Day 166 – Perfection might just be impossible

…

The Beautiful Surrender: Why Perfectionism is the Enemy of Creation

“With each project, you eventually have to surrender the perfect version of the work to make room for what you actually create.”

When I first read this quote by Leslie Jamison, it felt like a gentle exhale. As creators—whether we are writing, coding, painting, or strategising—we spend an exhausting amount of time living in the “Perfect Version.”

The Perfect Version is that pristine, shimmering ghost of a project that lives in your head. It is the version where the prose is flawless, the code is bug-free on the first run, and the design captures the exact emotion you intended without a single misplaced pixel.

But there is a problem with the Perfect Version: It doesn’t actually exist.

The Trap of the Platonic Ideal

We often treat the “Perfect Version” as a gold standard. We think that if we just push a little harder, work a few more nights, or refine one more sentence, we will finally bridge the gap between that mental ideal and reality.

But as Jamison suggests, holding onto that perfection isn’t a pursuit of excellence; it’s a form of obstruction. The Perfect Version is static and sterile. It is a monument to what could be, but it prevents the birth of what is. By obsessing over the ideal, we stifle the messy, human, and surprising elements that make a project truly alive.

Why We Must Surrender

To “surrender the perfect version” sounds like giving up, but it is actually an act of bravery. Here is why it is the most important step in any creative process:

1. Reality is more interesting than abstraction. The Perfect Version is safe because it hasn’t been tested. The work you actually create, however, is shaped by your limitations, your constraints, and the real-world feedback you receive. There is a jagged beauty in the edges of a real project that a perfect, abstract idea could never replicate.

2. Perfectionism is a form of procrastination. It is easy to stay in the “planning” or “polishing” phase because that is where the work remains safe from criticism. To release a project into the world is to risk being judged. Surrendering the perfect vision is the only way to move from “dreaming” to “doing.”

3. The work needs room to breathe. A piece of art or a professional project is not a static object; it is a conversation. It needs to breathe. When you surrender your rigid expectations, you allow the project to evolve. You allow it to be better than you initially imagined because you are no longer forcing it to conform to a pre-defined mould.

How to Practice the Surrender

If you’re currently stuck in the grip of the Perfect Version, try these three shifts in perspective:

• Define “Done” before you start. Perfection has no finish line. By setting clear parameters for completion (e.g., “I will spend four hours on this draft, and then I will send it off”), you force yourself to prioritise the work over the fantasy.
• Embrace the “First Draft Energy.” Recognise that the first iteration is meant to be a rough sketch. If you treat it as a sandbox rather than a masterpiece, you remove the pressure to be perfect and open the door to being authentic.
• Focus on the “What” rather than the “How.” Instead of obsessing over whether the work is perfectly executed, focus on whether the work effectively communicates your message or solves the problem.

Final Thoughts

The next time you find yourself stuck, replaying the same project over and over in your mind, remember Leslie Jamison’s words. Your desire for perfection is a barrier.

Give yourself permission to let the ideal version die. It is only in that surrender that you can reclaim the space to create something real, something tangible, and—most importantly—something done.

What project have you been holding onto because it wasn’t “perfect” enough? Maybe today is the day to let it go.

…

Days 164 and 165 – Writing exercise – Set a story on a plane

…

It had been a long couple of months, and having completed the mandatory training and refresher courses, locked down for the whole time at the company’s dedicated training facility, it was time for a recreation break.

For that, I was heading to a tropical retreat in Jamaica in the Caribbean.  The shack was booked, and all I had to do was catch three planes.

In other words, the next 48 hours could run smoothly, or it could turn into a bigger disaster than some of the missions I’d been sent on. 

I was hoping for the first and expecting the second.

It didn’t start well.  The taxi I caught to the airport stopped to let me off in the designated drop-off zone, but it was for the wrong airline.

The driver apologised and offered to go around again, but that was mentioned how I wanted to spend the next half hour of my life.  I paid him and got out.

I went into the airport terminal and started a long hike back to the departure area for my airline.  Fortunately, it was well signed, unlike some airports I’d been to.

Foot traffic was like the home time crush, and I had to pick my way through strolling families, children racing around bereft of parental control, elderly people who had all the time in the world, cranky businessmen in a hurry, and people who were standing around in groups cluttering the walkways.

I was glad I didn’t have any suitcases.  There were enough baggage trolleys to crash into as it was.  Including those being driven recklessly by children and almost wrecking a holiday before it got started.

My left ankle was still sore from the last would-be racing driver.

At the checking counter, I joined a long line that was moving slowly. 

It always amused me that people always spoke louder when standing in a queue.  I would have thought that such comments as the desirability of a male colleague, and 8 on the 1 to 10 scale, might have warranted hushed tones.  Along with the inference, one of the girls had slept with him.

The other was unimpressed.  He was married.  Scandalous, maybe to me, but they both giggled. 

That was in front of me.  Behind, a man was telling whoever would listen that he hadn’t been back home in three years and was expecting no one would remember him.  He was an accountant, so no one was surprised.

There were more, but I reached the counter by then and took a minute, perhaps a little longer.  I could only check in for the first flight, not all the way through.  I’d opted for cheap.

No baggage, passport in order, seat allocation and gate pass done.  I was travelling coach class and got an aisle seat.  It remained to be seen how that played out.  Travelling by any means these days was like walking through a minefield.

As it was only domestic, I went through the TSA check, getting a nod from one of the officers, as an acquaintance from another life, and went up to the departure level.  It was a bit early to go to the gate.

I’d have some airport takeout just in case the airline had nothing to offer.  Given the fare I paid, I seriously doubted they could afford water.

I settled on greasy chicken and fries.

..

Tables were scattered everywhere, and I selected one with two seats and seeing there was competition for it, hastened my pace to get there first.  It was that time of day when everyone seemed to be hungry.

Surviving the death stare from the other hunter, I sat back and contemplated the rest of the diners.  It was a habit more than anything else.  It converted about two or three hundred.

Families, children arguing over burgers, chicken and fries, large cups of sugary drinks, not the best for them before getting on the plane, businessmen, sitting at single tables with coffee and a sandwich, teenagers, a group on a tour, no doubt like Rome or maybe not, all excited at the fact they were escaping school.  Some had that doe-eyed look of high school sweethearts, and trouble looming.

I remembered the one trip my class had gone on and the fallout from that.

There were groups of elderly passengers also going on a holiday, a tour guide trying to keep them together, and women, one group in particular, that looked like trouble.  One had just returned with a dozen drinks, wiped escaping their husbands, and why not?

No immediate threats.

I looked at the chicken, shrugged and took a chip instead.  The coffee tasted like instant, water and powdered milk.  Who knew what came out of that coffee machine, but it wasn’t what I would call coffee.  Maybe my standards were too high.

Then I saw rather than heard a strange sound, and followed it to a table four along and one out from the shrubbery.  Four seats.  One man, a thug in a suit, a well-dressed man who reeked of money but not class, and a young woman who was trying not to look terrified.

I suspect the man in the suit had inflicted some hidden punishment on her because she was massaging her hand.  I looked away just before he looked in my direction.

He did the same scan I had, looking for trouble.

This could be one of two scenarios.  The girl, girlfriend or spouse had tried to run away and had been caught.  Usually, they would return by car, but maybe they were from overseas.  The three men looked foreign.

The other, less likely, was a felon being taken back to jail.  Or elsewhere, but then she would be in cuffs.  He didn’t look like law enforcement.

Another thug in a suit came back with a tray of food and drinks and distributed it before sitting.  An air of serenity settled on them.

I went back to my chicken.

…

It was a relatively calm half hour; the children at the table next to me were the typical family.  The boy wanted a hamburger and got chicken; the girl wanted chicken and got a hamburger.  The boy took a bite out of the chicken, and the girl refused to eat it.

Dad didn’t get the free toy that came with the food, and in the end, the mother had to sort it all out.  The father typically got exactly what he wanted.

Another child and another nearby table spilt his drink all over the father, and harsh words and tears ensued.

Queues for food were long, and tempers were fraying.  My new friends, four tables over to the left, left their mess on the table and walked off, the girl almost dragged away by the man in the expensive suit.

