Day 27 – Writing exercise

I was never the same

…

Making a plan, having certain expectations, taking that leap of faith that all of us are destined to do at least once, I found myself standing at the top of the Empire State Building, on the last day of the twelfth month, exactly five years after making a promise in exactly the same place, I would be there.

There was a 10 am in there, but that was flexible, because I always liked to be early.

It had been after high school graduation, after the prom, every bit the magical moment it was meant to be, with the girl of my dreams, Margaret Cates.  We had spent those last years of high school together, studying hard, each helping the other achieve the grades needed to enter the best University.

There was no talk of romance, of a life together, or anything other than of being brought together, almost inseparable.  We were voted the most likely to be married, and living contentedly in a house with a picket fence and three children.

Expectations were what parents had, and both of our parents were best friends, who simply chose to believe the inevitable would happen.  Graduation, a combined family trip to New York to see the sights, culminating in New Year’s Eve at the top of the Empire State Building.

That was where we made the promise, no matter what, we would reconvene, that was Margaret’s word, at the same time.  It was also the first time we kissed, and I think it took a week before my heart rate went back to normal.

Soon after that, Margaret left.  She had been accepted into her university of choice.  Her parents were surprised, mt parents were in shock. 

I was not.  It was the plan.  Margaret had a plan for everything. There was no plan with me in it.  Not in those first five years.  I was sad, but not devastated.

I said to my parents, if we were meant to be, she would come back.  I had to set her free.

…

My plan was there was no plan.  I got the grades, and I got accepted into my University of choice.

At the end of the second year, I was in a what could only be described as a car crash, and was badly injured, to the extent that I had to put my life on hold.

I would recover, not one hundred per cent but enough to continue whatever path I’d chosen, but with some limitations.  The doctor was upbeat, and my parents were upbeat.

I went home, not quite in the manner I’d intended.  I was assured that life was like that, and I had to accept, accident or no accident, life was full of unexpected challenges.

…

Summer Atkins was probably the most irritating, aggravating, and ingratiating person on the planet.

She lived next door, one of five girls, the eldest, and coincidentally in my grade at high school.  In fact, she was in all the grades from Elementary.

She was gawky, awkward, loud and clumsy.  It was not her fault.  She had a kind heart, always the first to volunteer for the worst jobs, and suffered a lot at the hands of the boys and the girls, too.

I was not pleased to say when I looked back at my time that I was one of them, and probably the only one who apologised after the prom for what had been, at times, unforgivable.  The prank for the prom was probably her lowest point.

It took a week before she would come out of her room, and I came over every day to join the few who actually cared about her.  After Margaret left and before I followed, we spent time together, where she asked me what she needed to do to just get to talk to a guy like me.

I thought it strange.  She was talking to me, I was talking to her, we had coffee and cake at the diner, and hung out.  She had no aspirations to go to college, just to help her parents look after her siblings and work on the diner.  I had suggested she might want to do something for herself, and she looked at me strangely.  I did not, she said, understand her.

We parted awkwardly, with this thing I had done, but what it was, I had no idea.  It ended when she told me that if I was waiting for Margaret, I would be waiting a long time.  How did she know anything about what my expectations were?

…

I came back home under the radar.  I didn’t want anyone to know because I had set myself a high bar, and I was never going to reach it.

I felt that I had become a disappointment to my parents, and while they put on a brave face, and my siblings were polite, it was clear that they were happy for me to hide away, and my siblings were happy to see the high flyer crash and burn.  Kid would be kids, I expected no less.

So when Summer unexpectedly knocked on the door, a certain element of panic went through the house.  Upstairs, I heard that voice drift up the stairs with mixed emotions.  I wanted to see her, but I didn’t want to see her.

Not like this.  It was an odd feeling, and I couldn’t understand what fuelled it.  It was Summer, she wouldn’t care, more likely revel in the fact.  How the mighty had fallen.

My mother answered the door.

“Mrs Abercrombie, you look tired?”  The grating tone had gone, her voice had softened, and there was genuine concern in it.

“It’s…”

She caught herself before mentioning my name.  It had been a secret for about a month.  I was surprised Summer had not called earlier.

My mother shifted the topic.  She was good at that.  “How is your father?  That latest bout of chemotherapy cannot be helping the diner.”

“He’s responding to the treatment, and we’re managing.  How are you faring without Allen?  I’m sorry I should have come over more often.”

“It’s fine.  We’re all coping with life as best we can.”

“How is Allen, if I may ask?”

That was Summer.  Gets the bit between her teeth and doesn’t let go.

My mother was not one to lie.  Obfuscate but not lie.  Not outright.  But confronted…”

“Something’s wrong,” she said in a hushed voice, so low I couldn’t barely hear her.  I could virtually see my mother’s face.  It had always been expressive.  It’s why she could never play poker.

It went quiet for a minute or two, and I knew it was time to brace myself.  Summer was the last person I wanted to see, perhaps the only one other than Margaret, not that I expected her to drop everything.

Again, I couldn’t explain why, other than showing vulnerability. 

A few minutes passed while I was hoping my mother would explain that I didn’t want to see anyone, that I wanted to be better before facing the outside world.  Whether Summer would accede to a request if leaving me alone was moot.

If she knew I was there, she would not hesitate to come up and remind me of the Allen of old, with the shoe now firmly on the other foot.

I tried hiding under the covers, but she had X-ray eyes.  I knew she was in the room, I could feel her presence.  And the scent she used was a hint of primrose.  Once it was far stronger, but I suspect she had mastered the art of cosmetic use.

“You will suffocate long before I leave, Allen.  I’m not the same girl you left behind.  I don’t hate you.  I did for a while, but then I realised you cared when all the rest didn’t.  I’m sorry we parted angry.”

She sounded reasonable, far more reasonable than I expected.  She should have still been angry, if not with me, but with the others.

“OK.  If you don’t come out, I’ll get in there with you.  You know me well enough to know I will.”

Did I know her well enough?  I never took the opportunity.  No one wanted to because she didn’t fit the other girls’ profile.  It wasn’t like that at University, there it was simply a competition.  There was dating, but it was more convenient than romance.  There were not many hours left in a day for extracurricular activities.

When I peeled back the covers, it was like seeing an angel, the sun shining in the window, throwing a glow over her.  Summer had changed, from the awkward, ugly diluting into a graceful Swan.

A look of concern crossed her face.  Just lifting the covers was a difficult task, like most normal movements we all took for granted.  It was getting easier and less painful, but it would take time.

“What happened to you?”

“A car and I had a disagreement.  It won.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me.  How long have you been here?  What do you need? Tell me, and I’ll make it happen.”

…

Summer basically glued me back together.  It was, she said, one of her projects, others minding the children of silly sisters, nursing her farther past cancer, keeping up her waitress job at the diner, and just being Summer, the girl who always pitched in.

Such was the value of her help that my mother said I should marry her before someone else snapped her up.  Just before I was to go back to University, I did just that, but she rejected me.

There was someone else, and he was going to propose any day.

I could respect that.  Whatever I thought she might think of me, I would forever be one of those boys who made her life hell.  I didn’t deserve someone like her.  I just got on the train and left.

But the truth was, I was never the same again.

How could I?

I had tried to tell Margaret, but the terms of the pact were clear.  5 years, do your thing, meet and discuss.  If feelings were the same, who knew what might happen?

I was disappointed I hadn’t been able to find her, but I had a story to tell.

A year after returning, I gave it up.  I didn’t have the same enthusiasm, and feeling like a failure, I didn’t go home.  I simply pretended everything was fine, and moved to New York and found work in a rather offbeat bookshop in Queens.

It fuelled my love of literature, and after reading anything and everything, I started writing my version of the Great American Novel.  Small-town boy makes it big in the big city.  A bit like my life, really.

Which brings us back to the Empire State Building.

10am.

And Margaret.

I saw her, and thought she was coming to the spot.  She looked different, older, smarter, and with a touch of elegance and sophistication.

Halfway, I saw her smile and then wrap her arms around this bear of a man whom I instantly recognised.  I mean, you would have to live under a rock not to know him.

Her parents were there, and a bunch of media people.  The oohs and ahhs told me it was the moment he went down on one knee; it was going to be a News At 6 moment.

I was but a distant memory, forgotten in her moment of agreeing to be Mrs Albert Johnstone Gerythorn III.

I guess the employee of an eclectic bookshop was hardly a match for a multi-billionaire, or one who was soon to be.

“Sucks to be you.”

It did.  That voice, the one that had grated on my nerves nearly all of my school years, came from behind me.

I knew who it was.  I didn’t turn around.

“I knew it was a mistake to tell you my innermost secrets.”

“Oh, I would not have missed this for the world.”

I felt her hand slip into mine and her body move closer. 

“Five years is a long time.  People change.”

“People like us change, Allen.  People like her do not.”

“I thought you were getting married?”

“So did I.  I guess we were both wrong.  Found that cute little bookshop of yours.  If I didn’t know you better, I’d be guessing you’ve started that great American novel.  Am I right or am I right?”

“You know me too well.  You want to stay, or shall we find another circus, something a little more our style?”

“Do we have one?”

“Of course.  Everyone has style.”

Then I noticed Margaret was coming towards us, a rather serious expression on her face.  Had she finally recognised me?

“Excuse me, but the photographers would like to get some photos of my fiancée and me by this corner.  It would be most appreciated.”

No.  No sign of recognition.

Summer instead smiled sweetly, ” Of course, Margery Mugmouth, the pleasure would be all ours.”

It was Margaret’s nickname among those girls she trashed, and she instantly recognised Summer, and then me.

“Five years, to the day.  You came.  Have a happy life, Margaret.”

With that, we left.

A reporter, or just someone with a notepad, was scribbling frantically and then tried to head us off at the elevator.  Just too late.  The doors closed.

“The nerve,” Summer said.  “That was our corner.  Or I hope it will be.”

“So do I.  Would you like to marry me?” I asked.

The elevator went silent, except for the whishing sound of it going down.

“She made a face, quite amusing, and then said, “Yes.”

People outside the elevator when it arrived thought something bad had happened, given the roar and applause, which pulled out into the foyer after it arrived.

Five years, on the last day of the last month at 10am, something did happen.  I proposed to the girl of my dreams.  I just hadn’t realised it until then.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 27 – Writing exercise

I was never the same

…

Making a plan, having certain expectations, taking that leap of faith that all of us are destined to do at least once, I found myself standing at the top of the Empire State Building, on the last day of the twelfth month, exactly five years after making a promise in exactly the same place, I would be there.

