More about my second novel

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After ensuring John was safe, she contacted him.

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

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

More about my second novel

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After ensuring John was safe, she contacted him.

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

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

Day 107 – Six fundamental principles of writing

…

The Chekhovian Blueprint: 6 Principles for Crafting a Masterpiece

When it comes to the art of storytelling, few names command as much respect as Anton Chekhov. A master of the short story and the stage, Chekhov didn’t just write fiction; he dissected the human condition with the precision of a surgeon.

While Chekhov never penned a rigid “how-to” manual, his letters to fellow writers and his own body of work reveal a distinct philosophy. He believed that to create a truly great story, a writer must adhere to six fundamental principles. If you’re looking to elevate your prose, here is the Chekhovian blueprint for narrative excellence.

---

1. Objectivity

Chekhov famously argued that a writer should be an objective observer rather than a moral judge. He believed that the author’s job is to present the truth of a situation, not to lecture the reader on what is “right” or “wrong.”

• The Significance: By removing your personal judgment from the narrative, you allow the reader to draw their own conclusions, making the story feel more authentic and less like a sermon.

2. Truthful Descriptions of Persons and Objects

Chekhov had a disdain for flowery, abstract language. He believed that the world should be described through concrete details. Instead of telling the reader that a character is sad, he would describe the way the moonlight glinted off the neck of a broken bottle.

• The Significance: Specificity anchors the reader in the story. It transforms a vague concept into a visceral experience, forcing the reader to see and feel the world you’ve constructed.

3. Extreme Brevity

If you’ve ever heard the advice, “If you can say it in one word, don’t use two,” you are hearing an echo of Chekhov. He was a master of concision, stripping away every unnecessary adjective and redundant sentence until only the essential remained.

• The Significance: Brevity respects the reader’s time and intelligence. It sharpens the impact of your prose, ensuring that every word performs a specific function within the story.

4. Bold and Honest Declarations

Chekhov loathed “literary” language—the affectations and clichés that writers often use to sound clever. He advocated for honest, direct language that cut straight to the heart of the matter.

• The Significance: Honesty creates trust. When a writer speaks plainly and boldly, the reader feels they are in the hands of someone who isn’t hiding behind a mask of artifice. It creates an immediate, intimate connection.

5. Spontaneity (Nature)

Chekhov believed that a story should feel like it grew naturally, rather than being forced into a rigid mould. He advocated for a sense of “spontaneity,” where the narrative flows organically from the characters rather than being puppet-mastered by the author.

• The Significance: When a story feels forced or overly engineered, the reader notices the “gears” turning. Spontaneity preserves the magic; it makes the story feel like a discovery rather than a lecture.

6. The Absence of Falsehood and Rottenness

By “rottenness,” Chekhov meant the artificiality of sentimentality and forced happy endings. He insisted that writers should avoid the temptation to provide easy answers or sugar-coat the complexities of life.

• The Significance: Real life is messy, often unresolved, and frequently bittersweet. By avoiding “rotten” shortcuts, you honour the complexity of the human experience. A story that ends on a note of ambiguous truth is always more powerful than one that ties every loose end in a neat, dishonest bow.

---

The Takeaway

Anton Chekhov’s principles are not just technical rules; they are a call to emotional honesty. He teaches us that the greatest power of a writer lies in the ability to observe the world clearly, describe it concisely, and let the characters live their own lives without interference.

The next time you sit down to write, ask yourself: Am I judging the characters, or showing them? Are these words necessary, or just pretty? Is this ending earned, or is it a shortcut?

Follow the Chekhovian path, and you won’t just be writing a story—you’ll be capturing a piece of life itself.

Day 107 – Six fundamental principles of writing

…

The Chekhovian Blueprint: 6 Principles for Crafting a Masterpiece

When it comes to the art of storytelling, few names command as much respect as Anton Chekhov. A master of the short story and the stage, Chekhov didn’t just write fiction; he dissected the human condition with the precision of a surgeon.

While Chekhov never penned a rigid “how-to” manual, his letters to fellow writers and his own body of work reveal a distinct philosophy. He believed that to create a truly great story, a writer must adhere to six fundamental principles. If you’re looking to elevate your prose, here is the Chekhovian blueprint for narrative excellence.

---

1. Objectivity

Chekhov famously argued that a writer should be an objective observer rather than a moral judge. He believed that the author’s job is to present the truth of a situation, not to lecture the reader on what is “right” or “wrong.”

• The Significance: By removing your personal judgment from the narrative, you allow the reader to draw their own conclusions, making the story feel more authentic and less like a sermon.

2. Truthful Descriptions of Persons and Objects

Chekhov had a disdain for flowery, abstract language. He believed that the world should be described through concrete details. Instead of telling the reader that a character is sad, he would describe the way the moonlight glinted off the neck of a broken bottle.

• The Significance: Specificity anchors the reader in the story. It transforms a vague concept into a visceral experience, forcing the reader to see and feel the world you’ve constructed.

3. Extreme Brevity

If you’ve ever heard the advice, “If you can say it in one word, don’t use two,” you are hearing an echo of Chekhov. He was a master of concision, stripping away every unnecessary adjective and redundant sentence until only the essential remained.