Something was definitely wrong there.

The lady who was wiping tables just had a whole lot more work added to the endless task of cleaning up spilled drinks and food scraps thrown on the floor.  People obviously left their manners at home.

I cleaned up my mess, wiped the table with a spare wet towel and dumped the leftovers in the appropriate bin.  The cleaning lady smiled in my direction. That was one less out of 200 tables.

I wandered slowly towards the gate, with a little under an hour to go.  There were people scattered in the seating area, including my new friends.  On my way in, I surreptitiously took a photograph of the rich guy, and when I sat down, studied it.

He had a familiar look, not belonging to someone I had met before, but someone I had seen before.   The seat next to me had a hostile folder of newspapers sitting on it, perhaps from the last flight out.

Maybe if they were leaving from here, they would be in the local paper.

Or as loath as I was to call upon a friend, who was a colleague who’d done favours for me in the past, I could send a copy of the photo and ask him to identify who it is.

Of course, it came with a degree of risk, especially if the person had a history.  I sent it anyway; Rodney would make an assessment and let me know.

Five minutes.  My cell phone vibrated.  “Investigating!”

Meanwhile, back in the newspaper, The Denver Post, I found it odd to be reading an actual newspaper and not the usual online services.  If I were staying instead of passing through, like some of the others on refresher courses, it would make a useful reference.

But nothing about our mysterious man or his companion.  But if I wanted to find out where the 4th July fireworks displays were, very useful.

I didn’t plan to be in the country.  The holiday had lost its significance given the times we were in, and the fact that our history was being rewritten to reflect something that was nothing like what happened.

My father, who has been an American History professor and scholar of all things American, including the so-called shameful parts of it, would be spinning in his grave.  I was just plain disappointed.

Just as the boarding call came, my phone vibrated again.  “Sam Kawalski and the woman Zuzanna Wojcik, the youngest daughter of the alleged head of a crime family from New Jersey.  They were married about a month ago.  Documents attached.”

I sent back a thanks and joined the queue.  I took the paper for the crossword and had some interesting reading.

They were sitting up front.  I was sitting in the back.  Fortunately, this time I was not surrounded by children.  I was, however, in direct line to the restrooms.  It was going to be a fun four hours.

…

I only had to stand once to let the window seat passenger in.  Our plane was not full, and a lot of middle seats were free.

She smiled politely as she squeezed past after putting her small suitcase in the overhead bin, then sat.  My initial assessment was that she was dressed to travel in business class, and maybe hoping for an upgrade.

She had that purposeful look like she was coming from or going to a meeting, what I would call an executive, though her age may suggest either lawyer or accountant.

Then I decided it was none of my business.

Until she spoke to me.  Normally, I would just ignore fellow passengers, or they would ignore me. But this was coach, I was used to business.  People around me nodded or said hello. 

“Work or pleasure?” 

It took a moment to register that she was speaking to me.  My attention was still on Kawalski, and the other passengers who brought far too much cabin luggage.  The hostesses were working overtime trying to find space and shunt tardy and somewhat confused people to their seats.

I turned to look at her and realised she might be older than I first thought.  Which had absolutely no bearing on anything.

“A business meeting, then pleasure.  Jamaica.”  I don’t know why I told her where I was going.

“Lucky you.  I’ve been there once, to a conference, and didn’t get much time to see the sights.  Keep meaning to go back.”

“If only we had 40-hour days?”

She took that in, processed it, then smiled again.  I could not imagine her being angry.

“If only.”

“You?  Business or something else?”  I deliberately threw in a curve, just to see what happened.

A momentary expression changed, just long enough for those trained to look for them to see it.  Then back again.

“I would be in a party dress if it were not business.”

Was there just a slight edge to her tone?

In any other situation, I might have said she would look nice in a party dress, but these days those sorts of comments are frowned upon.

“I’m sorry then.”

“For what?”

“Forgetting that others have to work.  You don’t need people saying they’re going on holiday when you’re not.”

“It doesn’t bother me, after all, I asked you first.”

Her tone had suggested otherwise, but then my tone would be grumpy if the person next to me started babbling on about where they were going.

But good or bad, it killed the moment, and she rummaged in her bag and pulled out a Kindle reader.

One more supposition, she probably read romance novels.  I wrestled the paper into a smaller square and started on the crossword.

All the passengers were aboard, and the hostesses were doing their mandatory checks.  The door had been closed.

We would be leaving on time.

…

The trouble with travelling in a confined space with a lot of people is that no matter how hard you try to shut people out, you can’t.

Up front of the plane, you are more isolated; back in the rear, you are surrounded.  Screaming kids, noisy parents, the one person who has the volume up high, and the kid who runs up and down the aisle, bumping people.

And as I discovered, the number of people who lurch from side to side, bumping people as they go.  And the proximity to the restrooms, people congregated, towering over you, squashing into you when they tried to move out of the way.

And the conversations they had.  People whom you’d least expect to speak like drunken sailors three sheets to the wind.  I felt it necessary to stand, accidentally standing on one of their feet, and apologising profusely, after causing her to cry out in pain, and then getting assistance back to her seat.

A half dozen people nodded in my direction, clearly relieved that they had gone away.  My neighbour thought it amusing, perhaps something she would have done herself.

People were more wary standing anywhere near me when they came, or, like sensible people, waited for the green light before coming down. 

The next time she headed down, without her friend, I stood and went down to the galley to stand by the rear exit door.  She approached very cautiously.

Lesson learned.

Shortly after, the plane dipped, and we were in landing mode.  I went back to my seat.  The hostesses passed through the plane, getting everyone sorted.

The last trolley had passed by into the galley, just as we all heard the girl who had suffered that unfortunate accident, now standing next to the last seat in business class, pointing and yelling, “You’re that horrible man who beat up my friend at Rodin’s the other night.”

She was pointing directly at the man in the suit.

Next minute, one of the thugs had her in a stranglehold, and she was screaming.  A scream that polarised the whole plane. 

The stewards were mortified and helpless at this point.  The thug was trying to quieten her, and there were groans and complaints, until the thug yelled out, “Everyone, be quiet or else.

The last two words carried emphasis and a latent threat.  The noise died down.

It drew an uncharacteristic response from my travelling companion, “What the fuck… “

“An altercation with that girl.  Seems she knows one of the passengers in business, and not in a good  way.”

The thug wasn’t letting her go, but at least the screams had stopped.  So had everything.

I turned around, and the hostess was on the phone with the captain.  I heard, “We have a situation…”

That was putting it mildly.  This was a no-win situation for anyone.  We wouldn’t be landing with passengers standing in the aisle.  The thug had nowhere to go.  The girl would be leveraged until she wasn’t.  Just the thought of that worried me.

Planes were small places where things could go wrong very quickly.

And Kowalski had become a cornered rat.

The papers on him were basically the bio of a kid gone wrong, hitching his wagon to the wrong train, marrying the boss’s daughter, and then committing the ultimate folly, thinking his status could protect him from being stupid.

On bail for the assault, he was fleeing.  If it wasn’t for the fact that his wife was running from him, also a victim of assault, he would not have been in Denver.

He was a bail violator and now a party to what could be described as a major aeroplane felony.  With a plane load of hostages.

The Captain had nowhere to go, but had to try.

“Everyone not involved in the situation, please resume your seats and prepare for landing.  This plane cannot land until all passengers have resumed their seats.  Be advised that we will not be using a gate, but have been directed to another section of the airport where both local police and the FBI will be waiting.  I would ask that no one make this any worse than it already is, and would ask for calm and obey any and all instructions given by the senior cabin steward.”

The girl’s companion was now telling everyone in a loud voice the circumstances of their friend’s assault, and using disparaging language directed at Kowalski.  The other thug was waiting for a signal from Kawalski.

At least everyone was reseated except for the thug with the girl, who was now sobbing.

Kawalski stood and glared at the cabin manager, also responsible for the business class passengers.

He told the thug to bring the girl forward, and he told the manager to empty the first three rows and seat them elsewhere.

