of people.

Let alone the secondary effects of radiation poisoning that would be almost an extinction-level event. 

We didn’t understand what all the talk was about, what would happen in the event of nuclear war, and prayed it would never happen.

But on June 14th 2029, it did.

The president, bunkered down, under siege, having refused to acknowledge that he had lost what he called a rigged election, and with nowhere to go, followed through with his threat.

The launching of the missile was televised.

Where it landed was not.  Its launch caused retaliatory strikes, and, in all, five nuclear missiles landed, wiping out in an instant five cities and everyone within the blast range.

Then, within a matter of hours, the smaller but equally destructive missiles started landing and destroying major cities all over the world.

Retaliatory strikes.

No one was safe; millions of people died.

What was remarkable for me was that I survived, because when we learned what was about to happen, the last message to be broadcast, I had wanted to die.

It seemed God had saved me for a reason.

…

Three months was a long time when trying to find the essentials was a battle in itself.

Yes, survivors banded together and helped each other.  To begin with. But as time passed, resources were harder to find, more people were coming, more mouths to feed and more space to house them, and getting people to agree on a plan of action saw divisions, splinter groups being formed, then the fighting began.

Instead of being grateful to be alive, suddenly we were fighting to stay alive.

I got out of the big city, or what was left of it and headed south.  I had no idea why, other than a belief things had to be better where, hopefully, it was warmer.

We were, someone said, going through what was called a nuclear winter.

I’d found a car abandoned on the side of the highway.  It was surprising someone else hadn’t stolen it.  Perhaps it was the dried blood stains inside and outside that acted as a deterrent.

I was not squeamish.  The owner or occupants were nowhere to be seen, and in fairness, I waited an hour to see if they returned.

They did not.

I drove until it ran out of fuel, parked it, got out, and said a silent prayer for the previous occupants.  It had taken me a hundred miles further south, what would have taken me a week or two on foot.

What was remarkable was the distinct lack of traffic and people.  Some places looked almost intact, except for the lack of people.  Not that I was looking for anyone; I learned the hard way no one could be trusted.

I slept in an abandoned shed that night.  How easy it had become not to expect a warm, comfortable bed, running water, and a meal from the fast food shop around the corner. 

I could not remember what my last hamburger or chicken sandwich tasted like.  

…

I opened my eyes just after making a wish, the same wish I had made since the day the world as we knew it ended.

I should be grateful I was one of the few who survived.

I should be grateful I had somewhere to sleep that was reasonably sheltered.

I should be grateful I had found a can of beans, and I ate well the night before.

I should be grateful, but I learned very quickly that gratitude got you nowhere.

Once people realised that everything they had known and relied on was gone, primitive instinct took over.  It was, quite literally, every man and woman, for themselves.

But if that wasnt worse enough, that expectation that life could get better was dashed by a second series of calamities, the explosions cause by the bombs had anl rolling effect under the earth’s crust, and not only agitated existing volcanoes, it restarted long since extinct volcanoes, and caused earthquakes particularly around the Pacific rim, and of course, along the very coast I was making my way down.

Today was no better than yesterday, or the day before. Dawn was almost as dark as the hour before, the sun unable to fully penetrate the dust and fallout in the upper atmosphere.

Intermittent lightning strikes lit up in the distance, along with a faint rumble of accompanying thunder.  When it reached land, the storms increased in intensity.

I peered into the gloom and should have been glad I couldn’t see too far into the distance.  It was better not to know what was ahead of me.

It was safe to say my wish had not been granted.

I sighed.

A man in a uniform, perhaps a member of the National Guard sent to keep law and order, came up and said, “If you want to survive this, go south to either Cape Canaveral or Pensacola.  There will be ships taking people to the southern continents.  Tell everybody you see.  We can’t stay here, not for much longer.  There’s a mini ice age coming to the northern hemisphere.”

Then he left, moving quickly.  An army truck went past, then slowed down as it approached him; then he climbed up, and it continued on its way.  Were there others nearby whom he had given the news?

Go south?

To a ship that would take us to safety?

Was anywhere safe?

I guess I would soon find out.  It was time to leave.

I looked around to see if anyone else was about.  There wasn’t.  Those like me who ventured away from their temporary home where it was warm and safe were regarded as troublemakers, and they didn’t stop us.

They were waiting for the government or whatever or whoever was in charge to come and tell them what to do.  From what I’d seen, the only people in charge were those who took control, and those waiting were going to be disappointed.

There may be food, there may be light, and there may be a degree of normality.  But it wasn’t going to last forever. 

…

I had always wanted to go on that road trip along the coast from Boston to Cape Canaveral.  Not only did NASA launch spaceships from there, but the Disney cruise ships sailed from there. 

Or used to.  It would be interesting to see what was there now.  Or not.  Everyone knew about it being a cruise ship port and would go there.  Instead, I would go to Pensacola.  I suspect there might be naval ships there, and fewer people vying for berths.

I checked the maps I had and saw it was about 1500 km to Pensacola versus about 2000 km for Cape Canaveral.  Less walking, and quicker.  Problem solved.  It was going to take months, but there were no alternatives.

It took a few minutes to put my few possessions into my backpack and set out, not walking on the road, which I learned very quickly was far too dangerous, but back from it, usually hidden.

There were very few vehicles, and those that passed, in either direction, were mostly being driven carefully.  As far as I knew, and checking the gas stations when I had the car, there was no gas, or no electricity to pump the gas into the cars.

I had seen one group pumping fuel out of the ground tanks into a tanker.  Necessity made many people inventors.

A car went past, going quickly.  There were two people on it, a man and a woman.  Perhaps they’d heard to advice to go south.  I watched it head down the road.

A minute later two motorbikes screamed past, going very fast.  Were they chasing the car?  Had those in the car stolen something from the men chasing them?

I watched until the bikes disappeared, and the sound of their machines was muffled by the trees.  None of my business.

It took an hour to get to the bottom of the hill, and another to find a track alongside the road, twisting and turning quite sharply for a few miles.

Almost at the end I noticed an acrid smell, like burning rubber.  Around the corner I could see the reason for it: the car that had passed by was on its side, and closer inspection revealed the driver sprawled out on the roadside gravel.

The car had been torched, and the man was left to die.  Where was the girl?

A groan came from the bushes, and I found her behind a fallen tree.  She had crawled there after being shot and had also been left to die, except she hadn’t.

Died, that it.  But she didn’t look too healthy.  I turned her over and gasped.

What were the odds?  A million to one.

Esther.  It was the very same woman who had turned down my proposal and, as a parting shot, said she still wouldn’t marry me even if I was the last man on earth.

Well, right then I felt like I was the last man on earth, and the feeling was mutual.  She looked up at me in horror, and that was enough.

If I saw her again, it would be too soon.

I started walking.

“Please don’t leave me.”  Pleading, she had used that voice and tone before.  I’d been more naive then.

I stopped.  I don’t know why.  “Why are you here?”

Not, can I help you?  To an outsider, it might seem cruel.

“That man stole my father’s car.  We were heading south.  He tricked us into stopping.  He murdered my parents, and kidnapped me.  I dread to think of what he was going to do.”

A glance confirmed some of what she said.  Blood spattered her dress, bound hands, with raw skin from when she had tried to free herself.

“That dead guy?”

“The murderer and kidnapper.”

“The two men on the motorbikes?”

“Killed him and left me for dead.  Another mouth to feed, they said.  He stole food from them; they got it back and took ours as well.”

“Where were you going?”

“South.  Like we were told to do before that guy hijacked us.  To safety.”

“There is nowhere safe.”

“I’m beginning to think that might be true.  Where are you going?”

“Anywhere but north.”

“Take me with you.”

“I don’t do kidnapping, or waste my time on people who don’t care about me.”

“I made a mistake.”

“No.  You spoke your truth.  I could be one of the last men on earth.  That makes me ineligible to take you anywhere.”

That’s when the tears started.  I shook my head. 

“You cause me infinite embarrassment.  I had to quit my job.  None of my friends would talk to me.  You ruined my life.”

“And all of this, this didn’t have a greater effect on your life?”

“No.  I was already alone and ostracised.  This just made it easier for me to do what I had to.”

“Then just take me to the next settlement, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“You will be out of my hair if I just leave you here.  Someone else can find you.”

Of course, doing what I wanted because I was angry wasn’t the same as doing the right thing.  Or behaving like everyone else and leaving her.  It wasn’t the first time I’d had my ethical nature exploited, and I would have to harden up if I was to survive the trek south.

I shrugged.  I would cut her free and leave.  She would have to learn to fend for herself like everyone else.

I gave her my most severe expression while I cut the bindings and then waited until she managed to sit up.  The gunshot wound turned out to be her father’s blood after he was shot.

She had nothing but the clothes she wore.  Everything she had was in the car, and had been burned.  I gave her a small bottle of water, and she drank all of it. 

I stood and stepped over the log, ready to resume my trek.  “If you’re coming with me, we’re going.  Now.  I’m following a track alongside the road.  No need to alert anyone to our presence.  And we will not be staying in hotels or eating in restaurants.  There are none.”

She dragged herself to her feet and stretched out.  “You wouldn’t have any pills for a headache, would you?”

She wasn’t going to last five minutes.