There was a 10 am in there, but that was flexible, because I always liked to be early.

It had been after high school graduation, after the prom, every bit the magical moment it was meant to be, with the girl of my dreams, Margaret Cates.  We had spent those last years of high school together, studying hard, each helping the other achieve the grades needed to enter the best University.

There was no talk of romance, of a life together, or anything other than of being brought together, almost inseparable.  We were voted the most likely to be married, and living contentedly in a house with a picket fence and three children.

Expectations were what parents had, and both of our parents were best friends, who simply chose to believe the inevitable would happen.  Graduation, a combined family trip to New York to see the sights, culminating in New Year’s Eve at the top of the Empire State Building.

That was where we made the promise, no matter what, we would reconvene, that was Margaret’s word, at the same time.  It was also the first time we kissed, and I think it took a week before my heart rate went back to normal.

Soon after that, Margaret left.  She had been accepted into her university of choice.  Her parents were surprised, mt parents were in shock. 

I was not.  It was the plan.  Margaret had a plan for everything. There was no plan with me in it.  Not in those first five years.  I was sad, but not devastated.

I said to my parents, if we were meant to be, she would come back.  I had to set her free.

…

My plan was there was no plan.  I got the grades, and I got accepted into my University of choice.

At the end of the second year, I was in a what could only be described as a car crash, and was badly injured, to the extent that I had to put my life on hold.

I would recover, not one hundred per cent but enough to continue whatever path I’d chosen, but with some limitations.  The doctor was upbeat, and my parents were upbeat.

I went home, not quite in the manner I’d intended.  I was assured that life was like that, and I had to accept, accident or no accident, life was full of unexpected challenges.

…

Summer Atkins was probably the most irritating, aggravating, and ingratiating person on the planet.

She lived next door, one of five girls, the eldest, and coincidentally in my grade at high school.  In fact, she was in all the grades from Elementary.

She was gawky, awkward, loud and clumsy.  It was not her fault.  She had a kind heart, always the first to volunteer for the worst jobs, and suffered a lot at the hands of the boys and the girls, too.

I was not pleased to say when I looked back at my time that I was one of them, and probably the only one who apologised after the prom for what had been, at times, unforgivable.  The prank for the prom was probably her lowest point.

It took a week before she would come out of her room, and I came over every day to join the few who actually cared about her.  After Margaret left and before I followed, we spent time together, where she asked me what she needed to do to just get to talk to a guy like me.

I thought it strange.  She was talking to me, I was talking to her, we had coffee and cake at the diner, and hung out.  She had no aspirations to go to college, just to help her parents look after her siblings and work on the diner.  I had suggested she might want to do something for herself, and she looked at me strangely.  I did not, she said, understand her.

We parted awkwardly, with this thing I had done, but what it was, I had no idea.  It ended when she told me that if I was waiting for Margaret, I would be waiting a long time.  How did she know anything about what my expectations were?

…

I came back home under the radar.  I didn’t want anyone to know because I had set myself a high bar, and I was never going to reach it.

I felt that I had become a disappointment to my parents, and while they put on a brave face, and my siblings were polite, it was clear that they were happy for me to hide away, and my siblings were happy to see the high flyer crash and burn.  Kid would be kids, I expected no less.

So when Summer unexpectedly knocked on the door, a certain element of panic went through the house.  Upstairs, I heard that voice drift up the stairs with mixed emotions.  I wanted to see her, but I didn’t want to see her.

Not like this.  It was an odd feeling, and I couldn’t understand what fuelled it.  It was Summer, she wouldn’t care, more likely revel in the fact.  How the mighty had fallen.

My mother answered the door.

“Mrs Abercrombie, you look tired?”  The grating tone had gone, her voice had softened, and there was genuine concern in it.

“It’s…”

She caught herself before mentioning my name.  It had been a secret for about a month.  I was surprised Summer had not called earlier.

My mother shifted the topic.  She was good at that.  “How is your father?  That latest bout of chemotherapy cannot be helping the diner.”

“He’s responding to the treatment, and we’re managing.  How are you faring without Allen?  I’m sorry I should have come over more often.”

“It’s fine.  We’re all coping with life as best we can.”

“How is Allen, if I may ask?”

That was Summer.  Gets the bit between her teeth and doesn’t let go.

My mother was not one to lie.  Obfuscate but not lie.  Not outright.  But confronted…”

“Something’s wrong,” she said in a hushed voice, so low I couldn’t barely hear her.  I could virtually see my mother’s face.  It had always been expressive.  It’s why she could never play poker.

It went quiet for a minute or two, and I knew it was time to brace myself.  Summer was the last person I wanted to see, perhaps the only one other than Margaret, not that I expected her to drop everything.

Again, I couldn’t explain why, other than showing vulnerability. 

A few minutes passed while I was hoping my mother would explain that I didn’t want to see anyone, that I wanted to be better before facing the outside world.  Whether Summer would accede to a request if leaving me alone was moot.

If she knew I was there, she would not hesitate to come up and remind me of the Allen of old, with the shoe now firmly on the other foot.

I tried hiding under the covers, but she had X-ray eyes.  I knew she was in the room, I could feel her presence.  And the scent she used was a hint of primrose.  Once it was far stronger, but I suspect she had mastered the art of cosmetic use.

“You will suffocate long before I leave, Allen.  I’m not the same girl you left behind.  I don’t hate you.  I did for a while, but then I realised you cared when all the rest didn’t.  I’m sorry we parted angry.”

She sounded reasonable, far more reasonable than I expected.  She should have still been angry, if not with me, but with the others.

“OK.  If you don’t come out, I’ll get in there with you.  You know me well enough to know I will.”

Did I know her well enough?  I never took the opportunity.  No one wanted to because she didn’t fit the other girls’ profile.  It wasn’t like that at University, there it was simply a competition.  There was dating, but it was more convenient than romance.  There were not many hours left in a day for extracurricular activities.

When I peeled back the covers, it was like seeing an angel, the sun shining in the window, throwing a glow over her.  Summer had changed, from the awkward, ugly diluting into a graceful Swan.

A look of concern crossed her face.  Just lifting the covers was a difficult task, like most normal movements we all took for granted.  It was getting easier and less painful, but it would take time.

“What happened to you?”

“A car and I had a disagreement.  It won.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me.  How long have you been here?  What do you need? Tell me, and I’ll make it happen.”

…

Summer basically glued me back together.  It was, she said, one of her projects, others minding the children of silly sisters, nursing her farther past cancer, keeping up her waitress job at the diner, and just being Summer, the girl who always pitched in.

Such was the value of her help that my mother said I should marry her before someone else snapped her up.  Just before I was to go back to University, I did just that, but she rejected me.

There was someone else, and he was going to propose any day.

I could respect that.  Whatever I thought she might think of me, I would forever be one of those boys who made her life hell.  I didn’t deserve someone like her.  I just got on the train and left.

But the truth was, I was never the same again.

How could I?

I had tried to tell Margaret, but the terms of the pact were clear.  5 years, do your thing, meet and discuss.  If feelings were the same, who knew what might happen?

I was disappointed I hadn’t been able to find her, but I had a story to tell.

A year after returning, I gave it up.  I didn’t have the same enthusiasm, and feeling like a failure, I didn’t go home.  I simply pretended everything was fine, and moved to New York and found work in a rather offbeat bookshop in Queens.

It fuelled my love of literature, and after reading anything and everything, I started writing my version of the Great American Novel.  Small-town boy makes it big in the big city.  A bit like my life, really.

Which brings us back to the Empire State Building.

10am.

And Margaret.

I saw her, and thought she was coming to the spot.  She looked different, older, smarter, and with a touch of elegance and sophistication.

Halfway, I saw her smile and then wrap her arms around this bear of a man whom I instantly recognised.  I mean, you would have to live under a rock not to know him.

Her parents were there, and a bunch of media people.  The oohs and ahhs told me it was the moment he went down on one knee; it was going to be a News At 6 moment.

I was but a distant memory, forgotten in her moment of agreeing to be Mrs Albert Johnstone Gerythorn III.

I guess the employee of an eclectic bookshop was hardly a match for a multi-billionaire, or one who was soon to be.

“Sucks to be you.”

It did.  That voice, the one that had grated on my nerves nearly all of my school years, came from behind me.

I knew who it was.  I didn’t turn around.

“I knew it was a mistake to tell you my innermost secrets.”

“Oh, I would not have missed this for the world.”

I felt her hand slip into mine and her body move closer. 

“Five years is a long time.  People change.”

“People like us change, Allen.  People like her do not.”

“I thought you were getting married?”

“So did I.  I guess we were both wrong.  Found that cute little bookshop of yours.  If I didn’t know you better, I’d be guessing you’ve started that great American novel.  Am I right or am I right?”

“You know me too well.  You want to stay, or shall we find another circus, something a little more our style?”

“Do we have one?”

“Of course.  Everyone has style.”

Then I noticed Margaret was coming towards us, a rather serious expression on her face.  Had she finally recognised me?

“Excuse me, but the photographers would like to get some photos of my fiancée and me by this corner.  It would be most appreciated.”

No.  No sign of recognition.

Summer instead smiled sweetly, ” Of course, Margery Mugmouth, the pleasure would be all ours.”

It was Margaret’s nickname among those girls she trashed, and she instantly recognised Summer, and then me.

“Five years, to the day.  You came.  Have a happy life, Margaret.”

With that, we left.

A reporter, or just someone with a notepad, was scribbling frantically and then tried to head us off at the elevator.  Just too late.  The doors closed.

“The nerve,” Summer said.  “That was our corner.  Or I hope it will be.”

“So do I.  Would you like to marry me?” I asked.

The elevator went silent, except for the whishing sound of it going down.

“She made a face, quite amusing, and then said, “Yes.”

People outside the elevator when it arrived thought something bad had happened, given the roar and applause, which pulled out into the foyer after it arrived.

Five years, on the last day of the last month at 10am, something did happen.  I proposed to the girl of my dreams.  I just hadn’t realised it until then.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 25 – Days 26 – What is the perfect writing space

…

Crafting Your Perfect Writing Room: A Sanctuary for Creativity and Focus

Introduction: The Power of a Personal Writing Space
A writing room is more than just a place to jot down words—it’s a sanctuary where creativity thrives, ideas flow, and focus is prioritised. Whether you’re a novelist, a student, a blogger, or a poet, having a well-designed writing space can transform your productivity and inspiration. But what makes a writing room “perfect”? The answer is deeply personal, shaped by your habits, preferences, and goals. Let’s explore the key elements that can help you curate your ideal writing space.