It looked like one or two were going to argue, but then the other got out of his seat and dragged one of the complainers out of his seat.  The rest moved quickly, taking what they could.

So far, so good.

I slowly got out of my seat and went back to the hostess on the phone.

“Sir, you should go back to your seat.”

“I might be able to help.  Can you ask the captain to talk to whoever it is in New York and ask them if there is a Joseph Binns in the terminal?  He’s my boss and someone who deals with situations like this.  He’ll know I’m on board.”

“Who are you?”

“Who I am is irrelevant.  Except I could become those two thugs worst nightmare.  Kawalski, their boss, is bad news.  He’s bringing his wife back to New Jersey against her will, and I think he was hoping this would go under the radar.”

At that moment, I realised the plane had levelled out and was in a large circuit.  It might not last long if the fuel is low.

“Are you law enforcement?”

“Not the sort that flashed badges.  Just ask him to call.”

She did, relaying a brief resume of what I told her.

“He’s talking to them now.”

Five long minutes passed before I saw her move slightly, then say, “He’s here.”  She passed me the phone.

“Kevin Andrews?” He asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m told you might be able to help.”

“We’re not going to get on the ground while they are moving around.  Also, I think they will start using passengers to force you to land the plane, and probably use some to get away once we are on the ground.  This is one of those no-win situations.”

“Not ideal then?”

He was calm and probably hoping his worst nightmare was a flaky engine.

“It never is.  I’m going to try to neutralise the problem.  It might get messy.  And I might not succeed.  But I could use the element of surprise.  Can you make sudden downwards or sideways movements, the sort where you are briefly disoriented?  Kind of like hitting an air pocket.”

“When?”

“Give it ten minutes.  No warning, just do it. Hard left and down.  Hopefully, I’ll be in place by then.”

“Ten minutes.  Got it.  Good luck.”

I was hugging to need it.

I handed the phone back.  “Stow everything likely to cause a problem.  If you can tell those up the front with alerting them, do it.”

The other steward unlocked a drawer and pulled out a rather interesting knife.  It might be illegal, but it was going to make my job easier.

“Got any string, rope, bindings?”

From the same drawer, twine.  Ideal.

“Good.  Keep it handy.”  I took the knife and hid it up my sleeve.

I looked at my watch.  Seven minutes.  I shrugged.  Time to go.

I slowly walked up the aisle.  My row companion gave me a rather wide-eyed look as I went past.  Maybe she thought I had a death wish.

Maybe I did.

I took my time.  Halfway, one of the thugs saw me.

“Go back to your seat.”

“Sorry.  Can’t.  Have to use the restrooms.  Ours are full of people sitting because of you.”

I edged slowly closer, both watching me.  What they were going to do was the unpredictable item in this equation.

Eight minutes, alongside the first row of coach.  Five years, maybe six.  The steward and manager had moved back into the galley area.  The two men and the girl were near the door.

I would only have a few seconds at best, and I would have to incapacitate them.  The knife would do that if I got them in the right place.  Luckily, part of the refresher I’d just been on was 101 ways to silently and quickly kill your enemy with a knife.  Any knife.

Nine minutes.  I took a deep breath and let it go slowly.  Calm.

…

Odd that in those last few seconds, I suddenly remembered nearly every time I’d landed at JFK and about 20 or 20 minutes out, we hit turbulence, once so bad it made most of the passengers airsick.

And on cue, ten seconds before the plane was to lurch, we hit turbulence and, thirty seconds after that, an air pocket and suddenly the plane dipped, violently.

Anyone who wasn’t in a seat belt hit the roof.  I was vac3d because I was expecting a lurch.  In the end, the turbulence did the job for me.

The two thugs and Kawalski hit the roof and were knocked clean out.  The plane found clean air with a thud, but the turbulence didn’t stop.  The captain explained and asked for calm.

Everyone had heeded the earlier seatbelt call, and the only three casualties were the three problem passengers.  The girl had fainted just before the air pocket, and the thug had ironically protected her from hitting the roof.

She was now sprawled on the ground.

The hostess from the rear arrived breathless and with cut lengths of twine.  Three burly men came and hoisted the three into seats in the front rows, and tied them very securely.

The manager up front relayed the news to the captain, and a minute or two later, we were descending.  A half-hour delay.  We were back to preparing the cabin for landing.

I had a few words with? First in Polish, then in English, to see if she was alright.  She said she had seen me at the airport in Denver and hoped that I had recognised her distress and alerted the authorities.

She said her father would be grateful.  I told her that she should forget I existed.  Trouble always had a way of finding me without help.

Then I went back to my seat.  In reality, I had done nothing wrong.  Whatever plan I had was sketchy at best, and I thanked whoever it was for intervening.

My seat companion looked over as I did up the seatbelt.  “What did you say you did for a living?”

“Problem solver, though I wouldn’t say I was very good at it.  Mother Nature always has an answer to just about any problem.”

“What were you going to do?”

“Use the plane differently.  Then I remembered that there’s always turbulence.  Catch them off guard, maybe.  In the end, I didn’t have to.”

“You do this often?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Somebody had to do something.  I have places to be.  Can’t have assholes holding me, and everyone else, up.”

“Well, this was exciting.  I’m just a boring librarian who sometimes gives tours at the Smithsonian.  The biggest event is someone who has a bathroom emergency.  Perhaps we could start again.  My name is Jennifer MacAndrews, Librarian.”

“Kevin Andrews, occasional Problem Solver.”

The plane shuddered as we went through another layer of turbulence.  We could see land through the cloud cover.  It would be raining when we landed.

As the wheels came down, the pilot advised us that we would be going to a closed area of the airport when the prisoners would be taken off.  Then the passengers would be transferred to buses and taken to the terminal.

“Staying in New York after your meeting?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m going to do something I never do.  Another first, if you like.  Can I buy you dinner for saving us, or trying to, anyway?”

She definitely did not look like the sort of woman who would offer dinner dates to perfect strangers.  Even so, I should decline.

“You don’t know me.  I could be an axe murderer.”

“You could be.  I have many interesting conversational topics that might interest you, being a librarian.”

So the axe murderer line wasn’t going to work on her. 

“When is your meeting?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Are you staying anywhere near the Hilton on 6th Avenue?”

“By coincidence, I am.”

“Then if I am free at 7pm, I’ll call your room, and if you’re in, we’ll see what happens?”

She smiled.  “We shall.”

…

The plane landed, everyone applauded, an odd reaction and one I have never had explained.

It took a while before the FBI officers came aboard, spoke to the captain and then took the three men away.  They did not take Zuzanna Wojcik.

Then the passengers filed off, and I waited until everyone left before I went forward.  Jennifer waited with me.  Apparently, she was in no hurry.

The captain and an FBI officer were waiting.  I shook hands, told them both that I was glad I didn’t have to do anything, and that the true heroes were the passengers who tied them up.

My boss was among those at the bottom of the stairs, waiting to take me away to that meeting.  I shook hands with Jennifer, and she joined the last of the passengers on the bus.

“You made a new friend.”

“Window seat, my row.”

“Not screaming kids?”

“They were three rows ahead.  It’s not so bad in the back of the plane.  I hear it’s the safest place in a crash.”

He shrugged.  “Always something with you.”

“What can I say?”

“Next time, you will try to remain anonymous.  Your next job was to investigate Zuzanna Wojcik’s family.  Can’t do that now she knows who you are.”

“Or…”

He shook his head.  “You really don’t have a death wish.  You have two weeks’ vacation.  We’ll talk about it later.  Who was the girl?”

“A librarian at the Smithsonian.”

“Good.  You could do well to learn something other than ways to kill people.”

If I called her.  I was having second thoughts. A girl like her didn’t need to know someone like me.  It was one of the downsides of the job.

The baggage handlers were offloading the last of the baggage, and the plane sat on the tarmac, now in the hands of the cleaners.

In a few hours, it would be off to another airport, most of the passengers would be going to hotels, visiting others or going home.  For them, it was just another day in their lives.  They would never know just how close they came to dying.

And in my case, I had been lucky.  Stupid but lucky.  It put a thought into my head that until I spoke to Jennifer, I would never have turned up there.