…

An hour later we had travelled further than I thought we would.  Water wasn’t a problem because we intermittently found ourselves beside a running stream with clear water.

As for food, that was going to be a problem.  Animals of any sort were far and few between.  When the food ran out, people started killing animals.  It wasn’t pleasant.  I couldn’t do it.  Not at first.  Now I would kill a chicken or a rabbit, if I could find one.  Or a fish.  Each time I refilled the water bottles, I checked, just in case.

At least she had sturdy shoes, not high heels, and practical clothing.

Midway through the afternoon, a terrible storm hit, and we were lucky to find an old barn that had three walls and half a roof, enough shelter to keep dry, but not necessarily warm.  There was a little hay scattered over the floor, and we gathered it up to use as insulation from the cold.

I tried to remember when I first met her, and what my reasoning was for approaching her.  It was difficult given what I knew now about her, but there had to be a reason why she had come back into my life.

Or it was simply God’s joke on me.

“You scared me,” she said suddenly.  It was the first words she’d spoken since settling in the barn

“What?  When?”

“When you asked me to marry you?”

“Surely you knew that was the next step.”

“It was too soon.  I wanted to get to know you better.  I mean, it was only six months.  You could have asked me to move in with you, and I would have said yes.”

“How’s that different from getting married?”

“It would be like a test run.  You know, try it before you are stuck with it.  That didn’t come out right, but you know what I mean.”

“And you couldn’t have said that, instead of what you did say?”

“I’m sorry.  I was surprised, and then my mind went blank.  To be honest, I don’t even remember what I said, other than it was not my finest hour.”

Indeed not.

“I thought about it a lot.  Seriously, I’m very, very sorry if I hurt you.  It was not my intention.”

I thought about it.  Her manner that night seemed out of character, but I thought that was because it was her true nature.  Too late now.

“What is it like being on your own in this, whatever it is?  I can’t imagine why people have to be so mean to each other.  We left just after the riot.  A lot of people died.  It was terrible.”

“It still is, and it isn’t going to get better.  There’s not enough of anything to go around.  I think there are quite a few people who saw an opportunity once everything broke down.  No leadership, no facilities, so many homeless and dying. It’s hard to save yourself, let alone others.  Places I’ve been, there are a lot of people who can’t look after themselves.  They spent their whole lives letting someone else worry about them.  If we ever get out of this, it’s going to be a long road back.”

“Am I able to travel with you?  You’re not going to dump me at the next town.  I’d rather be with you than anyone else.”

“Why.  You hate me.”

“No.  That’s one thing I never did.  I didn’t want to marry you, but that was all.  I had, I still have feelings for you, as much as you don’t want to believe me.  You have no idea how happy I was to see it was you who rescued me, and not some other monster.”

“Don’t jump to any conclusions just yet.  I’ll see what it’s like in the next settlement.  And if you want to increase your chances, think of some way of getting food.  We’re going to need some by the end of the day. If only to ward off the cold.  If we get sick, it’s more than likely we’ll die.”

I’d seen more than I cared to admit.  People putting their heads down and not waking up.  Even in the safety and relative warmth of the underground carpark I’d found refuge in after the first bombs came.

It wouldn’t be long before I questioned my sanity, after leaving the one place I’d called home, and the relative safety it afforded.

Instinct had told me to leave, and I had.  I’d asked if anyone wanted to come with me.  None did.  Help was coming; we just had to wait.

I simply shrugged and left.

…

I’d been on the road for a week before running into Esther.  I had obviously left before the riots, but they had been inevitable. 

Soon after the group in the underground carpark, where everyone from several towers had gone seeking shelter, had set up camp, their building now in ruins from the bombs, others started turning up looking for shelter.

We had taken them in, but soon there were too many, and we had to turn them away.  That’s when the trouble started.  Self-elected leaders, people who started giving orders, making rules; it was inevitable.

Then guards were armed, and what was going to happen always would.  I left because it wasn’t right, and I didn’t want to be in a position where I had to kill someone. 

Those first few weeks were difficult.  We were in survival mode.  Our instincts were to help as many as we could.  Until after a month, it was overwhelming.  No one came to tell us everything would be fine.

Outside, the weather made it impossible to go anywhere, and it felt like it was perpetually in darkness.  The first few weeks we had what looked to be acid rain from the fallout.  And some of the people who came to our shelter had radiation sickness.  There was nothing we could do for them, and they couldn’t stay.

The building had a generator, so we had power, but there was only so much diesel to run it.  Rationing had begun when I left, both for the generator and the food.  People were going out in hunting parties, and came back with stories that were hard to believe. 

To me, it was not.  A week before the war started, the newspaper published a story that predicted what would happen if some idiot pressed the button.  So far, everything I’d dreaded had happened.

The thing was, there was no plan for war.  No one expected war because it was never a possibility.  It was simply one man saying he was going to obliterate what he perceived to be his enemy.  Even then it was said nuclear weapons were only a deterrent; they would never be used.

Someone forgot to send our President the memo.

…

I woke to a murky morning, bitterly cold, and alone.

That was the first revelation.

The second: a storm was raging outside. It was the first thunder strike that woke me, followed by the flash of lightning.

I’d got used to the rolling thunder in the distance.

There would be rain soon enough.

I looked out in the early morning semi-darkness, which wouldn’t improve.  It would be worse when the rain came and would make progress almost impossible.

But, aside from that, where was Esther?

I didn’t hear her leave, and was, for a moment, surprised.  She had nothing, so the fact that there was no sign of her was no indication other than she was not in the barn.

Perhaps she had to go to a makeshift bathroom by the river.  There was one because of the line of trees in the distance.

Perhaps I should go there myself.  I needed to replenish the water bottles.  And it was time to go.

I stashed my bag and grabbed the bottles.  I had got about halfway when a man appeared out of a copse.  He had a gun.  It wasn’t pointed at me, but it could be.

I decided to be friendly.  “Hello there.  You heading south too?”

He had been watching me, most likely to see if I was armed.

“Maybe.”

“You’re a bit far from the road.  Nothing here but a paddock and a river.  And an old barn that’s about to collapse.”

“You got any food?”

Of course.  The gun should have told me this man was a taker, not a sharer.

“Unfortunately no.”

“I don’t believe you.”

And that was par for the course.  It would not matter what I said

I saw him look past me and turned.  Esther.  Coming back from the river.  She stopped when she saw him.

“Who’s your friend?”

“She’s not my friend.  We’re just going south together.”

He shook his head, and the rifle came up, pointing at me.

“Whatever food you’ve got, I want.  Now.”

Once again his attention was drawn towards the river slightly to the left of where Esther was standing.  Another man came running out of the bushes, heading towards the man with the gun.

“They’re lying, Wally.”  He held up two fish.  “They had these fish, and I stole them.  We’re eating well today.”

“Take them and leave,” Esther yelled out.

“And if we don’t?”

“We haven’t got anything else but what we’re wearing.  You’ve taken our food, just go.”

“You’ve got a lot to say for yourself.  Maybe you’d like to come with us, and leave this deadbeat liar.”

I could see she was about to say something that might get us shot, so I said,  “You passed the burning car and dead guy beside it?”

“So?”

“She did that.  With two hands tied behind her back.  How long do you think you’d last before you end up like him?”

“You’re kidding.”

“Want to find out, sunshine.”  She had a knife in her hand, and it looked ugly and menacing.  I hadn’t seen it on her, so she must have had it hidden.

Or found it.

His friend muttered in his ear.

“This is your lucky day.  Can’t waste the ammo, and we ain’t sharing the food.  If I see you again, I will kill both of you.”

They backed away towards the road, then disappeared.  They could come back, but I didn’t think they would.  We were two extra mouths to feed, and I doubted they had any ammo.  If they did, it could have turned out a lot worse.

I waited until Esther joined me.  She didn’t look too disappointed they took the fish

“I didn’t know you had a hunter-gatherer background.”  I was not so handy at fishing or hunting.

“Mt dad took me and my brothers camping as much as he could.  Taught us survival skills.  And how to catch fish with only your hands.”

“You were lucky; I haven’t seen any fish.”

“Not so much.  They are contaminated.  Strange colour.  I wouldn’t have eaten them.  I heard the two of them approach the barn talking.  They’d seen us come here.  They went off to hide and wait for light.  I went down to the river and hoped I’d find some fish and give them to them to get them to go away.  Seems it worked.”

“If they’re contaminated, they will get sick and die.”

“Fitting punishment for stealing.  I actually found something better.  A small box of cans of fruit.  I think someone stuck them near a camping site by the river.  A good Samaritan.  Come, we eat, you get water, we move on.  We can go around them.”

“There will be more.”

“I know.  Let’s go eat.”

…

We are two cans each and took one each and left the rest.  Someone else, if they decided to be adventurous, would find them and hopefully would do the same.

We couldn’t carry much more than that anyway.

I guess whatever I was thinking about her, I had to put aside.  She was not the helpless person I thought she was, and I was guessing she had to toughen up quickly with her parents.

A car with petrol in it was a prized possession.  All the electric cars, and that was most of those lying around, were dead with no means of recharging the battery.

After that I filled the bottles and then went back to get my bag.  The morning hadn’t improved, but the rain held off.  We both had waterproof coats, though hers wasn’t very thick, but it would do.

