Day 7 – Dealing with contentious issues

…

The Hot-Topic Tightrope: How to Take a Stand on Sensitive Issues Without Losing Your Following

You see it trending. A sensitive, divisive issue is lighting up social media, and a knot forms in your stomach. You have an opinion. A strong one. You feel a pull—a responsibility, even—to use your platform to say something.

But then the doubt creeps in. What if I say the wrong thing? What if half my followers unsubscribe overnight? What if I start a firestorm in my comments that I can’t control?

This is the modern public figure’s dilemma. You want to be authentic and engaged, but you fear the fallout. So, let’s get real about the question everyone is asking: Will taking a stand on a contentious issue cost you readers?

The uncomfortable answer is yes, it probably will. But that’s not the whole story.

The Inevitable (and Good) Loss of Readers

Here’s the thing about taking a stand on something that matters: it’s an act of clarification. You are drawing a line in the sand and saying, “This is what I believe in. This is what I stand for.”

The moment you do that, you create a filter. People who fundamentally disagree with your core values on that issue may indeed leave. They might unfollow, unsubscribe, or simply tune you out. And that’s okay.

In fact, it can be a good thing.

Chasing universal appeal is a recipe for being bland and forgettable. A smaller, deeply engaged audience that shares your values is infinitely more valuable than a massive list of passive followers who feel no real connection to you. The “readers” you lose were likely never your true community to begin with. They were just passers-by.

Think of it this way: you’re not losing followers; you’re refining your community. You’re attracting the people who will champion your work because they see themselves in it. You’re building a tribe, not just a crowd.

How to Avoid Problems: A 5-Step Strategic Framework

While losing some readers may be a natural consequence, starting an unnecessary war is not. You can engage with sensitive topics in a way that is thoughtful, constructive, and minimizes needless drama. The key is to be strategic, not reactive.

Before you hit “publish,” walk through this framework:

1. The ‘Why’ Check: Before You Post

Ask yourself a few critical, honest questions. Your motivation is everything.

• Why do I need to say this? Is it to educate, to support a community, to share my unique perspective, or just to vent?
• Am I adding value? Is what I’m about to say a new take, a personal story that illuminates the issue, or am I just echoing the noise?
• Am I emotionally triggered? If you’re posting from a place of pure rage or fear, take a beat. A considered response is always more powerful than a knee-jerk reaction.

2. Know Your Audience and Your Brand

Context is king. A statement from a political commentator is expected; the same statement from a food blogger might seem jarring. This doesn’t mean you can’t speak out, but it does mean you should be aware of your audience’s expectations. Acknowledge the shift if you need to: “You know me for talking about baking, but today I need to talk about something else that’s on my heart…” This shows self-awareness and respects your audience.

3. Focus on Principles, Not Personalities

This is the golden rule of constructive debate. Frame your argument around your values and principles, not around attacking a person or group.

• Instead of: “I can’t believe how ignorant Person X is!”
• Try: “I believe in a world where everyone has access to healthcare. Here’s why that principle is so important to me.”

The first statement invites a fight. The second invites a conversation. It’s much harder to argue against someone’s deeply held principles than it is to hurl insults back and forth.

4. Embrace Nuance and Acknowledge Complexity

Few issues are truly black and white. Using absolutist, all-or-nothing language will immediately alienate people who might otherwise be receptive. Show that you’ve considered the complexity of the issue.

Phrases like:

• “I know this is a complicated issue with many valid perspectives, but…”
• “I’m still learning about this, but my current thinking is…”
• “From my personal experience…”

These phrases don’t weaken your argument; they build credibility and show humility. They invite thoughtful discussion rather than a flame war.

5. Prepare for the Pushback (and Have a Plan)

Don’t post and run. Decide in advance how you’ll engage with the response.

• Define the line: What constitutes a healthy debate versus harassment or hate speech? Have a clear comment policy in mind.
• Decide your level of engagement: Will you reply to questions? Will you correct misinformation? Will you ignore trolls?
• Protect your peace: It is 100% acceptable to block, mute, or delete abusive comments. Your platform is your home; you don’t have to entertain vandals.

Knowing your plan beforehand prevents you from being dragged into a draining, unproductive argument in the heat of the moment.

The Power of Knowing When Not to Speak

Finally, one of the most powerful skills you can develop is knowing when silence is the strongest statement. You do not have to comment on everything. Choosing not to speak is a valid and often wise strategic choice.

Consider staying silent if:

• You are not deeply informed on the topic and would be adding noise rather than insight.
• The issue doesn’t intersect with your expertise or lived experience, and your voice would end up centring yourself instead of amplifying those most affected.
• You are not in the right headspace to engage constructively.

Your platform is a tool, not an obligation. Use it intentionally.

Walk the Tightrope with Confidence

Taking a stand as a public figure is a tightrope walk, but it doesn’t have to be a reckless one. Yes, you risk losing some followers, but in doing so, you gain something far more valuable: a clarified brand, a more loyal community, and the integrity that comes from speaking your truth.

The goal isn’t to keep everyone happy. It’s to build something meaningful around what you believe. Be thoughtful, be strategic, and be brave. Your right readers will be right there with you.

Day 7 – Dealing with contentious issues

…

The Hot-Topic Tightrope: How to Take a Stand on Sensitive Issues Without Losing Your Following

You see it trending. A sensitive, divisive issue is lighting up social media, and a knot forms in your stomach. You have an opinion. A strong one. You feel a pull—a responsibility, even—to use your platform to say something.

But then the doubt creeps in. What if I say the wrong thing? What if half my followers unsubscribe overnight? What if I start a firestorm in my comments that I can’t control?

This is the modern public figure’s dilemma. You want to be authentic and engaged, but you fear the fallout. So, let’s get real about the question everyone is asking: Will taking a stand on a contentious issue cost you readers?

The uncomfortable answer is yes, it probably will. But that’s not the whole story.

The Inevitable (and Good) Loss of Readers

Here’s the thing about taking a stand on something that matters: it’s an act of clarification. You are drawing a line in the sand and saying, “This is what I believe in. This is what I stand for.”

The moment you do that, you create a filter. People who fundamentally disagree with your core values on that issue may indeed leave. They might unfollow, unsubscribe, or simply tune you out. And that’s okay.

In fact, it can be a good thing.

Chasing universal appeal is a recipe for being bland and forgettable. A smaller, deeply engaged audience that shares your values is infinitely more valuable than a massive list of passive followers who feel no real connection to you. The “readers” you lose were likely never your true community to begin with. They were just passers-by.

Think of it this way: you’re not losing followers; you’re refining your community. You’re attracting the people who will champion your work because they see themselves in it. You’re building a tribe, not just a crowd.

How to Avoid Problems: A 5-Step Strategic Framework

While losing some readers may be a natural consequence, starting an unnecessary war is not. You can engage with sensitive topics in a way that is thoughtful, constructive, and minimizes needless drama. The key is to be strategic, not reactive.

Before you hit “publish,” walk through this framework:

1. The ‘Why’ Check: Before You Post

Ask yourself a few critical, honest questions. Your motivation is everything.

• Why do I need to say this? Is it to educate, to support a community, to share my unique perspective, or just to vent?
• Am I adding value? Is what I’m about to say a new take, a personal story that illuminates the issue, or am I just echoing the noise?
• Am I emotionally triggered? If you’re posting from a place of pure rage or fear, take a beat. A considered response is always more powerful than a knee-jerk reaction.

