Day 113 – Writing behind closed doors – alone

…

The Solitary Craft: The Pros and Cons of Writing Behind a Closed Door

Every writer has their own ritual. Some prefer the hum of a bustling coffee shop, while others find their flow in the company of a critique group. But for many, the “true” work happens in the sanctuary of isolation—behind a closed door, away from the noise, the glare of the world, and the distractions of daily life.

Writing in isolation is a double-edged sword. It is both a monastic devotion and a potential trap. If you’ve ever wondered whether you should be retreating to your home office for days on end, here’s a look at the trade-offs of the solitary craft.

---

The Pros: The Sanctity of the Flow State

For many authors, isolation isn’t just a preference; it’s a necessity for deep work. When you shut the door, you are creating a workspace where you are the sole arbiter of your world-building.

1. Uninterrupted Deep Work (The “Flow”) It takes approximately 20 minutes to re-enter a deep state of concentration after an interruption. By closing your door, you minimise the “ping” of notifications and the “hey, do you have a second?” that kill momentum. Isolation allows you to sink into the flow state where time disappears, and the prose begins to sing.

2. Psychological Safety Writing often requires vulnerability. When you are alone, you don’t face the subconscious filter of “what will people think?” You are free to write the messy, embarrassing, or radical first draft without an audience. This isolation acts as an incubator for risk-taking and authentic expression.

3. Total Control Over Environment: Your workspace is your cockpit. You control the lighting, the silence (or the specific playlist), and the temperature. This sensory control helps signal to your brain that it is time to work, turning your “closed door” into a psychological trigger for productivity.

---

The Cons: The Perils of the Echo Chamber

While the hermit life can produce great work, it also comes with significant risks. Writing in a vacuum can lead to stagnation, both in your craft and your mental well-being.

1. The “Echo Chamber” Effect When you write in total isolation, you lose the invaluable feedback loop. You may unknowingly fall into repetitive tropes, develop plot holes that you are too close to see, or misuse language in ways that are obvious to an outsider but invisible to you. Without the “fresh eyes” of a peer or editor, you run the risk of becoming your own worst champion—or your own worst critic.

2. The Erosion of Perspective: Writers are observers of humanity. To write realistic characters, you need to hear how people speak, observe their body language, and understand the tensions of social dynamics. If you spend too much time behind a closed door, your world may start to feel “airless.” Your dialogue can become wooden, and your understanding of cultural shifts may lag.

3. The Psychological Toll Writing is a lonely profession by default. By choosing to physically isolate yourself for long stretches, you risk burnout and the “writer’s blues.” Without the grounding influence of the outside world, the internal struggles of the writing process—self-doubt, imposter syndrome, and creative blocks—can become mountainous and overwhelming.

---

Finding the Balance: The “Hybrid” Approach

The goal isn’t to choose between total isolation and total social immersion. The most successful writers often use a hybrid model:

• The Sprint: Use the closed door for the “heavy lifting”—the drafting phase, where you need pure, uninterrupted focus.
• The Inhale: Once the draft is down, open the door. Seek out writers’ groups, beta readers, or even just a busy cafe to recalibrate your senses.
• The Observation: Use your time outside the room to “fill the well.” Listen to conversations in line at the grocery store, read books by different authors, and engage with the world so you have something to write about when you return to your desk.

The Verdict

Writing behind a closed door is a powerful tool, but it is a tool meant to be used in cycles. Use your isolation to create, but remember to occasionally unlock the door. Your best work often happens at the intersection of deep, focused thought and the messy, human world you are writing for.

How do you handle your writing environment? Do you crave the isolation, or do you find you need the buzz of the world to keep your words fresh? Let me know in the comments.

Day 113 – Writing behind closed doors – alone

…

The Solitary Craft: The Pros and Cons of Writing Behind a Closed Door

Every writer has their own ritual. Some prefer the hum of a bustling coffee shop, while others find their flow in the company of a critique group. But for many, the “true” work happens in the sanctuary of isolation—behind a closed door, away from the noise, the glare of the world, and the distractions of daily life.

Writing in isolation is a double-edged sword. It is both a monastic devotion and a potential trap. If you’ve ever wondered whether you should be retreating to your home office for days on end, here’s a look at the trade-offs of the solitary craft.

---

The Pros: The Sanctity of the Flow State

For many authors, isolation isn’t just a preference; it’s a necessity for deep work. When you shut the door, you are creating a workspace where you are the sole arbiter of your world-building.

1. Uninterrupted Deep Work (The “Flow”) It takes approximately 20 minutes to re-enter a deep state of concentration after an interruption. By closing your door, you minimise the “ping” of notifications and the “hey, do you have a second?” that kill momentum. Isolation allows you to sink into the flow state where time disappears, and the prose begins to sing.

2. Psychological Safety Writing often requires vulnerability. When you are alone, you don’t face the subconscious filter of “what will people think?” You are free to write the messy, embarrassing, or radical first draft without an audience. This isolation acts as an incubator for risk-taking and authentic expression.

3. Total Control Over Environment: Your workspace is your cockpit. You control the lighting, the silence (or the specific playlist), and the temperature. This sensory control helps signal to your brain that it is time to work, turning your “closed door” into a psychological trigger for productivity.

---

The Cons: The Perils of the Echo Chamber

While the hermit life can produce great work, it also comes with significant risks. Writing in a vacuum can lead to stagnation, both in your craft and your mental well-being.

1. The “Echo Chamber” Effect When you write in total isolation, you lose the invaluable feedback loop. You may unknowingly fall into repetitive tropes, develop plot holes that you are too close to see, or misuse language in ways that are obvious to an outsider but invisible to you. Without the “fresh eyes” of a peer or editor, you run the risk of becoming your own worst champion—or your own worst critic.

2. The Erosion of Perspective: Writers are observers of humanity. To write realistic characters, you need to hear how people speak, observe their body language, and understand the tensions of social dynamics. If you spend too much time behind a closed door, your world may start to feel “airless.” Your dialogue can become wooden, and your understanding of cultural shifts may lag.

3. The Psychological Toll Writing is a lonely profession by default. By choosing to physically isolate yourself for long stretches, you risk burnout and the “writer’s blues.” Without the grounding influence of the outside world, the internal struggles of the writing process—self-doubt, imposter syndrome, and creative blocks—can become mountainous and overwhelming.

---

Finding the Balance: The “Hybrid” Approach

The goal isn’t to choose between total isolation and total social immersion. The most successful writers often use a hybrid model:

• The Sprint: Use the closed door for the “heavy lifting”—the drafting phase, where you need pure, uninterrupted focus.
• The Inhale: Once the draft is down, open the door. Seek out writers’ groups, beta readers, or even just a busy cafe to recalibrate your senses.
• The Observation: Use your time outside the room to “fill the well.” Listen to conversations in line at the grocery store, read books by different authors, and engage with the world so you have something to write about when you return to your desk.

The Verdict

Writing behind a closed door is a powerful tool, but it is a tool meant to be used in cycles. Use your isolation to create, but remember to occasionally unlock the door. Your best work often happens at the intersection of deep, focused thought and the messy, human world you are writing for.

How do you handle your writing environment? Do you crave the isolation, or do you find you need the buzz of the world to keep your words fresh? Let me know in the comments.

Day 112 – What if the book you’re writing has a similar plot and characters to another book

…

The “Accidental Copycat”: What to Do When Your Story Feels Too Familiar

We’ve all been there. You’re halfway through your manuscript, the plot is finally clicking, and then—thud. You’re scrolling through a bookstore shelf or browsing Goodreads, and you see it. A book that was published two years ago that features a protagonist agonisingly similar to yours, a plot twist you thought was genius, and a setting that feels like a carbon copy of your own world.

Panic sets in. Am I a thief? Is my book unoriginal? Should I delete the file and start over?

Take a deep breath. Before you hit “delete,” let’s unpack why this happens and why it’s usually not the catastrophe you think it is.

---

1. The “Great Ideas” Phenomenon

There is an old adage in the writing world: “There are no new stories, only new ways to tell them.”

Human storytelling is built on archetypes. Whether it’s the Hero’s Journey, the “Enemies to Lovers” trope, or the “Small Town Secret,” we are all drawing from the same well of universal themes. If your book feels similar to another, it’s likely because those themes resonate with the collective human experience.

If you didn’t consciously sit down with that other book open on your desk to copy it, you aren’t stealing. You are simply participating in a genre.

2. The Difference Between Trope and Theft

There is a massive difference between plot points and execution.

• The Trope: Two characters get stuck in an elevator and fall in love.
• The Theft: You copy the specific dialogue, the unique way one character clears their throat, the specific backstory about their dying goldfish, and the exact sequence of events down to the minute.

If you are using the same general framework as another author, you are writing in a genre. If you are using their specific, unique creative choices (their “voice,” their specific, non-trope-based world-building quirks, or their specific phrasing), that’s where the ethical line blurs.

3. Your Perspective is Your “Secret Sauce”

Even if you and another author started with the same “what if” prompt, your story will end up completely different. Why? Because you are not that author.

• Your Life Experience: The way you describe grief, love, or a sunrise is colored by your own unique traumas, joys, and perspective.
• Your Character Voice: Characters are the sum of their choices. If your protagonist makes a choice different from the “original” character, the entire ripple effect of the story changes.
• Your Pacing and Tone: One author might write your shared plot as a dark, gritty noir; another might write it as a bubbly, fast-paced comedy.