Then we took a wider circle route on another path through a different part of the forest.  Like me, she was hoping never to see those two men again.  Sadly, they would not be the last.

The morning slowly dragged into the afternoon, and the rain came.  I had considered staying in the relative safety of the barn, but the weather was never going to improve, and the quicker we went further south, the better.

There had been reports in those brief few days after the bombs when some power was restored, but it was rationed.  We had long been told to get battery radios before any conflict started, and one person had said that a thing called a crystal set would be better.  It did not need batteries, just a wire antenna.

My grandfather had mentioned he had one when he was a child, and I had gone to my father’s house and rummaged in the attic where he kept his father’s stuff and found it.

One problem: it didn’t catch FM, only AM, but amazingly after a month or so we were told all communications would be transmitted on the AM band.  I was one of the lucky people; after the power failed, then the TV and Radio stations, except for a network of AM stations run by the government in case of emergencies.

I hadn’t used it recently.  I was waiting until I got closer to the destination. 

Days turned into weeks.

We passed other people, most walking the road, because it was easier.  There were cars left where they ran out of petrol.  Some people had been sick and died.  There were dead animals.  Plant life was waning through the lack of sunshine, but as we got further south there was slight improvement.

We passed compounds where people had barricaded themselves, where cars were parked, and guards were on makeshift gates.  We did not alert them to our presence.  Those guards had guns, and they would use them.

I doubted they would accept people from the north because of radiation exposure.  We had passed the theoretical safe limit a few days before, and it was interesting to note the wind was coming from the south, after following us for weeks.

Being from the Midwest and nowhere near the nuclear explosion, we had been told the prevailing winds would basically leave us alone, but the devastation to Washington and New York was devastating, with so many killed, and so many who would not survive for very long.

It was as if the Hiroshima and Nagasaki experience had not taught us anything.  I had no idea and didn’t care who, or even if, someone was running the country, but given the fact that people had banded together in communities fending for themselves, I didn’t think there was anyone.

The army and national guard had been out and about soon after the bombs, but that slowly petered out when the petrol and diesel ran out, and the electric cars stopped.  So did everything else.

It took six weeks before anarchy broke out.  It was a surprise we lasted that long.  People thought having a gun gave them leverage. 

I guess Esther knew all about that.  Her father had stopped to help.  It was the last thing he did.  She was never going to make that mistake.  Her father had taught her self-sufficiency as my father had taught me.  Both parents perhaps would see the way the world was going.

My father had been called to Washington a few days before the bomb dropped.  He would not have survived.  Perhaps if he hadn’t answered the phone, he would be still alive.

…

Some nights we slept under a tree, or in a copse.  We were both light sleepers.  Sometimes there was an outhouse or shed.  There was food if you knew where to look, and water.

In one small town, abandoned, Esther was able to find a backpack and a change of clothes.  We found batteries, some with charge and a torch, candles, matches, little things. 

Some nights she cried, missing her parents and cursing the fools who got us into the mess.  I simply felt numb and helpless.  There was no guarantee that anything would be waiting for us at the end of the trek.

After two months, give or take a few days, I had lost track of the date and time. Like everything, all our devices were run by rechargeable batteries, and there was nowhere to recharge them. We reached the outskirts of a city.

It was odd to see electric cars parked at the recharge station, still plugged in, and no power to run them.  That promise of clean air when we bought one was fulfilled.  No one told us the pollution would come from another source

She tried a few, but none had any power.  One had enough to move about twenty yards.

We were on the top of a hill that overlooked the skyline in the distance.  It just looked like nothing had happened.  We had passed the power station on the side of the river, bereft of people, and not generating power.  It was gas-fired, but we had passed solar farms which were basically useless in the perpetual semi-darkness.

The trip from Chicago to Pensacola was going to take about four or five months, and now we were at the point where we were just about at Montgomery in Alabama, and according to my map we would be able to travel on the Alabama River.  It was a fair distance, but at least we would not have to walk.

But we would have to find a boat.

Of course, had we known what we were heading towards, we might have made a different plan, but with no communication available, we headed there anyway.

And what did we find?

A half million people had arrived before us, all hoping to get on a boat. 

And we were at the back of the line.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Days 213 and 214 – Writing Exercise

…

I thought the end of my world came from the rejection and subsequent humiliation following my disastrous proposal to a girl I thought loved me as much as I loved her.

It was never going to be that simple.

It was nothing that time would heal.

And it was not my burden to carry on my own.  An event that completely wiped away the horror of that personal failure and replaced it with something far worse.

Created by the pressing of a single button.

June 14th 2029.

It wasn’t as if the world hadn’t already gone to hell in a handbasket.  The whole world had become a tinderbox.  Presidents argued, ultimatums given, elections lost.

It wasn’t just one man who decided the fate of the world.  It was more than that.  Men had decided they wanted power, and to get power they used leverage, and leverage came from withdrawing the one necessity we had come to take for granted.

Fuel.  In every form.  Oil, gas, uranium, water.

A single ultimatum was issued.  No one honestly believed it would be followed through because there had been similar threats before.

No one in their right mind would launch a single nuclear weapon of such destructive power; it would destroy a city and millions of people.

Let alone the secondary effects of radiation poisoning that would be almost an extinction-level event. 

We didn’t understand what all the talk was about, what would happen in the event of nuclear war, and prayed it would never happen.

But on June 14th 2029, it did.

The president, bunkered down, under siege, having refused to acknowledge that he had lost what he called a rigged election, and with nowhere to go, followed through with his threat.

The launching of the missile was televised.

Where it landed was not.  Its launch caused retaliatory strikes, and, in all, five nuclear missiles landed, wiping out in an instant five cities and everyone within the blast range.

Then, within a matter of hours, the smaller but equally destructive missiles started landing and destroying major cities all over the world.

Retaliatory strikes.

No one was safe; millions of people died.

What was remarkable for me was that I survived, because when we learned what was about to happen, the last message to be broadcast, I had wanted to die.

It seemed God had saved me for a reason.

…

Three months was a long time when trying to find the essentials was a battle in itself.

Yes, survivors banded together and helped each other.  To begin with. But as time passed, resources were harder to find, more people were coming, more mouths to feed and more space to house them, and getting people to agree on a plan of action saw divisions, splinter groups being formed, then the fighting began.

Instead of being grateful to be alive, suddenly we were fighting to stay alive.

I got out of the big city, or what was left of it and headed south.  I had no idea why, other than a belief things had to be better where, hopefully, it was warmer.

We were, someone said, going through what was called a nuclear winter.

I’d found a car abandoned on the side of the highway.  It was surprising someone else hadn’t stolen it.  Perhaps it was the dried blood stains inside and outside that acted as a deterrent.

I was not squeamish.  The owner or occupants were nowhere to be seen, and in fairness, I waited an hour to see if they returned.

They did not.

I drove until it ran out of fuel, parked it, got out, and said a silent prayer for the previous occupants.  It had taken me a hundred miles further south, what would have taken me a week or two on foot.

What was remarkable was the distinct lack of traffic and people.  Some places looked almost intact, except for the lack of people.  Not that I was looking for anyone; I learned the hard way no one could be trusted.

I slept in an abandoned shed that night.  How easy it had become not to expect a warm, comfortable bed, running water, and a meal from the fast food shop around the corner. 

I could not remember what my last hamburger or chicken sandwich tasted like.  

…

I opened my eyes just after making a wish, the same wish I had made since the day the world as we knew it ended.

I should be grateful I was one of the few who survived.

I should be grateful I had somewhere to sleep that was reasonably sheltered.

I should be grateful I had found a can of beans, and I ate well the night before.

I should be grateful, but I learned very quickly that gratitude got you nowhere.

Once people realised that everything they had known and relied on was gone, primitive instinct took over.  It was, quite literally, every man and woman, for themselves.

But if that wasnt worse enough, that expectation that life could get better was dashed by a second series of calamities, the explosions cause by the bombs had anl rolling effect under the earth’s crust, and not only agitated existing volcanoes, it restarted long since extinct volcanoes, and caused earthquakes particularly around the Pacific rim, and of course, along the very coast I was making my way down.

Today was no better than yesterday, or the day before. Dawn was almost as dark as the hour before, the sun unable to fully penetrate the dust and fallout in the upper atmosphere.

Intermittent lightning strikes lit up in the distance, along with a faint rumble of accompanying thunder.  When it reached land, the storms increased in intensity.

I peered into the gloom and should have been glad I couldn’t see too far into the distance.  It was better not to know what was ahead of me.

It was safe to say my wish had not been granted.

I sighed.

A man in a uniform, perhaps a member of the National Guard sent to keep law and order, came up and said, “If you want to survive this, go south to either Cape Canaveral or Pensacola.  There will be ships taking people to the southern continents.  Tell everybody you see.  We can’t stay here, not for much longer.  There’s a mini ice age coming to the northern hemisphere.”

Then he left, moving quickly.  An army truck went past, then slowed down as it approached him; then he climbed up, and it continued on its way.  Were there others nearby whom he had given the news?

Go south?

To a ship that would take us to safety?

Was anywhere safe?

I guess I would soon find out.  It was time to leave.