2. Know Your Audience and Your Brand

Context is king. A statement from a political commentator is expected; the same statement from a food blogger might seem jarring. This doesn’t mean you can’t speak out, but it does mean you should be aware of your audience’s expectations. Acknowledge the shift if you need to: “You know me for talking about baking, but today I need to talk about something else that’s on my heart…” This shows self-awareness and respects your audience.

3. Focus on Principles, Not Personalities

This is the golden rule of constructive debate. Frame your argument around your values and principles, not around attacking a person or group.

• Instead of: “I can’t believe how ignorant Person X is!”
• Try: “I believe in a world where everyone has access to healthcare. Here’s why that principle is so important to me.”

The first statement invites a fight. The second invites a conversation. It’s much harder to argue against someone’s deeply held principles than it is to hurl insults back and forth.

4. Embrace Nuance and Acknowledge Complexity

Few issues are truly black and white. Using absolutist, all-or-nothing language will immediately alienate people who might otherwise be receptive. Show that you’ve considered the complexity of the issue.

Phrases like:

• “I know this is a complicated issue with many valid perspectives, but…”
• “I’m still learning about this, but my current thinking is…”
• “From my personal experience…”

These phrases don’t weaken your argument; they build credibility and show humility. They invite thoughtful discussion rather than a flame war.

5. Prepare for the Pushback (and Have a Plan)

Don’t post and run. Decide in advance how you’ll engage with the response.

• Define the line: What constitutes a healthy debate versus harassment or hate speech? Have a clear comment policy in mind.
• Decide your level of engagement: Will you reply to questions? Will you correct misinformation? Will you ignore trolls?
• Protect your peace: It is 100% acceptable to block, mute, or delete abusive comments. Your platform is your home; you don’t have to entertain vandals.

Knowing your plan beforehand prevents you from being dragged into a draining, unproductive argument in the heat of the moment.

The Power of Knowing When Not to Speak

Finally, one of the most powerful skills you can develop is knowing when silence is the strongest statement. You do not have to comment on everything. Choosing not to speak is a valid and often wise strategic choice.

Consider staying silent if:

• You are not deeply informed on the topic and would be adding noise rather than insight.
• The issue doesn’t intersect with your expertise or lived experience, and your voice would end up centring yourself instead of amplifying those most affected.
• You are not in the right headspace to engage constructively.

Your platform is a tool, not an obligation. Use it intentionally.

Walk the Tightrope with Confidence

Taking a stand as a public figure is a tightrope walk, but it doesn’t have to be a reckless one. Yes, you risk losing some followers, but in doing so, you gain something far more valuable: a clarified brand, a more loyal community, and the integrity that comes from speaking your truth.

The goal isn’t to keep everyone happy. It’s to build something meaningful around what you believe. Be thoughtful, be strategic, and be brave. Your right readers will be right there with you.

Day 6 – Writing exercise

Writing exercise

You’ve got a habit of being in the wrong place, don’t you, Sam? But this time…

…

Everyone was busy.  

The morning meeting, where the boss sat at the head of a long table, and the writing staff sat, waiting for either a bollocking or an assignment, had travelled along the usual path.

The boss was the typical editor, loud, opinionated, and acerbic.  Very few could remember him being complimentary.

I sat at the end of the table, the opposite end, and as far away from him as I could get.  He hated me more than any other.

I looked around.

Whether or not they liked their assignments or the request for a rewrite, it was hard to tell.  No one wanted to be seen shirking.

Yes, he called it shirking if you were not pounding the keyboard, working on tomorrow’s news today.

And because he hated me, I was last, got the full-on death stare and then in those oily words dispensed with forced amiability, “Jacobs, you got the dead guy, what’s his name, Rickard, Richard…”

“Ricardo,” a mousey voice called out, his current ‘favourite’.

“That dead guy.  A thousand scintillating words.”

Then the expansive glare around the table, “Well, what are you lot waiting for?”

Al, just up from me, muttered, under his breath, “A written invitation.”  As he did in every meeting.

Another obituary.  Another nobody that needed life breathed into the corpse. 

A gopher dropped a file on my desk as he went past, not stopping.  Not worth the five minutes of hell from the boss about wasting time on idle chatter.

A single page, a name, and an address.  Several notes that highlighted a nothing life.  Too young to have a life.  Too young to die.  Too young for scintillating words.

Cause of death?  Heart failure.

His photo belied the notion that he had anything remotely wrong with his heart.  Adonis himself would be jealous.

Coroner’s report?  Heart failure, cause unknown.

Not obese, not too thin, none of the danger signs that he was heart attack material, I knew my way around a medical report and this one?

Something was not right.  Was the boss testing me, see if I could see if there was anything more?

Of course, I’d been down this path before and come a cropper.  No, the boss took anything I requested with a grain of salt.

“Just report the facts.  Don’t embellish, don’t add your suspicions, ten times out of ten you’re going to be wrong.”

And infurioratingly he was right.

Which meant I had to get creative.
…

The name Freddie Ricardo brought up 100,000 plus hits on the search engine, but I found one entry that pointed to an Instagram page that loaded, then disappeared.

Like completely disappeared, returning a 404 error when I tried to reload it.  Someone had deleted it just after I found it.

Why?

Who would care?

From the fleeting look I got of it, it was just a guy’s page that had photos of him and friends guzzling beer and either hunting, fishing or acting stupid.

Very unaccountant-like. 

Next step, go to the address.

A suburban street, quiet, an old house, run down and in need of repair, garden overgrown.  Two car wrecks in the front yard, and an antique car in the driveway.

I sat outside the house for an hour, not a creature stirred, not even a mouse.  The car suggested someone was inside, but they didn’t look out the windows, and they didn’t turn any lights on.

At the end of the hour, I got out of the car and walked over to the front door.  The fence was falling over, the gate off its hinges, held up by the weeds and growth around it.

The door had peeling paint, but the lock and handle were new.  The verandah boards were rotting and in places broken.  They creaked as I walked on them.

I knocked.  No answer. 

I checked the car in the driveway.  A fine film of dust covered it, telling me it hadn’t moved in days, maybe a week.

One of the neighbours came out and looked over.

“Who are you?”  It wasn’t a polite question.

“Does Freddie Ricardo live here?”

“Did.  Who wants to know?”

“I’m from the newspaper, asked to do a small piece on him.”

“No need.  He wouldn’t want it.”

“Anyone else live here?”

“His sister.  She ain’t here at the moment.  I’m keeping an eye on the place.  Now, I suggest you leave.”

A sister.  Rather a large omission in the briefing paper provided.  Research was slipping.

“Fair enough.”

A last look, I went back to the car.  I waited, but the neighbour didn’t leave his porch.  When he reached for his cell phone, I left.

…

Before going back to the office, I went to the city administration building and met up with an acquaintance who got me a copy of the deed for the house.

It had belonged to the parents, then was handed down to the elder daughter, Bethany.  There were only two of them, Bethany and Freddie.  He didn’t have a stake in the house.

I ran Bethany’s name in the search engine, and it brought back a few thousand hits, the first with a picture of a brother and sister on the front porch.

The second was a photo of her in a gondola in Venice with a man, Italian perhaps.  She didn’t look happy.

From what I could see, the brother and sister were not similar, so maybe step-siblings. 

Bethany also had titles to three other houses in the city.  Perhaps she lived at one of those addresses and let her little brother stay at the address I called on.

Another acquaintance looked up the car registrations, and for the other cars the siblings had, of which there were four, including one for Freddie.

It was not mentioned in the police report at the crime scene, nor was it at the house, so it might still be somewhere else.