4. How to Conduct a “Sanity Check”

If the similarities still bother you, perform these three steps to gain clarity:

1. Read the “Other” Book: It sounds counterintuitive, but if you haven’t read it, you might be scaring yourself over nothing. Read it to see if the “similarities” are actually just superficial tropes.
2. Identify the “Soul” of Your Story: Ask yourself, “What is the one thing I am trying to say that no one else can say exactly like me?” If you can answer that, lean harder into that element.
3. Twist the Narrative: If you feel like your plot beat is too derivative, change it. Give your character a different motivation. Put the story in a different setting. Introduce an antagonist that complicates the “cliché.”

The Bottom Line

Originality isn’t about being the first person to come up with an idea; it’s about being the most authentic person to express it.

Don’t let the fear of “stealing” paralyse your creativity. If you are writing from a place of genuine passion, your voice will shine through, regardless of how many other books explore similar territory. Keep writing. The world hasn’t read your version yet—and that version is the only one that truly matters.

Day 112 – What if the book you’re writing has a similar plot and characters to another book

…

The “Accidental Copycat”: What to Do When Your Story Feels Too Familiar

We’ve all been there. You’re halfway through your manuscript, the plot is finally clicking, and then—thud. You’re scrolling through a bookstore shelf or browsing Goodreads, and you see it. A book that was published two years ago that features a protagonist agonisingly similar to yours, a plot twist you thought was genius, and a setting that feels like a carbon copy of your own world.

Panic sets in. Am I a thief? Is my book unoriginal? Should I delete the file and start over?

Take a deep breath. Before you hit “delete,” let’s unpack why this happens and why it’s usually not the catastrophe you think it is.

---

1. The “Great Ideas” Phenomenon

There is an old adage in the writing world: “There are no new stories, only new ways to tell them.”

Human storytelling is built on archetypes. Whether it’s the Hero’s Journey, the “Enemies to Lovers” trope, or the “Small Town Secret,” we are all drawing from the same well of universal themes. If your book feels similar to another, it’s likely because those themes resonate with the collective human experience.

If you didn’t consciously sit down with that other book open on your desk to copy it, you aren’t stealing. You are simply participating in a genre.

2. The Difference Between Trope and Theft

There is a massive difference between plot points and execution.

• The Trope: Two characters get stuck in an elevator and fall in love.
• The Theft: You copy the specific dialogue, the unique way one character clears their throat, the specific backstory about their dying goldfish, and the exact sequence of events down to the minute.

If you are using the same general framework as another author, you are writing in a genre. If you are using their specific, unique creative choices (their “voice,” their specific, non-trope-based world-building quirks, or their specific phrasing), that’s where the ethical line blurs.

3. Your Perspective is Your “Secret Sauce”

Even if you and another author started with the same “what if” prompt, your story will end up completely different. Why? Because you are not that author.

• Your Life Experience: The way you describe grief, love, or a sunrise is colored by your own unique traumas, joys, and perspective.
• Your Character Voice: Characters are the sum of their choices. If your protagonist makes a choice different from the “original” character, the entire ripple effect of the story changes.
• Your Pacing and Tone: One author might write your shared plot as a dark, gritty noir; another might write it as a bubbly, fast-paced comedy.

4. How to Conduct a “Sanity Check”

If the similarities still bother you, perform these three steps to gain clarity:

1. Read the “Other” Book: It sounds counterintuitive, but if you haven’t read it, you might be scaring yourself over nothing. Read it to see if the “similarities” are actually just superficial tropes.
2. Identify the “Soul” of Your Story: Ask yourself, “What is the one thing I am trying to say that no one else can say exactly like me?” If you can answer that, lean harder into that element.
3. Twist the Narrative: If you feel like your plot beat is too derivative, change it. Give your character a different motivation. Put the story in a different setting. Introduce an antagonist that complicates the “cliché.”

The Bottom Line

Originality isn’t about being the first person to come up with an idea; it’s about being the most authentic person to express it.

Don’t let the fear of “stealing” paralyse your creativity. If you are writing from a place of genuine passion, your voice will shine through, regardless of how many other books explore similar territory. Keep writing. The world hasn’t read your version yet—and that version is the only one that truly matters.

Day 111 – Writing Exercise

…

The space port, one of three on Mars, loomed on the horizon as the shuttle sped towards it.

Milo had just finished a two-year rotation at the mine, a lucrative opportunity given to him by his brother.

He had not done it out of the kindness of his heart; he had used the opportunity to send his brother away, to keep him out of trouble.

Milo had grudgingly accepted it because of the money.  And to get away from his wife, who had cheated on him during his previous rotation on Moonbase 5. 

He had come home early and found Leila with another man, the friend he’d asked to look after her while he was gone.  He had taken his remit too far.

He was unlucky in that sense, his love of offworld work keeping him away from home, and a wife who wanted her feet firmly planted on Earth.  They had no children, another of his grievances because she didn’t want them.

Perhaps it was fated to end this way.

20 minutes later, the shuttle had gone through the docking procedures and was ready to offload its human cargo.

The pilot, of course, was the latest robot technology, more human than human, the promotion material had said, less likely to make mistakes.

It didn’t say a lot for the confidence the company had in its real human employees.  Still, they hadn’t sacked any humans yet and replaced them with robots.

Yet.

The airlocks hissed, and the first door opened, and 10 passengers went in.  The door closed, and the cabin filled with steam.  Cleansing any bugs that may have hitched a ride.  The steam was sucked out, and the outer door opened.

He was among the first along the gangway and into the main hall.  At one end was the domestic spaceport.  At the other end, the interstellar spaceport, where tomorrow he would get the ship back home.

Not that he could call it home, after everything that had happened.  It was the last place he wanted to be, but he didn’t have a choice.

He would happily stay right here if he were given the opportunity.  They were always looking for workers out in the new cities and the space docks.

Life here wasn’t so bad.  In between the two were everything else, the hotels, bars, restaurants, accommodation towers and shopping mall.  There was also a cinema, sports arena, playing fields, and parkland.  All were built under a series of connected domes.  More like the old earth than the new.

He was heading for a hotel.  Check in, dinner and a few drinks at the Bar, a few hours in the casino, then rest.  There would be time to sleep on the ship.

He walked slowly, savouring those last moments.  Through the windows, he could see the stark landscape, how much of Earth was becoming. Soon, they would have to find a new planet or planets to move to.

But not in his lifetime.

…

Most people wanted to get back to Earth.  Milo was one of the few who didn’t..

He’d checked into the hotel, and the hotel had taken care of his travel arrangements.  The mining company owned the hotel, which made it easy to coordinate everything.

Dinner was provided, along with a reasonable number of drinks afterwards, and given his seniority, a sizable tab at the casino.

He’d learned long ago that he and casinos didn’t mix; he was just going for the free watered-down drinks and watching the high rollers.  And like the last time, go see a show and stay out of trouble.

He had dinner, sat at the bar, had a few bottles of beer and talked to random people: mine workers on weekend leave, mining executives lamenting being stuck on Mars, and people who had more money than sense, wanting to stay on Mars for a holiday, people who didn’t care about spending a month or so in stasis either way.

Then, a wander around the gaming floor, the bright lights, the endless noise, the people who all looked as though they didn’t have a care in the world.

Maybe they didn’t.

He was watching a woman, eye-catching mostly because of her dress, or lack of, which in a way was a diversion.  She had attracted a large group of onlookers.  The roulette wheel was spinning, the ball was dropping, and landing on her number.

Eight.

Once, eight times a second.

The croupier, a middle-aged man with white hair and a mottled beard, had a peculiar flick when sending the ball on its way. 

The first one was, clockwise, number eight.

Ten thousand at thirty-seven to one, three hundred and seventy thousand.

It was sitting on the table.

A waitress arrived with a single drink, champagne in a crystal flute with a hollow stem, the good stuff, not the rubbish they served the punters like Milo.

We waited.  If there were no other sound, a pin drop would be like a bomb going off.

“Bets, please?”  The man was slightly hoarse.  The next spin could be make or break for him.

She removed twenty-seven thousand and left ten.

On number eight.

“No more bets.”

Yes, the croupier had beads of sweat on his brow.

The ball went counterclockwise, round and round, and when it hit the first number and jumped, everyone sucked their breath until it landed.

On number eight.

The croupier called for chips.

A grey coat had been nearby, and they were joined by a blue coat and then a black coat.

A huddle, a whispered conversation, and the croupier was replaced.  A hard-faced woman, mid-thirties, with a ‘don’t make wisecracks to me’ expression took over.

“Just like the house.  Kill the winning streak by replacing the croupier.”

I turned.

The owner of the voice was a girl, on the threshold of being something more, in an elegant ball gown, looking like she had escaped a torture chamber.

“It has been known to happen.”  As many times as I’d seen it happen, she was right.

“You work for the house?”

“I’m a casual observer.  No more, no less.”  My glass was empty.

A waitress went past and exchanged empty glasses with full ones.  She took one. It was not the good stuff.

“Six hundred grand.  Not a bad night’s work.”

“She won’t quit.”  I knew the type.  It was a superstition, leave it all, don’t break the stack.

“Would you?”  She took a sip and made a face.  It hadn’t improved on the first glass.

“Oddly yes.  But I’m neither that brave or reckless.”  I would not have doubled down after the first bet.

She smiled, did a quick scan of the floor then her eyes came back to me.