I looked around to see if anyone else was about.  There wasn’t.  Those like me who ventured away from their temporary home where it was warm and safe were regarded as troublemakers, and they didn’t stop us.

They were waiting for the government or whatever or whoever was in charge to come and tell them what to do.  From what I’d seen, the only people in charge were those who took control, and those waiting were going to be disappointed.

There may be food, there may be light, and there may be a degree of normality.  But it wasn’t going to last forever. 

…

I had always wanted to go on that road trip along the coast from Boston to Cape Canaveral.  Not only did NASA launch spaceships from there, but the Disney cruise ships sailed from there. 

Or used to.  It would be interesting to see what was there now.  Or not.  Everyone knew about it being a cruise ship port and would go there.  Instead, I would go to Pensacola.  I suspect there might be naval ships there, and fewer people vying for berths.

I checked the maps I had and saw it was about 1500 km to Pensacola versus about 2000 km for Cape Canaveral.  Less walking, and quicker.  Problem solved.  It was going to take months, but there were no alternatives.

It took a few minutes to put my few possessions into my backpack and set out, not walking on the road, which I learned very quickly was far too dangerous, but back from it, usually hidden.

There were very few vehicles, and those that passed, in either direction, were mostly being driven carefully.  As far as I knew, and checking the gas stations when I had the car, there was no gas, or no electricity to pump the gas into the cars.

I had seen one group pumping fuel out of the ground tanks into a tanker.  Necessity made many people inventors.

A car went past, going quickly.  There were two people on it, a man and a woman.  Perhaps they’d heard to advice to go south.  I watched it head down the road.

A minute later two motorbikes screamed past, going very fast.  Were they chasing the car?  Had those in the car stolen something from the men chasing them?

I watched until the bikes disappeared, and the sound of their machines was muffled by the trees.  None of my business.

It took an hour to get to the bottom of the hill, and another to find a track alongside the road, twisting and turning quite sharply for a few miles.

Almost at the end I noticed an acrid smell, like burning rubber.  Around the corner I could see the reason for it: the car that had passed by was on its side, and closer inspection revealed the driver sprawled out on the roadside gravel.

The car had been torched, and the man was left to die.  Where was the girl?

A groan came from the bushes, and I found her behind a fallen tree.  She had crawled there after being shot and had also been left to die, except she hadn’t.

Died, that it.  But she didn’t look too healthy.  I turned her over and gasped.

What were the odds?  A million to one.

Esther.  It was the very same woman who had turned down my proposal and, as a parting shot, said she still wouldn’t marry me even if I was the last man on earth.

Well, right then I felt like I was the last man on earth, and the feeling was mutual.  She looked up at me in horror, and that was enough.

If I saw her again, it would be too soon.

I started walking.

“Please don’t leave me.”  Pleading, she had used that voice and tone before.  I’d been more naive then.

I stopped.  I don’t know why.  “Why are you here?”

Not, can I help you?  To an outsider, it might seem cruel.

“That man stole my father’s car.  We were heading south.  He tricked us into stopping.  He murdered my parents, and kidnapped me.  I dread to think of what he was going to do.”

A glance confirmed some of what she said.  Blood spattered her dress, bound hands, with raw skin from when she had tried to free herself.

“That dead guy?”

“The murderer and kidnapper.”

“The two men on the motorbikes?”

“Killed him and left me for dead.  Another mouth to feed, they said.  He stole food from them; they got it back and took ours as well.”

“Where were you going?”

“South.  Like we were told to do before that guy hijacked us.  To safety.”

“There is nowhere safe.”

“I’m beginning to think that might be true.  Where are you going?”

“Anywhere but north.”

“Take me with you.”

“I don’t do kidnapping, or waste my time on people who don’t care about me.”

“I made a mistake.”

“No.  You spoke your truth.  I could be one of the last men on earth.  That makes me ineligible to take you anywhere.”

That’s when the tears started.  I shook my head. 

“You cause me infinite embarrassment.  I had to quit my job.  None of my friends would talk to me.  You ruined my life.”

“And all of this, this didn’t have a greater effect on your life?”

“No.  I was already alone and ostracised.  This just made it easier for me to do what I had to.”

“Then just take me to the next settlement, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“You will be out of my hair if I just leave you here.  Someone else can find you.”

Of course, doing what I wanted because I was angry wasn’t the same as doing the right thing.  Or behaving like everyone else and leaving her.  It wasn’t the first time I’d had my ethical nature exploited, and I would have to harden up if I was to survive the trek south.

I shrugged.  I would cut her free and leave.  She would have to learn to fend for herself like everyone else.

I gave her my most severe expression while I cut the bindings and then waited until she managed to sit up.  The gunshot wound turned out to be her father’s blood after he was shot.

She had nothing but the clothes she wore.  Everything she had was in the car, and had been burned.  I gave her a small bottle of water, and she drank all of it. 

I stood and stepped over the log, ready to resume my trek.  “If you’re coming with me, we’re going.  Now.  I’m following a track alongside the road.  No need to alert anyone to our presence.  And we will not be staying in hotels or eating in restaurants.  There are none.”

She dragged herself to her feet and stretched out.  “You wouldn’t have any pills for a headache, would you?”

She wasn’t going to last five minutes.

…

An hour later we had travelled further than I thought we would.  Water wasn’t a problem because we intermittently found ourselves beside a running stream with clear water.

As for food, that was going to be a problem.  Animals of any sort were far and few between.  When the food ran out, people started killing animals.  It wasn’t pleasant.  I couldn’t do it.  Not at first.  Now I would kill a chicken or a rabbit, if I could find one.  Or a fish.  Each time I refilled the water bottles, I checked, just in case.

At least she had sturdy shoes, not high heels, and practical clothing.

Midway through the afternoon, a terrible storm hit, and we were lucky to find an old barn that had three walls and half a roof, enough shelter to keep dry, but not necessarily warm.  There was a little hay scattered over the floor, and we gathered it up to use as insulation from the cold.

I tried to remember when I first met her, and what my reasoning was for approaching her.  It was difficult given what I knew now about her, but there had to be a reason why she had come back into my life.

Or it was simply God’s joke on me.

“You scared me,” she said suddenly.  It was the first words she’d spoken since settling in the barn

“What?  When?”

“When you asked me to marry you?”

“Surely you knew that was the next step.”

“It was too soon.  I wanted to get to know you better.  I mean, it was only six months.  You could have asked me to move in with you, and I would have said yes.”

“How’s that different from getting married?”

“It would be like a test run.  You know, try it before you are stuck with it.  That didn’t come out right, but you know what I mean.”

“And you couldn’t have said that, instead of what you did say?”

“I’m sorry.  I was surprised, and then my mind went blank.  To be honest, I don’t even remember what I said, other than it was not my finest hour.”

Indeed not.

“I thought about it a lot.  Seriously, I’m very, very sorry if I hurt you.  It was not my intention.”

I thought about it.  Her manner that night seemed out of character, but I thought that was because it was her true nature.  Too late now.

“What is it like being on your own in this, whatever it is?  I can’t imagine why people have to be so mean to each other.  We left just after the riot.  A lot of people died.  It was terrible.”

“It still is, and it isn’t going to get better.  There’s not enough of anything to go around.  I think there are quite a few people who saw an opportunity once everything broke down.  No leadership, no facilities, so many homeless and dying. It’s hard to save yourself, let alone others.  Places I’ve been, there are a lot of people who can’t look after themselves.  They spent their whole lives letting someone else worry about them.  If we ever get out of this, it’s going to be a long road back.”

“Am I able to travel with you?  You’re not going to dump me at the next town.  I’d rather be with you than anyone else.”

“Why.  You hate me.”

“No.  That’s one thing I never did.  I didn’t want to marry you, but that was all.  I had, I still have feelings for you, as much as you don’t want to believe me.  You have no idea how happy I was to see it was you who rescued me, and not some other monster.”

“Don’t jump to any conclusions just yet.  I’ll see what it’s like in the next settlement.  And if you want to increase your chances, think of some way of getting food.  We’re going to need some by the end of the day. If only to ward off the cold.  If we get sick, it’s more than likely we’ll die.”

I’d seen more than I cared to admit.  People putting their heads down and not waking up.  Even in the safety and relative warmth of the underground carpark I’d found refuge in after the first bombs came.

It wouldn’t be long before I questioned my sanity, after leaving the one place I’d called home, and the relative safety it afforded.

Instinct had told me to leave, and I had.  I’d asked if anyone wanted to come with me.  None did.  Help was coming; we just had to wait.

I simply shrugged and left.

…

I’d been on the road for a week before running into Esther.  I had obviously left before the riots, but they had been inevitable. 

Soon after the group in the underground carpark, where everyone from several towers had gone seeking shelter, had set up camp, their building now in ruins from the bombs, others started turning up looking for shelter.

We had taken them in, but soon there were too many, and we had to turn them away.  That’s when the trouble started.  Self-elected leaders, people who started giving orders, making rules; it was inevitable.

Then guards were armed, and what was going to happen always would.  I left because it wasn’t right, and I didn’t want to be in a position where I had to kill someone. 

Those first few weeks were difficult.  We were in survival mode.  Our instincts were to help as many as we could.  Until after a month, it was overwhelming.  No one came to tell us everything would be fine.