Location and Layout: Choose Wisely
Start by selecting a spot that reflects your lifestyle. A dedicated room is ideal for minimising distractions, but a corner of a bedroom, living room, or even a cozy nook in a kitchen can work wonders. Prioritise an area with an ergonomic layout—avoid your bed or couch, as they’re associated with rest. A standing desk might offer flexibility, or a high-chair kitchen counter could spark creativity. The core is to create a space that mentally signals: It’s time to write.

Lighting: Illuminate Your Ideas
Lighting plays a crucial role in mood and productivity. Natural daylight is optimal, reducing eye strain and boosting focus. If you’re writing late at night, invest in a warm, adjustable LED lamp to avoid harsh overhead lighting. Consider layering light sources: a desk lamp for focused tasks, string lights for ambience, or a lamp with a soft glow for a relaxed vibe. Aim for a balance that supports both clarity and creativity.

Furniture: Comfort Meets Support
Comfortable furniture is non-negotiable. Invest in an ergonomic chair that supports your spine and encourages good posture. Pair it with a desk at the correct height—your arms should form a 90-degree angle while typing. Avoid overly plush seating that tempts you to nap! A minimalist setup often works best, with just your essentials: laptop, notebook, and perhaps a cup of coffee or tea.

Ambience and Noise: Curate Your Soundscape
Personalise the atmosphere to your needs. If silence is your muse, use noise-cancelling headphones to block out distractions. For writers who thrive on background noise, a white noise machine or a fan can mask unwanted sounds. Some prefer the gentle hum of a rainforest playlist or a café ambience track. The goal is to create a soundscape that enhances concentration without overwhelming your mind.

Organisation and Storage: Clarity Through Order
A cluttered space can stifle creativity. Use shelves, baskets, or drawer organisers to keep your writing tools (pens, notebooks, sticky notes) within reach. If you’re a hybrid digital-analog writer, designate spots for devices and chargers. However, don’t overdo it—leave room for a bit of organised mess, like a stack of books or sticky-note quotes. Balance tidiness with personal style.

Inspiration and Motivation: Surround Yourself with Spark
A writing space should ignite your imagination. Pin motivational quotes or visual collages on the wall, display books for reference, or create a “dream board” with magazine cuts, photos, and goals. A digital pinboard or framed art can also spark creativity. Keep a journal nearby to jot down sudden ideas. The right stimuli can turn moments of writer’s block into breakthroughs.

Personalisation: Make It Yours
Infuse the space with elements that reflect your personality. Choose calming colours like sage green or navy blue to foster focus, or energise with yellows and oranges. Add a plant for life and air purification (try a snake plant or pothos for low-maintenance). Scented candles or essential oil diffusers can create a soothing atmosphere—lavender for relaxation or peppermint for alertness. This is your space, so let it breathe.

Digital Tools: Equip for Efficiency
Streamline your workflow with smart tech. A high-quality keyboard, a docking station for multiple monitors, or a voice recorder can enhance efficiency. Use apps to block distracting websites during writing sessions. Yet, remember to disconnect: a writing room is about presence, not overstimulation.

Creating Rituals: The Psychology of Space
Finally, build habits around your space. Light a candle, brew a specific tea, or play ambient music to signal the start of a writing session. Over time, your brain will associate the space with creativity and focus, making it easier to enter “writer mode.”

Conclusion: Your Ideal Space Awaits
The perfect writing room isn’t a one-size-fits-all concept—it’s a tailored environment that evolves with you. Experiment with layouts, lighting, and tools to discover what works. Need a high-end chair? Start with a cozy cushion. No dedicated room? Try a corner with a folding desk. The key is to foster a space that nurtures your craft, both practically and emotionally. So go ahead—design a haven that transforms your writing process and celebrates your unique voice.

Remember, the best writing spaces are not built overnight. They’re curated with intention, care, and a bit of trial and error. What will you add to yours? 

Have you created your ideal writing space? Share your tips and stories in the comments!

Day 25 – Days 26 – What is the perfect writing space

…

Crafting Your Perfect Writing Room: A Sanctuary for Creativity and Focus

Introduction: The Power of a Personal Writing Space
A writing room is more than just a place to jot down words—it’s a sanctuary where creativity thrives, ideas flow, and focus is prioritised. Whether you’re a novelist, a student, a blogger, or a poet, having a well-designed writing space can transform your productivity and inspiration. But what makes a writing room “perfect”? The answer is deeply personal, shaped by your habits, preferences, and goals. Let’s explore the key elements that can help you curate your ideal writing space.

Location and Layout: Choose Wisely
Start by selecting a spot that reflects your lifestyle. A dedicated room is ideal for minimising distractions, but a corner of a bedroom, living room, or even a cozy nook in a kitchen can work wonders. Prioritise an area with an ergonomic layout—avoid your bed or couch, as they’re associated with rest. A standing desk might offer flexibility, or a high-chair kitchen counter could spark creativity. The core is to create a space that mentally signals: It’s time to write.

Lighting: Illuminate Your Ideas
Lighting plays a crucial role in mood and productivity. Natural daylight is optimal, reducing eye strain and boosting focus. If you’re writing late at night, invest in a warm, adjustable LED lamp to avoid harsh overhead lighting. Consider layering light sources: a desk lamp for focused tasks, string lights for ambience, or a lamp with a soft glow for a relaxed vibe. Aim for a balance that supports both clarity and creativity.

Furniture: Comfort Meets Support
Comfortable furniture is non-negotiable. Invest in an ergonomic chair that supports your spine and encourages good posture. Pair it with a desk at the correct height—your arms should form a 90-degree angle while typing. Avoid overly plush seating that tempts you to nap! A minimalist setup often works best, with just your essentials: laptop, notebook, and perhaps a cup of coffee or tea.

Ambience and Noise: Curate Your Soundscape
Personalise the atmosphere to your needs. If silence is your muse, use noise-cancelling headphones to block out distractions. For writers who thrive on background noise, a white noise machine or a fan can mask unwanted sounds. Some prefer the gentle hum of a rainforest playlist or a café ambience track. The goal is to create a soundscape that enhances concentration without overwhelming your mind.

Organisation and Storage: Clarity Through Order
A cluttered space can stifle creativity. Use shelves, baskets, or drawer organisers to keep your writing tools (pens, notebooks, sticky notes) within reach. If you’re a hybrid digital-analog writer, designate spots for devices and chargers. However, don’t overdo it—leave room for a bit of organised mess, like a stack of books or sticky-note quotes. Balance tidiness with personal style.

Inspiration and Motivation: Surround Yourself with Spark
A writing space should ignite your imagination. Pin motivational quotes or visual collages on the wall, display books for reference, or create a “dream board” with magazine cuts, photos, and goals. A digital pinboard or framed art can also spark creativity. Keep a journal nearby to jot down sudden ideas. The right stimuli can turn moments of writer’s block into breakthroughs.

Personalisation: Make It Yours
Infuse the space with elements that reflect your personality. Choose calming colours like sage green or navy blue to foster focus, or energise with yellows and oranges. Add a plant for life and air purification (try a snake plant or pothos for low-maintenance). Scented candles or essential oil diffusers can create a soothing atmosphere—lavender for relaxation or peppermint for alertness. This is your space, so let it breathe.

Digital Tools: Equip for Efficiency
Streamline your workflow with smart tech. A high-quality keyboard, a docking station for multiple monitors, or a voice recorder can enhance efficiency. Use apps to block distracting websites during writing sessions. Yet, remember to disconnect: a writing room is about presence, not overstimulation.

Creating Rituals: The Psychology of Space
Finally, build habits around your space. Light a candle, brew a specific tea, or play ambient music to signal the start of a writing session. Over time, your brain will associate the space with creativity and focus, making it easier to enter “writer mode.”

Conclusion: Your Ideal Space Awaits
The perfect writing room isn’t a one-size-fits-all concept—it’s a tailored environment that evolves with you. Experiment with layouts, lighting, and tools to discover what works. Need a high-end chair? Start with a cozy cushion. No dedicated room? Try a corner with a folding desk. The key is to foster a space that nurtures your craft, both practically and emotionally. So go ahead—design a haven that transforms your writing process and celebrates your unique voice.

Remember, the best writing spaces are not built overnight. They’re curated with intention, care, and a bit of trial and error. What will you add to yours? 

Have you created your ideal writing space? Share your tips and stories in the comments!

Days 24 and 25 – Writing exercise

Dreams, they can take you places, or they can scare you to death

…

It was difficult at the best of times getting to sleep, a problem that went back to my childhood when, one night as I was going to sleep, the police arrived, kicked the front and back doors in and dragged my mother and father away into the night.

I was taken away by a sullen, obese woman who stank of cigarette smoke, whom I was told was from Child Services.  She promptly dumped me in an orphanage three towns away, told nothing of where and what happened to my parents, and no one seemed to care or come and find me.

That was when I realised, at 10 years old, that life could irrevocably change for the worse in the blink of an eye, that whatever life you thought you had could be taken away just as easily.

That first week in hell taught me everything I needed to know about survival, that there was no such thing as friends, allies, only enemies.

The first month, if you survived, turned you into a person who was unrecognisable from who you were. At the end of it, I looked in the mirror and could not recognise the boy who had arrived there what seemed like an eternity ago.

At the end of that first year, when my Aunt whom I’d never seen or heard of before, came to see if she really had a nephew, and somehow under the scraggy exterior seemed to find a family resemblance.

I was not sure whether I was supposed to be relieved.  By that time, I could not trust anyone or anything, or whether this was trading one form of hell with another.

In the car heading to wherever my new home would be, I had told myself I would stay until I could escape, that this was just another trick, one of many they played on us orphans.

But I had to ask, “How did you find out who I am and where I was?”

If it was a trick, she was far more kind-looking than the others.

“A coincidence.  I have a friend who works in the police department.  She was sorting through a pile of old Wanted notices and found one she thought was my sister, because of the resemblance. Turns out it was.  I hired a private detective to find them, and here you are.”

“It took you a year?”

“I didn’t know my sister all that well, and she broke off contact the day she left, 15 years old and pregnant.  Our parents threw her out.  I’m not surprised she had a Wanted notice on her and that useless boy she was involved with.  Nothing good was ever going to come of it.”

Whatever she thought, that was not the mother I remembered.  What had been the worst part of the last year was the difference in how I’d been treated.  My mother was kind, gentle and loving.  I had never wanted for or needed anything.