“You’re not the adventurous sort?”  It was said with scepticism.  I was surprised.

Who was she and what did she want with me.  The way she was acting i suspected she was part of the floor surveillance, perhaps looking to see how the lady was possibly cheating.

“Used to be, in another life.”  Back in the day as they called it, when I tried my hand at being a policeman.  I was young and idealistic then.

“Well, I’ll give you a chance, one chance, to seek adventure.  I need a dancing partner, and you look to me you are a dancing man.  Am I right?”

She was.  Before I finally married, a girlfriend had been my partner in ballroom dancing contests, and we were very good.  Very, very good.  Until she decided another dancing partner would be more interesting.  It might have been a career, but it ended that night she left.

How could she know that I was a dancer?

“I’ve taken the requisite Arthur Murray lessons.”

“Including the Waltz?”

“It’s there somewhere in the back of my mind.  No doubt it will come back to me.”

…

Up a hallway, wide enough to be almost an avenue, and off to one side was a ballroom, with about five hundred people suitably dressed to the nines.

I looked out of place, even though my suit was being worn for the third time.  I didn’t have the white shirt, stiff collar and white bow tie.

It didn’t matter.

I had a feeling this girl was a maverick.

People created space on the floor for us.  I should have been worried, but it was not until we took the starting position i noticed we were the only pair in the circle.

The music started, and she was almost about to move when I took the lead, if it could be called that.

I loved the Waltz.  It gave you a chance to be close and apart, the ebbs and flows of the music, and the Strauss music. 

Others joined us until we had a full circle.

I concentrated on not stuffing up.

She had definitely done this before.

After switching partners, briefly, I got the redhead with the glowering eyes.  She said, in a very low voice, “You know who you’re dancing with, don’t you?”

I didn’t, and wondered if I should say so.  “No.”  I was curious.

“Literally, the boss’s daughter.”

Boss of what or whom?

She was gone before I could ask.

The dance ended, and the orchestra leaned into a cha cha cha.  I was not an exponent of the Latin dances, and she was equally willing to leave it alone.

In a quiet corner, we had drinks brought overnight almost unbidden, and I missed the secret sign she made to the staff.

“I’m told you’re the boss’s daughter.  Should I be worried?”

“I am a daughter. By definition, you’re a son.”

“But not of a boss.   My father was just a worker.”

“And you were too?”

I shrugged.  “Briefly.”

“You shrug off seven years so flippantly.”

So, she did know who I was.  That might be a problem when I remembered the spaceport mayor had a daughter, and was in trouble.  I was in the territories; her domain was this city, and the likelihood of meeting was supposedly zero.

“You’ve read words on paper.  Someone’s subjective words.  It was a long time ago.”

“We need a detective.”

“You have a police force, a sheriff, I believe.”

“People who work for the company.  People who have vested interests.  People are not interested in digging.”

“Their own grave?” 

It was an interesting conundrum.  The company that ran the mines was also responsible for maintaining the city and services, except for the small council, who were in charge.  The charter made sure that control of everything was not left in the hands of the companies, just the bills.

But they did get to recruit the staff, not the bosses.  It was a peculiarity, one that sometimes caused friction.  There had been a rash of assaults across all the cities, something the miners labelled as the result of privation and exuberance.

They had promised to fix the problem.  Perhaps they had, perhaps they hadn’t.

“We can’t fill the City Investigator role.”

Or the last one poked his nose into the wrong place and had it chopped off, along with his head.  Figuratively, that is, his death had been reported as from natural causes.

I think I now knew they was a different explanation.

“And I’m your choice?”

“You were overheard saying that you didn’t want to go home.  Here’s your chance to stay.”

“My rotations are done.  Rules are rules.”

“Rules are made to be broken.  We can use a special clause if you want to stay.”

“And die?”

“You’re fast on your feet.  A smart man knows when to change direction, retreat, regroup, and live to fight another day.  You’ve spent time with the workers, you know who, and what they were and are.  Not afraid to stick up for yourself either.  Pays good, benefits…” she smiled.

Trouble.

“Can I think about it?”

“What’s there to think about?”

A lot.  “I should go home.”

“You won’t make it home.”

It was an interesting statement, and normally it would be frightening.  It simply confirmed what I suspected.  The parting speech on earth before I came in this last rotation from my brother was ominous.

He said coming home might be detrimental to my health.

“Still want to think about it.”

She shrugged.  “I’ll be at the interstellar lounge tomorrow morning.  Don’t disappoint me.  Again.”

…

There are times when you honestly believe you’ve reached a point in your life where everything makes sense.  A point where you’ve made peace with your choices, and there’s nothing more to be done about it.

It was inevitable that Milo instinctively knew he was going to end up single again, once he realised he preferred running away from responsibility.  His brother had always said his marriage wouldn’t last, that his obsession with being off-world was going to take precedence over everything else

It did.  It just bugged him that his brother was right.

He also told him beating the guy who slept with his wife was a poor choice, and that was right too.  That was why he got Milo the gig as far away from home as possible

His brother also told him the guy’s family had a great deal of reach, and one day the tentacles of their influence would catch up with him.

It seemed like it had.

The question was which side of the fence she was on.  He cursed himself for not asking for a name, and then guessed that she would probably not give anything but an alias. 

Or maybe he had too overactive an imagination.

He hadn’t slept.  He’d kept thinking of that one Waltz, in the arms of a woman who was everything that Margery wasn’t, to the point where he had to wonder how he finished up with her.

And how impossible it was that this woman would bother to give him a second glance.  He was, when looked at in the cold, hard light of day, a miner, as rough and ready as they come.

He was everything she was not.

But for three minutes plus a few seconds, he felt every bit her equal and that they were seamless in the dance.  He may have looked out of place, but he didn’t feel out of place.

Except there was no room for him in her world.

It seemed there was no room for him in anyone’s world.

He knew what was coming.  Better to face it, or he would always be looking over his shoulder.

…

He arrived at the interstellar spaceport a half hour early.  There was a large number of earthbound travellers already there, in various stages of excitement.

It was always a thrill to get on the spaceship and experience the first few hours of the flight before the stasis phase, and then waking up about a day and a half out.  Coming into moon orbit, then docking, was one of the amazing moments, especially when getting the first sight of Earth.

He tendered his ticket at the counter, had it stamped, and was given a boarding pass.  It was like getting a plane back home.

He went to the cafe and ordered a coffee, then selected a table that gave him a view of the whole room.  He kept his back to the wall.  If anyone was coming for him, he would see them.

Halfway through the coffee, what appeared to be another passenger sat opposite.  He didn’t ask if the seat was free.

Milo glared at him.

“I’m guessing you’re Milo.”

“I’m guessing you should be minding your own business.  Would it matter if I said that the seat is taken?”

He seemed surprised.  “I didn’t think you had any friends.”

I noticed behind him a scuffle at a table near the door where two men were dragged out of their chairs and hauled away by men bigger than they were.  A similar event happened at a table by the other door.

Two exits covered.

If I tried to leave, I wouldn’t.

Then the mysterious young lady came in and sauntered across the floor.  My new friend finally realised something was going on, maybe Milo staring past him, not at him, gave it away.

He turned, and the slight shoulder slump said it all.

She had a uniform of sorts on.  Not quite the same impact as the previous evening.

The man made no attempt to move.  He looked up at her.  “Cassandra.”

“Joe.  What can I do for you?”

“There are two gentlemen over by the exit waiting to have a chat.  Don’t disappoint me by doing something silly.”

“You know me better than that.”

She gave him a face that said otherwise.  He looked like he was assessing his options for escape. They were not good.

One of her associates came over and put a hand on his shoulder.  “This way, sir.”

Not many of the others in the cafe were paying much attention.

He stood and looked down at me.  “This isn’t over.”

Milo shrugged.  “I wasn’t aware it had started, whatever it is.”

He looked at Cassandra.  “What’s the charge?”

“Interfering in a covert operation.”

“He doesn’t work for you.”

She smiled.  “Keep up, Joe.  You are usually not this sloppy.  Unless, of course, you no longer have a spy in my department.” 

A minute change in expression.

She nodded to the other officer, and he escorted Joe away.  Cassandra sat in the recently executive seat.

“Thank you, Milo.”

“For what?”

“We’ve been trying to pin something on him, but he’s very slippery.  It’s what happens with rush jobs.  I have to thank you for your help.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You verified we caught the mile on the department, and acted as a decoy so we could arrest him.  You want that job, it’s yours.”

Did he.  If that was the case, Milo wouldn’t have to go home, and he could see trouble coming.  Well, she would.

“Who exactly are you?”

“Cassandra.”

Milo gave her one of his looks, the one that said don’t dance with him.

“Acting Chief Superintendent, Detectives.  Your job.  Five years.  Staff of twenty.  Nice apartment, with stellar views of the Red Planet.”

“Are you one of the twenty?”

“XO, 21C.  I want to learn from the best.”

Milo stood and held out his hand.

She stood and took it in hers.

They shook hands.

“Welcome aboard.  Now, let’s go and interrogate some suspects.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 111 – Writing Exercise

…

The space port, one of three on Mars, loomed on the horizon as the shuttle sped towards it.

Milo had just finished a two-year rotation at the mine, a lucrative opportunity given to him by his brother.

He had not done it out of the kindness of his heart; he had used the opportunity to send his brother away, to keep him out of trouble.