Was it time I gave up the idealistic dream that I could save the world, one mission at a time?  The fact is, I couldn’t, and wasn’t.

My boss opened the door to the limo.  “Opportunity awaits.”

I got in and moved over.  He climbed in and shut the door.  “Let’s go.”

And for the first time, I was thinking of something other than work.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Days 164 and 165 – Writing exercise – Set a story on a plane

…

It had been a long couple of months, and having completed the mandatory training and refresher courses, locked down for the whole time at the company’s dedicated training facility, it was time for a recreation break.

For that, I was heading to a tropical retreat in Jamaica in the Caribbean.  The shack was booked, and all I had to do was catch three planes.

In other words, the next 48 hours could run smoothly, or it could turn into a bigger disaster than some of the missions I’d been sent on. 

I was hoping for the first and expecting the second.

It didn’t start well.  The taxi I caught to the airport stopped to let me off in the designated drop-off zone, but it was for the wrong airline.

The driver apologised and offered to go around again, but that was mentioned how I wanted to spend the next half hour of my life.  I paid him and got out.

I went into the airport terminal and started a long hike back to the departure area for my airline.  Fortunately, it was well signed, unlike some airports I’d been to.

Foot traffic was like the home time crush, and I had to pick my way through strolling families, children racing around bereft of parental control, elderly people who had all the time in the world, cranky businessmen in a hurry, and people who were standing around in groups cluttering the walkways.

I was glad I didn’t have any suitcases.  There were enough baggage trolleys to crash into as it was.  Including those being driven recklessly by children and almost wrecking a holiday before it got started.

My left ankle was still sore from the last would-be racing driver.

At the checking counter, I joined a long line that was moving slowly. 

It always amused me that people always spoke louder when standing in a queue.  I would have thought that such comments as the desirability of a male colleague, and 8 on the 1 to 10 scale, might have warranted hushed tones.  Along with the inference, one of the girls had slept with him.

The other was unimpressed.  He was married.  Scandalous, maybe to me, but they both giggled. 

That was in front of me.  Behind, a man was telling whoever would listen that he hadn’t been back home in three years and was expecting no one would remember him.  He was an accountant, so no one was surprised.

There were more, but I reached the counter by then and took a minute, perhaps a little longer.  I could only check in for the first flight, not all the way through.  I’d opted for cheap.

No baggage, passport in order, seat allocation and gate pass done.  I was travelling coach class and got an aisle seat.  It remained to be seen how that played out.  Travelling by any means these days was like walking through a minefield.

As it was only domestic, I went through the TSA check, getting a nod from one of the officers, as an acquaintance from another life, and went up to the departure level.  It was a bit early to go to the gate.

I’d have some airport takeout just in case the airline had nothing to offer.  Given the fare I paid, I seriously doubted they could afford water.

I settled on greasy chicken and fries.

..

Tables were scattered everywhere, and I selected one with two seats and seeing there was competition for it, hastened my pace to get there first.  It was that time of day when everyone seemed to be hungry.

Surviving the death stare from the other hunter, I sat back and contemplated the rest of the diners.  It was a habit more than anything else.  It converted about two or three hundred.

Families, children arguing over burgers, chicken and fries, large cups of sugary drinks, not the best for them before getting on the plane, businessmen, sitting at single tables with coffee and a sandwich, teenagers, a group on a tour, no doubt like Rome or maybe not, all excited at the fact they were escaping school.  Some had that doe-eyed look of high school sweethearts, and trouble looming.

I remembered the one trip my class had gone on and the fallout from that.

There were groups of elderly passengers also going on a holiday, a tour guide trying to keep them together, and women, one group in particular, that looked like trouble.  One had just returned with a dozen drinks, wiped escaping their husbands, and why not?

No immediate threats.

I looked at the chicken, shrugged and took a chip instead.  The coffee tasted like instant, water and powdered milk.  Who knew what came out of that coffee machine, but it wasn’t what I would call coffee.  Maybe my standards were too high.

Then I saw rather than heard a strange sound, and followed it to a table four along and one out from the shrubbery.  Four seats.  One man, a thug in a suit, a well-dressed man who reeked of money but not class, and a young woman who was trying not to look terrified.

I suspect the man in the suit had inflicted some hidden punishment on her because she was massaging her hand.  I looked away just before he looked in my direction.

He did the same scan I had, looking for trouble.

This could be one of two scenarios.  The girl, girlfriend or spouse had tried to run away and had been caught.  Usually, they would return by car, but maybe they were from overseas.  The three men looked foreign.

The other, less likely, was a felon being taken back to jail.  Or elsewhere, but then she would be in cuffs.  He didn’t look like law enforcement.

Another thug in a suit came back with a tray of food and drinks and distributed it before sitting.  An air of serenity settled on them.

I went back to my chicken.

…

It was a relatively calm half hour; the children at the table next to me were the typical family.  The boy wanted a hamburger and got chicken; the girl wanted chicken and got a hamburger.  The boy took a bite out of the chicken, and the girl refused to eat it.

Dad didn’t get the free toy that came with the food, and in the end, the mother had to sort it all out.  The father typically got exactly what he wanted.

Another child and another nearby table spilt his drink all over the father, and harsh words and tears ensued.

Queues for food were long, and tempers were fraying.  My new friends, four tables over to the left, left their mess on the table and walked off, the girl almost dragged away by the man in the expensive suit.

Something was definitely wrong there.

The lady who was wiping tables just had a whole lot more work added to the endless task of cleaning up spilled drinks and food scraps thrown on the floor.  People obviously left their manners at home.

I cleaned up my mess, wiped the table with a spare wet towel and dumped the leftovers in the appropriate bin.  The cleaning lady smiled in my direction. That was one less out of 200 tables.

I wandered slowly towards the gate, with a little under an hour to go.  There were people scattered in the seating area, including my new friends.  On my way in, I surreptitiously took a photograph of the rich guy, and when I sat down, studied it.

He had a familiar look, not belonging to someone I had met before, but someone I had seen before.   The seat next to me had a hostile folder of newspapers sitting on it, perhaps from the last flight out.

Maybe if they were leaving from here, they would be in the local paper.

Or as loath as I was to call upon a friend, who was a colleague who’d done favours for me in the past, I could send a copy of the photo and ask him to identify who it is.

Of course, it came with a degree of risk, especially if the person had a history.  I sent it anyway; Rodney would make an assessment and let me know.

Five minutes.  My cell phone vibrated.  “Investigating!”

Meanwhile, back in the newspaper, The Denver Post, I found it odd to be reading an actual newspaper and not the usual online services.  If I were staying instead of passing through, like some of the others on refresher courses, it would make a useful reference.

But nothing about our mysterious man or his companion.  But if I wanted to find out where the 4th July fireworks displays were, very useful.

I didn’t plan to be in the country.  The holiday had lost its significance given the times we were in, and the fact that our history was being rewritten to reflect something that was nothing like what happened.

My father, who has been an American History professor and scholar of all things American, including the so-called shameful parts of it, would be spinning in his grave.  I was just plain disappointed.

Just as the boarding call came, my phone vibrated again.  “Sam Kawalski and the woman Zuzanna Wojcik, the youngest daughter of the alleged head of a crime family from New Jersey.  They were married about a month ago.  Documents attached.”

I sent back a thanks and joined the queue.  I took the paper for the crossword and had some interesting reading.

They were sitting up front.  I was sitting in the back.  Fortunately, this time I was not surrounded by children.  I was, however, in direct line to the restrooms.  It was going to be a fun four hours.

…

I only had to stand once to let the window seat passenger in.  Our plane was not full, and a lot of middle seats were free.

She smiled politely as she squeezed past after putting her small suitcase in the overhead bin, then sat.  My initial assessment was that she was dressed to travel in business class, and maybe hoping for an upgrade.

She had that purposeful look like she was coming from or going to a meeting, what I would call an executive, though her age may suggest either lawyer or accountant.

Then I decided it was none of my business.

Until she spoke to me.  Normally, I would just ignore fellow passengers, or they would ignore me. But this was coach, I was used to business.  People around me nodded or said hello. 

