Tag: Literary Calendar

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 226

Day 226 – Avoiding clichés

…

Tired Tropes: Why It’s Time to Retire “Smart as a Whip,” “Light as a Feather,” and “dumb as a rock” (And What to Use Instead)

We’ve all been there. You’re in the flow of writing a scene, drafting a marketing email, or chatting with a friend, and a familiar phrase drops off your fingertips.

She was light as a feather. He was smart as a whip. That idea is dumb as a rock.

They’re comfortable. They’re automatic. And, frankly, they are dead on arrival.

In copywriting and creative writing alike, clichés are the fast-food of language: they fill a craving instantly, but they leave your audience feeling uninspired and unsatisfied. When we rely on tired idioms, we trade specific imagery for lazy shorthand.

If you want to elevate your writing, boost your SEO engagement by reducing bounce rates (readers stick around longer for original prose!), and captivate your audience, it’s time to banish these three overused similes.

Let’s break down why they fail, and explore fresh, vibrant alternatives that will make your writing pop.

Cliche #1: “Smart as a Whip”

Why It Fails

Where did this even come from? A leather strap attached to a handle doesn’t exactly scream “cognitive genius.” While etymologists debate its origins—some point to the snap of a whip representing quickness, others to a “smart” (stinging) lash—the phrase has been beaten to death. It’s a vague umbrella term that tells your reader someone is intelligent without showing how that intelligence manifests.

Fresh Alternatives

Intelligence isn’t a monolith. A person can be mathematically gifted, socially brilliant, or quick on their feet. Show your reader the flavor of their smarts:

  • For quick-wittedness: Sharp as a tack, quick-silver, nimble-minded, brilliantly agile.
  • For deep intellect: Encyclopedic, sagacious, razor-sharp, intellectually voracious.
  • In a sentence: Instead of “She was smart as a whip during the negotiation,” try:“She sliced through the corporate jargon with surgical precision, anticipating counter-arguments before they even left the room.”

Cliché #2: “Light as a Feather”

Why It Fails

Unless you are literally writing a scientific paper about avian plumage, “light as a feather” is completely devoid of sensory detail. It’s a ghost of a description. It doesn’t help the reader feel the weightlessness; it just tells them the math of the mass.

Fresh Alternatives

Weightlessness can be terrifying, graceful, or magical. Tap into the physical sensations of air, movement, and suspension to bring your descriptions to life:

  • For physical objects: Buoyant, ethereal, gossamer, weightless, vaporous, floating on a breeze.
  • For people or movements: Effortless, floating, unanchored, graceful as a drifted leaf.
  • In a sentence: Instead of “The vintage silk dress was light as a feather,” try:“The vintage silk cascaded over her skin like a second atmosphere, practically floating on the ambient air.”

Cliché #3: “Dumb as a Rock”

Why It Fails

Aside from being unoriginal, calling someone (or something) “dumb as a rock” is a blunt-force instrument. It lacks nuance, and frankly, rocks have a lot of geological history going for them—they are much more interesting than this insult implies. Relying on this phrase misses an opportunity to inject humor, vivid imagery, or specific critique into your writing.

Fresh Alternatives

If you need to describe a lack of common sense, ignorance, or a thoroughly unwise decision, you have a wealth of colorful alternatives at your disposal:

  • For foolishness: Clueless, vacant, dense as lead, hopelessly out-to-lunch, playing checkers in a chess grandmaster tournament.
  • For bad ideas: Ill-conceived, half-baked, structurally unsound, a house of cards.
  • In a sentence: Instead of “That business strategy is dumb as a rock,” try:“That business strategy was about as seaworthy as a screen-door canoe.”

How to Spot Clichés in Your Own Writing

Writing without clichés isn’t about never using a common phrase again; it’s about developing an editor’s eye for autopilot writing. The next time you edit your work, run this quick mental check:

  1. The “First Thought” Test: If a phrase or comparison pops into your head immediately, it probably popped into a million other writers’ heads, too. Pause, delete it, and force yourself to brainstorm three alternative descriptions.
  2. Appeal to the Senses: Clichés are abstract. Real writing is sensory. Does your description sound, smell, look, feel, or taste like something specific?
  3. Show, Don’t Tell: Instead of telling us someone is “smart as a whip” or a concept is “dumb as a rock,” show us the action, the consequence, or the environment that proves it.