My father was a different story, and now I could see that he was bad, and led them down a path of self-destruction, leading to the last straw, a failed attempt at robbing a gas station, and accidentally shooting the attendant. 

I guess if there was a moment in time when the nightmares started, that was it.  The look of pure fury on my father’s face, the look of total despair on my mother’s, and then the feeling of dread I had, because instinctively I knew what was going to happen.

“For what it’s worth,” I said, “thanks for getting me out of that place.  I promise you won’t know I exist.”

I saw her give me a measured look, one that told me that she was not sure if she could believe anything I said, because trust needed to be earned, and for me, it was going to be very difficult.

“I’m sorry it took so long.  I can’t promise that life will be easier because I’m sure, like you, it’s hard to accept new people you’ve never met before, but it will be better than what you had.”

…

Better was just a word, one that could describe a lot of things.  My life, in one sense, was better, but in others, much worse.

I was brought into an existing family where the family dynamic was set, three girls and two boys. They were older and resentful that another kid was vying for attention, another mouth to feed, and a bed to find, and having nothing when I arrived, they were every bit as possessive as the tribe I left behind.

Good intentions counted for nothing.

Children, no matter what the situation, are cruel, at home, at school, anywhere.  The thing is, they didn’t realise I had a year’s experience of their kind of behaviour, only a hundred times worse, so I simply ignored them.

They put me in the attic. I asked for nothing, I wanted nothing that I couldn’t get myself, and said nothing, about me or my parents or anything else.

Seven years, until I graduated top of the class, far better than any of my step-siblings, who honestly believed they didn’t have to work for anything, that their parents were there to hand-feed them.

The day after I finished school and presented my so-called mother with a bank draft for an amount I calculated to be worth the seven years of care, quite a considerable sum when taken in context, I left.

No one, in the end, seemed to care.

…

I went to the nearest big city, having accepted a position at a newspaper, one of the few still published daily, and was starting at the bottom. 

My intention: to spend my spare time finding out what happened to my parents.  I figured I was not going to get a position working for a private detective agency, though I did try, so the media was next in line.

I’d worked on the student newspaper and had been trained up to a point by the English teacher who had studied journalism some time, as he called it, in a murky past.

In my spare time, I had been given access to the archives, including the back copies of the newspaper.  It was in the process of being digitised, but as yet not to the extent that it was usable.

My job for the ensuing month or two was getting bundles of dusty newspapers and scouring the issues for news.  Given that the institution had given me a copy of my records whilst incarcerated, I knew roughly when I was in the orphanage.

But, just the same, dates, places and names were hazy, and the records were incomplete, to protect those who should not have been protected.

It took time, but I found two items, and only two items.  The first was the initial report.

Heinous crime arrives at Bridgeport.

“Bridgeport man and woman arrested in relation to the attempted and subsequent murder of the service attendant at the Bridgeport gas station. The defendants had to be constrained after an altercation with several deputies, one of whom sustained superficial injuries.

“Hector Loomis has been charged with murder, a hundred count of theft and six counts of assault occasioning grievous bodily harm.  Stella Loomis is charged with being an accessory.  Their son has been removed to a state facility, pending the results of their arraignment.”

There was a photo of the two, post-arrest, and both looked like they had barely survived a car crash, though the deputies escorting them did their best to hide as much of the damage as possible

When questioned, all the sheriff would say was that they had resisted arrest and were facing extra charges of assaulting police officers in the execution of their duty.

The second was a short paragraph lost among the agricultural pages, stating they had been transferred to a state facility. 

That was it.  The weeks after that, nothing.

For all intents and purposes, they had disappeared off the face of the earth.

…

It was the photo that caught my attention.  Grainy, indistinct, but it sparked something in my memory.  I asked the archivist if there were any original photos from the journalist’s article notes, and she said to come back the next day.

I had taken note of the journalist’s name and asked whether he was still around, only to learn that I would have to go to HR for that information, but it was most likely they would not give it out.

The internet is a remarkable source of information, and I had learned over time that it was not that information couldn’t be found, it was just that you had to know how to ask the right questions.

In three hours, I had built a resume for the journalist and knew exactly where he was.  Retired, upstate, has recently had his photo and name in a rural newspaper after winning a fishing competition

He had tried very hard to hide in plain sight, and it would have worked, but for the love of fishing.

I had tracked down the sheriff of the deputies that had arrested my parents, but he was a little further away, in Florida, and not doing so well.  Depending on the journalist’s answers, it might be worth paying him a visit.

That night, when I finally retired, my head hit the pillow and filled with a hope I would get some answers, I slipped into an uneasy sleep.

…

At what point do you wake and realise it’s not where you thought you were?  I had, for quite some time, tried not to sleep because the other kids would be waiting.

It was like I was back there.

Only it was my mind playing old images over and over, perhaps lamenting that I had finally managed to put those memories away.

Until I saw that photograph of my parents.

The thing is, it was not the photo of my parents as much as it was what my mother was wearing, an old sweatshirt that was from a university she didn’t go to, one she said she found in a market stall.

One she wore to bed.

No surprise then she would be in it since she and my father had been dragged from their beds.  But the significance of it was more than just a substitute for pyjamas.  And that was the point, there was something she told me about it, thinking I was listening, and I don’t think I was.

She used to impart life lessons as she called them every morning, noon, and night, so many that it was no wonder if she switched off.

I could see her, plain as day, wandering around in that top, going about her day, which included me.  It was pure bonding time, she had once said, but those memories only went back a few years.

But that connection was what I had missed, what had been taken away from me, and never to return, even when I was with my new family.

I was still no further with the story when I finally woke, but I had gleaned some memories of my father.  He was nice when he was clean, but when drunk or drugged, he became vicious.  He had been, and still was, a drug user and abuser, and as I got older, I never understood why she didn’t just dump him and get a better man.

I guess there was a lot I had to learn about grown-up stuff.

An email told me that the archivist had found nothing.  I thanked her for her effort, but something else that I realised after I left her, her hesitation before answering questions told me that there was something about this story that put it in a different category, that asking more about it was cause me grief.

That meant, to a reporter like me, that there’s a story lurking in the details, the sort of story people tell you is best left alone because rattling the bones of the fallen dead wasn’t going to earn me any favours.

I called in sick and headed upstate.

If the reporter went all cagey on me, well, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do.

…

I think I realised the moment I parked the car on the side of the dirt road beside a fence post holding up a prison class security gate that this was a man who worried about his personal safety.

At first, I thought it was to keep bears out. We were in the middle of a forest, but the very large SUV that was coming up the drive, a dusty, rutted lane way that led into the forest, told me the gate wasn’t the only security this place had.

I watched it emerge from the forest, carefully picking its way along the track and then stopping at the gate.  When the powerful engine was switched off, the sounds of the countryside returned.

The door opened, and a person got out, pulling on a Cowboys hat, then came around.  A woman, old as my grandmother, with a rifle, ready to use it.  She did not look like the sort of woman anyone would want to tangle with.

She stopped opposite me, loaded a round into the chamber and made good effect in the theatre of locking and loading.

“This is private property.  Who are you and what do you want?”

“Sam Clark.  I rang yesterday about having a chat with Ben Grother.”

“You work at the Sentinel?”

“Gopher, now.  Working on being a journalist.”

“I’m sure you’re not here to get tips.  What is your business?”

I could see the old lady was getting tired of dancing.  “Information about Hector and Stella Loomis.”

“Why?”

“I’m their son, and I would like to find out if they are dead or alive.”

She looked me up and down in the same manner the principal of the high school had when my new mother took me.  He knew I was not her son, and whatever she had told him showed in his expression, one that said I didn’t belong.

I proved him wrong, but that initial impression never changed.  People judged, rightly or wrongly.

Her expression, though, was not one of distaste or fear; it was one of sadness.

She unlocked the gate.  “I’ll take you down.”

Gate relocked, we got in the truck, did a sweeping turn and headed into the forest.  It was dark and in the distance, and in a circle of light and beyond the blue of the water.

“Bears bad out here?”

She gave me a sidelong glance.  “The bears are our friends.”

Make of that what you will, I thought.

A few minutes later, we stopped beside the house and got out.  She pointed to a pier at the bottom of a gentle slope, and a man sitting with a fishing rod.

“Ben’s getting dinner.  One day he will.” 

Perhaps she had a sense of humour; perhaps she didn’t.

“He’s expecting you.  Take care going down the hill.”

It was a warm, still day with very little movement on the water.  The pier was in the middle of a little cove, with a boat tied up a short distance from the pier.  It would be too far to swim to the other side.

To me, it would be the ideal place to spend your summer vacation.  Swimming, fishing, hiking.  Learning survival skills…

He looked up as I approached.  An old man, now I could see his days were numbered, the laboured breathing, then the weathered complexion, and the pain in his eyes.  He had come home to die on his terms.

“You’re the Loomis boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.  I’m not here to cause trouble.  You are probably the last person who took any interest in my parents.”

He motioned to the seat beside him, and I sat.  I made sure that his glass had water and that he was comfortable first, adjusting the blanket.

“I may have been the last person to see them.”

“Do you know what happened to them?”

“Not what we were told, that’s for sure.  It was a routine assignment: go down to the county courthouse and cover the proceedings.  Rookie job, but the editor said he had an off call about something big.  There was nothing of note on the docket.  But midway there was a heck of a commotion, a woman screaming, where was her kid, what had they done with him, on and on.  It sounded like a riot had broken out “

He stopped, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.  I thought after six or seven sentences, he had worn himself out or worse, lost his train of thought.

Then his eyes opened again and sparkled.  “Half an hour passes, then two people were virtually dragged on, a man and a woman.  Both looked like they’d been in a car crash, and the judge that day was
astonished.  He knew the deputies were hands-on, but this was too much to pass off as resisting arrest.  He roasted the sheriff, whose excuse was that they had shot and killed the gas attendant in a botched robbery.  Nothing he could do but sent them to jail without bail. They did it, of course, the gas station had CCTV, which was unusual in a small place.  I got a note a week later, they been sent to a State penitentiary awaiting trial, no names, no dates, nothing.”

“Is that usual in cases like this?”

“Murder, clear evidence, sometimes.  But this was different.  I recognised the girl, Stella.  Not her name at all.  She was a Banderville, from what used to be one of the richest families in Pennsylvania.  It was the seat shirt.  Penn State.  She had a brain, just didn’t use it.  Your mother was sixteen, pregnant and excommunicated.  Ran off with the gardener.  She wasn’t a killer, just ran with the wrong crowd.  Sister wasn’t much better.  But the brother, the lord and master in eating, there was a piece of work.  They reckoned he was the one who raped his younger sister, but being the only boy, he could do no wrong.  Until he did.”