Outside, the weather made it impossible to go anywhere, and it felt like it was perpetually in darkness.  The first few weeks we had what looked to be acid rain from the fallout.  And some of the people who came to our shelter had radiation sickness.  There was nothing we could do for them, and they couldn’t stay.

The building had a generator, so we had power, but there was only so much diesel to run it.  Rationing had begun when I left, both for the generator and the food.  People were going out in hunting parties, and came back with stories that were hard to believe. 

To me, it was not.  A week before the war started, the newspaper published a story that predicted what would happen if some idiot pressed the button.  So far, everything I’d dreaded had happened.

The thing was, there was no plan for war.  No one expected war because it was never a possibility.  It was simply one man saying he was going to obliterate what he perceived to be his enemy.  Even then it was said nuclear weapons were only a deterrent; they would never be used.

Someone forgot to send our President the memo.

…

I woke to a murky morning, bitterly cold, and alone.

That was the first revelation.

The second: a storm was raging outside. It was the first thunder strike that woke me, followed by the flash of lightning.

I’d got used to the rolling thunder in the distance.

There would be rain soon enough.

I looked out in the early morning semi-darkness, which wouldn’t improve.  It would be worse when the rain came and would make progress almost impossible.

But, aside from that, where was Esther?

I didn’t hear her leave, and was, for a moment, surprised.  She had nothing, so the fact that there was no sign of her was no indication other than she was not in the barn.

Perhaps she had to go to a makeshift bathroom by the river.  There was one because of the line of trees in the distance.

Perhaps I should go there myself.  I needed to replenish the water bottles.  And it was time to go.

I stashed my bag and grabbed the bottles.  I had got about halfway when a man appeared out of a copse.  He had a gun.  It wasn’t pointed at me, but it could be.

I decided to be friendly.  “Hello there.  You heading south too?”

He had been watching me, most likely to see if I was armed.

“Maybe.”

“You’re a bit far from the road.  Nothing here but a paddock and a river.  And an old barn that’s about to collapse.”

“You got any food?”

Of course.  The gun should have told me this man was a taker, not a sharer.

“Unfortunately no.”

“I don’t believe you.”

And that was par for the course.  It would not matter what I said

I saw him look past me and turned.  Esther.  Coming back from the river.  She stopped when she saw him.

“Who’s your friend?”

“She’s not my friend.  We’re just going south together.”

He shook his head, and the rifle came up, pointing at me.

“Whatever food you’ve got, I want.  Now.”

Once again his attention was drawn towards the river slightly to the left of where Esther was standing.  Another man came running out of the bushes, heading towards the man with the gun.

“They’re lying, Wally.”  He held up two fish.  “They had these fish, and I stole them.  We’re eating well today.”

“Take them and leave,” Esther yelled out.

“And if we don’t?”

“We haven’t got anything else but what we’re wearing.  You’ve taken our food, just go.”

“You’ve got a lot to say for yourself.  Maybe you’d like to come with us, and leave this deadbeat liar.”

I could see she was about to say something that might get us shot, so I said,  “You passed the burning car and dead guy beside it?”

“So?”

“She did that.  With two hands tied behind her back.  How long do you think you’d last before you end up like him?”

“You’re kidding.”

“Want to find out, sunshine.”  She had a knife in her hand, and it looked ugly and menacing.  I hadn’t seen it on her, so she must have had it hidden.

Or found it.

His friend muttered in his ear.

“This is your lucky day.  Can’t waste the ammo, and we ain’t sharing the food.  If I see you again, I will kill both of you.”

They backed away towards the road, then disappeared.  They could come back, but I didn’t think they would.  We were two extra mouths to feed, and I doubted they had any ammo.  If they did, it could have turned out a lot worse.

I waited until Esther joined me.  She didn’t look too disappointed they took the fish

“I didn’t know you had a hunter-gatherer background.”  I was not so handy at fishing or hunting.

“Mt dad took me and my brothers camping as much as he could.  Taught us survival skills.  And how to catch fish with only your hands.”

“You were lucky; I haven’t seen any fish.”

“Not so much.  They are contaminated.  Strange colour.  I wouldn’t have eaten them.  I heard the two of them approach the barn talking.  They’d seen us come here.  They went off to hide and wait for light.  I went down to the river and hoped I’d find some fish and give them to them to get them to go away.  Seems it worked.”

“If they’re contaminated, they will get sick and die.”

“Fitting punishment for stealing.  I actually found something better.  A small box of cans of fruit.  I think someone stuck them near a camping site by the river.  A good Samaritan.  Come, we eat, you get water, we move on.  We can go around them.”

“There will be more.”

“I know.  Let’s go eat.”

…

We are two cans each and took one each and left the rest.  Someone else, if they decided to be adventurous, would find them and hopefully would do the same.

We couldn’t carry much more than that anyway.

I guess whatever I was thinking about her, I had to put aside.  She was not the helpless person I thought she was, and I was guessing she had to toughen up quickly with her parents.

A car with petrol in it was a prized possession.  All the electric cars, and that was most of those lying around, were dead with no means of recharging the battery.

After that I filled the bottles and then went back to get my bag.  The morning hadn’t improved, but the rain held off.  We both had waterproof coats, though hers wasn’t very thick, but it would do.

Then we took a wider circle route on another path through a different part of the forest.  Like me, she was hoping never to see those two men again.  Sadly, they would not be the last.

The morning slowly dragged into the afternoon, and the rain came.  I had considered staying in the relative safety of the barn, but the weather was never going to improve, and the quicker we went further south, the better.

There had been reports in those brief few days after the bombs when some power was restored, but it was rationed.  We had long been told to get battery radios before any conflict started, and one person had said that a thing called a crystal set would be better.  It did not need batteries, just a wire antenna.

My grandfather had mentioned he had one when he was a child, and I had gone to my father’s house and rummaged in the attic where he kept his father’s stuff and found it.

One problem: it didn’t catch FM, only AM, but amazingly after a month or so we were told all communications would be transmitted on the AM band.  I was one of the lucky people; after the power failed, then the TV and Radio stations, except for a network of AM stations run by the government in case of emergencies.

I hadn’t used it recently.  I was waiting until I got closer to the destination. 

Days turned into weeks.

We passed other people, most walking the road, because it was easier.  There were cars left where they ran out of petrol.  Some people had been sick and died.  There were dead animals.  Plant life was waning through the lack of sunshine, but as we got further south there was slight improvement.

We passed compounds where people had barricaded themselves, where cars were parked, and guards were on makeshift gates.  We did not alert them to our presence.  Those guards had guns, and they would use them.

I doubted they would accept people from the north because of radiation exposure.  We had passed the theoretical safe limit a few days before, and it was interesting to note the wind was coming from the south, after following us for weeks.

Being from the Midwest and nowhere near the nuclear explosion, we had been told the prevailing winds would basically leave us alone, but the devastation to Washington and New York was devastating, with so many killed, and so many who would not survive for very long.

It was as if the Hiroshima and Nagasaki experience had not taught us anything.  I had no idea and didn’t care who, or even if, someone was running the country, but given the fact that people had banded together in communities fending for themselves, I didn’t think there was anyone.

The army and national guard had been out and about soon after the bombs, but that slowly petered out when the petrol and diesel ran out, and the electric cars stopped.  So did everything else.

It took six weeks before anarchy broke out.  It was a surprise we lasted that long.  People thought having a gun gave them leverage. 

I guess Esther knew all about that.  Her father had stopped to help.  It was the last thing he did.  She was never going to make that mistake.  Her father had taught her self-sufficiency as my father had taught me.  Both parents perhaps would see the way the world was going.

My father had been called to Washington a few days before the bomb dropped.  He would not have survived.  Perhaps if he hadn’t answered the phone, he would be still alive.

…

Some nights we slept under a tree, or in a copse.  We were both light sleepers.  Sometimes there was an outhouse or shed.  There was food if you knew where to look, and water.

In one small town, abandoned, Esther was able to find a backpack and a change of clothes.  We found batteries, some with charge and a torch, candles, matches, little things. 

Some nights she cried, missing her parents and cursing the fools who got us into the mess.  I simply felt numb and helpless.  There was no guarantee that anything would be waiting for us at the end of the trek.

After two months, give or take a few days, I had lost track of the date and time. Like everything, all our devices were run by rechargeable batteries, and there was nowhere to recharge them. We reached the outskirts of a city.

It was odd to see electric cars parked at the recharge station, still plugged in, and no power to run them.  That promise of clean air when we bought one was fulfilled.  No one told us the pollution would come from another source

She tried a few, but none had any power.  One had enough to move about twenty yards.

We were on the top of a hill that overlooked the skyline in the distance.  It just looked like nothing had happened.  We had passed the power station on the side of the river, bereft of people, and not generating power.  It was gas-fired, but we had passed solar farms which were basically useless in the perpetual semi-darkness.

The trip from Chicago to Pensacola was going to take about four or five months, and now we were at the point where we were just about at Montgomery in Alabama, and according to my map we would be able to travel on the Alabama River.  It was a fair distance, but at least we would not have to walk.

But we would have to find a boat.

Of course, had we known what we were heading towards, we might have made a different plan, but with no communication available, we headed there anyway.

And what did we find?