• The Significance: Brevity respects the reader’s time and intelligence. It sharpens the impact of your prose, ensuring that every word performs a specific function within the story.

4. Bold and Honest Declarations

Chekhov loathed “literary” language—the affectations and clichés that writers often use to sound clever. He advocated for honest, direct language that cut straight to the heart of the matter.

• The Significance: Honesty creates trust. When a writer speaks plainly and boldly, the reader feels they are in the hands of someone who isn’t hiding behind a mask of artifice. It creates an immediate, intimate connection.

5. Spontaneity (Nature)

Chekhov believed that a story should feel like it grew naturally, rather than being forced into a rigid mould. He advocated for a sense of “spontaneity,” where the narrative flows organically from the characters rather than being puppet-mastered by the author.

• The Significance: When a story feels forced or overly engineered, the reader notices the “gears” turning. Spontaneity preserves the magic; it makes the story feel like a discovery rather than a lecture.

6. The Absence of Falsehood and Rottenness

By “rottenness,” Chekhov meant the artificiality of sentimentality and forced happy endings. He insisted that writers should avoid the temptation to provide easy answers or sugar-coat the complexities of life.

• The Significance: Real life is messy, often unresolved, and frequently bittersweet. By avoiding “rotten” shortcuts, you honour the complexity of the human experience. A story that ends on a note of ambiguous truth is always more powerful than one that ties every loose end in a neat, dishonest bow.

---

The Takeaway

Anton Chekhov’s principles are not just technical rules; they are a call to emotional honesty. He teaches us that the greatest power of a writer lies in the ability to observe the world clearly, describe it concisely, and let the characters live their own lives without interference.

The next time you sit down to write, ask yourself: Am I judging the characters, or showing them? Are these words necessary, or just pretty? Is this ending earned, or is it a shortcut?

Follow the Chekhovian path, and you won’t just be writing a story—you’ll be capturing a piece of life itself.

Day 106 – Writing to please yourself

…

Writing for an Audience of One: The Radical Liberation of Margaret Cavendish

In the 17th century, a woman’s writing was typically expected to be a pursuit of piety, domestic instruction, or perhaps a modest contribution to poetry. Margaret Cavendish, the Duchess of Newcastle, cared little for such boundaries. Surrounded by the rigid social expectations of the Restoration era, she penned a mantra that remains one of the most liberating declarations in literary history: “I write to please myself.”

While this might sound like a simple statement of personal preference, in the context of Cavendish’s time—and perhaps even in our own era of algorithm-driven content—it is a profoundly radical act.

The Rebellion Against Approval

When we write today, it is rarely “for ourselves.” We write for engagement, for likes, for professional advancement, or to satisfy the perceived expectations of a target demographic. We curate our voices to fit into boxes that make us palatable to publishers, platforms, and peers.

Margaret Cavendish understood something that many modern creatives have forgotten: as soon as you write to please an audience, you are no longer the author of your own work; you are merely a performer of their desires.

By declaring that her primary audience was her own intellect and imagination, Cavendish reclaimed the authority of the artist. She did not seek the validation of the male-dominated literary circles of the 1600s; instead, she explored science fiction, philosophy, and poetry with a wild, unbridled curiosity. She didn’t seek to be “correct”—she sought to be honest to her own fascinations.

When “Pleasing Yourself” Becomes Art

There is a common misconception that writing for oneself is synonymous with vanity or poor quality. Critics of Cavendish often labelled her as eccentric or “mad.” However, history has revealed that her refusal to bend to contemporary tastes allowed her to write The Blazing World—one of the earliest examples of science fiction.

She was free to experiment because she wasn’t tethered to the fear of being misunderstood.

When you write to please yourself, you strip away the filters of “what will people think?” and “is this marketable?” The result is a voice that is sharper, more distinct, and more authentic. Even if the work never reaches a wide audience, the process of documenting one’s own mind is an act of self-discovery that no amount of external praise can replicate.

How to Adopt the Cavendish Mindset

How can we reclaim this philosophy in a world that demands we be “content creators” rather than artists?

1. Lower the Stakes: Write something that you never intend to publish. Let it be messy, odd, or purely indulgent. If no one else is reading it, you are free to explore your most “unmarketable” ideas.
2. Define Your Curiosity: What do you actually want to write about, regardless of trends? Whether it’s 17th-century philosophy or a niche hobby, lean into the subjects that make your own brain light up.
3. Detach from the Metric: Focus on the satisfaction of the prose, the clarity of the thought, or the joy of the narrative. If the writing process itself brings you pleasure, the goal has been achieved.

Final Thoughts

Margaret Cavendish was an outcast in her time because she refused to perform modesty. Today, we can see her for what she truly was: a visionary who realized that the only person you are guaranteed to be writing for for the rest of your life is yourself.

The next time you sit down to write, don’t ask, “Will this resonate?” Ask, “Does this thrill me?” Because when you write to please yourself, you create something that is authentic—and that is the only kind of writing that truly stands the test of time.