I had another five pieces of paper to go with the photo of the victim and the coroner’s report.  It didn’t amount to much.

…

I thought about inventing a thousand words and making him a traitor, but the boss would see through it.

The alternative wasn’t much better; tell him I had nothing, well, suspicions.

I knocked on the door, and he growled something unintelligible.  Not a good day.

“What have you got?”  He didn’t look up.

“Missing car, expensive.  Job belies the income to have it.   Looks belie the cause of death.”

“And you infer?”

“Drugs, using, selling.  Has a sister in Italy, or not?  Needs a deep dive.”

“Is that it?”

“Been to the house.  Looks like a mess, but I checked the values.  It’s a gold mine for someone.”

“No one home?”

“Not for a week.”

“Talk to your police friends, see if they’ve got a rap sheet.  Police miss the car?”

“Not in their report, not where he died.”

He looked up.  “Find it, find the sister, talk to the neighbours.  Go.”

No third degree, so sarcasm, just barked orders.  But I wasn’t going to count the chickens just yet.

…

3am was always the best time to surprise people.  My father once said that the best time to get answers was when people were unprepared.

He had been a policeman and kicked doors in at or just before dawn.  Disorientation, gear, terror at dawn.  Worked a treat.

I wasn’t kicking the door in.  I was visiting.

And hopefully the house was still empty.

The back window was unlocked and opened easily.  I was able to get to the back because of a quirk in the planning of the estate.  The house had a narrow walkway behind it, a public thoroughfare.

At 3 a.m., no one would be about.

I hope.

There wasn’t.  The back fence was as bad as the front, with a gap wide enough to squeeze through.  The back yard was worse than the front, three cars hidden by undergrowth.

Tripped once and crashed into a car.  It hurt

It took a few minutes to get inside.  It smelled badly of wet paper and damp.  The floorboards creaked.  Several pilot lights were giving off just enough light to see by, once my eyes adjusted.

Signs of recent habitation.  Fast food wrappers, health drinks, cigarette butts, and beer cans.  Half-eaten food with mould.  A week, perhaps longer, since anyone was there.

Upstairs.

The reason for the bad smell.

A body, not the sister, but a woman. 

No sign of a bag.  Dead, checked while trying not to be sick, downstairs, found the bag, wallet, ID.  Jessie Walker.  This was the residential address; her car was outside.

Long enough to find nothing else.  If the place had been tossed, it was done by a professional.

I left.

Found a phone booth and called the police to report the body.

I got back to my car to find two men waiting.  There wasn’t much use in running.

“At it again, Sam?”

The two cops that my father had asked to keep me on the straight and narrow.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t insult us, Sam.  You know what we’re talking about.  You can’t be poking around crime scenes.”

How did they know where I’d been?  I’d only just called it in.

They knew.  I’d known my father had not exactly been clean, not as clean as he said he was, and besides, clean cops were not murdered in a mob hit. No, these were two acolytes.

“How do you…”

Lance, the more senior of the two, shook his head. “Tsk, task, Sam.  Wrong place, wrong time.  Don’t make a habit of it now, will you, son?”

I shook my head in that obedient fashion they liked.

“Good boy.”  Borg patted me on the head like I was a good boy.  I was anything but.  A chip off the old block.

“Good lad.  Leave this one alone.”

A parting pat on the back, and they left.  Was I going to heed good advice?  No.  I waited for an hour, and then I started searching for details on the internet.

Jessie Walker was famous.  Over a million hits in the search engine, and fascinating in death as much as she was in life.  For a police commissioner’s wife of three weeks.

She looked so much more interesting alive when splashed all over the front page of the city daily.  In death, she would barely rate a second glance.

And what did she have to do with Freddie and Bethany Riccardo?  Tomorrow was not going to be a good day.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 6 – Writing exercise

Writing exercise

You’ve got a habit of being in the wrong place, don’t you, Sam? But this time…

…

Everyone was busy.  

The morning meeting, where the boss sat at the head of a long table, and the writing staff sat, waiting for either a bollocking or an assignment, had travelled along the usual path.

The boss was the typical editor, loud, opinionated, and acerbic.  Very few could remember him being complimentary.

I sat at the end of the table, the opposite end, and as far away from him as I could get.  He hated me more than any other.

I looked around.

Whether or not they liked their assignments or the request for a rewrite, it was hard to tell.  No one wanted to be seen shirking.

Yes, he called it shirking if you were not pounding the keyboard, working on tomorrow’s news today.

And because he hated me, I was last, got the full-on death stare and then in those oily words dispensed with forced amiability, “Jacobs, you got the dead guy, what’s his name, Rickard, Richard…”

“Ricardo,” a mousey voice called out, his current ‘favourite’.

“That dead guy.  A thousand scintillating words.”

Then the expansive glare around the table, “Well, what are you lot waiting for?”

Al, just up from me, muttered, under his breath, “A written invitation.”  As he did in every meeting.

Another obituary.  Another nobody that needed life breathed into the corpse. 

A gopher dropped a file on my desk as he went past, not stopping.  Not worth the five minutes of hell from the boss about wasting time on idle chatter.

A single page, a name, and an address.  Several notes that highlighted a nothing life.  Too young to have a life.  Too young to die.  Too young for scintillating words.

Cause of death?  Heart failure.

His photo belied the notion that he had anything remotely wrong with his heart.  Adonis himself would be jealous.

Coroner’s report?  Heart failure, cause unknown.

Not obese, not too thin, none of the danger signs that he was heart attack material, I knew my way around a medical report and this one?

Something was not right.  Was the boss testing me, see if I could see if there was anything more?

Of course, I’d been down this path before and come a cropper.  No, the boss took anything I requested with a grain of salt.

“Just report the facts.  Don’t embellish, don’t add your suspicions, ten times out of ten you’re going to be wrong.”

And infurioratingly he was right.

Which meant I had to get creative.
…

The name Freddie Ricardo brought up 100,000 plus hits on the search engine, but I found one entry that pointed to an Instagram page that loaded, then disappeared.

Like completely disappeared, returning a 404 error when I tried to reload it.  Someone had deleted it just after I found it.

Why?

Who would care?

From the fleeting look I got of it, it was just a guy’s page that had photos of him and friends guzzling beer and either hunting, fishing or acting stupid.

Very unaccountant-like. 

Next step, go to the address.

A suburban street, quiet, an old house, run down and in need of repair, garden overgrown.  Two car wrecks in the front yard, and an antique car in the driveway.

I sat outside the house for an hour, not a creature stirred, not even a mouse.  The car suggested someone was inside, but they didn’t look out the windows, and they didn’t turn any lights on.

At the end of the hour, I got out of the car and walked over to the front door.  The fence was falling over, the gate off its hinges, held up by the weeds and growth around it.

The door had peeling paint, but the lock and handle were new.  The verandah boards were rotting and in places broken.  They creaked as I walked on them.

I knocked.  No answer. 

I checked the car in the driveway.  A fine film of dust covered it, telling me it hadn’t moved in days, maybe a week.

One of the neighbours came out and looked over.

“Who are you?”  It wasn’t a polite question.

“Does Freddie Ricardo live here?”

“Did.  Who wants to know?”

“I’m from the newspaper, asked to do a small piece on him.”

“No need.  He wouldn’t want it.”

“Anyone else live here?”

“His sister.  She ain’t here at the moment.  I’m keeping an eye on the place.  Now, I suggest you leave.”

A sister.  Rather a large omission in the briefing paper provided.  Research was slipping.

“Fair enough.”