A half million people had arrived before us, all hoping to get on a boat. 

And we were at the back of the line.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Does a series need to be planned

…

Plotters vs. Pantsers: Why Even the Most Spontaneous Novelists Need a Series Bible

If you’ve ever reached book three of your epic fantasy or detective series only to realise your protagonist’s eyes magically shifted from piercing blue to emerald green, or that a character who died in chapter four just casually walked back into a scene, you aren’t alone.

Writing a book series is an incredible creative journey, but it is also a marathon of memory. When you live with characters for months—or years—at a time, details blur.

So, when writing a series, does it pay to have a plan for each novel, if only to maintain continuity?

In a word: Absolutely.

While the debate between “plotters” (those who outline meticulously) and “pantsers” (those who write by the seat of their pants) is fierce in the writing community, long-term continuity demands a hybrid approach. Let’s dive into why minor memory lapses happen, the hidden costs of ignoring continuity, and how a simple planning tool can save your sanity (and your readers’ trust).

---

The Anatomy of Amnesia: How Continuity Errors Happen

Human memory is notoriously unreliable, and when you are knee-deep in the throes of drafting, your brain is prioritising plot momentum, emotional arcs, and dialogue over trivial data.

Over the course of a multi-book series, several common continuity issues inevitably creep in:

• The Shape-Shifters (Physical Descriptions): Hair colours darken, eye colours shift, scars migrate from the left cheek to the right, and heights fluctuate.
• The Aging Paradox: Did timeline pacing get a little wobbly? Suddenly, a character who was supposed to be 16 in book one is acting suspiciously like a seasoned 21-year-old by book two, even though only six months have passed in the book’s universe.
• The Lazarus Effect: Minor characters—or worse, major ones—disappear for a book, only for the author to accidentally reintroduce them with a different name, backstory, or worse, revive them from the dead without explanation.
• Logistical Lapses: Geography and lore are major culprits. Did the journey from City A to City B take three days on horseback in the first book, but only an afternoon in the sequel? Did a magic system suddenly acquire a new rule (or lose an old one) just to help you write your way out of a corner?

---

Why Continuity Errors Cost You Readers

You might think, “Surely my readers won’t notice if a character’s eye colour changes.”

Think again.

Today’s readers are deeply engaged. They read with a fine-toothed comb, theorise on forums like Reddit, and discuss books passionately on BookTok and Goodreads. When they spot a glaring continuity error, it pulls them right out of the fictional dream.

Frequent inconsistencies signal a lack of polish. Worse, they break trust. If a reader can’t rely on you to remember basic facts about your own world, they may hesitate to invest their time and money into the next instalment of your series.

---

Planning Each Novel: The Blueprint for Success

You don’t have to outline every single plot twist, chapter by chapter, if that kills your creative joy. Many successful authors proudly write by the seat of their pants for the actual storytelling.

However, planning for continuity is entirely different from plotting a narrative. To maintain structural integrity across a series, you need a two-pronged strategy:

1. The Individual Novel Outline

Even if you hate strict outlines, having a loose roadmap for each novel ensures that your pacing holds up, subplots resolve, and you don’t write yourself into a narrative dead end. Knowing your destination doesn’t mean you can’t take scenic detours along the way, but it does mean you won’t accidentally drive off a cliff.

2. The Ultimate Weapon: The “Series Bible”

If you take away only one piece of advice from this article, let it be this: Create a Series Bible.

A Series Bible is a centralized, living document (using software like Scrivener, Notion, Google Docs, or a dedicated binder) where you track the immutable facts of your fictional world. It should include:

• Character Profiles: Full names, nicknames, physical descriptions, birthdays/ages, key relationships, core motivations, and major life events.
• The Timeline: A master chronological ledger tracking what happens on what day, month, and year across all books.
• World-Building Lore: Rules of magic, geography, political structures, currency, and technology. Keep a running glossary of invented terms, town names, and historical events.
• The “Loose Ends” Ledger: A list of unresolved plot threads or lingering questions you need to address in future books.

---

Strike a Balance: Structure Meets Creativity

Planning doesn’t mean chaining yourself to a spreadsheet. Think of a series outline and a continuity bible not as a cage, but as safety rails. They give you the freedom to drive fast and take creative risks, knowing you won’t crash into a wall of your own making further down the road.

By investing just a little bit of time upfront to track your characters, ages, and world rules, you save yourself hours of agonising developmental edits later—and you deliver a polished, immersive experience that keeps readers coming back for book after book.

---

Are you a plotter or a pantser? How do you keep track of your series continuity? Let us know your favourite tips and tricks in the comments below!

…

Does a series need to be planned

…

Plotters vs. Pantsers: Why Even the Most Spontaneous Novelists Need a Series Bible

If you’ve ever reached book three of your epic fantasy or detective series only to realise your protagonist’s eyes magically shifted from piercing blue to emerald green, or that a character who died in chapter four just casually walked back into a scene, you aren’t alone.

Writing a book series is an incredible creative journey, but it is also a marathon of memory. When you live with characters for months—or years—at a time, details blur.

So, when writing a series, does it pay to have a plan for each novel, if only to maintain continuity?

In a word: Absolutely.

While the debate between “plotters” (those who outline meticulously) and “pantsers” (those who write by the seat of their pants) is fierce in the writing community, long-term continuity demands a hybrid approach. Let’s dive into why minor memory lapses happen, the hidden costs of ignoring continuity, and how a simple planning tool can save your sanity (and your readers’ trust).

---

The Anatomy of Amnesia: How Continuity Errors Happen

Human memory is notoriously unreliable, and when you are knee-deep in the throes of drafting, your brain is prioritising plot momentum, emotional arcs, and dialogue over trivial data.

Over the course of a multi-book series, several common continuity issues inevitably creep in:

• The Shape-Shifters (Physical Descriptions): Hair colours darken, eye colours shift, scars migrate from the left cheek to the right, and heights fluctuate.
• The Aging Paradox: Did timeline pacing get a little wobbly? Suddenly, a character who was supposed to be 16 in book one is acting suspiciously like a seasoned 21-year-old by book two, even though only six months have passed in the book’s universe.
• The Lazarus Effect: Minor characters—or worse, major ones—disappear for a book, only for the author to accidentally reintroduce them with a different name, backstory, or worse, revive them from the dead without explanation.
• Logistical Lapses: Geography and lore are major culprits. Did the journey from City A to City B take three days on horseback in the first book, but only an afternoon in the sequel? Did a magic system suddenly acquire a new rule (or lose an old one) just to help you write your way out of a corner?

---

Why Continuity Errors Cost You Readers

You might think, “Surely my readers won’t notice if a character’s eye colour changes.”

Think again.

Today’s readers are deeply engaged. They read with a fine-toothed comb, theorise on forums like Reddit, and discuss books passionately on BookTok and Goodreads. When they spot a glaring continuity error, it pulls them right out of the fictional dream.

Frequent inconsistencies signal a lack of polish. Worse, they break trust. If a reader can’t rely on you to remember basic facts about your own world, they may hesitate to invest their time and money into the next instalment of your series.

---

Planning Each Novel: The Blueprint for Success

You don’t have to outline every single plot twist, chapter by chapter, if that kills your creative joy. Many successful authors proudly write by the seat of their pants for the actual storytelling.

However, planning for continuity is entirely different from plotting a narrative. To maintain structural integrity across a series, you need a two-pronged strategy:

1. The Individual Novel Outline

Even if you hate strict outlines, having a loose roadmap for each novel ensures that your pacing holds up, subplots resolve, and you don’t write yourself into a narrative dead end. Knowing your destination doesn’t mean you can’t take scenic detours along the way, but it does mean you won’t accidentally drive off a cliff.

2. The Ultimate Weapon: The “Series Bible”

If you take away only one piece of advice from this article, let it be this: Create a Series Bible.

A Series Bible is a centralized, living document (using software like Scrivener, Notion, Google Docs, or a dedicated binder) where you track the immutable facts of your fictional world. It should include:

• Character Profiles: Full names, nicknames, physical descriptions, birthdays/ages, key relationships, core motivations, and major life events.
• The Timeline: A master chronological ledger tracking what happens on what day, month, and year across all books.
• World-Building Lore: Rules of magic, geography, political structures, currency, and technology. Keep a running glossary of invented terms, town names, and historical events.
• The “Loose Ends” Ledger: A list of unresolved plot threads or lingering questions you need to address in future books.

---

Strike a Balance: Structure Meets Creativity

Planning doesn’t mean chaining yourself to a spreadsheet. Think of a series outline and a continuity bible not as a cage, but as safety rails. They give you the freedom to drive fast and take creative risks, knowing you won’t crash into a wall of your own making further down the road.

By investing just a little bit of time upfront to track your characters, ages, and world rules, you save yourself hours of agonising developmental edits later—and you deliver a polished, immersive experience that keeps readers coming back for book after book.

---

Are you a plotter or a pantser? How do you keep track of your series continuity? Let us know your favourite tips and tricks in the comments below!

…

Day 212 – Story elements to avoid

…

The Dark Side of Narrative: Why Certain Story Elements Fail (And How to Fix Them)

Every great story is built on a foundation of classic elements: compelling characters, gripping conflict, and immersive world-building. But what happens when these trusty narrative tools are pushed too far?