“Work or pleasure?” 

It took a moment to register that she was speaking to me.  My attention was still on Kawalski, and the other passengers who brought far too much cabin luggage.  The hostesses were working overtime trying to find space and shunt tardy and somewhat confused people to their seats.

I turned to look at her and realised she might be older than I first thought.  Which had absolutely no bearing on anything.

“A business meeting, then pleasure.  Jamaica.”  I don’t know why I told her where I was going.

“Lucky you.  I’ve been there once, to a conference, and didn’t get much time to see the sights.  Keep meaning to go back.”

“If only we had 40-hour days?”

She took that in, processed it, then smiled again.  I could not imagine her being angry.

“If only.”

“You?  Business or something else?”  I deliberately threw in a curve, just to see what happened.

A momentary expression changed, just long enough for those trained to look for them to see it.  Then back again.

“I would be in a party dress if it were not business.”

Was there just a slight edge to her tone?

In any other situation, I might have said she would look nice in a party dress, but these days those sorts of comments are frowned upon.

“I’m sorry then.”

“For what?”

“Forgetting that others have to work.  You don’t need people saying they’re going on holiday when you’re not.”

“It doesn’t bother me, after all, I asked you first.”

Her tone had suggested otherwise, but then my tone would be grumpy if the person next to me started babbling on about where they were going.

But good or bad, it killed the moment, and she rummaged in her bag and pulled out a Kindle reader.

One more supposition, she probably read romance novels.  I wrestled the paper into a smaller square and started on the crossword.

All the passengers were aboard, and the hostesses were doing their mandatory checks.  The door had been closed.

We would be leaving on time.

…

The trouble with travelling in a confined space with a lot of people is that no matter how hard you try to shut people out, you can’t.

Up front of the plane, you are more isolated; back in the rear, you are surrounded.  Screaming kids, noisy parents, the one person who has the volume up high, and the kid who runs up and down the aisle, bumping people.

And as I discovered, the number of people who lurch from side to side, bumping people as they go.  And the proximity to the restrooms, people congregated, towering over you, squashing into you when they tried to move out of the way.

And the conversations they had.  People whom you’d least expect to speak like drunken sailors three sheets to the wind.  I felt it necessary to stand, accidentally standing on one of their feet, and apologising profusely, after causing her to cry out in pain, and then getting assistance back to her seat.

A half dozen people nodded in my direction, clearly relieved that they had gone away.  My neighbour thought it amusing, perhaps something she would have done herself.

People were more wary standing anywhere near me when they came, or, like sensible people, waited for the green light before coming down. 

The next time she headed down, without her friend, I stood and went down to the galley to stand by the rear exit door.  She approached very cautiously.

Lesson learned.

Shortly after, the plane dipped, and we were in landing mode.  I went back to my seat.  The hostesses passed through the plane, getting everyone sorted.

The last trolley had passed by into the galley, just as we all heard the girl who had suffered that unfortunate accident, now standing next to the last seat in business class, pointing and yelling, “You’re that horrible man who beat up my friend at Rodin’s the other night.”

She was pointing directly at the man in the suit.

Next minute, one of the thugs had her in a stranglehold, and she was screaming.  A scream that polarised the whole plane. 

The stewards were mortified and helpless at this point.  The thug was trying to quieten her, and there were groans and complaints, until the thug yelled out, “Everyone, be quiet or else.

The last two words carried emphasis and a latent threat.  The noise died down.

It drew an uncharacteristic response from my travelling companion, “What the fuck… “

“An altercation with that girl.  Seems she knows one of the passengers in business, and not in a good  way.”

The thug wasn’t letting her go, but at least the screams had stopped.  So had everything.

I turned around, and the hostess was on the phone with the captain.  I heard, “We have a situation…”

That was putting it mildly.  This was a no-win situation for anyone.  We wouldn’t be landing with passengers standing in the aisle.  The thug had nowhere to go.  The girl would be leveraged until she wasn’t.  Just the thought of that worried me.

Planes were small places where things could go wrong very quickly.

And Kowalski had become a cornered rat.

The papers on him were basically the bio of a kid gone wrong, hitching his wagon to the wrong train, marrying the boss’s daughter, and then committing the ultimate folly, thinking his status could protect him from being stupid.

On bail for the assault, he was fleeing.  If it wasn’t for the fact that his wife was running from him, also a victim of assault, he would not have been in Denver.

He was a bail violator and now a party to what could be described as a major aeroplane felony.  With a plane load of hostages.

The Captain had nowhere to go, but had to try.

“Everyone not involved in the situation, please resume your seats and prepare for landing.  This plane cannot land until all passengers have resumed their seats.  Be advised that we will not be using a gate, but have been directed to another section of the airport where both local police and the FBI will be waiting.  I would ask that no one make this any worse than it already is, and would ask for calm and obey any and all instructions given by the senior cabin steward.”

The girl’s companion was now telling everyone in a loud voice the circumstances of their friend’s assault, and using disparaging language directed at Kowalski.  The other thug was waiting for a signal from Kawalski.

At least everyone was reseated except for the thug with the girl, who was now sobbing.

Kawalski stood and glared at the cabin manager, also responsible for the business class passengers.

He told the thug to bring the girl forward, and he told the manager to empty the first three rows and seat them elsewhere.

It looked like one or two were going to argue, but then the other got out of his seat and dragged one of the complainers out of his seat.  The rest moved quickly, taking what they could.

So far, so good.

I slowly got out of my seat and went back to the hostess on the phone.

“Sir, you should go back to your seat.”

“I might be able to help.  Can you ask the captain to talk to whoever it is in New York and ask them if there is a Joseph Binns in the terminal?  He’s my boss and someone who deals with situations like this.  He’ll know I’m on board.”

“Who are you?”

“Who I am is irrelevant.  Except I could become those two thugs worst nightmare.  Kawalski, their boss, is bad news.  He’s bringing his wife back to New Jersey against her will, and I think he was hoping this would go under the radar.”

At that moment, I realised the plane had levelled out and was in a large circuit.  It might not last long if the fuel is low.

“Are you law enforcement?”

“Not the sort that flashed badges.  Just ask him to call.”

She did, relaying a brief resume of what I told her.

“He’s talking to them now.”

Five long minutes passed before I saw her move slightly, then say, “He’s here.”  She passed me the phone.

“Kevin Andrews?” He asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m told you might be able to help.”

“We’re not going to get on the ground while they are moving around.  Also, I think they will start using passengers to force you to land the plane, and probably use some to get away once we are on the ground.  This is one of those no-win situations.”

“Not ideal then?”

He was calm and probably hoping his worst nightmare was a flaky engine.

“It never is.  I’m going to try to neutralise the problem.  It might get messy.  And I might not succeed.  But I could use the element of surprise.  Can you make sudden downwards or sideways movements, the sort where you are briefly disoriented?  Kind of like hitting an air pocket.”

“When?”

“Give it ten minutes.  No warning, just do it. Hard left and down.  Hopefully, I’ll be in place by then.”

“Ten minutes.  Got it.  Good luck.”

I was hugging to need it.

I handed the phone back.  “Stow everything likely to cause a problem.  If you can tell those up the front with alerting them, do it.”

The other steward unlocked a drawer and pulled out a rather interesting knife.  It might be illegal, but it was going to make my job easier.

“Got any string, rope, bindings?”

From the same drawer, twine.  Ideal.

“Good.  Keep it handy.”  I took the knife and hid it up my sleeve.

I looked at my watch.  Seven minutes.  I shrugged.  Time to go.

I slowly walked up the aisle.  My row companion gave me a rather wide-eyed look as I went past.  Maybe she thought I had a death wish.

Maybe I did.

I took my time.  Halfway, one of the thugs saw me.

“Go back to your seat.”

“Sorry.  Can’t.  Have to use the restrooms.  Ours are full of people sitting because of you.”

I edged slowly closer, both watching me.  What they were going to do was the unpredictable item in this equation.

Eight minutes, alongside the first row of coach.  Five years, maybe six.  The steward and manager had moved back into the galley area.  The two men and the girl were near the door.