A last look, I went back to the car.  I waited, but the neighbour didn’t leave his porch.  When he reached for his cell phone, I left.

…

Before going back to the office, I went to the city administration building and met up with an acquaintance who got me a copy of the deed for the house.

It had belonged to the parents, then was handed down to the elder daughter, Bethany.  There were only two of them, Bethany and Freddie.  He didn’t have a stake in the house.

I ran Bethany’s name in the search engine, and it brought back a few thousand hits, the first with a picture of a brother and sister on the front porch.

The second was a photo of her in a gondola in Venice with a man, Italian perhaps.  She didn’t look happy.

From what I could see, the brother and sister were not similar, so maybe step-siblings. 

Bethany also had titles to three other houses in the city.  Perhaps she lived at one of those addresses and let her little brother stay at the address I called on.

Another acquaintance looked up the car registrations, and for the other cars the siblings had, of which there were four, including one for Freddie.

It was not mentioned in the police report at the crime scene, nor was it at the house, so it might still be somewhere else.

I had another five pieces of paper to go with the photo of the victim and the coroner’s report.  It didn’t amount to much.

…

I thought about inventing a thousand words and making him a traitor, but the boss would see through it.

The alternative wasn’t much better; tell him I had nothing, well, suspicions.

I knocked on the door, and he growled something unintelligible.  Not a good day.

“What have you got?”  He didn’t look up.

“Missing car, expensive.  Job belies the income to have it.   Looks belie the cause of death.”

“And you infer?”

“Drugs, using, selling.  Has a sister in Italy, or not?  Needs a deep dive.”

“Is that it?”

“Been to the house.  Looks like a mess, but I checked the values.  It’s a gold mine for someone.”

“No one home?”

“Not for a week.”

“Talk to your police friends, see if they’ve got a rap sheet.  Police miss the car?”

“Not in their report, not where he died.”

He looked up.  “Find it, find the sister, talk to the neighbours.  Go.”

No third degree, so sarcasm, just barked orders.  But I wasn’t going to count the chickens just yet.

…

3am was always the best time to surprise people.  My father once said that the best time to get answers was when people were unprepared.

He had been a policeman and kicked doors in at or just before dawn.  Disorientation, gear, terror at dawn.  Worked a treat.

I wasn’t kicking the door in.  I was visiting.

And hopefully the house was still empty.

The back window was unlocked and opened easily.  I was able to get to the back because of a quirk in the planning of the estate.  The house had a narrow walkway behind it, a public thoroughfare.

At 3 a.m., no one would be about.

I hope.

There wasn’t.  The back fence was as bad as the front, with a gap wide enough to squeeze through.  The back yard was worse than the front, three cars hidden by undergrowth.

Tripped once and crashed into a car.  It hurt

It took a few minutes to get inside.  It smelled badly of wet paper and damp.  The floorboards creaked.  Several pilot lights were giving off just enough light to see by, once my eyes adjusted.

Signs of recent habitation.  Fast food wrappers, health drinks, cigarette butts, and beer cans.  Half-eaten food with mould.  A week, perhaps longer, since anyone was there.

Upstairs.

The reason for the bad smell.

A body, not the sister, but a woman. 

No sign of a bag.  Dead, checked while trying not to be sick, downstairs, found the bag, wallet, ID.  Jessie Walker.  This was the residential address; her car was outside.

Long enough to find nothing else.  If the place had been tossed, it was done by a professional.

I left.

Found a phone booth and called the police to report the body.

I got back to my car to find two men waiting.  There wasn’t much use in running.

“At it again, Sam?”

The two cops that my father had asked to keep me on the straight and narrow.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t insult us, Sam.  You know what we’re talking about.  You can’t be poking around crime scenes.”

How did they know where I’d been?  I’d only just called it in.

They knew.  I’d known my father had not exactly been clean, not as clean as he said he was, and besides, clean cops were not murdered in a mob hit. No, these were two acolytes.

“How do you…”

Lance, the more senior of the two, shook his head. “Tsk, task, Sam.  Wrong place, wrong time.  Don’t make a habit of it now, will you, son?”

I shook my head in that obedient fashion they liked.

“Good boy.”  Borg patted me on the head like I was a good boy.  I was anything but.  A chip off the old block.

“Good lad.  Leave this one alone.”

A parting pat on the back, and they left.  Was I going to heed good advice?  No.  I waited for an hour, and then I started searching for details on the internet.

Jessie Walker was famous.  Over a million hits in the search engine, and fascinating in death as much as she was in life.  For a police commissioner’s wife of three weeks.

She looked so much more interesting alive when splashed all over the front page of the city daily.  In death, she would barely rate a second glance.

And what did she have to do with Freddie and Bethany Riccardo?  Tomorrow was not going to be a good day.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 5 – Fiction based on fact

…

Finding the Balance: When Factual Background Meets Narrative Flow

Introduction
Imagine being immersed in a gripping novel, only to have the story halted by a lengthy explanation of 17th-century tax policies. Or picture a documentary where key context is skipped entirely, leaving you puzzled about the stakes. This is the delicate tightrope every writer walks: providing enough factual background to ground the reader while maintaining a timeline that serves the narrative. Whether you’re crafting fiction, non-fiction, or creative non-fiction, striking this balance is essential to keep your audience engaged and informed.

---

The Pitfalls of Overloading Factual Background

Factual background gives readers context, but when it overpowers the narrative, it becomes a barrier. Consider these scenarios:

• Info Dumps: A historical novel that pauses for a 500-word description of a forgotten dynasty halfway through a chase scene.
• Date Overload: A memoir listing every event in chronological order, turning the story into an encyclopedic list rather than a journey.

Impact on Engagement
Studies show that readers lose interest when factual content disrupts the flow. Excessive background can create “cognitive overload,” where the reader becomes overwhelmed and disengages. For example, a thriller filled with period-accurate military tactics might lose readers who just want to follow the protagonist’s survival.

When It Works
However, rich detail can elevate a story. The Da Vinci Code weaves historical facts into its plot without halting action, using suspense to justify context. The key is integration—not isolation.

---

The Challenge of Chronological vs. Non-Chronological Timelines

Timelines guide where and how the story unfolds. Sticking to a timeline ensures clarity, but deviations can add depth.

Stick to the Script: When Chronology is Key
In non-fiction, like biographies or historical analysis, strict timelines are essential for accuracy. A book about the Cold War, for example, must present events in order to maintain logical cause-and-effect.

Creative Chronology: Bending Time for Drama
Fiction often thrives on non-linear timelines. The Social Network uses a fragmented structure to build suspense around the founding of Facebook, while Lincoln sticks to a chronological rise. The choice depends on your genre:

• Fiction: Use flashbacks or parallel timelines to reveal character motivations (e.g., Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell).
• Non-fiction: A memoir might jump between time periods to highlight personal growth, provided transitions are clear.

The Danger of Anachronisms
Even in creative works, respecting timelines is crucial. A medieval knight quoting Shakespearean phrases or a 1920s novel lacking air travel would shatter credibility. Research is your safeguard.

---

Techniques to Balance Background and Story

How can writers integrate necessary information without overload? Here are practical strategies:

1. Show, Don’t Tell
   • Reveal historical context through a character’s actions (e.g., a soldier’s uniform indicating the time period).
   • Use dialogue to drop clues: “The war’s end came as a shock,” a character might say, subtly signalling war’s conclusion.
2. Summarise, Then Deepen
   • Start with a brief summary of the context. Introduce deeper details only when they’re relevant to the plot. For instance, a character researching a family heirloom can naturally uncover its history.
3. Pace Your Exposition
   • Introduce background in “micro-doses.” If writing a fantasy novel about a magical kingdom, sprinkle details about its politics through different scenes: a conversation, a newspaper article, or a character’s memory.
4. Use Tools of the Trade
   • In Media Res: Begin in the middle of the action and provide context as the story unfolds.
   • Signposts: Guide the reader with clear transitions when shifting timelines.