Day 106 – Writing to please yourself

…

Writing for an Audience of One: The Radical Liberation of Margaret Cavendish

In the 17th century, a woman’s writing was typically expected to be a pursuit of piety, domestic instruction, or perhaps a modest contribution to poetry. Margaret Cavendish, the Duchess of Newcastle, cared little for such boundaries. Surrounded by the rigid social expectations of the Restoration era, she penned a mantra that remains one of the most liberating declarations in literary history: “I write to please myself.”

While this might sound like a simple statement of personal preference, in the context of Cavendish’s time—and perhaps even in our own era of algorithm-driven content—it is a profoundly radical act.

The Rebellion Against Approval

When we write today, it is rarely “for ourselves.” We write for engagement, for likes, for professional advancement, or to satisfy the perceived expectations of a target demographic. We curate our voices to fit into boxes that make us palatable to publishers, platforms, and peers.

Margaret Cavendish understood something that many modern creatives have forgotten: as soon as you write to please an audience, you are no longer the author of your own work; you are merely a performer of their desires.

By declaring that her primary audience was her own intellect and imagination, Cavendish reclaimed the authority of the artist. She did not seek the validation of the male-dominated literary circles of the 1600s; instead, she explored science fiction, philosophy, and poetry with a wild, unbridled curiosity. She didn’t seek to be “correct”—she sought to be honest to her own fascinations.

When “Pleasing Yourself” Becomes Art

There is a common misconception that writing for oneself is synonymous with vanity or poor quality. Critics of Cavendish often labelled her as eccentric or “mad.” However, history has revealed that her refusal to bend to contemporary tastes allowed her to write The Blazing World—one of the earliest examples of science fiction.

She was free to experiment because she wasn’t tethered to the fear of being misunderstood.

When you write to please yourself, you strip away the filters of “what will people think?” and “is this marketable?” The result is a voice that is sharper, more distinct, and more authentic. Even if the work never reaches a wide audience, the process of documenting one’s own mind is an act of self-discovery that no amount of external praise can replicate.

How to Adopt the Cavendish Mindset

How can we reclaim this philosophy in a world that demands we be “content creators” rather than artists?

1. Lower the Stakes: Write something that you never intend to publish. Let it be messy, odd, or purely indulgent. If no one else is reading it, you are free to explore your most “unmarketable” ideas.
2. Define Your Curiosity: What do you actually want to write about, regardless of trends? Whether it’s 17th-century philosophy or a niche hobby, lean into the subjects that make your own brain light up.
3. Detach from the Metric: Focus on the satisfaction of the prose, the clarity of the thought, or the joy of the narrative. If the writing process itself brings you pleasure, the goal has been achieved.

Final Thoughts

Margaret Cavendish was an outcast in her time because she refused to perform modesty. Today, we can see her for what she truly was: a visionary who realized that the only person you are guaranteed to be writing for for the rest of your life is yourself.

The next time you sit down to write, don’t ask, “Will this resonate?” Ask, “Does this thrill me?” Because when you write to please yourself, you create something that is authentic—and that is the only kind of writing that truly stands the test of time.

Day 105 – Graphic novels

…

Beyond the Comic Strip: A Beginner’s Guide to Creating Your Own Graphic Novel

For a long time, the term “graphic novel” was met with a shrug. People thought of them as “just comic books”—fleeting entertainment for kids. But today, the graphic novel stands as a respected, powerful medium of literature. From memoirs like Persepolis to genre-bending epics like Watchmen, graphic novels prove that when you combine visual language with the written word, you unlock a storytelling potential that prose alone just can’t touch.

If you’ve ever dreamed of telling a story through panels, splash pages, and speech bubbles, you’re in the right place. Let’s break down what graphic novels actually are and how you can start crafting your own.

---

What Exactly is a Graphic Novel?

At its core, a graphic novel is a book-length narrative told through sequential art.

Unlike a comic book, which is typically a serialised, thin pamphlet released monthly, a graphic novel is a complete, self-contained story (or a collected volume) bound in a book format. It uses the visual medium—panels, gutters, character design, and colour theory—to control the pacing of the reader’s experience in a way that text-only books cannot.

In a graphic novel, the art isn’t just an “illustration” of the story; the art is the story.

---

How to Create Your Own Graphic Novel: A Step-by-Step Guide

Creating a graphic novel is a marathon, not a sprint. It’s a labour of love that requires patience and a fair bit of planning. Here is your roadmap from concept to finished product.

1. Develop Your “Hook” and Script

Every great graphic novel starts with an idea. But before you pick up a pencil, you need a script.

• The Synopsis: Summarise your story in a few paragraphs. What is the central conflict? Who is the protagonist?
• The Script: Write it like a screenplay, but include descriptions of what is happening in each panel. Keep your dialogue tight—remember, you have limited space on the page!

2. Character and World Design

Before you draw the first page, spend time in your sketchbook.

• Character Sheets: Draw your characters from different angles and with different expressions. If they aren’t consistent, the reader will get confused.
• World-Building: What does your setting feel like? Create a “visual bible” for your world so the architectural style and atmosphere remain cohesive throughout the book.