“My mother was rich.”

“She didn’t want to be.  Both the sisters rebelled and were, according to their father, disappointed.  Stella had been his favourite, and it literally killed him when she left.  The son took three years to destroy what had taken over a hundred years to build.”

He shook his head.  “Three years.  Mary found you, didn’t she?  I should have guessed.  She had disappeared after the reckoning, and I lost touch with her.  She came to me, but I couldn’t help her.  I’d just had the first of three heart attacks.  I’m sorry.  I would have found you.”

“She hired a private detective.”

“Of course.”

I had a thousand questions, but it was not the time.  It seemed to me that it was a story he had rehearsed in case one day I would come.

I waited about ten minutes and then decided that he had finished, or had tired.

As I stood, he woke and looked at me.  “There’s a will, the old man had reputedly changed it the day before he died, but no one could find it.  The estate was never meant to go to the boy.  It’s out there somewhere, but here’s the thing.  As the prisoners were being taken from the courthouse to the van, the boy tripped over, and the guards swarmed on him.  That’s when the girl came over and said, “Find my son and tell him it’s in Penn”.  Odd thing, she was not wearing her sweatshirt.  Later, I asked what had happened to it, but no one could find it.  I thought there must be something in it, but like everything to do with them, it’s gone and now just another mystery.”

The old lady came down, and we sat with him for an hour or so before we went back to the cabin.

By that time, he had forgotten who I was.

…

The dreams, when they came, were of my mother.  I used to think she was a fairy who never grew old, and realised now that she was so young when she had me, a child almost herself.

But she was a great mother, something she used to tell me was given to her by her aunt, the woman she had spent most of her early years with.

I never remembered once her saying she was from a wealthy family, and neither ever spoke of it, though if I were to think about it, he was always going on about her life and how she could never understand him.

He was greedy and selfish.  And he didn’t like me.  I took her away from him.

But then there was the dream where I was playing while she was mending clothes, or in one case, she was sewing a big letter P on a shirt.

The P, she said, was a school she once went to, when younger, when she was clever, before the drinks and drugs.  It was not something she meant to do, but it happened, and she did something bad and got punished.  It was a slippery slope, one thing after another, but there was a silver lining.  I came into her life.

It was weeks before I could piece together the fragments of my memory started to format into a cohesive idea.

That the P on her sweatshirt was significant, so significant that she was rarely parted from it day or night, and that the sweatshirt was now missing.

It took a month more to discover the sweatshirt was in the inventory the night they were arrested, but not when they were transferred.  Had it been stolen?  Had it been thrown out?

Then I remembered what Ben had said, among many words, a lot of which I had forgotten because of the memories of her that had been stirred up.  It came in another dream, and this time we were in a very strange place, which she called a university.

It was a place she had attended when she was younger, and liked to visit every now and then.  But as the dreams became clearer, they focused on one person, a man, a man whose name she never mentioned except for a nickname, Ducky.

She used it in the same manner that she used mine, in a different tone and manner, and given the limited experience I had with girls, even I could see she had great affection for him.

But one noticeable thing, she tried hard not to let me, or anyone else, see them together.

What else did I suddenly realise?

Loomis wasn’t my father.  The professor was.  And the lengths she had gone to not involve him because of what would have happened to him.  The law would not have seen it as a loving relationship, but as one of an older professor taking advantage of a young girl.  Perhaps it was.

But the thought of Loomis not being my father was a relief.

My next mission was to find the professor, a man by the name of Duckworth.

Over the next week, I retraced my mother’s steps as well as I could remember them from my dreams.  It eventually took me to the Mathematics department, and there he was, an old man now, though not as old as Ben.

I sat at the top of the room and watched him try to impress the importance of his subject on the minds of the next generation of mathematicians, and to my mind, failing somewhat.  Fidgety kids talking, looking at cell phones, reading books, it was as if he was preaching to the disbelievers.

After he dismissed them, seemingly uncaring about their singular lack of interest, I watched him pack up his books.  Then, as he turned to go, he turned around and looked straight at me.

“I don’t know you, son.”

“Do you know all the kids in your class?”

“Yes.  You are…”

“Loomis.”

“Come down here, please.  My eyesight is not as good as it used to be.”

I did as he asked, then stood before him.

It took a minute, two before the expression on his face changed.  “Oh, my lord, she was telling the truth.”

“Then I’m not a Loomis?”

“No.  Oh, my Lord.  What do you remember?”

“Being in this place.  With my mother and you.  I realise now she loved you very much.”

“And I her, though it could not be.  And I was a cad back then when she told me, and that was the last I saw her.  I did see she was arrested, but it had nothing to do with that gas station robbery.  It was about who she was and what she was entitled to.  She was murdered for money.”

It was a complicated story: a man who knew the truth, but telling it would get him a long jail sentence.  Not that the truth mattered.  Had he tried to discredit the son and heir, the lawyers would have ruined him anyway. 

He had the sweatshirt, the one with the P, the one she never let out of her sight, the one she managed to get to Duckworth from the prison, the one that had the last will and testament of their father, leaving everything to the girls because he knew that the boy was a wastrel.

Only the pregnancy and his anger came with the threat to disown all of them, but he died before changing the will back. Since she had only one copy, and believing it was invalid, she never acted on it.  By the time it would have mattered, it didn’t matter; the wastrel had destroyed everything.

…

Things happen for a reason.

I don’t think I was supposed to end up in an orphanage, but the fact that I had might have saved my life.

I do think I was meant to end up with my aunt, but it was meant to be sooner, and I think my aunt was supposed to see her before she ended up in jail.

I was always meant to visit Ben.  At his funeral, six months after I visited him, his wife said he had told her a week before that he was expecting an important visitor.

Duckworth had always known that the little boy who came visiting him with his mother was special in a way he could never explain.

But one thing he was sure of, I had inherited my mother’s mathematical brain.  His too, if truth be told.  After meeting him, I had two jobs: reporter by day and mathematician the rest of the time.

When I showed my aunt the will, she was surprised, then shocked, then accepted her fate with a shrug.  It had been hard going from privilege to poverty, but age had survived.

My departure had hastened her desire to end what was, for her, a marriage of convenience and had forged a new path, away from the children who were all suffering from their newfound independence.

She was far happier these days.

As for me, nearly 20 years had passed, and half had been almost lost in time and the rest, proof that living nightmares are real.

I’m writing the story of a family that had lost everything because one person made a mistake.  It didn’t have to be like that, but in accordance with the rules and the law, it did.

But to tell it, I was going to have to change the names. 

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Days 24 and 25 – Writing exercise

Dreams, they can take you places, or they can scare you to death

…

It was difficult at the best of times getting to sleep, a problem that went back to my childhood when, one night as I was going to sleep, the police arrived, kicked the front and back doors in and dragged my mother and father away into the night.

I was taken away by a sullen, obese woman who stank of cigarette smoke, whom I was told was from Child Services.  She promptly dumped me in an orphanage three towns away, told nothing of where and what happened to my parents, and no one seemed to care or come and find me.

That was when I realised, at 10 years old, that life could irrevocably change for the worse in the blink of an eye, that whatever life you thought you had could be taken away just as easily.

That first week in hell taught me everything I needed to know about survival, that there was no such thing as friends, allies, only enemies.

The first month, if you survived, turned you into a person who was unrecognisable from who you were. At the end of it, I looked in the mirror and could not recognise the boy who had arrived there what seemed like an eternity ago.

At the end of that first year, when my Aunt whom I’d never seen or heard of before, came to see if she really had a nephew, and somehow under the scraggy exterior seemed to find a family resemblance.

I was not sure whether I was supposed to be relieved.  By that time, I could not trust anyone or anything, or whether this was trading one form of hell with another.

In the car heading to wherever my new home would be, I had told myself I would stay until I could escape, that this was just another trick, one of many they played on us orphans.

But I had to ask, “How did you find out who I am and where I was?”

If it was a trick, she was far more kind-looking than the others.

“A coincidence.  I have a friend who works in the police department.  She was sorting through a pile of old Wanted notices and found one she thought was my sister, because of the resemblance. Turns out it was.  I hired a private detective to find them, and here you are.”

“It took you a year?”

“I didn’t know my sister all that well, and she broke off contact the day she left, 15 years old and pregnant.  Our parents threw her out.  I’m not surprised she had a Wanted notice on her and that useless boy she was involved with.  Nothing good was ever going to come of it.”

Whatever she thought, that was not the mother I remembered.  What had been the worst part of the last year was the difference in how I’d been treated.  My mother was kind, gentle and loving.  I had never wanted for or needed anything.

My father was a different story, and now I could see that he was bad, and led them down a path of self-destruction, leading to the last straw, a failed attempt at robbing a gas station, and accidentally shooting the attendant. 

I guess if there was a moment in time when the nightmares started, that was it.  The look of pure fury on my father’s face, the look of total despair on my mother’s, and then the feeling of dread I had, because instinctively I knew what was going to happen.

“For what it’s worth,” I said, “thanks for getting me out of that place.  I promise you won’t know I exist.”

I saw her give me a measured look, one that told me that she was not sure if she could believe anything I said, because trust needed to be earned, and for me, it was going to be very difficult.

“I’m sorry it took so long.  I can’t promise that life will be easier because I’m sure, like you, it’s hard to accept new people you’ve never met before, but it will be better than what you had.”

…

Better was just a word, one that could describe a lot of things.  My life, in one sense, was better, but in others, much worse.

I was brought into an existing family where the family dynamic was set, three girls and two boys. They were older and resentful that another kid was vying for attention, another mouth to feed, and a bed to find, and having nothing when I arrived, they were every bit as possessive as the tribe I left behind.

Good intentions counted for nothing.

Children, no matter what the situation, are cruel, at home, at school, anywhere.  The thing is, they didn’t realise I had a year’s experience of their kind of behaviour, only a hundred times worse, so I simply ignored them.

They put me in the attic. I asked for nothing, I wanted nothing that I couldn’t get myself, and said nothing, about me or my parents or anything else.

Seven years, until I graduated top of the class, far better than any of my step-siblings, who honestly believed they didn’t have to work for anything, that their parents were there to hand-feed them.

The day after I finished school and presented my so-called mother with a bank draft for an amount I calculated to be worth the seven years of care, quite a considerable sum when taken in context, I left.

No one, in the end, seemed to care.