---

Case Studies in Balance

• Book Example: Pride and Prejudice assumes readers understand 19th-century social hierarchies—Jane Austen implies, rather than explains, the system through character interactions.
• Film Example: Inception (2010) layers timelines with clear visual cues, ensuring the complex plot remains graspable.
• Podcast Example: Serial uses background episodes to build context in a story-heavy format, balancing narration with interviews.

---

Conclusion: Striking the Right Rhythm

Finding the balance between factual background and narrative flow is as much an art as it is a craft. Ask yourself:

• Is this detail essential to the story or character development?
• Would a timeline shift enhance the narrative, or confuse the reader?

Remember, your audience’s expectations matter. A historical mystery might require more context than a modern workplace drama. Use beta readers to pinpoint where facts eclipse the story or where confusion lingers.

Final Takeaway: Trust your reader. Provide enough to ground them, and no more. Let the timeline serve the story, not the other way around. With practice, this balance will transform from a challenge into a narrative strength.

Now, go write—without overwriting!

---

Call to Action: Share your favourite example of a story that balanced context and narrative perfectly. How did it keep you hooked? Let’s discuss in the comments!

Day 5 – Fiction based on fact

…

Finding the Balance: When Factual Background Meets Narrative Flow

Introduction
Imagine being immersed in a gripping novel, only to have the story halted by a lengthy explanation of 17th-century tax policies. Or picture a documentary where key context is skipped entirely, leaving you puzzled about the stakes. This is the delicate tightrope every writer walks: providing enough factual background to ground the reader while maintaining a timeline that serves the narrative. Whether you’re crafting fiction, non-fiction, or creative non-fiction, striking this balance is essential to keep your audience engaged and informed.

---

The Pitfalls of Overloading Factual Background

Factual background gives readers context, but when it overpowers the narrative, it becomes a barrier. Consider these scenarios:

• Info Dumps: A historical novel that pauses for a 500-word description of a forgotten dynasty halfway through a chase scene.
• Date Overload: A memoir listing every event in chronological order, turning the story into an encyclopedic list rather than a journey.

Impact on Engagement
Studies show that readers lose interest when factual content disrupts the flow. Excessive background can create “cognitive overload,” where the reader becomes overwhelmed and disengages. For example, a thriller filled with period-accurate military tactics might lose readers who just want to follow the protagonist’s survival.

When It Works
However, rich detail can elevate a story. The Da Vinci Code weaves historical facts into its plot without halting action, using suspense to justify context. The key is integration—not isolation.

---

The Challenge of Chronological vs. Non-Chronological Timelines

Timelines guide where and how the story unfolds. Sticking to a timeline ensures clarity, but deviations can add depth.

Stick to the Script: When Chronology is Key
In non-fiction, like biographies or historical analysis, strict timelines are essential for accuracy. A book about the Cold War, for example, must present events in order to maintain logical cause-and-effect.

Creative Chronology: Bending Time for Drama
Fiction often thrives on non-linear timelines. The Social Network uses a fragmented structure to build suspense around the founding of Facebook, while Lincoln sticks to a chronological rise. The choice depends on your genre:

• Fiction: Use flashbacks or parallel timelines to reveal character motivations (e.g., Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell).
• Non-fiction: A memoir might jump between time periods to highlight personal growth, provided transitions are clear.

The Danger of Anachronisms
Even in creative works, respecting timelines is crucial. A medieval knight quoting Shakespearean phrases or a 1920s novel lacking air travel would shatter credibility. Research is your safeguard.

---

Techniques to Balance Background and Story

How can writers integrate necessary information without overload? Here are practical strategies:

1. Show, Don’t Tell
   • Reveal historical context through a character’s actions (e.g., a soldier’s uniform indicating the time period).
   • Use dialogue to drop clues: “The war’s end came as a shock,” a character might say, subtly signalling war’s conclusion.
2. Summarise, Then Deepen
   • Start with a brief summary of the context. Introduce deeper details only when they’re relevant to the plot. For instance, a character researching a family heirloom can naturally uncover its history.
3. Pace Your Exposition
   • Introduce background in “micro-doses.” If writing a fantasy novel about a magical kingdom, sprinkle details about its politics through different scenes: a conversation, a newspaper article, or a character’s memory.
4. Use Tools of the Trade
   • In Media Res: Begin in the middle of the action and provide context as the story unfolds.
   • Signposts: Guide the reader with clear transitions when shifting timelines.

---

Case Studies in Balance

• Book Example: Pride and Prejudice assumes readers understand 19th-century social hierarchies—Jane Austen implies, rather than explains, the system through character interactions.
• Film Example: Inception (2010) layers timelines with clear visual cues, ensuring the complex plot remains graspable.
• Podcast Example: Serial uses background episodes to build context in a story-heavy format, balancing narration with interviews.

---

Conclusion: Striking the Right Rhythm

Finding the balance between factual background and narrative flow is as much an art as it is a craft. Ask yourself:

• Is this detail essential to the story or character development?
• Would a timeline shift enhance the narrative, or confuse the reader?

Remember, your audience’s expectations matter. A historical mystery might require more context than a modern workplace drama. Use beta readers to pinpoint where facts eclipse the story or where confusion lingers.

Final Takeaway: Trust your reader. Provide enough to ground them, and no more. Let the timeline serve the story, not the other way around. With practice, this balance will transform from a challenge into a narrative strength.

Now, go write—without overwriting!

---

Call to Action: Share your favourite example of a story that balanced context and narrative perfectly. How did it keep you hooked? Let’s discuss in the comments!

Days 3 and 4 – Writing exercise

…

There was a break in the proceedings, and I had just stepped out of the room to make a call.  I had excused myself for a few minutes, but for some reason, the atmosphere in the meeting room became oppressive.

Like someone had deliberately raised the temperature to just below comfortable.

The main doors opened out onto an elevator foyer, which was by a large glass observation deck that jutted out into space.  It was meant to be a feature where one could walk onto the glass floor and look down forty floors to the street below.

And if one looked out, almost the length of Central Park, and beyond.  I made the call, but there was no answer.  That was a surprise, because someone had always answered before.

Then, one moment I was looking down, all the way down to the sidewall, and the next moment, I was sitting in a chair by the double door entrance to the meeting room.

I had no idea how I got there.

It was like I had just woken from a long sleep, opened my eyes, and there I was.

But I didn’t know or couldn’t remember where that was, except I’d been there before.

“Sir?  Sir?”  A young lady in what looked like a military uniform was standing beside me, looking concerned.

I looked up, my eyes taking a moment to focus.

“Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

An odd question.  I felt alright; there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with me.

“Do you know where you are?”

Silly question.  I knew exactly where I was.

“Taking a break from the meeting.”

She looked perplexed.  “Sir, there is no meeting.  Not today.”

She addressed me as if she knew who I was.  I tried to stand, but I could not get out of the chair.  My whole body felt like a ton of weight.

I tried to think, and it was like walking under water against the tide.  I looked around me.  I know where this is, don’t I?

And yet nothing came into my mind.  Why was I here? Where exactly was here?

“I’m sorry.  It’s confusing.”

“Are you alright?”