3. Thumbnails: The Blueprint

This is the most crucial step. Thumbnails are tiny, rough sketches of every page in your book. They don’t need to look good; they just need to map out the flow.

• Where does the reader’s eye go?
• Are the panels too crowded?
• Does the page turn reveal an exciting surprise?
• Pro-tip: Don’t skip this! Fixing a mistake in a thumbnail takes seconds; fixing it in an inked final page takes hours.

4. Pencilling and Inking

Now it’s time to commit to the paper (or screen).

• Pencilling: Draft the layout, body proportions, and backgrounds cleanly.
• Inking: Use fine-tip pens or digital brushes to finalise the lines. This gives the drawings weight and definition, making them “pop” off the page.

5. Lettering: The Silent Storyteller

Bad lettering can ruin great art. Make sure your word balloons are placed in the order they should be read (top to bottom, left to right). Use clear, readable fonts, and ensure there is enough “breathing room” around the text so the page doesn’t look cluttered.

6. Coloring (or Shading)

If you aren’t doing the book in black and white, this is where you solidify the mood. Colour is a powerful tool—cool blues can signal sadness, while jarring reds can indicate danger. If you’re sticking to black and white, focus on value—using shadows and hatching to create depth and contrast.

---

Final Thoughts: Just Start

The biggest hurdle isn’t the technical skill—it’s the daunting nature of the project. A graphic novel is a mountain of work, but you climb it one panel at a time.

Don’t aim for perfection on your first attempt. Aim for completion. Whether you’re using traditional pencils and ink or an iPad with Procreate, the most important tool you have is your voice.

So, what story are you going to draw first?

Day 105 – Graphic novels

…

Beyond the Comic Strip: A Beginner’s Guide to Creating Your Own Graphic Novel

For a long time, the term “graphic novel” was met with a shrug. People thought of them as “just comic books”—fleeting entertainment for kids. But today, the graphic novel stands as a respected, powerful medium of literature. From memoirs like Persepolis to genre-bending epics like Watchmen, graphic novels prove that when you combine visual language with the written word, you unlock a storytelling potential that prose alone just can’t touch.

If you’ve ever dreamed of telling a story through panels, splash pages, and speech bubbles, you’re in the right place. Let’s break down what graphic novels actually are and how you can start crafting your own.

---

What Exactly is a Graphic Novel?

At its core, a graphic novel is a book-length narrative told through sequential art.

Unlike a comic book, which is typically a serialised, thin pamphlet released monthly, a graphic novel is a complete, self-contained story (or a collected volume) bound in a book format. It uses the visual medium—panels, gutters, character design, and colour theory—to control the pacing of the reader’s experience in a way that text-only books cannot.

In a graphic novel, the art isn’t just an “illustration” of the story; the art is the story.

---

How to Create Your Own Graphic Novel: A Step-by-Step Guide

Creating a graphic novel is a marathon, not a sprint. It’s a labour of love that requires patience and a fair bit of planning. Here is your roadmap from concept to finished product.

1. Develop Your “Hook” and Script

Every great graphic novel starts with an idea. But before you pick up a pencil, you need a script.

• The Synopsis: Summarise your story in a few paragraphs. What is the central conflict? Who is the protagonist?
• The Script: Write it like a screenplay, but include descriptions of what is happening in each panel. Keep your dialogue tight—remember, you have limited space on the page!

2. Character and World Design

Before you draw the first page, spend time in your sketchbook.

• Character Sheets: Draw your characters from different angles and with different expressions. If they aren’t consistent, the reader will get confused.
• World-Building: What does your setting feel like? Create a “visual bible” for your world so the architectural style and atmosphere remain cohesive throughout the book.

3. Thumbnails: The Blueprint

This is the most crucial step. Thumbnails are tiny, rough sketches of every page in your book. They don’t need to look good; they just need to map out the flow.

• Where does the reader’s eye go?
• Are the panels too crowded?
• Does the page turn reveal an exciting surprise?
• Pro-tip: Don’t skip this! Fixing a mistake in a thumbnail takes seconds; fixing it in an inked final page takes hours.

4. Pencilling and Inking

Now it’s time to commit to the paper (or screen).

• Pencilling: Draft the layout, body proportions, and backgrounds cleanly.
• Inking: Use fine-tip pens or digital brushes to finalise the lines. This gives the drawings weight and definition, making them “pop” off the page.

5. Lettering: The Silent Storyteller

Bad lettering can ruin great art. Make sure your word balloons are placed in the order they should be read (top to bottom, left to right). Use clear, readable fonts, and ensure there is enough “breathing room” around the text so the page doesn’t look cluttered.

6. Coloring (or Shading)

If you aren’t doing the book in black and white, this is where you solidify the mood. Colour is a powerful tool—cool blues can signal sadness, while jarring reds can indicate danger. If you’re sticking to black and white, focus on value—using shadows and hatching to create depth and contrast.

---

Final Thoughts: Just Start

The biggest hurdle isn’t the technical skill—it’s the daunting nature of the project. A graphic novel is a mountain of work, but you climb it one panel at a time.