Even the most celebrated storytelling tropes can become a writer’s worst enemy if mishandled. When relied upon as crutches, certain story elements can instantly pull readers out of the narrative, destroy suspense, and leave an audience feeling cheated.

As writers, understanding the disadvantages of these common tropes is essential for crafting fresh, engaging fiction. Today, we’re breaking down four major story elements to avoid—complete with examples—so you can elevate your storytelling and keep your readers turning pages.

---

1. The Exposition Dump (The “As You Know, Bob” Trap)

The Problem

Exposition is necessary for world-building, but an exposition dump (or info-dump) occurs when a writer forces massive amounts of back-story, historical context, or technical data into the narrative all at once.

The biggest disadvantage of the exposition dump is that it grinds the pacing to a complete halt. Instead of showing us the world through action and reaction, the author pauses the story to lecture the reader. Worse yet is the infamous “As you know, Bob” dialogue, where two characters explain things to each other that they both already know purely for the benefit of the audience.

An Example to Avoid

“As you know, Captain, ever since the Great AI Wars of 2142—which decimated 80% of Earth’s population and led to the ban of all sentient technology—our spaceship’s hyperdrive has been powered by your rare crystal bloodline.”

How to Fix It

Weave information through action and conflict. Reveal world-building details only when they become immediately relevant to the character’s survival or goals. Let the reader piece the puzzle together organically rather than handing them a textbook.

---

2. Concluding with a Shootout (The Lazy Climax)

The Problem

Action is thrilling, but treating a shootout or massive physical brawl as the default climax for every story is a major narrative pitfall.

The disadvantage of relying on a shootout to wrap things up is that it often feels unearned. If the central conflict of your story is emotional, psychological, or interpersonal, resolving it with flying bullets or laser blasts is a cop-out. It swaps genuine emotional resonance for cheap spectacle, rendering the character arcs completely irrelevant.

An Example to Avoid

After a poignant, slow-burn psychological drama about a grieving father fighting for custody of his daughter, the climax abruptly features a thirty-minute warehouse shootout with a random drug cartel. (Bonus points if the cartel had nothing to do with the actual emotional core of the story.)

How to Fix It

Match your climax to your core conflict. If your story is about forgiveness, the climax should be an emotional confrontation, not a physical one. If you must have action, ensure the stakes of the battle directly mirror the internal stakes of the characters.

---

3. Mistaken Identities (The Forced Misunderstanding)

The Problem

Mistaken identity tropes can work wonderfully in Shakespearean comedies, but in modern drama and thrillers, they often feel manipulative and frustrating.

The primary disadvantage of mistaken identities is that they rely on manufactured conflict. When major plot developments happen simply because characters refuse to ask basic clarifying questions or because someone is wearing a slightly different hat, readers feel insulted. It creates “idiot plot syndrome”—a story that only moves forward because everyone involved is acting completely irrationally.

An Example to Avoid

The romantic leads spend 300 pages hating each other and avoiding romance because one of them overheard a heavily edited half-sentence out of context, completely ignoring years of established trust and chemistry.

How to Fix It

Raise the emotional intelligence of your characters. If characters are going to misunderstand each other, make the deception complex, systemic, or psychological—not just a contrived accident that could be resolved with a five-second conversation.

---

4. “And Everyone Was Dead” (The Nihilistic Ending)

The Problem

Nothing deflates a reader’s investment quite like the “and everyone was dead” ending—often accompanied by the revelation that the entire story was just a dream, or that every character perished in a meaningless twist of fate.

While gritty, tragic, and ambiguous endings can work brilliantly (think Hamlet), killing off your entire cast for shock value carries a massive disadvantage: it renders the entire journey pointless. If every character the reader cared about dies without achieving anything, the audience is left wondering why they invested their time in the first place.

An Example to Avoid

After a harrowing 400-page fantasy epic where the heroes cross continents, make ultimate sacrifices, and defeat the dark lord, a stray meteor suddenly strikes the castle during the victory celebration, instantly wiping out every single named character.

How to Fix It

Honour the reader’s emotional investment. If you want a bittersweet or tragic ending, ensure that the sacrifices made by the characters actually meant something. Even in death, characters should achieve a thematic victory or leave the world fundamentally changed for the better.

---

Write with Intention

Tropes and story elements aren’t inherently evil; they are tools in a writer’s toolbox. However, relying on exposition dumps, lazy shootouts, frustrating mistaken identities, or nihilistic “everyone dies” endings can quickly alienate your audience.

By recognizing the disadvantages of these tropes, you can subvert expectations, sharpen your pacing, and deliver a deeply satisfying payoff that keeps readers hooked from the first page to the last.

What’s your least favorite storytelling trope to encounter in the wild? Let us know in the comments below

…

Day 212 – Story elements to avoid

…

The Dark Side of Narrative: Why Certain Story Elements Fail (And How to Fix Them)

Every great story is built on a foundation of classic elements: compelling characters, gripping conflict, and immersive world-building. But what happens when these trusty narrative tools are pushed too far?

Even the most celebrated storytelling tropes can become a writer’s worst enemy if mishandled. When relied upon as crutches, certain story elements can instantly pull readers out of the narrative, destroy suspense, and leave an audience feeling cheated.

As writers, understanding the disadvantages of these common tropes is essential for crafting fresh, engaging fiction. Today, we’re breaking down four major story elements to avoid—complete with examples—so you can elevate your storytelling and keep your readers turning pages.

---

1. The Exposition Dump (The “As You Know, Bob” Trap)

The Problem

Exposition is necessary for world-building, but an exposition dump (or info-dump) occurs when a writer forces massive amounts of back-story, historical context, or technical data into the narrative all at once.

The biggest disadvantage of the exposition dump is that it grinds the pacing to a complete halt. Instead of showing us the world through action and reaction, the author pauses the story to lecture the reader. Worse yet is the infamous “As you know, Bob” dialogue, where two characters explain things to each other that they both already know purely for the benefit of the audience.

An Example to Avoid

“As you know, Captain, ever since the Great AI Wars of 2142—which decimated 80% of Earth’s population and led to the ban of all sentient technology—our spaceship’s hyperdrive has been powered by your rare crystal bloodline.”

How to Fix It

Weave information through action and conflict. Reveal world-building details only when they become immediately relevant to the character’s survival or goals. Let the reader piece the puzzle together organically rather than handing them a textbook.

---

2. Concluding with a Shootout (The Lazy Climax)

The Problem

Action is thrilling, but treating a shootout or massive physical brawl as the default climax for every story is a major narrative pitfall.

The disadvantage of relying on a shootout to wrap things up is that it often feels unearned. If the central conflict of your story is emotional, psychological, or interpersonal, resolving it with flying bullets or laser blasts is a cop-out. It swaps genuine emotional resonance for cheap spectacle, rendering the character arcs completely irrelevant.

An Example to Avoid

After a poignant, slow-burn psychological drama about a grieving father fighting for custody of his daughter, the climax abruptly features a thirty-minute warehouse shootout with a random drug cartel. (Bonus points if the cartel had nothing to do with the actual emotional core of the story.)

How to Fix It

Match your climax to your core conflict. If your story is about forgiveness, the climax should be an emotional confrontation, not a physical one. If you must have action, ensure the stakes of the battle directly mirror the internal stakes of the characters.

---

3. Mistaken Identities (The Forced Misunderstanding)

The Problem

Mistaken identity tropes can work wonderfully in Shakespearean comedies, but in modern drama and thrillers, they often feel manipulative and frustrating.

The primary disadvantage of mistaken identities is that they rely on manufactured conflict. When major plot developments happen simply because characters refuse to ask basic clarifying questions or because someone is wearing a slightly different hat, readers feel insulted. It creates “idiot plot syndrome”—a story that only moves forward because everyone involved is acting completely irrationally.

An Example to Avoid

The romantic leads spend 300 pages hating each other and avoiding romance because one of them overheard a heavily edited half-sentence out of context, completely ignoring years of established trust and chemistry.

How to Fix It

Raise the emotional intelligence of your characters. If characters are going to misunderstand each other, make the deception complex, systemic, or psychological—not just a contrived accident that could be resolved with a five-second conversation.

---

4. “And Everyone Was Dead” (The Nihilistic Ending)

The Problem

Nothing deflates a reader’s investment quite like the “and everyone was dead” ending—often accompanied by the revelation that the entire story was just a dream, or that every character perished in a meaningless twist of fate.

While gritty, tragic, and ambiguous endings can work brilliantly (think Hamlet), killing off your entire cast for shock value carries a massive disadvantage: it renders the entire journey pointless. If every character the reader cared about dies without achieving anything, the audience is left wondering why they invested their time in the first place.

An Example to Avoid

After a harrowing 400-page fantasy epic where the heroes cross continents, make ultimate sacrifices, and defeat the dark lord, a stray meteor suddenly strikes the castle during the victory celebration, instantly wiping out every single named character.

How to Fix It

Honour the reader’s emotional investment. If you want a bittersweet or tragic ending, ensure that the sacrifices made by the characters actually meant something. Even in death, characters should achieve a thematic victory or leave the world fundamentally changed for the better.