All of a sudden if felt like the building was spinning, or perhaps I was, and the sensation was suddenly scaring me.

I closed my eyes and prayed it would stop.

It wouldn’t. 

But before I had time to ask for help, I lost consciousness.

…

I woke to the sound of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony.  In fact, it had been in my subconscious before waking, and was probably what woke me.

It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t coming from a specific place, it just felt like I was right in the middle of an orchestra that was playing it.

Except when I surfaced, as if I had been underwater, it was simply there, in the air, all around me.

I was lying on the floor.

Odd, because in the back of my mind, my last thought was of being in the middle of a speech, though what it was about, for the moment, eluded me.

I looked around, but there was no one else.

The thought of looking out over Central Park returned, and I sat up.

Not in a room with windows.  Not with anything other than a camera with a red flashing light, near the roof.

I couldn’t see a door, but then, the lighting was subdued.

I stood, taking less effort than I thought it might and did a circuit of the walls.  It was too dark to see properly, but there would be a door.

Somewhere.

I tried to remember what happened, how I ended up in this room.  That would remain a mystery.  Before that, there was still that impression I had been in the middle of a speech.

About?

The interference and demands by the government in the execution of clandestine operations that are deemed secret, for obvious reasons.

I think I’d reached the point where I was looking around at the sea of expectant faces, of men and women who were waiting for the final argument.

I stopped on one particular face, a woman, about my age, who was relatively old, and a surprise in a room full of people who at best were in their late 30s.

Why was she there?

And why was she positioned so that it would be very difficult to see, much less identify her?

A fractional moment before moving on, fractional enough to lose track of where I was, and what I was about to say next.

What was I going to say next?

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.

…

Another room, very bright, with a table and two chairs.  I was sitting on one.  It was a cheap plastic single mold very uncomfortable.

The sort used as outdoor furniture is built to endure seasons of dramatic climactic changes.  I had some myself out on the deck, back at the cabin, a place I realised I should be rather than here.

Where was here, by the way?

The door opened, and an old woman came in.  She seemed familiar; I had seen her before.

Somewhere.

I never realised my memory was so bad.

She sat opposite, squirming to find a comfortable position, her expression telling me there wasn’t one.  Not for old folks.

“Emil?”

That was one of my names, but not today.

“Who?”

She smiled.  Damn, I know that face.

“Are we going to play games?”

Did we, once?  “Anastasia?  I think once I referred to you as the Tsar’s missing daughter.  You certainly looked like a Princess.”

“You remember?”

“Not exactly.  The face is familiar, and the name was dancing on the tip of my tongue.  If it is who I think you are, you look very good for a person whose been dead for twenty years.”

“You shot me.”

“In self-defence.  I still feel the aches and pains, and limp from that shot.  What did you expect?”

“I was trying to sound you so they wouldn’t capture you.”

“So, we both assumed the worst about each other.”

“You were never culturally attached.”

“You were never a maid.”

“A charming maid.”

“A very distracting maid.  Who was a spy?”

“Which made you what?”

“Still a cultural attache.  Who was asked by a weedy little man who smoked the most disgusting pipe tobacco, to find out if you were a maid.  I didn’t want to.”

“Except…”

“Weedy little men like him always have a backup plan that includes blackmail.”

“The photograph.”

Stormson, the head of the station in Moscow, believed no one, trusted no one, and treated everyone as if they were double agents.

It was not as if I didn’t know Anastasia was most likely a honey trap, and silly boys like me on first assignment overseas were the usual wide-eyed and naive fools.

“Old times.”

Except I didn’t think we were here for old times.

“I hear you retired?”  She squirmed again, and it seemed to favour her left side.  Old injury?

“A habit, in the mountains, away from prying eyes.  Peaceful, quiet.”

“Off the grid?”

“Way, way off the grid.  Why?”

“I need a favour.  You owe me.  I saved your life.”

“You tried to kill me.”

“If I had been, do you think we would be here now?”

Interesting point.  But, oddly, I knew in that moment that all of this was in my subconscious.  It wasn’t real. 

It had been triggered by seeing a face in the audience, at a briefing that had dragged me out of blissful retirement at the insistence of the man who had taken over my last job.

Ten years before.

…

Except that the only truthful part of what happened to me was that I was at a conference, delivering a pre-written speech.  My name may have added weight to the subject matter, but that was not why I was there.

The department had credible evidence that an old Russian master spy from the Cold War era had slipped into the country.  They had the blurry, almost indistinct photos to prove it.

I told them she was dead.  They told me she was not dead, and she was up to something.  They believed she wanted to see me.  That was why I was there.

And yes, I’d seen her, and yes, it had triggered an episode, and yes, now I was in hospital.  Waiting, it appeared, for her to arrive.

There was more to this than her wanting to see me.  We had a relatively minor encounter and my report back then was that I killed her.  I saw it happen.  It traumatised me for years afterwards.

It didn’t happen.  She didn’t come.  I thought she was just a ghost from my past.

A month later, they let me go home, back to the wilds of the forest, where my nearest neighbour was a mile away, where the security system I’d installed could pick up a mouse at a hundred years, a security system that had more backup systems in place than could be counted.

No one could penetrate the shield.

No one.

And yet when I got out of the car and closed the door, I could hear the strains of the Pastoral Symphony wafting down from the house. 

And by the time I made it to the veranda, she was leaning in the doorway, looking as devastatingly beautiful as always.

“Welcome home, Vasily.”

I smiled.  “Olga.  Any problems?”

“None that couldn’t be buried out back,” she waved her hand vaguely, “somewhere.  You?”

“Nobody cares about the dinosaurs anymore.  Except when they think an old adversary is back to wreak havoc.”

“I am like you, a dinosaur too.  We are dinosaurs together, yes?”

I had dreamed of this moment, and hadn’t thought the plane would work.  Not only did we have to fool my people, but she had to fool herself, a much more difficult proposition.

It only worked because of my successor.  Not a man who understood the intricate details of any case.  All results driven, at any cost, and the quicker the better.

She held out her hand.  “Come.  I have prepared a feast.”

No doubt, I thought as I closed the door, in more ways than one.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Days 3 and 4 – Writing exercise

…

There was a break in the proceedings, and I had just stepped out of the room to make a call.  I had excused myself for a few minutes, but for some reason, the atmosphere in the meeting room became oppressive.

Like someone had deliberately raised the temperature to just below comfortable.

The main doors opened out onto an elevator foyer, which was by a large glass observation deck that jutted out into space.  It was meant to be a feature where one could walk onto the glass floor and look down forty floors to the street below.

And if one looked out, almost the length of Central Park, and beyond.  I made the call, but there was no answer.  That was a surprise, because someone had always answered before.

Then, one moment I was looking down, all the way down to the sidewall, and the next moment, I was sitting in a chair by the double door entrance to the meeting room.

I had no idea how I got there.

It was like I had just woken from a long sleep, opened my eyes, and there I was.

But I didn’t know or couldn’t remember where that was, except I’d been there before.

“Sir?  Sir?”  A young lady in what looked like a military uniform was standing beside me, looking concerned.

I looked up, my eyes taking a moment to focus.

“Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

An odd question.  I felt alright; there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with me.

“Do you know where you are?”

Silly question.  I knew exactly where I was.

“Taking a break from the meeting.”

She looked perplexed.  “Sir, there is no meeting.  Not today.”

She addressed me as if she knew who I was.  I tried to stand, but I could not get out of the chair.  My whole body felt like a ton of weight.

I tried to think, and it was like walking under water against the tide.  I looked around me.  I know where this is, don’t I?