Upgrade Your Vocabulary Today

Language is a living, breathing toolkit. When we rely on clichés like smart as a whip, light as a feather, and dumb as a rock, we dull our tools. Swap them out for specific, evocative, and surprising alternatives, and watch your writing instantly transform from generic to unforgettable.

What’s your least favorite cliché? Drop it in the comments below along with your favorite alternative!

…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 225

Day 225 –  The fear you feel when you write

…

The Fear You Feel When You Write, It’s Normal: Embracing the Wisdom of Marguerite Duras

Every writer knows the moment.

The cursor blinks relentlessly on a blank, stark-white screen. The room is quiet, perhaps too quiet. Your chest tightens, a familiar knot twists in your stomach, and a voice whispers: This is terrible. Who do you think you are? You have nothing to say.

If you have ever felt this paralysing wave of anxiety before putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard), take a deep breath. You are not failing as a writer; you are simply doing the work.

As the legendary French novelist and filmmaker Marguerite Duras famously observed, the fear you feel when you write is not a sign to stop. It is normal.

Let’s unpack this profound truth and explore why fear is actually the secret companion of every great writer.

Who Was Marguerite Duras and Why Did She Understand Writing’s Terror?

Marguerite Duras was a literary force of nature. Best known for her autobiographical novel The Lover (which won the prestigious Prix Goncourt), Duras wrote with a raw, uncompromising intensity that cut straight to the human soul. She didn’t write polite stories; she wrote about obsession, desire, memory, and the dark corners of the human psyche.

Because she mined such deep, vulnerable territory, Duras understood the cost of creation. She knew that to write authentically, one must court vulnerability. And vulnerability is terrifying.

Duras famously spoke about the solitude and the terror of the writing life. She suggested that writing is not a gentle hobby or a neat profession; it is an expedition into the unknown. When you sit down to write, you are venturing into a territory that does not yet exist, dragging ideas out of the ether and forcing them into reality. Of course it’s scary.

Why Does Writing Actually Scare Us?

If we want to overcome writing anxiety, we first have to understand its roots. Why does a harmless activity like arranging words on a page trigger a fight-or-flight response?

1. The Gap Between Taste and Talent

As Ira Glass famously noted, beginners (and even seasoned pros) suffer from a cruel paradox: our taste is refined enough to know when something isn’t working, but our execution often falls short of our vision. That gap—between the masterpiece in your head and the messy draft on your screen—is where fear lives.

2. The Fear of Exposure

Writing is an act of self-revelation. Even in fiction or copywriting, your worldview, your obsessions, and your fears bleed onto the page. To share your writing with the world is to stand naked in public. What if they judge you? What if they misunderstand you? What if they simply don’t care?

3. Confronting the Unknown

Unlike math or accounting, writing doesn’t have a definitive formula. When you start a piece, you rarely know exactly where it will end. You are stepping into a fog, trusting that the path will appear as you walk it. The human brain hates uncertainty, and it interprets that blank page as a survival threat.

How to Make Friends with Your Writing Fear

If fear is a normal, permanent resident of the writer’s house, how do we coexist with it? How do we write through the terror instead of running away from it?

1. Stop Waiting to Feel Confident

Many aspiring writers make the fatal mistake of waiting for the fear to go away before they start writing. They wait for inspiration, for the “right mood,” or for unshakeable confidence.

It never comes.

Professional writers don’t feel less fear than amateurs; they simply’ve learned to act in spite of it. As Duras understood, the fear is part of the process. Expect it. Greet it when you sit down at your desk: Ah, hello anxiety, I see you’re here. Let’s write anyway.

2. Lower the Stakes (Lower the Bar)

Perfectionism is fear in a fancy tuxedo. We get terrified because we put immense pressure on every single sentence to be brilliant.

Give yourself permission to write badly. As legendary humorist James Thurber put it: “Don’t get it right, get it written.” Your first draft is merely you telling the story to yourself. No one else has to see the mess.