I would only have a few seconds at best, and I would have to incapacitate them.  The knife would do that if I got them in the right place.  Luckily, part of the refresher I’d just been on was 101 ways to silently and quickly kill your enemy with a knife.  Any knife.

Nine minutes.  I took a deep breath and let it go slowly.  Calm.

…

Odd that in those last few seconds, I suddenly remembered nearly every time I’d landed at JFK and about 20 or 20 minutes out, we hit turbulence, once so bad it made most of the passengers airsick.

And on cue, ten seconds before the plane was to lurch, we hit turbulence and, thirty seconds after that, an air pocket and suddenly the plane dipped, violently.

Anyone who wasn’t in a seat belt hit the roof.  I was vac3d because I was expecting a lurch.  In the end, the turbulence did the job for me.

The two thugs and Kawalski hit the roof and were knocked clean out.  The plane found clean air with a thud, but the turbulence didn’t stop.  The captain explained and asked for calm.

Everyone had heeded the earlier seatbelt call, and the only three casualties were the three problem passengers.  The girl had fainted just before the air pocket, and the thug had ironically protected her from hitting the roof.

She was now sprawled on the ground.

The hostess from the rear arrived breathless and with cut lengths of twine.  Three burly men came and hoisted the three into seats in the front rows, and tied them very securely.

The manager up front relayed the news to the captain, and a minute or two later, we were descending.  A half-hour delay.  We were back to preparing the cabin for landing.

I had a few words with? First in Polish, then in English, to see if she was alright.  She said she had seen me at the airport in Denver and hoped that I had recognised her distress and alerted the authorities.

She said her father would be grateful.  I told her that she should forget I existed.  Trouble always had a way of finding me without help.

Then I went back to my seat.  In reality, I had done nothing wrong.  Whatever plan I had was sketchy at best, and I thanked whoever it was for intervening.

My seat companion looked over as I did up the seatbelt.  “What did you say you did for a living?”

“Problem solver, though I wouldn’t say I was very good at it.  Mother Nature always has an answer to just about any problem.”

“What were you going to do?”

“Use the plane differently.  Then I remembered that there’s always turbulence.  Catch them off guard, maybe.  In the end, I didn’t have to.”

“You do this often?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Somebody had to do something.  I have places to be.  Can’t have assholes holding me, and everyone else, up.”

“Well, this was exciting.  I’m just a boring librarian who sometimes gives tours at the Smithsonian.  The biggest event is someone who has a bathroom emergency.  Perhaps we could start again.  My name is Jennifer MacAndrews, Librarian.”

“Kevin Andrews, occasional Problem Solver.”

The plane shuddered as we went through another layer of turbulence.  We could see land through the cloud cover.  It would be raining when we landed.

As the wheels came down, the pilot advised us that we would be going to a closed area of the airport when the prisoners would be taken off.  Then the passengers would be transferred to buses and taken to the terminal.

“Staying in New York after your meeting?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m going to do something I never do.  Another first, if you like.  Can I buy you dinner for saving us, or trying to, anyway?”

She definitely did not look like the sort of woman who would offer dinner dates to perfect strangers.  Even so, I should decline.

“You don’t know me.  I could be an axe murderer.”

“You could be.  I have many interesting conversational topics that might interest you, being a librarian.”

So the axe murderer line wasn’t going to work on her. 

“When is your meeting?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Are you staying anywhere near the Hilton on 6th Avenue?”

“By coincidence, I am.”

“Then if I am free at 7pm, I’ll call your room, and if you’re in, we’ll see what happens?”

She smiled.  “We shall.”

…

The plane landed, everyone applauded, an odd reaction and one I have never had explained.

It took a while before the FBI officers came aboard, spoke to the captain and then took the three men away.  They did not take Zuzanna Wojcik.

Then the passengers filed off, and I waited until everyone left before I went forward.  Jennifer waited with me.  Apparently, she was in no hurry.

The captain and an FBI officer were waiting.  I shook hands, told them both that I was glad I didn’t have to do anything, and that the true heroes were the passengers who tied them up.

My boss was among those at the bottom of the stairs, waiting to take me away to that meeting.  I shook hands with Jennifer, and she joined the last of the passengers on the bus.

“You made a new friend.”

“Window seat, my row.”

“Not screaming kids?”

“They were three rows ahead.  It’s not so bad in the back of the plane.  I hear it’s the safest place in a crash.”

He shrugged.  “Always something with you.”

“What can I say?”

“Next time, you will try to remain anonymous.  Your next job was to investigate Zuzanna Wojcik’s family.  Can’t do that now she knows who you are.”

“Or…”

He shook his head.  “You really don’t have a death wish.  You have two weeks’ vacation.  We’ll talk about it later.  Who was the girl?”

“A librarian at the Smithsonian.”

“Good.  You could do well to learn something other than ways to kill people.”

If I called her.  I was having second thoughts. A girl like her didn’t need to know someone like me.  It was one of the downsides of the job.

The baggage handlers were offloading the last of the baggage, and the plane sat on the tarmac, now in the hands of the cleaners.

In a few hours, it would be off to another airport, most of the passengers would be going to hotels, visiting others or going home.  For them, it was just another day in their lives.  They would never know just how close they came to dying.

And in my case, I had been lucky.  Stupid but lucky.  It put a thought into my head that until I spoke to Jennifer, I would never have turned up there.

Was it time I gave up the idealistic dream that I could save the world, one mission at a time?  The fact is, I couldn’t, and wasn’t.

My boss opened the door to the limo.  “Opportunity awaits.”

I got in and moved over.  He climbed in and shut the door.  “Let’s go.”

And for the first time, I was thinking of something other than work.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

More about my second novel

…

I’m going over the conversation Olga is having with John now that he is her prisoner.

On the first run through, it seemed to make sense, but as we all know, when you read the conversation out loud, often it sounds terrible.

A question of, “Would I say that?”

Whilst snatching John off the street was a rather simple task, made easier by the fact that he was not expecting it, Olga is not sure whether it is a big act.

Working with Irina has made her wary of everyone and everything, even more so since Irina had left her charge, but she knows just how much Irina has evolved into the Zoe her son tried to keep on a leash, with spectacularly awful results.

Had she been training John to be like her?

Has Sebastian been training John to become a spy, or was he one already?  After all, why is someone like John, if he is that reputed computer nerd type, doing with a girl like Irina?

Her preference would have to be someone strong, authoritative, masculine, like Alistair.  The problem was that she hadn’t driven out all of the emotions in the time she spent with her.

So, sitting opposite each other, John and Olga try to do their individual assessments.

She finally admits that she doesn’t want to kill Irina, just rehabilitate her.

John, of course, is horrified at the thought of them brainwashing her, especially if they send her after him again.

It comes down to a single point.  Will he do as she asks and invite her to come and get him?

What neither of them realises is that Irina already knows where they are, and any plans Olga might have will be useless.

…

More about my second novel

…

I’m going over the conversation Olga is having with John now that he is her prisoner.

On the first run through, it seemed to make sense, but as we all know, when you read the conversation out loud, often it sounds terrible.

A question of, “Would I say that?”

Whilst snatching John off the street was a rather simple task, made easier by the fact that he was not expecting it, Olga is not sure whether it is a big act.

Working with Irina has made her wary of everyone and everything, even more so since Irina had left her charge, but she knows just how much Irina has evolved into the Zoe her son tried to keep on a leash, with spectacularly awful results.

Had she been training John to be like her?

Has Sebastian been training John to become a spy, or was he one already?  After all, why is someone like John, if he is that reputed computer nerd type, doing with a girl like Irina?

Her preference would have to be someone strong, authoritative, masculine, like Alistair.  The problem was that she hadn’t driven out all of the emotions in the time she spent with her.

So, sitting opposite each other, John and Olga try to do their individual assessments.

She finally admits that she doesn’t want to kill Irina, just rehabilitate her.

John, of course, is horrified at the thought of them brainwashing her, especially if they send her after him again.

It comes down to a single point.  Will he do as she asks and invite her to come and get him?

What neither of them realises is that Irina already knows where they are, and any plans Olga might have will be useless.