And yet nothing came into my mind.  Why was I here? Where exactly was here?

“I’m sorry.  It’s confusing.”

“Are you alright?”

All of a sudden if felt like the building was spinning, or perhaps I was, and the sensation was suddenly scaring me.

I closed my eyes and prayed it would stop.

It wouldn’t. 

But before I had time to ask for help, I lost consciousness.

…

I woke to the sound of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony.  In fact, it had been in my subconscious before waking, and was probably what woke me.

It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t coming from a specific place, it just felt like I was right in the middle of an orchestra that was playing it.

Except when I surfaced, as if I had been underwater, it was simply there, in the air, all around me.

I was lying on the floor.

Odd, because in the back of my mind, my last thought was of being in the middle of a speech, though what it was about, for the moment, eluded me.

I looked around, but there was no one else.

The thought of looking out over Central Park returned, and I sat up.

Not in a room with windows.  Not with anything other than a camera with a red flashing light, near the roof.

I couldn’t see a door, but then, the lighting was subdued.

I stood, taking less effort than I thought it might and did a circuit of the walls.  It was too dark to see properly, but there would be a door.

Somewhere.

I tried to remember what happened, how I ended up in this room.  That would remain a mystery.  Before that, there was still that impression I had been in the middle of a speech.

About?

The interference and demands by the government in the execution of clandestine operations that are deemed secret, for obvious reasons.

I think I’d reached the point where I was looking around at the sea of expectant faces, of men and women who were waiting for the final argument.

I stopped on one particular face, a woman, about my age, who was relatively old, and a surprise in a room full of people who at best were in their late 30s.

Why was she there?

And why was she positioned so that it would be very difficult to see, much less identify her?

A fractional moment before moving on, fractional enough to lose track of where I was, and what I was about to say next.

What was I going to say next?

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.

…

Another room, very bright, with a table and two chairs.  I was sitting on one.  It was a cheap plastic single mold very uncomfortable.

The sort used as outdoor furniture is built to endure seasons of dramatic climactic changes.  I had some myself out on the deck, back at the cabin, a place I realised I should be rather than here.

Where was here, by the way?

The door opened, and an old woman came in.  She seemed familiar; I had seen her before.

Somewhere.

I never realised my memory was so bad.

She sat opposite, squirming to find a comfortable position, her expression telling me there wasn’t one.  Not for old folks.

“Emil?”

That was one of my names, but not today.

“Who?”

She smiled.  Damn, I know that face.

“Are we going to play games?”

Did we, once?  “Anastasia?  I think once I referred to you as the Tsar’s missing daughter.  You certainly looked like a Princess.”

“You remember?”

“Not exactly.  The face is familiar, and the name was dancing on the tip of my tongue.  If it is who I think you are, you look very good for a person whose been dead for twenty years.”

“You shot me.”

“In self-defence.  I still feel the aches and pains, and limp from that shot.  What did you expect?”

“I was trying to sound you so they wouldn’t capture you.”

“So, we both assumed the worst about each other.”

“You were never culturally attached.”

“You were never a maid.”

“A charming maid.”

“A very distracting maid.  Who was a spy?”

“Which made you what?”

“Still a cultural attache.  Who was asked by a weedy little man who smoked the most disgusting pipe tobacco, to find out if you were a maid.  I didn’t want to.”

“Except…”

“Weedy little men like him always have a backup plan that includes blackmail.”

“The photograph.”

Stormson, the head of the station in Moscow, believed no one, trusted no one, and treated everyone as if they were double agents.

It was not as if I didn’t know Anastasia was most likely a honey trap, and silly boys like me on first assignment overseas were the usual wide-eyed and naive fools.

“Old times.”

Except I didn’t think we were here for old times.

“I hear you retired?”  She squirmed again, and it seemed to favour her left side.  Old injury?

“A habit, in the mountains, away from prying eyes.  Peaceful, quiet.”

“Off the grid?”

“Way, way off the grid.  Why?”

“I need a favour.  You owe me.  I saved your life.”

“You tried to kill me.”

“If I had been, do you think we would be here now?”

Interesting point.  But, oddly, I knew in that moment that all of this was in my subconscious.  It wasn’t real. 

It had been triggered by seeing a face in the audience, at a briefing that had dragged me out of blissful retirement at the insistence of the man who had taken over my last job.

Ten years before.

…

Except that the only truthful part of what happened to me was that I was at a conference, delivering a pre-written speech.  My name may have added weight to the subject matter, but that was not why I was there.

The department had credible evidence that an old Russian master spy from the Cold War era had slipped into the country.  They had the blurry, almost indistinct photos to prove it.

I told them she was dead.  They told me she was not dead, and she was up to something.  They believed she wanted to see me.  That was why I was there.

And yes, I’d seen her, and yes, it had triggered an episode, and yes, now I was in hospital.  Waiting, it appeared, for her to arrive.

There was more to this than her wanting to see me.  We had a relatively minor encounter and my report back then was that I killed her.  I saw it happen.  It traumatised me for years afterwards.

It didn’t happen.  She didn’t come.  I thought she was just a ghost from my past.

A month later, they let me go home, back to the wilds of the forest, where my nearest neighbour was a mile away, where the security system I’d installed could pick up a mouse at a hundred years, a security system that had more backup systems in place than could be counted.

No one could penetrate the shield.

No one.

And yet when I got out of the car and closed the door, I could hear the strains of the Pastoral Symphony wafting down from the house. 

And by the time I made it to the veranda, she was leaning in the doorway, looking as devastatingly beautiful as always.

“Welcome home, Vasily.”

I smiled.  “Olga.  Any problems?”

“None that couldn’t be buried out back,” she waved her hand vaguely, “somewhere.  You?”

“Nobody cares about the dinosaurs anymore.  Except when they think an old adversary is back to wreak havoc.”

“I am like you, a dinosaur too.  We are dinosaurs together, yes?”

I had dreamed of this moment, and hadn’t thought the plane would work.  Not only did we have to fool my people, but she had to fool herself, a much more difficult proposition.

It only worked because of my successor.  Not a man who understood the intricate details of any case.  All results driven, at any cost, and the quicker the better.

She held out her hand.  “Come.  I have prepared a feast.”

No doubt, I thought as I closed the door, in more ways than one.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

That dreaded second novel

…

Beyond the First Draft: How to Survive and Thrive with Your Second Novel

You typed the two most beautiful words in the English language: “The End.”

After months, maybe years, of blood, coffee, and a thousand tiny miracles, you did it. You wrote a novel. You navigated the treacherous waters of the middle, wrestled with a climax, and gave your characters the ending they deserved. There’s a euphoria that comes with that moment, a dizzying, wonderful high.

And then, a quiet question begins to echo in the silence where your keyboard’s clatter used to be.

“So… what’s next?”

For many writers, the prospect of the second novel is more terrifying than the first. The first was fueled by naivete and a story burning so hot it had to be told. It was a great learning curve, the discovery of your own voice. The second novel… that’s different. That’s the one with expectations. The one where you have to prove it wasn’t a fluke.

They say we all have one book in us. But what’s required to start the second one? It’s not just about finding a new idea. It’s about a fundamental shift in your approach as a writer.

1. Give the First Book Its Wings

Before you can even think about Book Two, you have to let Book One go.

This is harder than it sounds. Your first novel is your baby. You’ve obsessed over every sentence, every piece of dialogue. But holding onto it too tightly creates a creative bottleneck. The pressure to replicate its success—or avoid its perceived failures—can be paralysing.