3. Lean Into the Discomfort

If you feel a little sick to your stomach or nervous about a passage you are writing, pay attention. That discomfort is often a compass pointing directly toward truth. If a sentence makes you squirm, it usually means you’re touching on something real, raw, and powerful. Lean into it.

The Ultimate Takeaway

Writing is an act of courage. Every time you face the blank page and refuse to look away, you are engaging in a brave act of creation.

The next time that familiar knot forms in your stomach, remember the words and the spirit of Marguerite Duras. Remind yourself that the fear doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong; it means you’re doing it right. It means you care. It means you are treading on sacred, uncharted ground.

So, feel the fear. Acknowledge it. And then, open your document and type that first sentence anyway.

Are you struggling with writer’s block or creative fear? How do you push past the blank page anxiety? Let’s discuss in the comments below!

…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 225

Day 225 –  The fear you feel when you write

…

The Fear You Feel When You Write, It’s Normal: Embracing the Wisdom of Marguerite Duras

Every writer knows the moment.

The cursor blinks relentlessly on a blank, stark-white screen. The room is quiet, perhaps too quiet. Your chest tightens, a familiar knot twists in your stomach, and a voice whispers: This is terrible. Who do you think you are? You have nothing to say.

If you have ever felt this paralysing wave of anxiety before putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard), take a deep breath. You are not failing as a writer; you are simply doing the work.

As the legendary French novelist and filmmaker Marguerite Duras famously observed, the fear you feel when you write is not a sign to stop. It is normal.

Let’s unpack this profound truth and explore why fear is actually the secret companion of every great writer.

Who Was Marguerite Duras and Why Did She Understand Writing’s Terror?

Marguerite Duras was a literary force of nature. Best known for her autobiographical novel The Lover (which won the prestigious Prix Goncourt), Duras wrote with a raw, uncompromising intensity that cut straight to the human soul. She didn’t write polite stories; she wrote about obsession, desire, memory, and the dark corners of the human psyche.

Because she mined such deep, vulnerable territory, Duras understood the cost of creation. She knew that to write authentically, one must court vulnerability. And vulnerability is terrifying.

Duras famously spoke about the solitude and the terror of the writing life. She suggested that writing is not a gentle hobby or a neat profession; it is an expedition into the unknown. When you sit down to write, you are venturing into a territory that does not yet exist, dragging ideas out of the ether and forcing them into reality. Of course it’s scary.

Why Does Writing Actually Scare Us?

If we want to overcome writing anxiety, we first have to understand its roots. Why does a harmless activity like arranging words on a page trigger a fight-or-flight response?

1. The Gap Between Taste and Talent

As Ira Glass famously noted, beginners (and even seasoned pros) suffer from a cruel paradox: our taste is refined enough to know when something isn’t working, but our execution often falls short of our vision. That gap—between the masterpiece in your head and the messy draft on your screen—is where fear lives.

2. The Fear of Exposure

Writing is an act of self-revelation. Even in fiction or copywriting, your worldview, your obsessions, and your fears bleed onto the page. To share your writing with the world is to stand naked in public. What if they judge you? What if they misunderstand you? What if they simply don’t care?

3. Confronting the Unknown

Unlike math or accounting, writing doesn’t have a definitive formula. When you start a piece, you rarely know exactly where it will end. You are stepping into a fog, trusting that the path will appear as you walk it. The human brain hates uncertainty, and it interprets that blank page as a survival threat.

How to Make Friends with Your Writing Fear

If fear is a normal, permanent resident of the writer’s house, how do we coexist with it? How do we write through the terror instead of running away from it?

1. Stop Waiting to Feel Confident

Many aspiring writers make the fatal mistake of waiting for the fear to go away before they start writing. They wait for inspiration, for the “right mood,” or for unshakeable confidence.

It never comes.

Professional writers don’t feel less fear than amateurs; they simply’ve learned to act in spite of it. As Duras understood, the fear is part of the process. Expect it. Greet it when you sit down at your desk: Ah, hello anxiety, I see you’re here. Let’s write anyway.

2. Lower the Stakes (Lower the Bar)

Perfectionism is fear in a fancy tuxedo. We get terrified because we put immense pressure on every single sentence to be brilliant.