Milo had grudgingly accepted it because of the money.  And to get away from his wife, who had cheated on him during his previous rotation on Moonbase 5. 

He had come home early and found Leila with another man, the friend he’d asked to look after her while he was gone.  He had taken his remit too far.

He was unlucky in that sense, his love of offworld work keeping him away from home, and a wife who wanted her feet firmly planted on Earth.  They had no children, another of his grievances because she didn’t want them.

Perhaps it was fated to end this way.

20 minutes later, the shuttle had gone through the docking procedures and was ready to offload its human cargo.

The pilot, of course, was the latest robot technology, more human than human, the promotion material had said, less likely to make mistakes.

It didn’t say a lot for the confidence the company had in its real human employees.  Still, they hadn’t sacked any humans yet and replaced them with robots.

Yet.

The airlocks hissed, and the first door opened, and 10 passengers went in.  The door closed, and the cabin filled with steam.  Cleansing any bugs that may have hitched a ride.  The steam was sucked out, and the outer door opened.

He was among the first along the gangway and into the main hall.  At one end was the domestic spaceport.  At the other end, the interstellar spaceport, where tomorrow he would get the ship back home.

Not that he could call it home, after everything that had happened.  It was the last place he wanted to be, but he didn’t have a choice.

He would happily stay right here if he were given the opportunity.  They were always looking for workers out in the new cities and the space docks.

Life here wasn’t so bad.  In between the two were everything else, the hotels, bars, restaurants, accommodation towers and shopping mall.  There was also a cinema, sports arena, playing fields, and parkland.  All were built under a series of connected domes.  More like the old earth than the new.

He was heading for a hotel.  Check in, dinner and a few drinks at the Bar, a few hours in the casino, then rest.  There would be time to sleep on the ship.

He walked slowly, savouring those last moments.  Through the windows, he could see the stark landscape, how much of Earth was becoming. Soon, they would have to find a new planet or planets to move to.

But not in his lifetime.

…

Most people wanted to get back to Earth.  Milo was one of the few who didn’t..

He’d checked into the hotel, and the hotel had taken care of his travel arrangements.  The mining company owned the hotel, which made it easy to coordinate everything.

Dinner was provided, along with a reasonable number of drinks afterwards, and given his seniority, a sizable tab at the casino.

He’d learned long ago that he and casinos didn’t mix; he was just going for the free watered-down drinks and watching the high rollers.  And like the last time, go see a show and stay out of trouble.

He had dinner, sat at the bar, had a few bottles of beer and talked to random people: mine workers on weekend leave, mining executives lamenting being stuck on Mars, and people who had more money than sense, wanting to stay on Mars for a holiday, people who didn’t care about spending a month or so in stasis either way.

Then, a wander around the gaming floor, the bright lights, the endless noise, the people who all looked as though they didn’t have a care in the world.

Maybe they didn’t.

He was watching a woman, eye-catching mostly because of her dress, or lack of, which in a way was a diversion.  She had attracted a large group of onlookers.  The roulette wheel was spinning, the ball was dropping, and landing on her number.

Eight.

Once, eight times a second.

The croupier, a middle-aged man with white hair and a mottled beard, had a peculiar flick when sending the ball on its way. 

The first one was, clockwise, number eight.

Ten thousand at thirty-seven to one, three hundred and seventy thousand.

It was sitting on the table.

A waitress arrived with a single drink, champagne in a crystal flute with a hollow stem, the good stuff, not the rubbish they served the punters like Milo.

We waited.  If there were no other sound, a pin drop would be like a bomb going off.

“Bets, please?”  The man was slightly hoarse.  The next spin could be make or break for him.

She removed twenty-seven thousand and left ten.

On number eight.

“No more bets.”

Yes, the croupier had beads of sweat on his brow.

The ball went counterclockwise, round and round, and when it hit the first number and jumped, everyone sucked their breath until it landed.

On number eight.

The croupier called for chips.

A grey coat had been nearby, and they were joined by a blue coat and then a black coat.

A huddle, a whispered conversation, and the croupier was replaced.  A hard-faced woman, mid-thirties, with a ‘don’t make wisecracks to me’ expression took over.

“Just like the house.  Kill the winning streak by replacing the croupier.”

I turned.

The owner of the voice was a girl, on the threshold of being something more, in an elegant ball gown, looking like she had escaped a torture chamber.

“It has been known to happen.”  As many times as I’d seen it happen, she was right.

“You work for the house?”

“I’m a casual observer.  No more, no less.”  My glass was empty.

A waitress went past and exchanged empty glasses with full ones.  She took one. It was not the good stuff.

“Six hundred grand.  Not a bad night’s work.”

“She won’t quit.”  I knew the type.  It was a superstition, leave it all, don’t break the stack.

“Would you?”  She took a sip and made a face.  It hadn’t improved on the first glass.

“Oddly yes.  But I’m neither that brave or reckless.”  I would not have doubled down after the first bet.

She smiled, did a quick scan of the floor then her eyes came back to me.

“You’re not the adventurous sort?”  It was said with scepticism.  I was surprised.

Who was she and what did she want with me.  The way she was acting i suspected she was part of the floor surveillance, perhaps looking to see how the lady was possibly cheating.

“Used to be, in another life.”  Back in the day as they called it, when I tried my hand at being a policeman.  I was young and idealistic then.

“Well, I’ll give you a chance, one chance, to seek adventure.  I need a dancing partner, and you look to me you are a dancing man.  Am I right?”

She was.  Before I finally married, a girlfriend had been my partner in ballroom dancing contests, and we were very good.  Very, very good.  Until she decided another dancing partner would be more interesting.  It might have been a career, but it ended that night she left.

How could she know that I was a dancer?

“I’ve taken the requisite Arthur Murray lessons.”

“Including the Waltz?”

“It’s there somewhere in the back of my mind.  No doubt it will come back to me.”

…

Up a hallway, wide enough to be almost an avenue, and off to one side was a ballroom, with about five hundred people suitably dressed to the nines.

I looked out of place, even though my suit was being worn for the third time.  I didn’t have the white shirt, stiff collar and white bow tie.

It didn’t matter.

I had a feeling this girl was a maverick.

People created space on the floor for us.  I should have been worried, but it was not until we took the starting position i noticed we were the only pair in the circle.

The music started, and she was almost about to move when I took the lead, if it could be called that.

I loved the Waltz.  It gave you a chance to be close and apart, the ebbs and flows of the music, and the Strauss music. 

Others joined us until we had a full circle.

I concentrated on not stuffing up.

She had definitely done this before.

After switching partners, briefly, I got the redhead with the glowering eyes.  She said, in a very low voice, “You know who you’re dancing with, don’t you?”

I didn’t, and wondered if I should say so.  “No.”  I was curious.

“Literally, the boss’s daughter.”

Boss of what or whom?

She was gone before I could ask.

The dance ended, and the orchestra leaned into a cha cha cha.  I was not an exponent of the Latin dances, and she was equally willing to leave it alone.

In a quiet corner, we had drinks brought overnight almost unbidden, and I missed the secret sign she made to the staff.

“I’m told you’re the boss’s daughter.  Should I be worried?”

“I am a daughter. By definition, you’re a son.”

“But not of a boss.   My father was just a worker.”

“And you were too?”

I shrugged.  “Briefly.”

“You shrug off seven years so flippantly.”

So, she did know who I was.  That might be a problem when I remembered the spaceport mayor had a daughter, and was in trouble.  I was in the territories; her domain was this city, and the likelihood of meeting was supposedly zero.

“You’ve read words on paper.  Someone’s subjective words.  It was a long time ago.”

“We need a detective.”

“You have a police force, a sheriff, I believe.”

“People who work for the company.  People who have vested interests.  People are not interested in digging.”

“Their own grave?” 

It was an interesting conundrum.  The company that ran the mines was also responsible for maintaining the city and services, except for the small council, who were in charge.  The charter made sure that control of everything was not left in the hands of the companies, just the bills.

But they did get to recruit the staff, not the bosses.  It was a peculiarity, one that sometimes caused friction.  There had been a rash of assaults across all the cities, something the miners labelled as the result of privation and exuberance.

They had promised to fix the problem.  Perhaps they had, perhaps they hadn’t.

“We can’t fill the City Investigator role.”

Or the last one poked his nose into the wrong place and had it chopped off, along with his head.  Figuratively, that is, his death had been reported as from natural causes.

I think I now knew they was a different explanation.

“And I’m your choice?”

“You were overheard saying that you didn’t want to go home.  Here’s your chance to stay.”

“My rotations are done.  Rules are rules.”

“Rules are made to be broken.  We can use a special clause if you want to stay.”

“And die?”

“You’re fast on your feet.  A smart man knows when to change direction, retreat, regroup, and live to fight another day.  You’ve spent time with the workers, you know who, and what they were and are.  Not afraid to stick up for yourself either.  Pays good, benefits…” she smiled.

Trouble.

“Can I think about it?”

“What’s there to think about?”

A lot.  “I should go home.”

“You won’t make it home.”

It was an interesting statement, and normally it would be frightening.  It simply confirmed what I suspected.  The parting speech on earth before I came in this last rotation from my brother was ominous.

He said coming home might be detrimental to my health.

“Still want to think about it.”

She shrugged.  “I’ll be at the interstellar lounge tomorrow morning.  Don’t disappoint me.  Again.”

…

There are times when you honestly believe you’ve reached a point in your life where everything makes sense.  A point where you’ve made peace with your choices, and there’s nothing more to be done about it.