…

I went to the nearest big city, having accepted a position at a newspaper, one of the few still published daily, and was starting at the bottom. 

My intention: to spend my spare time finding out what happened to my parents.  I figured I was not going to get a position working for a private detective agency, though I did try, so the media was next in line.

I’d worked on the student newspaper and had been trained up to a point by the English teacher who had studied journalism some time, as he called it, in a murky past.

In my spare time, I had been given access to the archives, including the back copies of the newspaper.  It was in the process of being digitised, but as yet not to the extent that it was usable.

My job for the ensuing month or two was getting bundles of dusty newspapers and scouring the issues for news.  Given that the institution had given me a copy of my records whilst incarcerated, I knew roughly when I was in the orphanage.

But, just the same, dates, places and names were hazy, and the records were incomplete, to protect those who should not have been protected.

It took time, but I found two items, and only two items.  The first was the initial report.

Heinous crime arrives at Bridgeport.

“Bridgeport man and woman arrested in relation to the attempted and subsequent murder of the service attendant at the Bridgeport gas station. The defendants had to be constrained after an altercation with several deputies, one of whom sustained superficial injuries.

“Hector Loomis has been charged with murder, a hundred count of theft and six counts of assault occasioning grievous bodily harm.  Stella Loomis is charged with being an accessory.  Their son has been removed to a state facility, pending the results of their arraignment.”

There was a photo of the two, post-arrest, and both looked like they had barely survived a car crash, though the deputies escorting them did their best to hide as much of the damage as possible

When questioned, all the sheriff would say was that they had resisted arrest and were facing extra charges of assaulting police officers in the execution of their duty.

The second was a short paragraph lost among the agricultural pages, stating they had been transferred to a state facility. 

That was it.  The weeks after that, nothing.

For all intents and purposes, they had disappeared off the face of the earth.

…

It was the photo that caught my attention.  Grainy, indistinct, but it sparked something in my memory.  I asked the archivist if there were any original photos from the journalist’s article notes, and she said to come back the next day.

I had taken note of the journalist’s name and asked whether he was still around, only to learn that I would have to go to HR for that information, but it was most likely they would not give it out.

The internet is a remarkable source of information, and I had learned over time that it was not that information couldn’t be found, it was just that you had to know how to ask the right questions.

In three hours, I had built a resume for the journalist and knew exactly where he was.  Retired, upstate, has recently had his photo and name in a rural newspaper after winning a fishing competition

He had tried very hard to hide in plain sight, and it would have worked, but for the love of fishing.

I had tracked down the sheriff of the deputies that had arrested my parents, but he was a little further away, in Florida, and not doing so well.  Depending on the journalist’s answers, it might be worth paying him a visit.

That night, when I finally retired, my head hit the pillow and filled with a hope I would get some answers, I slipped into an uneasy sleep.

…

At what point do you wake and realise it’s not where you thought you were?  I had, for quite some time, tried not to sleep because the other kids would be waiting.

It was like I was back there.

Only it was my mind playing old images over and over, perhaps lamenting that I had finally managed to put those memories away.

Until I saw that photograph of my parents.

The thing is, it was not the photo of my parents as much as it was what my mother was wearing, an old sweatshirt that was from a university she didn’t go to, one she said she found in a market stall.

One she wore to bed.

No surprise then she would be in it since she and my father had been dragged from their beds.  But the significance of it was more than just a substitute for pyjamas.  And that was the point, there was something she told me about it, thinking I was listening, and I don’t think I was.

She used to impart life lessons as she called them every morning, noon, and night, so many that it was no wonder if she switched off.

I could see her, plain as day, wandering around in that top, going about her day, which included me.  It was pure bonding time, she had once said, but those memories only went back a few years.

But that connection was what I had missed, what had been taken away from me, and never to return, even when I was with my new family.

I was still no further with the story when I finally woke, but I had gleaned some memories of my father.  He was nice when he was clean, but when drunk or drugged, he became vicious.  He had been, and still was, a drug user and abuser, and as I got older, I never understood why she didn’t just dump him and get a better man.

I guess there was a lot I had to learn about grown-up stuff.

An email told me that the archivist had found nothing.  I thanked her for her effort, but something else that I realised after I left her, her hesitation before answering questions told me that there was something about this story that put it in a different category, that asking more about it was cause me grief.

That meant, to a reporter like me, that there’s a story lurking in the details, the sort of story people tell you is best left alone because rattling the bones of the fallen dead wasn’t going to earn me any favours.

I called in sick and headed upstate.

If the reporter went all cagey on me, well, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do.

…

I think I realised the moment I parked the car on the side of the dirt road beside a fence post holding up a prison class security gate that this was a man who worried about his personal safety.

At first, I thought it was to keep bears out. We were in the middle of a forest, but the very large SUV that was coming up the drive, a dusty, rutted lane way that led into the forest, told me the gate wasn’t the only security this place had.

I watched it emerge from the forest, carefully picking its way along the track and then stopping at the gate.  When the powerful engine was switched off, the sounds of the countryside returned.

The door opened, and a person got out, pulling on a Cowboys hat, then came around.  A woman, old as my grandmother, with a rifle, ready to use it.  She did not look like the sort of woman anyone would want to tangle with.

She stopped opposite me, loaded a round into the chamber and made good effect in the theatre of locking and loading.

“This is private property.  Who are you and what do you want?”

“Sam Clark.  I rang yesterday about having a chat with Ben Grother.”

“You work at the Sentinel?”

“Gopher, now.  Working on being a journalist.”

“I’m sure you’re not here to get tips.  What is your business?”

I could see the old lady was getting tired of dancing.  “Information about Hector and Stella Loomis.”

“Why?”

“I’m their son, and I would like to find out if they are dead or alive.”

She looked me up and down in the same manner the principal of the high school had when my new mother took me.  He knew I was not her son, and whatever she had told him showed in his expression, one that said I didn’t belong.

I proved him wrong, but that initial impression never changed.  People judged, rightly or wrongly.

Her expression, though, was not one of distaste or fear; it was one of sadness.

She unlocked the gate.  “I’ll take you down.”

Gate relocked, we got in the truck, did a sweeping turn and headed into the forest.  It was dark and in the distance, and in a circle of light and beyond the blue of the water.

“Bears bad out here?”

She gave me a sidelong glance.  “The bears are our friends.”

Make of that what you will, I thought.

A few minutes later, we stopped beside the house and got out.  She pointed to a pier at the bottom of a gentle slope, and a man sitting with a fishing rod.

“Ben’s getting dinner.  One day he will.” 

Perhaps she had a sense of humour; perhaps she didn’t.

“He’s expecting you.  Take care going down the hill.”

It was a warm, still day with very little movement on the water.  The pier was in the middle of a little cove, with a boat tied up a short distance from the pier.  It would be too far to swim to the other side.

To me, it would be the ideal place to spend your summer vacation.  Swimming, fishing, hiking.  Learning survival skills…

He looked up as I approached.  An old man, now I could see his days were numbered, the laboured breathing, then the weathered complexion, and the pain in his eyes.  He had come home to die on his terms.

“You’re the Loomis boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.  I’m not here to cause trouble.  You are probably the last person who took any interest in my parents.”

He motioned to the seat beside him, and I sat.  I made sure that his glass had water and that he was comfortable first, adjusting the blanket.

“I may have been the last person to see them.”

“Do you know what happened to them?”

“Not what we were told, that’s for sure.  It was a routine assignment: go down to the county courthouse and cover the proceedings.  Rookie job, but the editor said he had an off call about something big.  There was nothing of note on the docket.  But midway there was a heck of a commotion, a woman screaming, where was her kid, what had they done with him, on and on.  It sounded like a riot had broken out “

He stopped, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.  I thought after six or seven sentences, he had worn himself out or worse, lost his train of thought.

Then his eyes opened again and sparkled.  “Half an hour passes, then two people were virtually dragged on, a man and a woman.  Both looked like they’d been in a car crash, and the judge that day was
astonished.  He knew the deputies were hands-on, but this was too much to pass off as resisting arrest.  He roasted the sheriff, whose excuse was that they had shot and killed the gas attendant in a botched robbery.  Nothing he could do but sent them to jail without bail. They did it, of course, the gas station had CCTV, which was unusual in a small place.  I got a note a week later, they been sent to a State penitentiary awaiting trial, no names, no dates, nothing.”

“Is that usual in cases like this?”

“Murder, clear evidence, sometimes.  But this was different.  I recognised the girl, Stella.  Not her name at all.  She was a Banderville, from what used to be one of the richest families in Pennsylvania.  It was the seat shirt.  Penn State.  She had a brain, just didn’t use it.  Your mother was sixteen, pregnant and excommunicated.  Ran off with the gardener.  She wasn’t a killer, just ran with the wrong crowd.  Sister wasn’t much better.  But the brother, the lord and master in eating, there was a piece of work.  They reckoned he was the one who raped his younger sister, but being the only boy, he could do no wrong.  Until he did.”

“My mother was rich.”

“She didn’t want to be.  Both the sisters rebelled and were, according to their father, disappointed.  Stella had been his favourite, and it literally killed him when she left.  The son took three years to destroy what had taken over a hundred years to build.”

He shook his head.  “Three years.  Mary found you, didn’t she?  I should have guessed.  She had disappeared after the reckoning, and I lost touch with her.  She came to me, but I couldn’t help her.  I’d just had the first of three heart attacks.  I’m sorry.  I would have found you.”

“She hired a private detective.”

“Of course.”

I had a thousand questions, but it was not the time.  It seemed to me that it was a story he had rehearsed in case one day I would come.

I waited about ten minutes and then decided that he had finished, or had tired.

As I stood, he woke and looked at me.  “There’s a will, the old man had reputedly changed it the day before he died, but no one could find it.  The estate was never meant to go to the boy.  It’s out there somewhere, but here’s the thing.  As the prisoners were being taken from the courthouse to the van, the boy tripped over, and the guards swarmed on him.  That’s when the girl came over and said, “Find my son and tell him it’s in Penn”.  Odd thing, she was not wearing her sweatshirt.  Later, I asked what had happened to it, but no one could find it.  I thought there must be something in it, but like everything to do with them, it’s gone and now just another mystery.”

The old lady came down, and we sat with him for an hour or so before we went back to the cabin.

By that time, he had forgotten who I was.

…

The dreams, when they came, were of my mother.  I used to think she was a fairy who never grew old, and realised now that she was so young when she had me, a child almost herself.

But she was a great mother, something she used to tell me was given to her by her aunt, the woman she had spent most of her early years with.