Don’t aim for perfection on your first attempt. Aim for completion. Whether you’re using traditional pencils and ink or an iPad with Procreate, the most important tool you have is your voice.

So, what story are you going to draw first?

Day 104 – Writing Exercise

…

He brushed the curtain to one side and looked out the window.

There had been no reason to.  Usually, he just arrived at a hotel, checked in, partially unpacked, had a shower and went to bed.

His employers didn’t believe that he should arrive in the morning, get settled, study up on the details for the meeting the next morning, and be ready, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Instead, because he was usually on the last plane, it was always late, arriving at the destination just before the airport closed, and often, it was almost impossible to get a cab into the city.

Which invariably made him tired and angry by the time he reached the hotel. 

He would be lucky to get three hours of sleep, if at all.

And lucky enough, this time, to get a room with a balcony.  He decided to get some fresh air before turning in.  The day had been hot, but the night was cool with a gentle breeze.  The room was cold from the air conditioning, which he had turned off.

He should be looking at the agenda for the following day.  Instead, he took a bottle of beer from the bar fridge, turned all the lights off behind him, and went out into the night.

After midnight, darkness had settled.  Office towers had only some areas lit, some floors in darkness, making the view look like a patchwork quilt.  Some floors were ablaze, perhaps waiting for the cleaners, or people were working back.

The neon advertising lights, glaringly bright, vied for attention, from the brighter colourful blinking advertisements atop buildings, standing out starkly against the black backdrop, to those static signs at ground level.

In the distance, a large stadium still had all the arc lights going, and it looked like a patch in daylight.  Had someone forgotten to turn the lights off?

In the morning, he would be hard-pressed to see any of it.

…

There was no rhyme or reason why his eyes ended up on a dull glow of a desk lamp in an office in a building almost across the road, on a diagonal line from his balcony.

He was standing in the darkness, the lighting of the room in the darkness, except for the bedside lamp, which was just visible from where he was standing.  It was dark on the balcony, and he would’ve been invisible to anyone looking his way.

The glow of the lamp showed a man and a woman in an office.  She was sitting on the desk, and he was sitting in his chair.  They had a look of familiarity about them, perhaps a pair in a relationship, perhaps married, perhaps an affair, his mind turning over the scenarios.

She was stunningly beautiful, still in her work clothes; he guessed she might be a lawyer or accountant, she had that university-acquired air of authority.  The man was all too familiar to him, the smartest man in the room type, the one who commanded attention. 

Politicians, law practice partner or management.  Definitely management.

The way she looked up at him, not the way a wife or girlfriend would.  There was something else going on there.

She laughed, that sort of laugh that changed her manner.  She was madly in love with him, and then he stood and came to her; she melded into his arms with a practised ease of long-term lovers.

Then, suddenly, the lights came on; someone had flicked a master switch. They were suddenly apart, and the whole atmosphere had changed.

Very businesslike.

The cleaners had arrived.

She collected her coat and handbag, gave a coy wave and headed off.  The secret assignation was over. 

It was true, he thought, that the janitorial staff were almost invisible.  The things they must know, if only they knew who they were.

…

I shrugged.  Enough of inventing the lives of others who were so much better off than I.

A third-year law clerk whose lot in life was to handle the small legal issues of our clients when we had to liaise with out-of-state matters.

This one was a deceased estate that the client’s mother had left behind, and a minor dispute over who had the final will. 

The client claimed to have the last true will and testament of Agatha Bernadette Williams, the lawyers who claim to represent the caretaker and his wife had what was a later will.

It was suspicious in the sense that the son, and rightful heir, according to him, had a detailed record of the last time his mother had made her will, with signed documents and statutory records of interviews and letters between the son and his mother.

The second will was simply writing on a piece of paper and was supported by two witnesses, not the caretaker and his wife, leaving everything to them.

It might not have been a problem if the estate were worth 50,000 dollars rather than fifty million, give or take.

The son considered the claim to be fake, my boss believed what the client told him, so they sent me.  I had very specific instructions.  Prove they were lying.  The problem, the lawyers, the caretaker and his wife had selected were very reputable and charged very high fees for one reason only.  They very rarely lost.

I had to wonder why they sent me into a legal minefield. 

I had a copy of the new will, the old will, reports from a handwriting expert, and a deposition from the son saying that the other will and the manner in which it was created were not done by his mother.

There was another document, the caretaker’s criminal history, and it didn’t make pleasant reading.

Why was it that money, particularly large chunks of it, brought out the worst in people?

…

I was staying in the hotel I was in because it was not far from the offices of our affiliate lawyers.  It was another reason why I was annoyed.  The affiliate lawyers could have sorted the problem, and I would not have had to get on a plane.

I hated planes.

I wanted to come by train, but my boss, Horace Aloysius Jacketine, the third, mind you, senior partner, determined this matter had to be settled now, today, no excuses, and no delays

I tried to argue the case for the local office, and failed.  One of us had to oversee it.  The lawyer handling the matter, Jennifer Joan Rickerson, herself from a long line of distinguished legal people, was disappointed.  I don’t blame her.  She was overqualified for a matter this small.