It was inevitable that Milo instinctively knew he was going to end up single again, once he realised he preferred running away from responsibility.  His brother had always said his marriage wouldn’t last, that his obsession with being off-world was going to take precedence over everything else

It did.  It just bugged him that his brother was right.

He also told him beating the guy who slept with his wife was a poor choice, and that was right too.  That was why he got Milo the gig as far away from home as possible

His brother also told him the guy’s family had a great deal of reach, and one day the tentacles of their influence would catch up with him.

It seemed like it had.

The question was which side of the fence she was on.  He cursed himself for not asking for a name, and then guessed that she would probably not give anything but an alias. 

Or maybe he had too overactive an imagination.

He hadn’t slept.  He’d kept thinking of that one Waltz, in the arms of a woman who was everything that Margery wasn’t, to the point where he had to wonder how he finished up with her.

And how impossible it was that this woman would bother to give him a second glance.  He was, when looked at in the cold, hard light of day, a miner, as rough and ready as they come.

He was everything she was not.

But for three minutes plus a few seconds, he felt every bit her equal and that they were seamless in the dance.  He may have looked out of place, but he didn’t feel out of place.

Except there was no room for him in her world.

It seemed there was no room for him in anyone’s world.

He knew what was coming.  Better to face it, or he would always be looking over his shoulder.

…

He arrived at the interstellar spaceport a half hour early.  There was a large number of earthbound travellers already there, in various stages of excitement.

It was always a thrill to get on the spaceship and experience the first few hours of the flight before the stasis phase, and then waking up about a day and a half out.  Coming into moon orbit, then docking, was one of the amazing moments, especially when getting the first sight of Earth.

He tendered his ticket at the counter, had it stamped, and was given a boarding pass.  It was like getting a plane back home.

He went to the cafe and ordered a coffee, then selected a table that gave him a view of the whole room.  He kept his back to the wall.  If anyone was coming for him, he would see them.

Halfway through the coffee, what appeared to be another passenger sat opposite.  He didn’t ask if the seat was free.

Milo glared at him.

“I’m guessing you’re Milo.”

“I’m guessing you should be minding your own business.  Would it matter if I said that the seat is taken?”

He seemed surprised.  “I didn’t think you had any friends.”

I noticed behind him a scuffle at a table near the door where two men were dragged out of their chairs and hauled away by men bigger than they were.  A similar event happened at a table by the other door.

Two exits covered.

If I tried to leave, I wouldn’t.

Then the mysterious young lady came in and sauntered across the floor.  My new friend finally realised something was going on, maybe Milo staring past him, not at him, gave it away.

He turned, and the slight shoulder slump said it all.

She had a uniform of sorts on.  Not quite the same impact as the previous evening.

The man made no attempt to move.  He looked up at her.  “Cassandra.”

“Joe.  What can I do for you?”

“There are two gentlemen over by the exit waiting to have a chat.  Don’t disappoint me by doing something silly.”

“You know me better than that.”

She gave him a face that said otherwise.  He looked like he was assessing his options for escape. They were not good.

One of her associates came over and put a hand on his shoulder.  “This way, sir.”

Not many of the others in the cafe were paying much attention.

He stood and looked down at me.  “This isn’t over.”

Milo shrugged.  “I wasn’t aware it had started, whatever it is.”

He looked at Cassandra.  “What’s the charge?”

“Interfering in a covert operation.”

“He doesn’t work for you.”

She smiled.  “Keep up, Joe.  You are usually not this sloppy.  Unless, of course, you no longer have a spy in my department.” 

A minute change in expression.

She nodded to the other officer, and he escorted Joe away.  Cassandra sat in the recently executive seat.

“Thank you, Milo.”

“For what?”

“We’ve been trying to pin something on him, but he’s very slippery.  It’s what happens with rush jobs.  I have to thank you for your help.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You verified we caught the mile on the department, and acted as a decoy so we could arrest him.  You want that job, it’s yours.”

Did he.  If that was the case, Milo wouldn’t have to go home, and he could see trouble coming.  Well, she would.

“Who exactly are you?”

“Cassandra.”

Milo gave her one of his looks, the one that said don’t dance with him.

“Acting Chief Superintendent, Detectives.  Your job.  Five years.  Staff of twenty.  Nice apartment, with stellar views of the Red Planet.”

“Are you one of the twenty?”

“XO, 21C.  I want to learn from the best.”

Milo stood and held out his hand.

She stood and took it in hers.

They shook hands.

“Welcome aboard.  Now, let’s go and interrogate some suspects.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

…

Day 110 – To write is to sit in judgement on oneself

…

The Mirror on the Page: Why Writing is the Ultimate Act of Self-Judgment

“To write is to sit in judgment on oneself.” — Henrik Ibsen

We often romanticise the act of writing. We talk about the “flow state,” the “muse,” and the catharsis of putting pen to paper. We view writing as an act of creation—a way to birth new worlds, build arguments, or express the deepest chambers of our souls.

But Henrik Ibsen, the master of the modern realistic drama, offers a colder, more clinical take. For Ibsen, writing isn’t just an act of creation; it is an act of interrogation. To write, he suggests, is to sit in judgment on oneself.

The Inescapable Reflection

When you stare at a blank page, you are not merely filling space. You are deciding what matters, what is true, and what is worth preserving.

Every word we commit to the page is a micro-decision. We choose our adjectives, our syntax, and our silences. In doing so, we inevitably reveal our biases, our insecurities, our logic, and our moral compass. You cannot hide from a finished manuscript. When you read back what you have written, you are reading the architecture of your own mind.

If you write with honesty, you are forced to confront the gaps between who you think you are and what you are actually capable of articulating. It is a mirror that doesn’t just show your face; it shows your thoughts in their raw, unvarnished state.

The Courtroom of the Conscience

Why did Ibsen view this as a form of “judgment”?

Because writing forces a separation between the thinker and the thought. When a thought is just floating in the ether of your brain, it feels fluid and safe. Once you write it down, it becomes an object—a specimen on a slide.

In that moment of scrutiny, the internal judge wakes up:

• Is this thought coherent, or am I deceiving myself?
• Is this argument kind, or is it defensive?
• Does this character reflect my own failings, or am I trying to look like a hero?

Writing is the process of putting our own consciousness on trial. We act as both the prosecutor, hunting for inconsistencies and falsehoods, and the judge, deciding whether these ideas hold up to the light of day.

The Burden (and Gift) of Clarity

This is why so many people find writing painful. It is an unnerving experience to realise that your “deep insights” might actually be clichés, or that your “logical stance” is rooted in fear.

But this judgment is also the greatest gift a writer can receive.

If we never write—if we never force ourselves to sit in judgment of our own ideas—we remain trapped in the echo chambers of our own internal narratives. We keep repeating the same habits, holding the same prejudices, and floating in the same murky waters of half-formed intentions.

By writing, we force ourselves to stand before the bench. We demand evidence. We call our own bluff.

Final Thoughts

Next time you find yourself struggling to find the right word, remember Ibsen. You aren’t just battling with vocabulary; you are engaged in a high-stakes trial. You are evaluating your own worldview.

Writing is not for the faint of heart because it requires the courage to judge oneself—and the even greater courage to accept the verdict, learn from it, and write the next sentence anyway.

So, what is your writing telling you about yourself today? Are you ready to hear the verdict?

…

Day 110 – To write is to sit in judgement on oneself

…

The Mirror on the Page: Why Writing is the Ultimate Act of Self-Judgment

“To write is to sit in judgment on oneself.” — Henrik Ibsen

We often romanticise the act of writing. We talk about the “flow state,” the “muse,” and the catharsis of putting pen to paper. We view writing as an act of creation—a way to birth new worlds, build arguments, or express the deepest chambers of our souls.

But Henrik Ibsen, the master of the modern realistic drama, offers a colder, more clinical take. For Ibsen, writing isn’t just an act of creation; it is an act of interrogation. To write, he suggests, is to sit in judgment on oneself.

The Inescapable Reflection

When you stare at a blank page, you are not merely filling space. You are deciding what matters, what is true, and what is worth preserving.

Every word we commit to the page is a micro-decision. We choose our adjectives, our syntax, and our silences. In doing so, we inevitably reveal our biases, our insecurities, our logic, and our moral compass. You cannot hide from a finished manuscript. When you read back what you have written, you are reading the architecture of your own mind.

If you write with honesty, you are forced to confront the gaps between who you think you are and what you are actually capable of articulating. It is a mirror that doesn’t just show your face; it shows your thoughts in their raw, unvarnished state.

The Courtroom of the Conscience

Why did Ibsen view this as a form of “judgment”?

Because writing forces a separation between the thinker and the thought. When a thought is just floating in the ether of your brain, it feels fluid and safe. Once you write it down, it becomes an object—a specimen on a slide.

In that moment of scrutiny, the internal judge wakes up:

• Is this thought coherent, or am I deceiving myself?
• Is this argument kind, or is it defensive?
• Does this character reflect my own failings, or am I trying to look like a hero?

Writing is the process of putting our own consciousness on trial. We act as both the prosecutor, hunting for inconsistencies and falsehoods, and the judge, deciding whether these ideas hold up to the light of day.

The Burden (and Gift) of Clarity

This is why so many people find writing painful. It is an unnerving experience to realise that your “deep insights” might actually be clichés, or that your “logical stance” is rooted in fear.