I never remembered once her saying she was from a wealthy family, and neither ever spoke of it, though if I were to think about it, he was always going on about her life and how she could never understand him.

He was greedy and selfish.  And he didn’t like me.  I took her away from him.

But then there was the dream where I was playing while she was mending clothes, or in one case, she was sewing a big letter P on a shirt.

The P, she said, was a school she once went to, when younger, when she was clever, before the drinks and drugs.  It was not something she meant to do, but it happened, and she did something bad and got punished.  It was a slippery slope, one thing after another, but there was a silver lining.  I came into her life.

It was weeks before I could piece together the fragments of my memory started to format into a cohesive idea.

That the P on her sweatshirt was significant, so significant that she was rarely parted from it day or night, and that the sweatshirt was now missing.

It took a month more to discover the sweatshirt was in the inventory the night they were arrested, but not when they were transferred.  Had it been stolen?  Had it been thrown out?

Then I remembered what Ben had said, among many words, a lot of which I had forgotten because of the memories of her that had been stirred up.  It came in another dream, and this time we were in a very strange place, which she called a university.

It was a place she had attended when she was younger, and liked to visit every now and then.  But as the dreams became clearer, they focused on one person, a man, a man whose name she never mentioned except for a nickname, Ducky.

She used it in the same manner that she used mine, in a different tone and manner, and given the limited experience I had with girls, even I could see she had great affection for him.

But one noticeable thing, she tried hard not to let me, or anyone else, see them together.

What else did I suddenly realise?

Loomis wasn’t my father.  The professor was.  And the lengths she had gone to not involve him because of what would have happened to him.  The law would not have seen it as a loving relationship, but as one of an older professor taking advantage of a young girl.  Perhaps it was.

But the thought of Loomis not being my father was a relief.

My next mission was to find the professor, a man by the name of Duckworth.

Over the next week, I retraced my mother’s steps as well as I could remember them from my dreams.  It eventually took me to the Mathematics department, and there he was, an old man now, though not as old as Ben.

I sat at the top of the room and watched him try to impress the importance of his subject on the minds of the next generation of mathematicians, and to my mind, failing somewhat.  Fidgety kids talking, looking at cell phones, reading books, it was as if he was preaching to the disbelievers.

After he dismissed them, seemingly uncaring about their singular lack of interest, I watched him pack up his books.  Then, as he turned to go, he turned around and looked straight at me.

“I don’t know you, son.”

“Do you know all the kids in your class?”

“Yes.  You are…”

“Loomis.”

“Come down here, please.  My eyesight is not as good as it used to be.”

I did as he asked, then stood before him.

It took a minute, two before the expression on his face changed.  “Oh, my lord, she was telling the truth.”

“Then I’m not a Loomis?”

“No.  Oh, my Lord.  What do you remember?”

“Being in this place.  With my mother and you.  I realise now she loved you very much.”

“And I her, though it could not be.  And I was a cad back then when she told me, and that was the last I saw her.  I did see she was arrested, but it had nothing to do with that gas station robbery.  It was about who she was and what she was entitled to.  She was murdered for money.”

It was a complicated story: a man who knew the truth, but telling it would get him a long jail sentence.  Not that the truth mattered.  Had he tried to discredit the son and heir, the lawyers would have ruined him anyway. 

He had the sweatshirt, the one with the P, the one she never let out of her sight, the one she managed to get to Duckworth from the prison, the one that had the last will and testament of their father, leaving everything to the girls because he knew that the boy was a wastrel.

Only the pregnancy and his anger came with the threat to disown all of them, but he died before changing the will back. Since she had only one copy, and believing it was invalid, she never acted on it.  By the time it would have mattered, it didn’t matter; the wastrel had destroyed everything.

…

Things happen for a reason.

I don’t think I was supposed to end up in an orphanage, but the fact that I had might have saved my life.

I do think I was meant to end up with my aunt, but it was meant to be sooner, and I think my aunt was supposed to see her before she ended up in jail.

I was always meant to visit Ben.  At his funeral, six months after I visited him, his wife said he had told her a week before that he was expecting an important visitor.

Duckworth had always known that the little boy who came visiting him with his mother was special in a way he could never explain.

But one thing he was sure of, I had inherited my mother’s mathematical brain.  His too, if truth be told.  After meeting him, I had two jobs: reporter by day and mathematician the rest of the time.

When I showed my aunt the will, she was surprised, then shocked, then accepted her fate with a shrug.  It had been hard going from privilege to poverty, but age had survived.

My departure had hastened her desire to end what was, for her, a marriage of convenience and had forged a new path, away from the children who were all suffering from their newfound independence.

She was far happier these days.

As for me, nearly 20 years had passed, and half had been almost lost in time and the rest, proof that living nightmares are real.

I’m writing the story of a family that had lost everything because one person made a mistake.  It didn’t have to be like that, but in accordance with the rules and the law, it did.

But to tell it, I was going to have to change the names. 

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

More about my second novel – First Dig Two Graves

…

So, not all second books are sequels, but in this case, it is.

Not to the first book that was written last year, but for one that I wrote some years ago.

The Devel You Don’t.

This one is called First Dig Two Graves.

…

At the end of the first book in the series, Alistair, Zoe, the assassin’s handler, was killed.

As far as he was concerned, Zoe had reneged on the contract to kill a target, and for that, she had to be punished, just to let the rest of the team know they could not decide arbitrarily who or whom they would not kill.

For her sins, Zoe had been captured and was about to be executed when John, the man who wanted to become her boyfriend, turned up on a reckless and unplanned rescue mission.

But as ad-hoc operations go, it was one that was very successful.  Zoe, though badly injured, aided John in a do-or-die escape.

Alistair learned to his chagrin that a badly injured Zoe and an untrained, well-meaning friend trumped overconfidence.

Of course, Alistair’s death does not go unnoticed, and his mother, a renowned and very capable ex-KGB agent with connections, wants to avenge his death.  Her influence reaches as far as the upper echelons of the State’s intelligence services, and requests from her would never be ignored.

Such a request for assistance is made; resources are allocated, and so starts the next book in the series.

It’s all about revenge.

Of course, nothing to do with Zoe or John, or their relationship, runs smoothly, and once again in pursuit of the impossible, he makes it his mission in life to win over the assassin-on-sabbatical.

But first, he must find her and sort through the lies and treachery of his best friend, who is also looking for Zoe, but for entirely different reasons.

More about my second novel – First Dig Two Graves

…

So, not all second books are sequels, but in this case, it is.

Not to the first book that was written last year, but for one that I wrote some years ago.

The Devel You Don’t.

This one is called First Dig Two Graves.

…

At the end of the first book in the series, Alistair, Zoe, the assassin’s handler, was killed.

As far as he was concerned, Zoe had reneged on the contract to kill a target, and for that, she had to be punished, just to let the rest of the team know they could not decide arbitrarily who or whom they would not kill.

For her sins, Zoe had been captured and was about to be executed when John, the man who wanted to become her boyfriend, turned up on a reckless and unplanned rescue mission.

But as ad-hoc operations go, it was one that was very successful.  Zoe, though badly injured, aided John in a do-or-die escape.

Alistair learned to his chagrin that a badly injured Zoe and an untrained, well-meaning friend trumped overconfidence.

Of course, Alistair’s death does not go unnoticed, and his mother, a renowned and very capable ex-KGB agent with connections, wants to avenge his death.  Her influence reaches as far as the upper echelons of the State’s intelligence services, and requests from her would never be ignored.

Such a request for assistance is made; resources are allocated, and so starts the next book in the series.

It’s all about revenge.

Of course, nothing to do with Zoe or John, or their relationship, runs smoothly, and once again in pursuit of the impossible, he makes it his mission in life to win over the assassin-on-sabbatical.

But first, he must find her and sort through the lies and treachery of his best friend, who is also looking for Zoe, but for entirely different reasons.

Day 23 – The subtle art of getting a message across

…

The Subtle Art of Getting a Message Across

(And Why You Should Stop Preaching to the Converted)

If you’ve ever read a post, an op‑ed, or a social‑media thread that felt more like a sermon than a conversation, you know the feeling: the message lands in a vacuum, heard only by those who already agree, while everyone else scrolls past, rolls their eyes, or—worst of all—writes back with a snarky “thanks, Captain Obvious.”

It’s a common trap for writers, marketers, and anyone trying to influence opinions: preaching to the converted. You assume your audience already shares your worldview, and you end up sounding like a church bulletin rather than a compelling storyteller. The result? Your ideas get stuck in an echo chamber, your reach stalls, and the people who could benefit most from your insight remain untouched.

In this post, we’ll explore:

1. Why preaching to the converted is a dead‑end.
2. How to spot the symptoms in your own writing.
3. Practical techniques for widening your net without diluting your voice.
4. A quick checklist to keep you honest.

Let’s turn that echo chamber into a lively town square.

---

1. The Hidden Cost of Talking to the Choir

What It Looks Like	Why It Fails
“All true leaders know X, Y, and Z. If you’re still doing A, you’re obviously clueless.”	Assumes agreement – readers who don’t already see themselves as “leaders” feel dismissed.
“As we all know, climate change is real, and we must act now.”	No invitation – skeptics are met with a wall of affirmation, not a door to dialogue.
“If you love productivity hacks, you’ll love this new framework.”	Self‑selection bias – you’re preaching to an audience that already bought into the premise.

The core problem is audience mismatch. When you talk only to those who already nod along, you:

• Limit impact – only a fraction of the potential readers engage.
• Reinforce tribalism – echo chambers tighten, making it harder to bridge divides.
• Waste energy – perfecting a sermon for a crowd that’s already convinced feels like polishing a trophy you’ll never win.

The antidote? Write as if you’re inviting a stranger into a conversation, not delivering a lecture to a congregation.

---

2. Diagnose Your Own Writing: Are You Preaching?

a. The “We All Know” Test

If you can replace “we all know” with “some people think,” you’ve probably slipped into preaching.

Original: “We all know that the best way to boost ROI is by cutting costs.”
Revised: “Many marketers believe that cutting costs can boost ROI, but there are other angles worth exploring.”

b. The “Assumed Identity” Check

Ask yourself: Does my reader already identify as X? If the answer is “no,” you need to re‑frame.

Original: “If you’re a seasoned entrepreneur, you already understand the power of pivoting.”
Revised: “Even if you’re just starting out, the concept of pivoting can be a game‑changer.”

c. The “Zero‑Tolerant” Scale

Do you use absolutes like “always,” “never,” “must,” or “should” without qualification? Absolutes tend to alienate.