She did not play the female lawyer card, but I knew Horace had a low opinion of female lawyers, perhaps because he had been beaten by one once, and I suspected that had been his wife.  He married her, and she was no longer a competition.

Horace was a strange and remarkably out-of-date sort of man.  More than once, I thought he belonged in the late 1800s and had arrived here through a portal.  As you can appreciate, reading science fiction was almost the perfect escape from heavy legal matters.

I rose early and quickly scanned the documentation.  I was supposed to leave with the affiliate lawyers and request that they go through it before I left to return home.  Lawyers never moved that fast, but in this case, there seemed to be a rush for a result from both parties.

Something was not right.

…

My sixth sense got me the job at the law office.  That year, the candidates were given a case file and told to find what the key issues were so that a winning case could be prepared and executed.

Based on an old case that they had lost? I had heard from a previous intake candidate that it was a case that set the candidates up to fail.  No one had cracked it, and it was rumoured to be one of Horace’s old cases, and he refused to let it go.

I didn’t blame him.  The billable hours would have been worth a fortune.

We were given an hour, sat in a small, stuffy room, with a big binder of papers that hadn’t been filed properly, a fact that I realised later, but there was no need.  Discovery and document collection, and their collating, were always very messy.

I also learned a valuable lesson that day, that it was not a good idea to simply overlook something because it did fit a set of parameters.  The exercise in part was to sort out those who probed and those who glossed.

Five pages in, and my nose was twitching.

On page 397, I had the answer and wrote three lines on a sheet of legal note pad paper with the number they gave me, and I gave it to the receptionist, the same one who had looked down her nose at me when I arrived.

I doubted it would ever reach the person responsible and left feeling rather dejected.

But it did, and I got the job, the only one out of 29 candidates, and my first job was to write up the case in a way that we would have won.

After that, I got to work for Horace, which had its perks and its problems.

…

I took a dedicated elevator up to the 20th floor, where the law firm lived, atop the building.  It was that floor that cost a small fortune for the uninterrupted views, and the impression it made on the clients, that this was a law firm that consistently won.

We lived in the original historical building where the first law office was, our message being that we had been around for a long time and were reliable and resolute.  I thought the place creaked and groaned like an old sailing ship.

Clients like glass and concrete, not musty dark wood panelling that retained centuries of cigar smoke and carpets, well, I was never quite sure what that aroma was.

This office had lightning-fast elevators, an open layout where everyone had stunning views, and offices with glass walls.  There was nowhere to hide.  The breakout area was nothing less than spectacular.

It was where the receptionist left me, and where I made a cup of coffee with a machine that had a TV screen and lots of pictures of different types of coffee, but not one of just coffee.

Back home, our office had instant coffee in a large tin; you boiled the water and scooped sugar out of a large piece of vintage crockery. I didn’t have milk.

I was waiting for Jennifer Joan Rickerson.  She had an interesting voice on the phone, and I was eager to see if my imagination matched the reality.

“Mr Pargeter?”

The voice.  I turned and nearly dropped my cup.  It was the girl from the late-night office, in different clothes but just as stunning.  I noticed the slight wrinkle of her nose, a sign of disapproval.

I guess I was not her idea of lawyer material.

“I am.”

I was not sure if we shook hands, so I didn’t move, except to put the cup on the sink.

“I think you equally agree with me that there was no reason to send someone from your office.”

“I do.  But you try making the point with my boss. It’s a dotting the i and crossing the t exercise.”

She gave me one last disapproving look before saying, “We’re set up in the conference room.  The Caretaker’s lawyer will be coming in about an hour.”

I followed her into a large, very bright room surrounded by glass, with distracting views.

She sat at the head of the table, and I sat in the cheap seats.  I knew a lot about strategic seating, positions of power, and the place where the poor client, if necessary, was placed at a disadvantage.  She was obviously well-versed in strategy, especially when faced with a third-year legal representative.

The worst seat in the room was my biggest advantage.  That was why they could never see me coming.

“The Catetakers’ legal representatives had sent over their latest documents, which are in the blue folder.”

There were five folders, all different colours.  Their notes on the case were in the yellow folder.  Documents we had sent were in the green and purple folders.  The grey folder was empty; that was for today’s notes.

I took a plain manila folder out of my ancient satchel and slid it across the table.

“Another affidavit from the son.  He’s adamant that his mother would never create such a document, given how structured her life had been for so long.  Oddly, and with no relevance, my father was the most orderly man I ever knew, and in the last year of his life, that all fell apart.  I guess we don’t want to believe that it’s possible.”

Another of those rather interesting expressions that covered a multitude of thoughts.  If only I could read her mind…

“Anything is possible, but as you know, we only deal in facts, not possibilities.”

“Exactly.  What do you make of this case, based on the latest information supplied by the Catetaker?”

It would be interesting to hear what she thought.  I had made an assumption based on a single glance at the top page of the yellow folder.

“They have a strong case.  It’s going to come down to the court deciding the outcome.  Take a look at the documents and see what you think.  It’s going to be a battle to get any form of closure today, contrary to what is expected.”