But this judgment is also the greatest gift a writer can receive.

If we never write—if we never force ourselves to sit in judgment of our own ideas—we remain trapped in the echo chambers of our own internal narratives. We keep repeating the same habits, holding the same prejudices, and floating in the same murky waters of half-formed intentions.

By writing, we force ourselves to stand before the bench. We demand evidence. We call our own bluff.

Final Thoughts

Next time you find yourself struggling to find the right word, remember Ibsen. You aren’t just battling with vocabulary; you are engaged in a high-stakes trial. You are evaluating your own worldview.

Writing is not for the faint of heart because it requires the courage to judge oneself—and the even greater courage to accept the verdict, learn from it, and write the next sentence anyway.

So, what is your writing telling you about yourself today? Are you ready to hear the verdict?

Days 108 and 109 – Writing Exercise

…

Characters – Plot – Short Story

…

Alexander Bartholemew Winston Jr was my real name, the one I hated with a passion.

My mother and father called me Alexander in that horrible way that you couldn’t tell if they were pleased or angry, mostly the latter.

My paternal grandmother and grandfather called me Bartholomew in public and Bart in private because Bartholomew was a paternal family name of reverence.

Half my friends called me Marty, after Marty McFly of Back To The Future fame, though they never said why, and the rest called me Alex, my preferred name.

So, today it was Alex.

“Alex?”

Samantha Davies had a far more elegant name, Samantha Elizabeth Davies Ramsborough, but had adopted her mother’s pre-marriage surname for anonymity.

We somehow, by a quirk of fate, finished up sharing a four-bedroom apartment in a city where accommodation for one cost a priverbial arm and a leg, and since we all got along so well at University, that camaraderie continued into post-university, and onto the various jobs we were now found ourselves with.

Sam, as she preferred to be called, was coming out into the kitchen where I had coffee, black, strong, no sugar, waiting for her.

“He’s not here.  Today it’s Bart.”

“Simpson?”

“If I had a skateboard, maybe.”

“There’s enough room in this place if you did.”

She was right.  The apartment was half a floor, the possession of an Aunt of one of the other two housemates, with so much room you could get lost. There were even rooms for servants.

Sam had a way of changing subjects, from trivial to serious to trivial again, without time to take a breath.  Half the time, I didn’t know whether I should take her seriously or not.

Which was why we were still just friends, even though she knew how much I liked her; it was just every time we got near the subject, she’d change it.

Maybe she didn’t like me as much.

“Thomas didn’t come home last night.”

If there was a rival for her affections, it was Thomas Aloysius Vanderbloot, an overly self-confident, sometimes smartass, mostly a person whom trouble followed close behind.

I had rescued him from countless scrapes, without thanks or acknowledgement, and, as far as I was concerned, he was now starting to wear out his welcome mat. 

Only it was his grandmother’s apartment.  We didn’t get the privilege rates, which I expected.  I was not one of those entitled sons of wealthy parents, even though they had tried to spoil me, and therefore had only the money I earned to spend.  My brother and sister let them fund their education and pet projects, and were the favourites.

It didn’t bother me.  I was, at least, living my own life.

“We shouldn’t have left him.”

It had been late.  Sam, a budding journalist, had a deadline for a story, and I had a deposition, first thing the next morning.

It was the day after the day after, and we’d all been too busy with different schedules to notice until now.  Philomena, our fourth flatmate, was a nurse, and we rarely saw her

She suddenly appeared, a trait of hers that we firmly believed she travelled through portals because she had a habit of just appearing out of nowhere.

“Whose missing?” she asked.

Sam jumped; the suddenness of her voice from behind her scared her.

“Tom.”

The thing is, Philomena adored Thomas, but he was oblivious to her affection.  It was a little different with Sam; they had a fling in University until he got caught cheating on her, though I knew I didn’t say anything, or ever would, but was there to help pick up the pieces after that first and most intense love.

“Weren’t you two with him the other night?”

Sam, like me, knew what was coming.  Blame.

“We were until he brushed us off.  He had recognised one of his childhood friends, now an investment banker, buying shots, getting drunk and chatting up a few girls.  You know what he’s like.”

“You should have dragged him out.”

Yes, and the last time I did that, I was still carrying the aches and pains from a robust bar fight and a night in jail, drunk and disorderly, and an acid tongue from Sam the next day.

It was always my fault when he couldn’t save himself from himself.

“He’s probably sleeping it off in some seedy hotel,” Sam said, and collected her coffee and flopped into a lounge chair.

She had a new story assignment from the editor and wasn’t happy.

Aside from that, she was well aware of Thomas and seedy hotels.  That was where she found him with another girl, one that Sam had despised because of her open invitation to a male who could be so easily led.

Philomena would not believe either of us, so I let it slide.  It was a day off from lawyering and I was going to make the most of it.

…

Here’s the thing…

Thomas had that way of imposing on your thoughts, even when he was not there.

Uppermost in my mind, and the message my parents, and the parents of the other three, was that we had to be careful, not look for trouble, don’t go to places where trouble could be found, do not be alone in a potential hot spot, and above all, know everything and everyone around you.

In other words, each of us, if anyone knew who we really were, was a potential kidnap victim, or worse.

Each of us, bar Thomas, heeded those words to the letter.  In my application to the law firm, I used my proper name, because I had to, knowing it might open doors because of the family name, and got an interview.  When they asked about the surname, I said it was a distant relative who likely had never heard of me, and the relationship was a coincidence.

I had no interest in trading on my family name.  I was going to succeed or fail on my own merits.  I felt like, at this point, I was failing.

I dropped into a chair near Sam and sipped the coffee, one that Tom had introduced us to, a very expensive taste to acquire.

“How’s your day looking?” I asked, not sure of where this conversation would go.

Her expression was contemplative, so I had to wonder if she was thinking of Tom.  I could feel the green monster sitting on my shoulder.

She looked at me in a way she hadn’t looked at me in a year.  The last time was after the pieces had been reassembled, and I mistook the signs.  I had a long time to try and work out what I did wrong.

Perhaps I was about to find out now.

“It was going to be terrible.  Not just the Tom thing, but I hate my editor.  I hate my job.  I hate my life.  Perhaps it’s time to go home and get married to Mr Dull as ditchwater, and try to be content.”

That said it all.  If she left, so would I.  Home wasn’t the ideal place to go, but I could hide there.  Or if someone hadn’t snapped up Mary Ann Kopeknie, I would.  She was my first love, and truth be told, if Sam wouldn’t have me, maybe Mary Ann would forgive me.

“Like to go for a stroll through Central Park and talk about anything but our woes?”

“Right now, a bar, getting totally obliterated, and ending up in a seedy hotel, seems more appropriate.”

“You don’t mean that.”  I hoped she didn’t.

“I do.  And if you’re offering, take me now, before I change my mind.”

…

When I woke, it wasn’t quite dark, the light from a digital clock casting enough light for me to see if it wasn’t in my room at the apartment.

A brief glance with the range of vision I had showed a curtained window with no light seeping in through the sides, which meant it was night.  There was a painting on the wall, a desk and two chairs.

A hotel room.

Instantly, my mind went back to earlier that morning, if it was the same day, when Sam expressed the desire to have a few drinks.

I thought nine was a bit early, but she had expressed the desire to go with me, so I didn’t.

She wasn’t joking about getting obliterated.  When she could no longer stand or string three words together, the bartender asked us to leave.

I called Tom’s ‘special helpline’ one he included us in on, and we were chauffeured to a hotel Sam just managed to tell us about, making sure we safely made it to the room.

That much I remember.

The rest was a dream I woke up too early from, that part where, in my imagination, we had found that magical connection, where no words were needed, and the love I felt for her was expressed.

It would only happen in my imagination, and not the first time I dreamed it.

I rolled over and discovered I was not alone on the bed.  It must be the rest of the dream, waking up next to the current love of my life.

My imagination would tell me, she would smile, kiss me once, gently, and ask the rhetorical question, how had this not happened before?’

It foundered ridiculous on mt head, and I suspect the large amount of alcohol had damaged part of my brain, and that part where reality lived.  She would never be with me in such a manner.

I think the more appropriate answer to my internal question would be that I put her on the bed and tucked her in to sleep it off.  I did not undress her or do anything without her being fully awake and aware of her surroundings and who she was with

There were no excuses for taking advantage of someone who was incapacitated.

I heard her groan and then felt her move.

Closer to me. 

That was when I realised we were both naked.

My heart rate nearly went through the roof. 

She put her hand on my shoulder and put her arm over me.  Then, a whisper, “You took me out of myself, thank you.”

Then drifted back to sleep.

So close, it was freaking me out.  What if she woke up and started screaming?  What if this wasn’t where she expected to be?  What if she wasn’t expecting it to be me?  There were so many scenarios that filled me with terror.

It is said that the moment you sleep with the girl, no matter how much rapport or respect you had for one another, that goes up in a puff of smoke, and everything changes.

She might no longer be my friend.

She may no longer want to stay at the apartment.

She might decide to go home, and that would be the end of everything.

This was the end of everything.

So, i started counting the seconds that this relationship had left.

A half out passed, and I hadn’t moved.  There were too many parts of her I could unintentionally touch.  And there were other thoughts that I would like to have and express.

She stirred again, but instead of jumping back in fright, discovering she was not alone, I felt her hand moving, and ended up taking my hand in hers and squeezing it.

“Bet you didn’t think you would be here today.”