Original: “You must stop using email for lead generation.”
Revised: “Consider whether email is the best tool for your current lead‑generation goals.”

If any of these red flags light up, you’re on the preaching‑to‑the‑converted track.

---

3. How to Speak to the Unconverted (Without Selling Out)

1. Start With Curiosity, Not Conviction

Instead of stating the conclusion first, pose a question that acknowledges the reader’s perspective.

Preachy: “The truth is, remote work kills collaboration.”
Curious: “What impact does remote work have on collaboration, and how can teams preserve synergy?”

2. Use Stories as Bridges

Stories are the universal language. Show, don’t tell. A personal anecdote or a case study with relatable characters invites empathy, even from sceptics.

Example: “When I first tried the Pomodoro technique, I was skeptical. After three weeks, I realized it helped me finish my thesis without the usual midnight panic. Here’s how you can adapt it for any project.”

3. Offer Evidence, Not Edicts

Give data, cite sources, and explain the reasoning behind your claim. Let the reader see the logic rather than being handed a verdict.

Instead of: “SEO is dead.”
Try: “Recent studies from Moz and Ahrefs show a 30% decline in organic traffic for sites that ignore user intent. Here’s what that means for your SEO strategy.”

4. Invite the Reader to Test the Idea

A call to experiment rather than a command lowers defensiveness.

“Try swapping your usual morning coffee for a 10‑minute walk. Track your focus for a week and see if you notice any difference.”

5. Acknowledge Counterarguments

Show that you understand the other side. A brief, respectful nod to opposing views builds credibility.

“Some argue that rapid iteration leads to sloppy products. While that’s a valid concern, incorporating a lightweight QA step can keep quality high without sacrificing speed.”

6. Use Inclusive Language

Words like “we,” “us,” and “together” can be powerful—but only when they truly include the reader. Pair them with clarifying qualifiers.

“We—whether you’re a freelancer or part of a large corporation—face the same challenge of balancing creativity with deadlines.”

---

4. The One‑Minute Checklist Before Publishing

Check	What to Look For
Audience Gap	Have I assumed the reader already agrees?
Open‑Ended Intro	Does the opening pose a question or scenario?
Story > Statement	Is there at least one anecdote or case study?
Evidence	Do I cite data, sources, or personal experiments?
Invitation	Have I encouraged the reader to try something?
Counterpoint	Have I respectfully acknowledged an opposing view?
Inclusive Language	Does “we” really include them, not just me?

If you can answer “yes” to every line, you’ve likely avoided preaching to the choir.

---

5. A Mini‑Exercise: Rewrite a Preachy Paragraph

Original (Preachy):

“If you’re serious about personal finance, you must start budgeting today. Anyone who doesn’t track every dollar is basically throwing money away.”

Revised (Conversational):

“Wondering how to get a better handle on your money? Many people find that tracking their spending—whether through a simple spreadsheet or an app—offers surprising insights. Give it a try for a week and see where your dollars actually go; you might be surprised by the small changes that add up.”

Notice the shift from imperative to suggestion, the inclusion of a low‑bar entry point, and the invitation to experiment.

---

6. Closing Thought: Influence Is a Conversation, Not a Sermon

The most persuasive writing feels less like a lecture hall and more like a coffee‑shop chat where both parties leave a little wiser. By recognising the echo chamber, checking our assumptions, and crafting content that invites curiosity, we can reach new audiences without compromising our core message.

Next time you sit down to write, ask yourself: Am I preaching, or am I inviting? The answer will determine whether your words echo in a closed room or ripple across a broader community.

Happy writing—and may your messages travel farther than the choir they were meant for.

---

Preaching to the converted limits reach and reinforces echo chambers.

• Spot the habit with “we all know,” assumed identities, and absolutes.
• Replace them with curiosity, stories, evidence, experiments, and respectful counterpoints.
• Use the one‑minute checklist before you hit “publish.”

Your audience is waiting—just open the door.

Day 23 – The subtle art of getting a message across

…

The Subtle Art of Getting a Message Across

(And Why You Should Stop Preaching to the Converted)

If you’ve ever read a post, an op‑ed, or a social‑media thread that felt more like a sermon than a conversation, you know the feeling: the message lands in a vacuum, heard only by those who already agree, while everyone else scrolls past, rolls their eyes, or—worst of all—writes back with a snarky “thanks, Captain Obvious.”

It’s a common trap for writers, marketers, and anyone trying to influence opinions: preaching to the converted. You assume your audience already shares your worldview, and you end up sounding like a church bulletin rather than a compelling storyteller. The result? Your ideas get stuck in an echo chamber, your reach stalls, and the people who could benefit most from your insight remain untouched.

In this post, we’ll explore:

1. Why preaching to the converted is a dead‑end.
2. How to spot the symptoms in your own writing.
3. Practical techniques for widening your net without diluting your voice.
4. A quick checklist to keep you honest.

Let’s turn that echo chamber into a lively town square.

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1. The Hidden Cost of Talking to the Choir

What It Looks Like	Why It Fails
“All true leaders know X, Y, and Z. If you’re still doing A, you’re obviously clueless.”	Assumes agreement – readers who don’t already see themselves as “leaders” feel dismissed.
“As we all know, climate change is real, and we must act now.”	No invitation – skeptics are met with a wall of affirmation, not a door to dialogue.
“If you love productivity hacks, you’ll love this new framework.”	Self‑selection bias – you’re preaching to an audience that already bought into the premise.

The core problem is audience mismatch. When you talk only to those who already nod along, you:

• Limit impact – only a fraction of the potential readers engage.
• Reinforce tribalism – echo chambers tighten, making it harder to bridge divides.
• Waste energy – perfecting a sermon for a crowd that’s already convinced feels like polishing a trophy you’ll never win.

The antidote? Write as if you’re inviting a stranger into a conversation, not delivering a lecture to a congregation.

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2. Diagnose Your Own Writing: Are You Preaching?

a. The “We All Know” Test

If you can replace “we all know” with “some people think,” you’ve probably slipped into preaching.

Original: “We all know that the best way to boost ROI is by cutting costs.”
Revised: “Many marketers believe that cutting costs can boost ROI, but there are other angles worth exploring.”

b. The “Assumed Identity” Check

Ask yourself: Does my reader already identify as X? If the answer is “no,” you need to re‑frame.

Original: “If you’re a seasoned entrepreneur, you already understand the power of pivoting.”
Revised: “Even if you’re just starting out, the concept of pivoting can be a game‑changer.”

c. The “Zero‑Tolerant” Scale

Do you use absolutes like “always,” “never,” “must,” or “should” without qualification? Absolutes tend to alienate.

Original: “You must stop using email for lead generation.”
Revised: “Consider whether email is the best tool for your current lead‑generation goals.”

If any of these red flags light up, you’re on the preaching‑to‑the‑converted track.

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3. How to Speak to the Unconverted (Without Selling Out)

1. Start With Curiosity, Not Conviction

Instead of stating the conclusion first, pose a question that acknowledges the reader’s perspective.

Preachy: “The truth is, remote work kills collaboration.”
Curious: “What impact does remote work have on collaboration, and how can teams preserve synergy?”

2. Use Stories as Bridges

Stories are the universal language. Show, don’t tell. A personal anecdote or a case study with relatable characters invites empathy, even from sceptics.

Example: “When I first tried the Pomodoro technique, I was skeptical. After three weeks, I realized it helped me finish my thesis without the usual midnight panic. Here’s how you can adapt it for any project.”

3. Offer Evidence, Not Edicts

Give data, cite sources, and explain the reasoning behind your claim. Let the reader see the logic rather than being handed a verdict.

Instead of: “SEO is dead.”
Try: “Recent studies from Moz and Ahrefs show a 30% decline in organic traffic for sites that ignore user intent. Here’s what that means for your SEO strategy.”

4. Invite the Reader to Test the Idea

A call to experiment rather than a command lowers defensiveness.

“Try swapping your usual morning coffee for a 10‑minute walk. Track your focus for a week and see if you notice any difference.”

5. Acknowledge Counterarguments

Show that you understand the other side. A brief, respectful nod to opposing views builds credibility.

“Some argue that rapid iteration leads to sloppy products. While that’s a valid concern, incorporating a lightweight QA step can keep quality high without sacrificing speed.”

6. Use Inclusive Language

Words like “we,” “us,” and “together” can be powerful—but only when they truly include the reader. Pair them with clarifying qualifiers.

“We—whether you’re a freelancer or part of a large corporation—face the same challenge of balancing creativity with deadlines.”

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4. The One‑Minute Checklist Before Publishing

Check	What to Look For
Audience Gap	Have I assumed the reader already agrees?
Open‑Ended Intro	Does the opening pose a question or scenario?
Story > Statement	Is there at least one anecdote or case study?
Evidence	Do I cite data, sources, or personal experiments?
Invitation	Have I encouraged the reader to try something?
Counterpoint	Have I respectfully acknowledged an opposing view?
Inclusive Language	Does “we” really include them, not just me?

If you can answer “yes” to every line, you’ve likely avoided preaching to the choir.

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5. A Mini‑Exercise: Rewrite a Preachy Paragraph

Original (Preachy):

“If you’re serious about personal finance, you must start budgeting today. Anyone who doesn’t track every dollar is basically throwing money away.”

Revised (Conversational):

“Wondering how to get a better handle on your money? Many people find that tracking their spending—whether through a simple spreadsheet or an app—offers surprising insights. Give it a try for a week and see where your dollars actually go; you might be surprised by the small changes that add up.”

Notice the shift from imperative to suggestion, the inclusion of a low‑bar entry point, and the invitation to experiment.

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6. Closing Thought: Influence Is a Conversation, Not a Sermon

The most persuasive writing feels less like a lecture hall and more like a coffee‑shop chat where both parties leave a little wiser. By recognising the echo chamber, checking our assumptions, and crafting content that invites curiosity, we can reach new audiences without compromising our core message.

Next time you sit down to write, ask yourself: Am I preaching, or am I inviting? The answer will determine whether your words echo in a closed room or ripple across a broader community.

Happy writing—and may your messages travel farther than the choir they were meant for.

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Preaching to the converted limits reach and reinforces echo chambers.

• Spot the habit with “we all know,” assumed identities, and absolutes.
• Replace them with curiosity, stories, evidence, experiments, and respectful counterpoints.
• Use the one‑minute checklist before you hit “publish.”

Your audience is waiting—just open the door.