“And if it was over fifty thousand dollars?” I asked, in my non-confrontational tone.

The look said it all.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 104 – Writing Exercise

…

He brushed the curtain to one side and looked out the window.

There had been no reason to.  Usually, he just arrived at a hotel, checked in, partially unpacked, had a shower and went to bed.

His employers didn’t believe that he should arrive in the morning, get settled, study up on the details for the meeting the next morning, and be ready, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Instead, because he was usually on the last plane, it was always late, arriving at the destination just before the airport closed, and often, it was almost impossible to get a cab into the city.

Which invariably made him tired and angry by the time he reached the hotel. 

He would be lucky to get three hours of sleep, if at all.

And lucky enough, this time, to get a room with a balcony.  He decided to get some fresh air before turning in.  The day had been hot, but the night was cool with a gentle breeze.  The room was cold from the air conditioning, which he had turned off.

He should be looking at the agenda for the following day.  Instead, he took a bottle of beer from the bar fridge, turned all the lights off behind him, and went out into the night.

After midnight, darkness had settled.  Office towers had only some areas lit, some floors in darkness, making the view look like a patchwork quilt.  Some floors were ablaze, perhaps waiting for the cleaners, or people were working back.

The neon advertising lights, glaringly bright, vied for attention, from the brighter colourful blinking advertisements atop buildings, standing out starkly against the black backdrop, to those static signs at ground level.

In the distance, a large stadium still had all the arc lights going, and it looked like a patch in daylight.  Had someone forgotten to turn the lights off?

In the morning, he would be hard-pressed to see any of it.

…

There was no rhyme or reason why his eyes ended up on a dull glow of a desk lamp in an office in a building almost across the road, on a diagonal line from his balcony.

He was standing in the darkness, the lighting of the room in the darkness, except for the bedside lamp, which was just visible from where he was standing.  It was dark on the balcony, and he would’ve been invisible to anyone looking his way.

The glow of the lamp showed a man and a woman in an office.  She was sitting on the desk, and he was sitting in his chair.  They had a look of familiarity about them, perhaps a pair in a relationship, perhaps married, perhaps an affair, his mind turning over the scenarios.

She was stunningly beautiful, still in her work clothes; he guessed she might be a lawyer or accountant, she had that university-acquired air of authority.  The man was all too familiar to him, the smartest man in the room type, the one who commanded attention. 

Politicians, law practice partner or management.  Definitely management.

The way she looked up at him, not the way a wife or girlfriend would.  There was something else going on there.

She laughed, that sort of laugh that changed her manner.  She was madly in love with him, and then he stood and came to her; she melded into his arms with a practised ease of long-term lovers.

Then, suddenly, the lights came on; someone had flicked a master switch. They were suddenly apart, and the whole atmosphere had changed.

Very businesslike.

The cleaners had arrived.

She collected her coat and handbag, gave a coy wave and headed off.  The secret assignation was over. 

It was true, he thought, that the janitorial staff were almost invisible.  The things they must know, if only they knew who they were.

…

I shrugged.  Enough of inventing the lives of others who were so much better off than I.

A third-year law clerk whose lot in life was to handle the small legal issues of our clients when we had to liaise with out-of-state matters.

This one was a deceased estate that the client’s mother had left behind, and a minor dispute over who had the final will. 

The client claimed to have the last true will and testament of Agatha Bernadette Williams, the lawyers who claim to represent the caretaker and his wife had what was a later will.

It was suspicious in the sense that the son, and rightful heir, according to him, had a detailed record of the last time his mother had made her will, with signed documents and statutory records of interviews and letters between the son and his mother.

The second will was simply writing on a piece of paper and was supported by two witnesses, not the caretaker and his wife, leaving everything to them.

It might not have been a problem if the estate were worth 50,000 dollars rather than fifty million, give or take.

The son considered the claim to be fake, my boss believed what the client told him, so they sent me.  I had very specific instructions.  Prove they were lying.  The problem, the lawyers, the caretaker and his wife had selected were very reputable and charged very high fees for one reason only.  They very rarely lost.

I had to wonder why they sent me into a legal minefield. 

I had a copy of the new will, the old will, reports from a handwriting expert, and a deposition from the son saying that the other will and the manner in which it was created were not done by his mother.

There was another document, the caretaker’s criminal history, and it didn’t make pleasant reading.

Why was it that money, particularly large chunks of it, brought out the worst in people?

…

I was staying in the hotel I was in because it was not far from the offices of our affiliate lawyers.  It was another reason why I was annoyed.  The affiliate lawyers could have sorted the problem, and I would not have had to get on a plane.

I hated planes.

I wanted to come by train, but my boss, Horace Aloysius Jacketine, the third, mind you, senior partner, determined this matter had to be settled now, today, no excuses, and no delays

I tried to argue the case for the local office, and failed.  One of us had to oversee it.  The lawyer handling the matter, Jennifer Joan Rickerson, herself from a long line of distinguished legal people, was disappointed.  I don’t blame her.  She was overqualified for a matter this small.