Give yourself permission to write badly. As legendary humorist James Thurber put it: “Don’t get it right, get it written.” Your first draft is merely you telling the story to yourself. No one else has to see the mess.

3. Lean Into the Discomfort

If you feel a little sick to your stomach or nervous about a passage you are writing, pay attention. That discomfort is often a compass pointing directly toward truth. If a sentence makes you squirm, it usually means you’re touching on something real, raw, and powerful. Lean into it.

The Ultimate Takeaway

Writing is an act of courage. Every time you face the blank page and refuse to look away, you are engaging in a brave act of creation.

The next time that familiar knot forms in your stomach, remember the words and the spirit of Marguerite Duras. Remind yourself that the fear doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong; it means you’re doing it right. It means you care. It means you are treading on sacred, uncharted ground.

So, feel the fear. Acknowledge it. And then, open your document and type that first sentence anyway.

Are you struggling with writer’s block or creative fear? How do you push past the blank page anxiety? Let’s discuss in the comments below!

…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 224

Day 224 – The trashy novel

…

Guilty Pleasures & Best-Sellers: Why “Trashy” Novels Sell (Even When They Make No Sense)

Let’s be honest: we’ve all done it. We’ve stood in an airport bookstore, eyes scanning the spinning racks, and pulled out a paperback with a neon-hued cover, an impossibly sculpted torso, or a plot synopsis that sounds like a fever dream.

We roll our eyes. We scoff at the clunky dialogue. We lambast the predictable tropes and inherently “bad” writing qualities. And then… we buy it. We devour it in a single sitting, hidden behind a polite book cover or glowing dimly on our phone screens at 2:00 AM.

The phenomenon of the “trashy” novel is undeniable. But it goes deeper than mere guilty pleasures. History—and modern publishing data—shows that even when authors intentionally write disjointed, hastily stitched-together, multiple-author novels that make absolutely no sense, they still sell far better than anyone could possibly imagine.

Why? What is the dark magic behind the poorly written page-turner? As a copywriter and consumer psychologist, let’s dissect the anatomy of the trashy novel and uncover why we keep feeding the beast.

1. The Psychology of Cognitive Relief

High-brow literature demands work. When you pick up a Booker Prize winner, you are signing up for an intellectual workout: dense metaphors, unreliable narrators, deeply nuanced character arcs, and social commentary that leaves you pondering the human condition.

Sometimes, we are too tired for that.

Trashy novels offer cognitive offloading. Because the stakes are immediately clear, the villains are cartoonish, and the prose requires zero decoding, the brain can finally switch off. It’s the literary equivalent of eating a bowl of sugary cereal while watching Saturday morning cartoons. There is no guilt in low-stakes entertainment—only pure, unadulterated escapism.

2. Emotional Fast Food (The Dopamine Loop)

Good literature builds tension slowly, like a masterclass in suspense. Trashy novels, however, operate like a slot machine. They hit you with constant, cheap dopamine spikes.

  • A shocking betrayal on page 3? Ding!
  • An implausible romance trope introduced by page 10? Ding!
  • A cliffhanger at the end of every single chapter? Jackpot.

Even when a book is disjointed or nonsensical—especially when multiple authors contribute in a chaotic, Frankenstein-esque fashion—the pacing rarely slows down. If plot logic gets in the way of a sensational scene, trashy fiction simply discards the logic and moves straight to the next explosion, bedroom scene, or plot twist. Our brains are wired to chase that next hit of resolution, even if the overall story is falling apart at the seams.

3. The Power of Subverted Expectations and Camp Value

Sometimes, a book doesn’t sell in spite of making no sense; it sells because it makes no sense.

We live in an era that deeply appreciates camp. Think of the runaway success of The Room in film or the viral TikTok reviews of wildly unhinged self-published romance novels. When a book is so convoluted, absurd, and disconnected from reality that it crosses the threshold of “bad” and enters the realm of the surreal, it becomes an event.

Readers love to be in on the joke. Sharing the most ridiculous excerpts on social media creates a viral marketing loop. A nonsensical, multi-author disasterpiece becomes a badge of honour to read, talk about, and mock lovingly with friends.