Think of your first book as a beautiful bird you’ve nurtured. It’s time to open the window and let it fly. It has its own life now. Your job is not to clone it. Your job is to move on to the next nest.

2. Be a Beginner Again (Seriously)

You finished a novel. You know what a turning point is. You understand the three-act structure. You’re a veteran, right?

Wrong.

Welcome back to square one.

The sophomore slump is real because writers mistakenly believe they should be experts now. They think this next book should be easier. It won’t be. Every story is a new mountain to climb, and the terrain is always different. The only way to approach it is with a beginner’s mind: curious, open to failure, and ready to learn.

Give yourself permission to not have all the answers. The process that got you through the first draft of your first book might not work this time. Be willing to be a student again.

3. Refill the Creative Well

Writing a novel is an act of extreme emotional and creative output. It is draining. Chances are, your well is looking a little dusty and dry right now. You can’t draw water from an empty well.

You need to refill it. This isn’t a passive act; it’s a crucial part of the process.

• Read. Read voraciously and widely. Read outside your genre. Read bad books and figure out why they don’t work. Read great books and let them remind you why you wanted to do this in the first place.
• Live. You cannot just be a writer. You have to be a human first. Go to museums. Take a different route home. Eavesdrop on conversations in a coffee shop. Have new experiences. Your second novel’s inspiration is hiding in the living of your life, not in staring at a blank page.
• Rest. Your brain has been running a marathon. Let it recover. Take a week—or a month—away from writing. Your story will be there when you get back, and you’ll see it with fresher eyes.

4. Find a New “Why”

Your first novel was likely driven by a story you had to tell. It was a personal demon, a lifelong dream, a world you couldn’t escape. That kind of passion is a powerful engine. It’s hard to manufacture.

The secret to starting the second novel is finding a new “why.” It can’t be about deadlines or agents or reader expectations. It has to be a story that excites you on a fundamental level. A character who intrigues you, a question that won’t leave you alone, a theme you’re burning to explore.

When you find that, the external pressure fades. You’re not just writing a “second novel”; you’re writing your next novel.

5. Embrace the Ugly First Draft (All Over Again)

You know this, but you need to hear it again: the first draft is allowed to be terrible.

Anne Lamott’s concept of the “shitty first draft” is a gift for every writer, but it’s a lifeline for the second-time author. You know what a polished final product looks like now, which makes the messy, chaotic first draft even more discouraging.

Resist the urge to edit as you go. Silence the inner critic that compares this new, messy work to the finished product of your last. Give yourself the freedom to write poorly, to write scenes that will get cut, to follow a plot into a dead end.

The magic isn’t in the first draft. The magic is in the revision. That’s a skill you honed with your first book. Trust it.

Your Next Chapter

The first novel proved you could do it. The second novel proves you are a writer. It’s the transition from a single, magnificent effort to a sustainable practice. It’s about building a career, one word at a time.

So yes, the pressure is real. But so is the experience you’ve gained. You are more capable than you were before. Be kind to your beginner self, find the story that sets your soul on fire, and start climbing.

The view from the top of this next mountain will be worth it.

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What’s your biggest fear or excitement for writing a second novel? Share in the comments below!

That dreaded second novel

…

Beyond the First Draft: How to Survive and Thrive with Your Second Novel

You typed the two most beautiful words in the English language: “The End.”

After months, maybe years, of blood, coffee, and a thousand tiny miracles, you did it. You wrote a novel. You navigated the treacherous waters of the middle, wrestled with a climax, and gave your characters the ending they deserved. There’s a euphoria that comes with that moment, a dizzying, wonderful high.

And then, a quiet question begins to echo in the silence where your keyboard’s clatter used to be.

“So… what’s next?”

For many writers, the prospect of the second novel is more terrifying than the first. The first was fueled by naivete and a story burning so hot it had to be told. It was a great learning curve, the discovery of your own voice. The second novel… that’s different. That’s the one with expectations. The one where you have to prove it wasn’t a fluke.

They say we all have one book in us. But what’s required to start the second one? It’s not just about finding a new idea. It’s about a fundamental shift in your approach as a writer.

1. Give the First Book Its Wings

Before you can even think about Book Two, you have to let Book One go.

This is harder than it sounds. Your first novel is your baby. You’ve obsessed over every sentence, every piece of dialogue. But holding onto it too tightly creates a creative bottleneck. The pressure to replicate its success—or avoid its perceived failures—can be paralysing.

Think of your first book as a beautiful bird you’ve nurtured. It’s time to open the window and let it fly. It has its own life now. Your job is not to clone it. Your job is to move on to the next nest.

2. Be a Beginner Again (Seriously)

You finished a novel. You know what a turning point is. You understand the three-act structure. You’re a veteran, right?

Wrong.

Welcome back to square one.

The sophomore slump is real because writers mistakenly believe they should be experts now. They think this next book should be easier. It won’t be. Every story is a new mountain to climb, and the terrain is always different. The only way to approach it is with a beginner’s mind: curious, open to failure, and ready to learn.

Give yourself permission to not have all the answers. The process that got you through the first draft of your first book might not work this time. Be willing to be a student again.

3. Refill the Creative Well

Writing a novel is an act of extreme emotional and creative output. It is draining. Chances are, your well is looking a little dusty and dry right now. You can’t draw water from an empty well.

You need to refill it. This isn’t a passive act; it’s a crucial part of the process.

• Read. Read voraciously and widely. Read outside your genre. Read bad books and figure out why they don’t work. Read great books and let them remind you why you wanted to do this in the first place.
• Live. You cannot just be a writer. You have to be a human first. Go to museums. Take a different route home. Eavesdrop on conversations in a coffee shop. Have new experiences. Your second novel’s inspiration is hiding in the living of your life, not in staring at a blank page.
• Rest. Your brain has been running a marathon. Let it recover. Take a week—or a month—away from writing. Your story will be there when you get back, and you’ll see it with fresher eyes.

4. Find a New “Why”

Your first novel was likely driven by a story you had to tell. It was a personal demon, a lifelong dream, a world you couldn’t escape. That kind of passion is a powerful engine. It’s hard to manufacture.

The secret to starting the second novel is finding a new “why.” It can’t be about deadlines or agents or reader expectations. It has to be a story that excites you on a fundamental level. A character who intrigues you, a question that won’t leave you alone, a theme you’re burning to explore.

When you find that, the external pressure fades. You’re not just writing a “second novel”; you’re writing your next novel.

5. Embrace the Ugly First Draft (All Over Again)

You know this, but you need to hear it again: the first draft is allowed to be terrible.

Anne Lamott’s concept of the “shitty first draft” is a gift for every writer, but it’s a lifeline for the second-time author. You know what a polished final product looks like now, which makes the messy, chaotic first draft even more discouraging.

Resist the urge to edit as you go. Silence the inner critic that compares this new, messy work to the finished product of your last. Give yourself the freedom to write poorly, to write scenes that will get cut, to follow a plot into a dead end.

The magic isn’t in the first draft. The magic is in the revision. That’s a skill you honed with your first book. Trust it.

Your Next Chapter

The first novel proved you could do it. The second novel proves you are a writer. It’s the transition from a single, magnificent effort to a sustainable practice. It’s about building a career, one word at a time.

So yes, the pressure is real. But so is the experience you’ve gained. You are more capable than you were before. Be kind to your beginner self, find the story that sets your soul on fire, and start climbing.

The view from the top of this next mountain will be worth it.

---

What’s your biggest fear or excitement for writing a second novel? Share in the comments below!