…

Day 163 –  When the well runs dry

…

The Well Never Runs Dry: Why You Should Write Even When You’re Empty

There is a pervasive myth in the creative world: the idea that writing is a faucet that must be turned off the moment the water stops flowing. We are told to wait for the “muse,” to respect the “dry spell,” and to stop pushing when the well runs dry.

But here is the professional truth: If you wait for inspiration, you will eventually stop writing altogether.

Professionalism isn’t about waiting for a lightning strike of genius; it’s about showing up to the page when you have absolutely nothing to say. If you struggle with the “Empty Page Syndrome,” here is why you should never stop writing—and how to keep going when the ideas have seemingly evaporated.

1. Writing is a Muscle, Not a Mood

Think of your writing ability like a muscle in the gym. If you only lift weights when you feel “inspired” to be strong, you will never see progress. The days you don’t want to be there are the days that build your endurance.

When you force yourself to write through a period of low inspiration, you aren’t necessarily aiming for a masterpiece. You are building the cognitive stamina required to sustain a career. By showing up, you prove to your brain that writing is a non-negotiable habit, like brushing your teeth or sleeping.

2. The “Bad” Writing is the Foundation

When you force yourself to write without ideas, the result is often messy, clunky, and uninspired. That’s okay. In fact, it’s necessary.

Professional writers understand that you cannot edit a blank page. By writing “bad” words, you are clearing the mental pipes. Often, the act of putting down a terrible sentence acts as a catalyst for a better thought. You have to move the cursor to find the gold. If you stop writing the moment you feel stuck, you never reach the breakthrough that lies just three paragraphs deeper.

3. Ideas are a Result, Not a Prerequisite

We often think: I need an idea to start writing. The reality is: Writing creates the idea.

When you sit down to write, you are engaging in a process of discovery. Your brain doesn’t store ideas in a neat little organized file cabinet; it generates them through the friction of the keyboard. If you sit and wait for the perfect prompt, you will wait forever. If you start typing “I don’t know what to write about today,” you have already started the process of thinking. That movement inevitably leads somewhere.

4. How to Keep Writing When You’re Empty

If you’re staring at a blinking cursor and feeling that familiar drought, try these three strategies:

• The “Brain Dump” Method: Don’t worry about structure or audience. Open a document and write down every annoyance, thought, or observation from your morning. It doesn’t have to be a published piece; it just has to be words on a page.
• The “Retrospective” Approach: If you can’t invent something new, refine something old. Go back to an old draft, a failed paragraph, or a notebook scrap from six months ago. Editing is writing. It counts.
• The Constraint Hack: Creativity loves a cage. If you don’t know what to write, give yourself a strict limit. Write 200 words about the colour red. Write a paragraph explaining your favourite meal to an alien. Arbitrary constraints force your brain out of its rut.

The Bottom Line

The difference between an amateur and a professional is often just the ability to endure the days when the spark is gone. You don’t need a brilliant idea to be a writer; you just need to be a person who writes.

So, don’t stop. Keep writing through the silence, the boredom, and the “bad” drafts. The well isn’t dry—it’s just waiting for you to pick up the bucket.

…

Day 163 –  When the well runs dry

…

The Well Never Runs Dry: Why You Should Write Even When You’re Empty

There is a pervasive myth in the creative world: the idea that writing is a faucet that must be turned off the moment the water stops flowing. We are told to wait for the “muse,” to respect the “dry spell,” and to stop pushing when the well runs dry.

But here is the professional truth: If you wait for inspiration, you will eventually stop writing altogether.

Professionalism isn’t about waiting for a lightning strike of genius; it’s about showing up to the page when you have absolutely nothing to say. If you struggle with the “Empty Page Syndrome,” here is why you should never stop writing—and how to keep going when the ideas have seemingly evaporated.

1. Writing is a Muscle, Not a Mood

Think of your writing ability like a muscle in the gym. If you only lift weights when you feel “inspired” to be strong, you will never see progress. The days you don’t want to be there are the days that build your endurance.

When you force yourself to write through a period of low inspiration, you aren’t necessarily aiming for a masterpiece. You are building the cognitive stamina required to sustain a career. By showing up, you prove to your brain that writing is a non-negotiable habit, like brushing your teeth or sleeping.

2. The “Bad” Writing is the Foundation

When you force yourself to write without ideas, the result is often messy, clunky, and uninspired. That’s okay. In fact, it’s necessary.

Professional writers understand that you cannot edit a blank page. By writing “bad” words, you are clearing the mental pipes. Often, the act of putting down a terrible sentence acts as a catalyst for a better thought. You have to move the cursor to find the gold. If you stop writing the moment you feel stuck, you never reach the breakthrough that lies just three paragraphs deeper.

3. Ideas are a Result, Not a Prerequisite

We often think: I need an idea to start writing. The reality is: Writing creates the idea.

When you sit down to write, you are engaging in a process of discovery. Your brain doesn’t store ideas in a neat little organized file cabinet; it generates them through the friction of the keyboard. If you sit and wait for the perfect prompt, you will wait forever. If you start typing “I don’t know what to write about today,” you have already started the process of thinking. That movement inevitably leads somewhere.

4. How to Keep Writing When You’re Empty

If you’re staring at a blinking cursor and feeling that familiar drought, try these three strategies:

• The “Brain Dump” Method: Don’t worry about structure or audience. Open a document and write down every annoyance, thought, or observation from your morning. It doesn’t have to be a published piece; it just has to be words on a page.
• The “Retrospective” Approach: If you can’t invent something new, refine something old. Go back to an old draft, a failed paragraph, or a notebook scrap from six months ago. Editing is writing. It counts.
• The Constraint Hack: Creativity loves a cage. If you don’t know what to write, give yourself a strict limit. Write 200 words about the colour red. Write a paragraph explaining your favourite meal to an alien. Arbitrary constraints force your brain out of its rut.

The Bottom Line

The difference between an amateur and a professional is often just the ability to endure the days when the spark is gone. You don’t need a brilliant idea to be a writer; you just need to be a person who writes.

So, don’t stop. Keep writing through the silence, the boredom, and the “bad” drafts. The well isn’t dry—it’s just waiting for you to pick up the bucket.

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Day 162 – Making something out of nothing

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The Alchemy of Creation: Is Frank Zappa Right About the Business of Art?

“Art is making something out of nothing and selling it.”

When Frank Zappa—the iconoclastic guitarist, composer, and cultural provocateur—uttered those words, he wasn’t just being cynical. He was being surgical. To the romantic, art is a divine spark, an ethereal communion with the muse. To Zappa, it was a mechanical process of materialising an idea and navigating the marketplace.

But is he right? Does this definition capture the soul of creativity, or does it strip away the magic? Let’s pull apart Zappa’s assertion and see what remains.

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The “Something Out of Nothing” Paradox

At first glance, the idea of making “something out of nothing” sounds like a biological impossibility. Every artist draws from a vast, internal library of influences, memories, traumas, and aesthetics. We are all bricoleurs—we take the scraps of our experiences and stitch them into new tapestries.

However, Zappa’s quote highlights the courage of the blank canvas.

Before an artist sits down to compose, paint, or write, that specific arrangement of notes, colors, or words did not exist. The artist is the zero-point, the lightning rod that pulls a chaotic, unformed feeling from the ether and anchors it into physical reality. That process—the translation of abstract thought into a tangible object—is the fundamental “miracle” of art.

The “Selling It” Reality Check

This is the part that makes many artists uncomfortable. We like to pretend that art exists in a vacuum, purely for the sake of expression. If that were true, artists wouldn’t bother with galleries, streaming platforms, or bookstores.

Zappa was a famously savvy businessman who understood the architecture of the music industry better than almost anyone. By saying art is about “selling it,” he was acknowledging that art is a form of communication.

Selling isn’t just about money; it’s about exchange. When you sell a piece of art, you are asking someone else to place value on your perspective. You are saying, “I have made this thing out of nothing, and I believe it is significant enough to become a part of your life.”

The transaction is the final step of the creative cycle. Without the audience (the buyer/the observer), the “something” remains in a box in your basement. Bringing it to the world, putting a price tag on it, and finding a home for it is an act of completion.