4. The Illusion of Speed and Instant Gratification

Modern attention spans are fractured. We scroll through TikTok feeds featuring thirty-second clips of entirely unrelated content, jumping seamlessly from a recipe to a comedy sketch to a DIY project.

In many ways, the disjointed, multi-author, wildly chaotic “trashy” novel mirrors the modern digital feed. Because it lacks a rigid, slow-burning traditional structure, it reads like a rapid-fire sequence of viral moments. For readers accustomed to fast-paced digital consumption, traditional pacing can feel agonisingly slow. Trashy novels keep the velocity high, ensuring you never get bored—even if you have no idea who the secondary antagonist is anymore.

5. Zero Pretentiousness, Total Accessibility

Literary snobbery can be exhausting. The moment a book feels like it’s trying to teach you a lesson or prove how smart the author is, a wall goes up for many readers.

Trashy novels have zero pretension. They make no promises other than to entertain you for a few hours. This radical accessibility makes them universally appealing. You don’t need a degree in English literature to enjoy a book about billionaire shadow-beasts fighting rogue cyborg assassins. You just need a pulse and a willingness to suspend your disbelief—way, way up in the stratosphere.

The Verdict: Long Live the Trashy Read

We may continue to mock them in polite literary circles, but the trashy, nonsensical, hastily assembled page-turner isn’t going anywhere. It fulfils a primal human need for stories that thrill, shock, and entertain without demanding too much in return.

So, the next time you find yourself sliding a trashy paperback onto the checkout counter, don’t blush. You aren’t falling victim to bad taste—you’re simply participating in a time-tested tradition of joyful, unapologetic escapism.

What is the most delightfully ridiculous “trashy” novel you’ve ever secretly loved? Let’s talk about it in the comments below!

…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 224

Day 224 – The trashy novel

…

Guilty Pleasures & Best-Sellers: Why “Trashy” Novels Sell (Even When They Make No Sense)

Let’s be honest: we’ve all done it. We’ve stood in an airport bookstore, eyes scanning the spinning racks, and pulled out a paperback with a neon-hued cover, an impossibly sculpted torso, or a plot synopsis that sounds like a fever dream.

We roll our eyes. We scoff at the clunky dialogue. We lambast the predictable tropes and inherently “bad” writing qualities. And then… we buy it. We devour it in a single sitting, hidden behind a polite book cover or glowing dimly on our phone screens at 2:00 AM.

The phenomenon of the “trashy” novel is undeniable. But it goes deeper than mere guilty pleasures. History—and modern publishing data—shows that even when authors intentionally write disjointed, hastily stitched-together, multiple-author novels that make absolutely no sense, they still sell far better than anyone could possibly imagine.

Why? What is the dark magic behind the poorly written page-turner? As a copywriter and consumer psychologist, let’s dissect the anatomy of the trashy novel and uncover why we keep feeding the beast.

1. The Psychology of Cognitive Relief

High-brow literature demands work. When you pick up a Booker Prize winner, you are signing up for an intellectual workout: dense metaphors, unreliable narrators, deeply nuanced character arcs, and social commentary that leaves you pondering the human condition.

Sometimes, we are too tired for that.

Trashy novels offer cognitive offloading. Because the stakes are immediately clear, the villains are cartoonish, and the prose requires zero decoding, the brain can finally switch off. It’s the literary equivalent of eating a bowl of sugary cereal while watching Saturday morning cartoons. There is no guilt in low-stakes entertainment—only pure, unadulterated escapism.

2. Emotional Fast Food (The Dopamine Loop)

Good literature builds tension slowly, like a masterclass in suspense. Trashy novels, however, operate like a slot machine. They hit you with constant, cheap dopamine spikes.

  • A shocking betrayal on page 3? Ding!
  • An implausible romance trope introduced by page 10? Ding!
  • A cliffhanger at the end of every single chapter? Jackpot.

Even when a book is disjointed or nonsensical—especially when multiple authors contribute in a chaotic, Frankenstein-esque fashion—the pacing rarely slows down. If plot logic gets in the way of a sensational scene, trashy fiction simply discards the logic and moves straight to the next explosion, bedroom scene, or plot twist. Our brains are wired to chase that next hit of resolution, even if the overall story is falling apart at the seams.