It was a sultry, low, almost hoarse stone that sent a shiver through me.  It also may have had something to do with her slight movement.

“I didn’t.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Perhaps more elated than I should be.”

I turned my head and saw she had her eyes open, and she had a smile, one that extended to her eyes.

“Until I sat down in the lounge chair, with my coffee, and you sat opposite me, I didn’t realise how you felt about me.  That look you gave me after I said I was thinking about going home.  You were devastated.”

I thought I’d kept the emotion out of my expression, but with her, I could never quite keep the proverbial poker face.

She knew me far better than I realised.

“It has nothing to do with me what you do or don’t do.  I would be upset if you left, but you have your own life to lead.”

“It’s not much of a life.  The guy I thought I loved laughed outright when I told him I wanted more.  It hurt, not as much as the last time, and you know all about that, but what I didn’t realise until that moment, was that what I wanted was right there in front of me.”

I wasn’t going to assume that was me.

She had spent a fair part of that drinking session going on about some other reporter and how much she respected him, and how things had become so red hot between them, they reached the moment where he suggested they get a room.

Until right in the middle of a game where losing meant shedding a piece of clothing, his wife called.  She had seen his cell screen.  The bastard was married.  And in situations like that, she came out the worse off, being transferred and demoted.

I was going to offer her free legal advice.

That was the moment the bartender banished us.

When I didn’t say anything, she just sighed.  “You don’t have to treat me with kid gloves, Alex.  You didn’t for the last six hours, and you surprised me.”

Something clicked in my brain, clearing the fog.  It was one of those moments with the sudden sucking in of breath, and the whole event returns as clear as it was just moments ago.

There had been something tacit in the look she gave me, not long after we got to the hotel, and we were sitting at either end of the bed.  She was still drunk, but sober enough to know who was there and where she was. 

There was one simple question.  “Why do you hesitate?”

That was easy, because I had made a mistake, misinterpreted the signals, and ruined everything.  I did not want to do that again.

“You know why?  I want to be with you, even if it is only as a friend.”

“You can ask me one question, Alex.  One.  Anything.”

And there it was, the abyss that I wanted to cross, and knowing I didn”t have the power in my legs to jump over it.

But I could try.

“Do you feel the same about me as I feel for you? That is how I have felt about you since the first day I met you.”

She made one of those contemplative faces that made my heart sink.  If she had to think about it…

“Had you asked me that question a week ago, my answer would be very different.  As for asking me now, right this very minute, my answer would be the same as it would have been when we walked out the door of that apartment, before landing us here.  Yes.  I think I’ve known that for a while, but it never really occurred to me.  I don’t know why.”

I had to wonder why we went to the bar.  She was not the sort of girl who needed Dutch courage.

“So…” she whispered.

So, now I knew, and it was one of those defining moments, where suddenly everything clicked into place.

“You remember.”

“As i will till the day I die.  If you will have me?”

“Proposals, Alex, have to be done properly, not immediately after wild drunken sex, though I’m not ruling out having more before we leave this room, or if or when we decide to leave.  I’m not interested in going back to work, and I know you’re tired of being a gopher lawyer.  There’s champagne in the fridge, let’s toast our desire to get married, watch a little TV, get a little drunk and see what happens.”

Sam got the champagne and I turned the TV on.

She popped the cork, poured liberal quantities into the glasses, and we sipped.  I turned on the TV, and we sat on the bed.

I flipped through the channels until a local news station displayed the upcoming weather.  It was going to get colder, and she shivered.

Then the word ‘Missing Person’ appeared at the bottom of the screen, and seconds later a photo of Thomas Aloysius Vanderbloot was displayed, not a recent photo, but one from our graduation from University, three or four years old, not a recent photo and very different to how he looked now. 

If we had been holding the drinks, we might have dropped them.  Certainly, for me, I was sure my heart stopped.

“What the…”  Sam was as shocked as I was. 

For just a minute, then I could see a transformation.  Not from the surprise, but the fact that something was not right.

I think we came to the same conclusion at the same time.

“Tom.”

We said it together.

Back in university, a group of us created elaborate pranks on the others.  Some left people in almost dangerous situations. I had found myself in a rock ledge about five hundred feet up with only a rope to scale the remaining hundred feet or so, and Sam, well, she still had nightmares.

Tom’s pranks were the most elaborate and usually the most terrifying.

“This is because we left him at that bar,” she said.

“Because we let our guard down.”

She slipped out of bed and put her shirt on, then went over to the door.  She opened it a fraction, and light from the corridor showed in the crack.  A little wider showed that at least we were in the same hotel we were delivered to.

She closed and locked it.

She walked across to the other side and pulled back the curtains.  A door and what looked to be a patio.  She opened the door, and cold air swept in.  She shivered violently.

I haven’t moved, but I could see lights in the distance.  She found the light switch and flicked it.

The patio area was flooded with light.  In the next instant, she screamed.

I saw it just after she did.  The body of a man, quite dead, is lying in a pool of blood.  Beside the body, a bottle of champagne, bloodied.

She turned and looked at me.  “We’re in a great deal of trouble, aren’t we?”

….

©  Charles Heath  2026

Days 108 and 109 – Writing Exercise

…

Characters – Plot – Short Story

…

Alexander Bartholemew Winston Jr was my real name, the one I hated with a passion.

My mother and father called me Alexander in that horrible way that you couldn’t tell if they were pleased or angry, mostly the latter.

My paternal grandmother and grandfather called me Bartholomew in public and Bart in private because Bartholomew was a paternal family name of reverence.

Half my friends called me Marty, after Marty McFly of Back To The Future fame, though they never said why, and the rest called me Alex, my preferred name.

So, today it was Alex.

“Alex?”

Samantha Davies had a far more elegant name, Samantha Elizabeth Davies Ramsborough, but had adopted her mother’s pre-marriage surname for anonymity.

We somehow, by a quirk of fate, finished up sharing a four-bedroom apartment in a city where accommodation for one cost a priverbial arm and a leg, and since we all got along so well at University, that camaraderie continued into post-university, and onto the various jobs we were now found ourselves with.

Sam, as she preferred to be called, was coming out into the kitchen where I had coffee, black, strong, no sugar, waiting for her.

“He’s not here.  Today it’s Bart.”

“Simpson?”

“If I had a skateboard, maybe.”

“There’s enough room in this place if you did.”

She was right.  The apartment was half a floor, the possession of an Aunt of one of the other two housemates, with so much room you could get lost. There were even rooms for servants.

Sam had a way of changing subjects, from trivial to serious to trivial again, without time to take a breath.  Half the time, I didn’t know whether I should take her seriously or not.

Which was why we were still just friends, even though she knew how much I liked her; it was just every time we got near the subject, she’d change it.

Maybe she didn’t like me as much.

“Thomas didn’t come home last night.”

If there was a rival for her affections, it was Thomas Aloysius Vanderbloot, an overly self-confident, sometimes smartass, mostly a person whom trouble followed close behind.

I had rescued him from countless scrapes, without thanks or acknowledgement, and, as far as I was concerned, he was now starting to wear out his welcome mat. 

Only it was his grandmother’s apartment.  We didn’t get the privilege rates, which I expected.  I was not one of those entitled sons of wealthy parents, even though they had tried to spoil me, and therefore had only the money I earned to spend.  My brother and sister let them fund their education and pet projects, and were the favourites.

It didn’t bother me.  I was, at least, living my own life.

“We shouldn’t have left him.”

It had been late.  Sam, a budding journalist, had a deadline for a story, and I had a deposition, first thing the next morning.

It was the day after the day after, and we’d all been too busy with different schedules to notice until now.  Philomena, our fourth flatmate, was a nurse, and we rarely saw her

She suddenly appeared, a trait of hers that we firmly believed she travelled through portals because she had a habit of just appearing out of nowhere.

“Whose missing?” she asked.

Sam jumped; the suddenness of her voice from behind her scared her.

“Tom.”

The thing is, Philomena adored Thomas, but he was oblivious to her affection.  It was a little different with Sam; they had a fling in University until he got caught cheating on her, though I knew I didn’t say anything, or ever would, but was there to help pick up the pieces after that first and most intense love.

“Weren’t you two with him the other night?”

Sam, like me, knew what was coming.  Blame.

“We were until he brushed us off.  He had recognised one of his childhood friends, now an investment banker, buying shots, getting drunk and chatting up a few girls.  You know what he’s like.”

“You should have dragged him out.”

Yes, and the last time I did that, I was still carrying the aches and pains from a robust bar fight and a night in jail, drunk and disorderly, and an acid tongue from Sam the next day.

It was always my fault when he couldn’t save himself from himself.

“He’s probably sleeping it off in some seedy hotel,” Sam said, and collected her coffee and flopped into a lounge chair.

She had a new story assignment from the editor and wasn’t happy.

Aside from that, she was well aware of Thomas and seedy hotels.  That was where she found him with another girl, one that Sam had despised because of her open invitation to a male who could be so easily led.

Philomena would not believe either of us, so I let it slide.  It was a day off from lawyering and I was going to make the most of it.

…

Here’s the thing…

Thomas had that way of imposing on your thoughts, even when he was not there.

Uppermost in my mind, and the message my parents, and the parents of the other three, was that we had to be careful, not look for trouble, don’t go to places where trouble could be found, do not be alone in a potential hot spot, and above all, know everything and everyone around you.

In other words, each of us, if anyone knew who we really were, was a potential kidnap victim, or worse.