---

Write with Intention

Tropes and story elements aren’t inherently evil; they are tools in a writer’s toolbox. However, relying on exposition dumps, lazy shootouts, frustrating mistaken identities, or nihilistic “everyone dies” endings can quickly alienate your audience.

By recognizing the disadvantages of these tropes, you can subvert expectations, sharpen your pacing, and deliver a deeply satisfying payoff that keeps readers hooked from the first page to the last.

What’s your least favorite storytelling trope to encounter in the wild? Let us know in the comments below

…

Day 211 –  Write because you must write

…

Why Write? The Untamed Truth About the Creative Urge

“If you want fame, be a prize fighter or a movie star. If you write, write because you must write.” – Sinclair Lewis

It’s a stark, uncompromising sentiment. In an era dominated by influencer culture, personal branding, and the relentless pursuit of going viral, this advice feels almost revolutionary—perhaps even a little discouraging at first glance.

We live in a world that practically worships visibility. Social media algorithms reward the loud, the flashy, and the prolific. Yet, true artists across the generations have continually reminded us that the engine of genuine literature cannot be fueled by the superficial desire for applause.

If you are picking up a pen or opening a blank document simply because you want people to know your name, you are playing the wrong game. Here is a deep dive into why true writing is an act of compulsion, not ambition, and why writing “because you must” is the only way to survive the page.

---

The Mirage of Literary Fame

Let’s address the elephant in the room: fame.

In the popular imagination, the writer’s life is often romanticised. We picture glittering book launches, glowing profiles in The New Yorker, packed readings, and the quiet satisfaction of shaping the cultural zeitgeist.

The reality is vastly different. Writing is, by its very nature, a solitary, gruelling, and largely unglamorous pursuit. It involves staring at a blinking cursor for hours, wrestling with self-doubt, rewriting the same paragraph seven times, and sending your deepest thoughts out into a vast, indifferent void.

If your primary motivation is fame, writing will inevitably break your heart. The publishing industry is notoriously fickle. Bestseller lists are crowded, trends shift overnight, and the correlation between literary merit and public recognition is notoriously weak.

Worse yet, chasing fame fundamentally alters what you write. When you write for an audience’s approval, you begin to self-censor. You write what is marketable, what is trendy, or what is palatable. You trade your authentic voice for algorithmic compliance. And in doing so, you lose the very thing that makes your writing worth reading in the first place.

What Does It Mean to “Write Because You Must”?

When the legendary author (or wise observer, as echoed in sentiments by writers from Bukowski to Orwell) suggests writing because you must, they are pointing to a psychological and emotional necessity.

Writing out of compulsion looks different. It is:

• An itch that refuses to be scratched: It’s the story that wakes you up at 3:00 AM demanding to be told. It’s the observation about human nature that you can’t shake until you trap it in a sentence.
• A method of survival: For many writers, putting words on a page isn’t a hobby; it is a way of processing grief, confusion, joy, and the chaotic experience of being alive. As Joan Didion famously wrote, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means.”
• An involuntary reflex: You write not because you want to be a writer, but because not writing leaves you feeling hollow, anxious, and disconnected from yourself.

When you operate from this space of necessity, the external markers of success—book sales, follower counts, critical acclaim—become secondary. They are nice if they happen, but they are not the point. The point is the work itself.

The Freedom of the Compulsive Writer

Paradoxically, letting go of the desire for fame is the most liberating thing a writer can do.

When you write strictly because you must, you give yourself permission to fail. You give yourself permission to write a terrible first draft, to explore weird themes, and to tell stories that appeal to an audience of one: yourself.

• You reclaim your voice: Without the pressure to please the masses, your prose becomes sharper, stranger, and more honest.
• You build resilience: Rejection hurts, but it doesn’t destroy you. If a publisher passes on your manuscript, it stings—but you will keep writing anyway, because stopping was never really an option.
• You find your true tribe: Ironically, readers can smell authenticity a mile away. The work that resonates the most deeply across generations is almost always the work that was written with utter disregard for market trends, born purely from an author’s urgent need to express a truth.

How to Know Why You Are Writing

Take a moment to check your creative pulse. Ask yourself honestly:

• If no one ever read what I am writing right now, would I still write it?
• Am I dreaming more about holding my published book, or more about solving the puzzle of the chapter I’m working on?
• Does writing feel like a chore I endure for status, or a fire I have to tend to stay warm?

If your answers lean toward the former in each scenario, it’s time to recalibrate. Lower the stakes. Stop writing for the applause sign.

Final Thoughts: Answer the Call

If you want to be a celebrity, go audition for a reality show, start a viral TikTok channel, or train for the ring. There are much faster, more efficient ways to achieve fame than writing a novel.

But if there is a quiet, persistent voice inside you that demands expression—if stories form behind your eyes when you walk down the street, and if words are the only way you know how to make sense of this wild world—then pick up the pen.

Don’t write for the claps. Don’t write for the bestseller lists. Write because you must. Everything else is just noise.

…

Day 211 –  Write because you must write

…

Why Write? The Untamed Truth About the Creative Urge

“If you want fame, be a prize fighter or a movie star. If you write, write because you must write.” – Sinclair Lewis

It’s a stark, uncompromising sentiment. In an era dominated by influencer culture, personal branding, and the relentless pursuit of going viral, this advice feels almost revolutionary—perhaps even a little discouraging at first glance.

We live in a world that practically worships visibility. Social media algorithms reward the loud, the flashy, and the prolific. Yet, true artists across the generations have continually reminded us that the engine of genuine literature cannot be fueled by the superficial desire for applause.

If you are picking up a pen or opening a blank document simply because you want people to know your name, you are playing the wrong game. Here is a deep dive into why true writing is an act of compulsion, not ambition, and why writing “because you must” is the only way to survive the page.

---

The Mirage of Literary Fame

Let’s address the elephant in the room: fame.

In the popular imagination, the writer’s life is often romanticised. We picture glittering book launches, glowing profiles in The New Yorker, packed readings, and the quiet satisfaction of shaping the cultural zeitgeist.

The reality is vastly different. Writing is, by its very nature, a solitary, gruelling, and largely unglamorous pursuit. It involves staring at a blinking cursor for hours, wrestling with self-doubt, rewriting the same paragraph seven times, and sending your deepest thoughts out into a vast, indifferent void.

If your primary motivation is fame, writing will inevitably break your heart. The publishing industry is notoriously fickle. Bestseller lists are crowded, trends shift overnight, and the correlation between literary merit and public recognition is notoriously weak.

Worse yet, chasing fame fundamentally alters what you write. When you write for an audience’s approval, you begin to self-censor. You write what is marketable, what is trendy, or what is palatable. You trade your authentic voice for algorithmic compliance. And in doing so, you lose the very thing that makes your writing worth reading in the first place.

What Does It Mean to “Write Because You Must”?

When the legendary author (or wise observer, as echoed in sentiments by writers from Bukowski to Orwell) suggests writing because you must, they are pointing to a psychological and emotional necessity.

Writing out of compulsion looks different. It is:

• An itch that refuses to be scratched: It’s the story that wakes you up at 3:00 AM demanding to be told. It’s the observation about human nature that you can’t shake until you trap it in a sentence.
• A method of survival: For many writers, putting words on a page isn’t a hobby; it is a way of processing grief, confusion, joy, and the chaotic experience of being alive. As Joan Didion famously wrote, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means.”
• An involuntary reflex: You write not because you want to be a writer, but because not writing leaves you feeling hollow, anxious, and disconnected from yourself.

When you operate from this space of necessity, the external markers of success—book sales, follower counts, critical acclaim—become secondary. They are nice if they happen, but they are not the point. The point is the work itself.

The Freedom of the Compulsive Writer

Paradoxically, letting go of the desire for fame is the most liberating thing a writer can do.

When you write strictly because you must, you give yourself permission to fail. You give yourself permission to write a terrible first draft, to explore weird themes, and to tell stories that appeal to an audience of one: yourself.

• You reclaim your voice: Without the pressure to please the masses, your prose becomes sharper, stranger, and more honest.
• You build resilience: Rejection hurts, but it doesn’t destroy you. If a publisher passes on your manuscript, it stings—but you will keep writing anyway, because stopping was never really an option.
• You find your true tribe: Ironically, readers can smell authenticity a mile away. The work that resonates the most deeply across generations is almost always the work that was written with utter disregard for market trends, born purely from an author’s urgent need to express a truth.

How to Know Why You Are Writing

Take a moment to check your creative pulse. Ask yourself honestly:

• If no one ever read what I am writing right now, would I still write it?
• Am I dreaming more about holding my published book, or more about solving the puzzle of the chapter I’m working on?
• Does writing feel like a chore I endure for status, or a fire I have to tend to stay warm?

If your answers lean toward the former in each scenario, it’s time to recalibrate. Lower the stakes. Stop writing for the applause sign.

Final Thoughts: Answer the Call

If you want to be a celebrity, go audition for a reality show, start a viral TikTok channel, or train for the ring. There are much faster, more efficient ways to achieve fame than writing a novel.

But if there is a quiet, persistent voice inside you that demands expression—if stories form behind your eyes when you walk down the street, and if words are the only way you know how to make sense of this wild world—then pick up the pen.

Don’t write for the claps. Don’t write for the bestseller lists. Write because you must. Everything else is just noise.

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