The Cynicism vs. The Pragmatism

Is there a danger in viewing art this way? Yes. If you focus too much on selling, you start creating art designed to be sold rather than art designed to be true. This leads to the commercial sludge—the derivative sounds and mass-produced aesthetics that Zappa spent his entire career railing against.

But if you view the process through Zappa’s lens, it becomes incredibly empowering. It demystifies the artistic struggle:

1. The Blank Page is just a starting point.
2. The Output is your product.
3. The Marketplace is the arena where you prove your worth.

The Verdict

Frank Zappa’s definition is perhaps the most honest perspective an artist can adopt. It removes the pretension and the “tortured genius” mythology that causes so many creators to freeze up.

If art is simply taking nothing and making something, there is no pressure for it to be perfect immediately. If art is about selling, it encourages you to take your work seriously enough to share it with others.

So, go ahead and be the magician who pulls an idea out of thin air. Just don’t forget that the magic only becomes real when someone else sees it, holds it, and decides it matters.

What do you think? Is Zappa’s definition too clinical, or is it the perspective every creator needs to hear? Let me know in the comments below.

Day 162 – Making something out of nothing

…

The Alchemy of Creation: Is Frank Zappa Right About the Business of Art?

“Art is making something out of nothing and selling it.”

When Frank Zappa—the iconoclastic guitarist, composer, and cultural provocateur—uttered those words, he wasn’t just being cynical. He was being surgical. To the romantic, art is a divine spark, an ethereal communion with the muse. To Zappa, it was a mechanical process of materialising an idea and navigating the marketplace.

But is he right? Does this definition capture the soul of creativity, or does it strip away the magic? Let’s pull apart Zappa’s assertion and see what remains.

---

The “Something Out of Nothing” Paradox

At first glance, the idea of making “something out of nothing” sounds like a biological impossibility. Every artist draws from a vast, internal library of influences, memories, traumas, and aesthetics. We are all bricoleurs—we take the scraps of our experiences and stitch them into new tapestries.

However, Zappa’s quote highlights the courage of the blank canvas.

Before an artist sits down to compose, paint, or write, that specific arrangement of notes, colors, or words did not exist. The artist is the zero-point, the lightning rod that pulls a chaotic, unformed feeling from the ether and anchors it into physical reality. That process—the translation of abstract thought into a tangible object—is the fundamental “miracle” of art.

The “Selling It” Reality Check

This is the part that makes many artists uncomfortable. We like to pretend that art exists in a vacuum, purely for the sake of expression. If that were true, artists wouldn’t bother with galleries, streaming platforms, or bookstores.

Zappa was a famously savvy businessman who understood the architecture of the music industry better than almost anyone. By saying art is about “selling it,” he was acknowledging that art is a form of communication.

Selling isn’t just about money; it’s about exchange. When you sell a piece of art, you are asking someone else to place value on your perspective. You are saying, “I have made this thing out of nothing, and I believe it is significant enough to become a part of your life.”

The transaction is the final step of the creative cycle. Without the audience (the buyer/the observer), the “something” remains in a box in your basement. Bringing it to the world, putting a price tag on it, and finding a home for it is an act of completion.

The Cynicism vs. The Pragmatism

Is there a danger in viewing art this way? Yes. If you focus too much on selling, you start creating art designed to be sold rather than art designed to be true. This leads to the commercial sludge—the derivative sounds and mass-produced aesthetics that Zappa spent his entire career railing against.

But if you view the process through Zappa’s lens, it becomes incredibly empowering. It demystifies the artistic struggle:

1. The Blank Page is just a starting point.
2. The Output is your product.
3. The Marketplace is the arena where you prove your worth.

The Verdict

Frank Zappa’s definition is perhaps the most honest perspective an artist can adopt. It removes the pretension and the “tortured genius” mythology that causes so many creators to freeze up.

If art is simply taking nothing and making something, there is no pressure for it to be perfect immediately. If art is about selling, it encourages you to take your work seriously enough to share it with others.

So, go ahead and be the magician who pulls an idea out of thin air. Just don’t forget that the magic only becomes real when someone else sees it, holds it, and decides it matters.

What do you think? Is Zappa’s definition too clinical, or is it the perspective every creator needs to hear? Let me know in the comments below.

Day 161 – Is the American Dream a good model to follow

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The Mirage of Prosperity: Can We Still Believe in the American Dream?

For generations, the “American Dream” has served as the national North Star. It is the seductive promise that with enough grit, talent, and ambition, anyone—regardless of their station—can rise from obscurity to acclaim. It is a narrative of meritocracy, gold-paved streets, and the promise that the past does not dictate the future.

But is this dream a practical model to follow, or is it a gilded trap? To answer this, we must look at the literature that first dared to peek behind the curtain of the American success story.

More than a century ago, Theodore Dreiser’s naturalist masterpiece, Sister Carrie, dismantled the shiny exterior of the American Dream, revealing a hollow, often tragic reality beneath. By examining Carrie Meeber’s journey, we can better understand why the American Dream, as a moral or psychological model, may be fundamentally flawed.

The Illusion of Upward Mobility

In Sister Carrie, the protagonist arrives in Chicago with nothing but a longing for “something better.” She is the quintessential seeker of the American Dream. Through a series of transactional relationships, she climbs the social ladder, transitioning from a struggling factory worker to a celebrated Broadway actress.

On the surface, Carrie is a success story. She achieves the material comfort the Dream promises. Yet, Dreiser leaves us with a haunting image: Carrie, wealthy and famous, sitting in a rocking chair, perpetually unsatisfied.

Dreiser’s point is devastating: The American Dream is a process, not a destination. It functions on the psychology of “more.” It teaches us that contentment is a static state that must be avoided, because if you are content, you stop striving. As a model for living, it creates a treadmill where the finish line constantly recedes.

The Transactional Self

One of the most uncomfortable truths in Sister Carrie is the way the American Dream erodes human connection. In the novel, people are viewed as commodities—assets to be acquired or obstacles to be discarded. Carrie’s rise is facilitated by her abandonment of those who helped her, most notably the tragic figure of George Hurstwood.

When we adopt the American Dream as our primary model for life, we risk turning our relationships into utility-based arrangements. We ask, “What does this person offer me?” rather than “How can we grow together?” In a culture obsessed with the outcome of success, the quality of the human experience often becomes collateral damage.

The Myth of Meritocracy

The American Dream rests on the belief that if you fail, it is a personal moral failing. Conversely, if you succeed, it is purely because you “earned” it.

Dreiser’s work highlights the role of “blind, unmerited chance.” Carrie possesses a certain magnetism, but her success is as much about serendipity and the changing tides of urban life as it is about her own talent. When we buy into the Dream, we become blind to the systemic and accidental nature of success. This leads to a two-fold tragedy: we feel profound shame when we struggle, and we develop an unearned arrogance when we thrive.

Is the Dream Still Useful?

If Sister Carrie shows the dangers of a life driven solely by the pursuit of status and material gain, does the model have any merit today?

The American Dream can be a powerful engine when it’s defined as opportunity rather than acquisition. If we view it as the freedom to pursue our passions and contribute to society, it remains a noble pursuit. However, when it becomes a rigid model for identity—convincing us that we are only as valuable as our bank accounts or our job titles—it becomes a source of psychic misery.

The Lesson from the Rocking Chair

Dreiser’s Sister Carrie is a cautionary tale, not just about the dangers of consumerism, but about the dangers of living for the future at the expense of the present.

If we choose to follow the American Dream, we must do so with our eyes wide open. We must recognise that the “Dream” is often an artificial construct designed to keep the wheels of industry turning, rather than a blueprint for human happiness.

Perhaps the most “American” thing we can do today is to redefine the dream. Instead of chasing a title or a lifestyle that leaves us sitting in a rocking chair with an empty heart, maybe we should focus on a model of success that prioritizes integrity, community, and the quiet satisfaction of a life lived on one’s own terms—not the terms dictated by the market.

What do you think? Is the American Dream a source of inspiration or a recipe for perpetual dissatisfaction? Let’s discuss in the comments below.

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