Each of us, bar Thomas, heeded those words to the letter.  In my application to the law firm, I used my proper name, because I had to, knowing it might open doors because of the family name, and got an interview.  When they asked about the surname, I said it was a distant relative who likely had never heard of me, and the relationship was a coincidence.

I had no interest in trading on my family name.  I was going to succeed or fail on my own merits.  I felt like, at this point, I was failing.

I dropped into a chair near Sam and sipped the coffee, one that Tom had introduced us to, a very expensive taste to acquire.

“How’s your day looking?” I asked, not sure of where this conversation would go.

Her expression was contemplative, so I had to wonder if she was thinking of Tom.  I could feel the green monster sitting on my shoulder.

She looked at me in a way she hadn’t looked at me in a year.  The last time was after the pieces had been reassembled, and I mistook the signs.  I had a long time to try and work out what I did wrong.

Perhaps I was about to find out now.

“It was going to be terrible.  Not just the Tom thing, but I hate my editor.  I hate my job.  I hate my life.  Perhaps it’s time to go home and get married to Mr Dull as ditchwater, and try to be content.”

That said it all.  If she left, so would I.  Home wasn’t the ideal place to go, but I could hide there.  Or if someone hadn’t snapped up Mary Ann Kopeknie, I would.  She was my first love, and truth be told, if Sam wouldn’t have me, maybe Mary Ann would forgive me.

“Like to go for a stroll through Central Park and talk about anything but our woes?”

“Right now, a bar, getting totally obliterated, and ending up in a seedy hotel, seems more appropriate.”

“You don’t mean that.”  I hoped she didn’t.

“I do.  And if you’re offering, take me now, before I change my mind.”

…

When I woke, it wasn’t quite dark, the light from a digital clock casting enough light for me to see if it wasn’t in my room at the apartment.

A brief glance with the range of vision I had showed a curtained window with no light seeping in through the sides, which meant it was night.  There was a painting on the wall, a desk and two chairs.

A hotel room.

Instantly, my mind went back to earlier that morning, if it was the same day, when Sam expressed the desire to have a few drinks.

I thought nine was a bit early, but she had expressed the desire to go with me, so I didn’t.

She wasn’t joking about getting obliterated.  When she could no longer stand or string three words together, the bartender asked us to leave.

I called Tom’s ‘special helpline’ one he included us in on, and we were chauffeured to a hotel Sam just managed to tell us about, making sure we safely made it to the room.

That much I remember.

The rest was a dream I woke up too early from, that part where, in my imagination, we had found that magical connection, where no words were needed, and the love I felt for her was expressed.

It would only happen in my imagination, and not the first time I dreamed it.

I rolled over and discovered I was not alone on the bed.  It must be the rest of the dream, waking up next to the current love of my life.

My imagination would tell me, she would smile, kiss me once, gently, and ask the rhetorical question, how had this not happened before?’

It foundered ridiculous on mt head, and I suspect the large amount of alcohol had damaged part of my brain, and that part where reality lived.  She would never be with me in such a manner.

I think the more appropriate answer to my internal question would be that I put her on the bed and tucked her in to sleep it off.  I did not undress her or do anything without her being fully awake and aware of her surroundings and who she was with

There were no excuses for taking advantage of someone who was incapacitated.

I heard her groan and then felt her move.

Closer to me. 

That was when I realised we were both naked.

My heart rate nearly went through the roof. 

She put her hand on my shoulder and put her arm over me.  Then, a whisper, “You took me out of myself, thank you.”

Then drifted back to sleep.

So close, it was freaking me out.  What if she woke up and started screaming?  What if this wasn’t where she expected to be?  What if she wasn’t expecting it to be me?  There were so many scenarios that filled me with terror.

It is said that the moment you sleep with the girl, no matter how much rapport or respect you had for one another, that goes up in a puff of smoke, and everything changes.

She might no longer be my friend.

She may no longer want to stay at the apartment.

She might decide to go home, and that would be the end of everything.

This was the end of everything.

So, i started counting the seconds that this relationship had left.

A half out passed, and I hadn’t moved.  There were too many parts of her I could unintentionally touch.  And there were other thoughts that I would like to have and express.

She stirred again, but instead of jumping back in fright, discovering she was not alone, I felt her hand moving, and ended up taking my hand in hers and squeezing it.

“Bet you didn’t think you would be here today.”

It was a sultry, low, almost hoarse stone that sent a shiver through me.  It also may have had something to do with her slight movement.

“I didn’t.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Perhaps more elated than I should be.”

I turned my head and saw she had her eyes open, and she had a smile, one that extended to her eyes.

“Until I sat down in the lounge chair, with my coffee, and you sat opposite me, I didn’t realise how you felt about me.  That look you gave me after I said I was thinking about going home.  You were devastated.”

I thought I’d kept the emotion out of my expression, but with her, I could never quite keep the proverbial poker face.

She knew me far better than I realised.

“It has nothing to do with me what you do or don’t do.  I would be upset if you left, but you have your own life to lead.”

“It’s not much of a life.  The guy I thought I loved laughed outright when I told him I wanted more.  It hurt, not as much as the last time, and you know all about that, but what I didn’t realise until that moment, was that what I wanted was right there in front of me.”

I wasn’t going to assume that was me.

She had spent a fair part of that drinking session going on about some other reporter and how much she respected him, and how things had become so red hot between them, they reached the moment where he suggested they get a room.

Until right in the middle of a game where losing meant shedding a piece of clothing, his wife called.  She had seen his cell screen.  The bastard was married.  And in situations like that, she came out the worse off, being transferred and demoted.

I was going to offer her free legal advice.

That was the moment the bartender banished us.

When I didn’t say anything, she just sighed.  “You don’t have to treat me with kid gloves, Alex.  You didn’t for the last six hours, and you surprised me.”

Something clicked in my brain, clearing the fog.  It was one of those moments with the sudden sucking in of breath, and the whole event returns as clear as it was just moments ago.

There had been something tacit in the look she gave me, not long after we got to the hotel, and we were sitting at either end of the bed.  She was still drunk, but sober enough to know who was there and where she was. 

There was one simple question.  “Why do you hesitate?”

That was easy, because I had made a mistake, misinterpreted the signals, and ruined everything.  I did not want to do that again.

“You know why?  I want to be with you, even if it is only as a friend.”

“You can ask me one question, Alex.  One.  Anything.”

And there it was, the abyss that I wanted to cross, and knowing I didn”t have the power in my legs to jump over it.

But I could try.

“Do you feel the same about me as I feel for you? That is how I have felt about you since the first day I met you.”

She made one of those contemplative faces that made my heart sink.  If she had to think about it…

“Had you asked me that question a week ago, my answer would be very different.  As for asking me now, right this very minute, my answer would be the same as it would have been when we walked out the door of that apartment, before landing us here.  Yes.  I think I’ve known that for a while, but it never really occurred to me.  I don’t know why.”

I had to wonder why we went to the bar.  She was not the sort of girl who needed Dutch courage.

“So…” she whispered.

So, now I knew, and it was one of those defining moments, where suddenly everything clicked into place.

“You remember.”

“As i will till the day I die.  If you will have me?”

“Proposals, Alex, have to be done properly, not immediately after wild drunken sex, though I’m not ruling out having more before we leave this room, or if or when we decide to leave.  I’m not interested in going back to work, and I know you’re tired of being a gopher lawyer.  There’s champagne in the fridge, let’s toast our desire to get married, watch a little TV, get a little drunk and see what happens.”

Sam got the champagne and I turned the TV on.

She popped the cork, poured liberal quantities into the glasses, and we sipped.  I turned on the TV, and we sat on the bed.

I flipped through the channels until a local news station displayed the upcoming weather.  It was going to get colder, and she shivered.

Then the word ‘Missing Person’ appeared at the bottom of the screen, and seconds later a photo of Thomas Aloysius Vanderbloot was displayed, not a recent photo, but one from our graduation from University, three or four years old, not a recent photo and very different to how he looked now. 

If we had been holding the drinks, we might have dropped them.  Certainly, for me, I was sure my heart stopped.

“What the…”  Sam was as shocked as I was. 

For just a minute, then I could see a transformation.  Not from the surprise, but the fact that something was not right.

I think we came to the same conclusion at the same time.

“Tom.”

We said it together.

Back in university, a group of us created elaborate pranks on the others.  Some left people in almost dangerous situations. I had found myself in a rock ledge about five hundred feet up with only a rope to scale the remaining hundred feet or so, and Sam, well, she still had nightmares.

Tom’s pranks were the most elaborate and usually the most terrifying.

“This is because we left him at that bar,” she said.

“Because we let our guard down.”

She slipped out of bed and put her shirt on, then went over to the door.  She opened it a fraction, and light from the corridor showed in the crack.  A little wider showed that at least we were in the same hotel we were delivered to.

She closed and locked it.

She walked across to the other side and pulled back the curtains.  A door and what looked to be a patio.  She opened the door, and cold air swept in.  She shivered violently.

I haven’t moved, but I could see lights in the distance.  She found the light switch and flicked it.

The patio area was flooded with light.  In the next instant, she screamed.

I saw it just after she did.  The body of a man, quite dead, is lying in a pool of blood.  Beside the body, a bottle of champagne, bloodied.

She turned and looked at me.  “We’re in a great deal of trouble, aren’t we?”

….

©  Charles Heath  2026