She did not play the female lawyer card, but I knew Horace had a low opinion of female lawyers, perhaps because he had been beaten by one once, and I suspected that had been his wife.  He married her, and she was no longer a competition.

Horace was a strange and remarkably out-of-date sort of man.  More than once, I thought he belonged in the late 1800s and had arrived here through a portal.  As you can appreciate, reading science fiction was almost the perfect escape from heavy legal matters.

I rose early and quickly scanned the documentation.  I was supposed to leave with the affiliate lawyers and request that they go through it before I left to return home.  Lawyers never moved that fast, but in this case, there seemed to be a rush for a result from both parties.

Something was not right.

…

My sixth sense got me the job at the law office.  That year, the candidates were given a case file and told to find what the key issues were so that a winning case could be prepared and executed.

Based on an old case that they had lost? I had heard from a previous intake candidate that it was a case that set the candidates up to fail.  No one had cracked it, and it was rumoured to be one of Horace’s old cases, and he refused to let it go.

I didn’t blame him.  The billable hours would have been worth a fortune.

We were given an hour, sat in a small, stuffy room, with a big binder of papers that hadn’t been filed properly, a fact that I realised later, but there was no need.  Discovery and document collection, and their collating, were always very messy.

I also learned a valuable lesson that day, that it was not a good idea to simply overlook something because it did fit a set of parameters.  The exercise in part was to sort out those who probed and those who glossed.

Five pages in, and my nose was twitching.

On page 397, I had the answer and wrote three lines on a sheet of legal note pad paper with the number they gave me, and I gave it to the receptionist, the same one who had looked down her nose at me when I arrived.

I doubted it would ever reach the person responsible and left feeling rather dejected.

But it did, and I got the job, the only one out of 29 candidates, and my first job was to write up the case in a way that we would have won.

After that, I got to work for Horace, which had its perks and its problems.

…

I took a dedicated elevator up to the 20th floor, where the law firm lived, atop the building.  It was that floor that cost a small fortune for the uninterrupted views, and the impression it made on the clients, that this was a law firm that consistently won.

We lived in the original historical building where the first law office was, our message being that we had been around for a long time and were reliable and resolute.  I thought the place creaked and groaned like an old sailing ship.

Clients like glass and concrete, not musty dark wood panelling that retained centuries of cigar smoke and carpets, well, I was never quite sure what that aroma was.

This office had lightning-fast elevators, an open layout where everyone had stunning views, and offices with glass walls.  There was nowhere to hide.  The breakout area was nothing less than spectacular.

It was where the receptionist left me, and where I made a cup of coffee with a machine that had a TV screen and lots of pictures of different types of coffee, but not one of just coffee.

Back home, our office had instant coffee in a large tin; you boiled the water and scooped sugar out of a large piece of vintage crockery. I didn’t have milk.

I was waiting for Jennifer Joan Rickerson.  She had an interesting voice on the phone, and I was eager to see if my imagination matched the reality.

“Mr Pargeter?”

The voice.  I turned and nearly dropped my cup.  It was the girl from the late-night office, in different clothes but just as stunning.  I noticed the slight wrinkle of her nose, a sign of disapproval.

I guess I was not her idea of lawyer material.

“I am.”

I was not sure if we shook hands, so I didn’t move, except to put the cup on the sink.

“I think you equally agree with me that there was no reason to send someone from your office.”

“I do.  But you try making the point with my boss. It’s a dotting the i and crossing the t exercise.”

She gave me one last disapproving look before saying, “We’re set up in the conference room.  The Caretaker’s lawyer will be coming in about an hour.”

I followed her into a large, very bright room surrounded by glass, with distracting views.

She sat at the head of the table, and I sat in the cheap seats.  I knew a lot about strategic seating, positions of power, and the place where the poor client, if necessary, was placed at a disadvantage.  She was obviously well-versed in strategy, especially when faced with a third-year legal representative.

The worst seat in the room was my biggest advantage.  That was why they could never see me coming.

“The Catetakers’ legal representatives had sent over their latest documents, which are in the blue folder.”

There were five folders, all different colours.  Their notes on the case were in the yellow folder.  Documents we had sent were in the green and purple folders.  The grey folder was empty; that was for today’s notes.

I took a plain manila folder out of my ancient satchel and slid it across the table.

“Another affidavit from the son.  He’s adamant that his mother would never create such a document, given how structured her life had been for so long.  Oddly, and with no relevance, my father was the most orderly man I ever knew, and in the last year of his life, that all fell apart.  I guess we don’t want to believe that it’s possible.”

Another of those rather interesting expressions that covered a multitude of thoughts.  If only I could read her mind…

“Anything is possible, but as you know, we only deal in facts, not possibilities.”

“Exactly.  What do you make of this case, based on the latest information supplied by the Catetaker?”

It would be interesting to hear what she thought.  I had made an assumption based on a single glance at the top page of the yellow folder.

“They have a strong case.  It’s going to come down to the court deciding the outcome.  Take a look at the documents and see what you think.  It’s going to be a battle to get any form of closure today, contrary to what is expected.”

“And if it was over fifty thousand dollars?” I asked, in my non-confrontational tone.

The look said it all.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026