3. The Power of Subverted Expectations and Camp Value

Sometimes, a book doesn’t sell in spite of making no sense; it sells because it makes no sense.

We live in an era that deeply appreciates camp. Think of the runaway success of The Room in film or the viral TikTok reviews of wildly unhinged self-published romance novels. When a book is so convoluted, absurd, and disconnected from reality that it crosses the threshold of “bad” and enters the realm of the surreal, it becomes an event.

Readers love to be in on the joke. Sharing the most ridiculous excerpts on social media creates a viral marketing loop. A nonsensical, multi-author disasterpiece becomes a badge of honour to read, talk about, and mock lovingly with friends.

4. The Illusion of Speed and Instant Gratification

Modern attention spans are fractured. We scroll through TikTok feeds featuring thirty-second clips of entirely unrelated content, jumping seamlessly from a recipe to a comedy sketch to a DIY project.

In many ways, the disjointed, multi-author, wildly chaotic “trashy” novel mirrors the modern digital feed. Because it lacks a rigid, slow-burning traditional structure, it reads like a rapid-fire sequence of viral moments. For readers accustomed to fast-paced digital consumption, traditional pacing can feel agonisingly slow. Trashy novels keep the velocity high, ensuring you never get bored—even if you have no idea who the secondary antagonist is anymore.

5. Zero Pretentiousness, Total Accessibility

Literary snobbery can be exhausting. The moment a book feels like it’s trying to teach you a lesson or prove how smart the author is, a wall goes up for many readers.

Trashy novels have zero pretension. They make no promises other than to entertain you for a few hours. This radical accessibility makes them universally appealing. You don’t need a degree in English literature to enjoy a book about billionaire shadow-beasts fighting rogue cyborg assassins. You just need a pulse and a willingness to suspend your disbelief—way, way up in the stratosphere.

The Verdict: Long Live the Trashy Read

We may continue to mock them in polite literary circles, but the trashy, nonsensical, hastily assembled page-turner isn’t going anywhere. It fulfils a primal human need for stories that thrill, shock, and entertain without demanding too much in return.

So, the next time you find yourself sliding a trashy paperback onto the checkout counter, don’t blush. You aren’t falling victim to bad taste—you’re simply participating in a time-tested tradition of joyful, unapologetic escapism.

What is the most delightfully ridiculous “trashy” novel you’ve ever secretly loved? Let’s talk about it in the comments below!

…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 223

Day 223 – Writing exercise

…

There’s no looking away when the proverbial hits the fan.

You hope that it’s never going to happen, and when it does, training kicks in, but there is always that shred of doubt, and that’s all it takes.

One time infinitesimal shred…

In what I believed to be an empty building, I was going through the plan, waiting for the seconds to tick down.

Then I heard a door close.  You know the type, one with a device that automatically closes it after you walk through.  The one that, if set properly, you don’t hear the door shut.

The one that I heard because it wasn’t set properly, or hadn’t been checked recently, and that last six inches gave out and banged as the door hit the jamb.

Which meant someone else was in the building.

I wanted to believe that it was someone leaving, but I knew no one was supposed to be there.  Not tonight.  Not at two am, because the night watchmen had just finished their rounds and were settling in to their packed lunches.

Who was it, and why were they there?

…

This mission required stealth and precision.  Three experts had gone over the building layout, the personnel who worked there, and the place where what I was supposed to take was easily removed.

The building expert had played his part.  He’d been spot on with the sensors and detection traps, and the doors and locks.

I was in the last position before advancing to the room that held the safe that held the objective.

The personnel expert had failed his job.  There was someone in the building who shouldn’t be.

Other than me.

That made the mission far more difficult.  But as I crouched in position, I had time to realise that no one could factor in a random element, a scenario that should have been considered but was missed.

Or maybe it hadn’t.

Maybe it had been overlooked deliberately, and was in the mix because I was supposed to be able to handle random situations.

It was just such a scenario that had got Eloise canned from the program.  She had been bitter about it, saying she had been the only one whose test had a random factor, that she had been deliberately targeted.

I had thought that too, because she had been very good, worked twice as hard, and had been the only girl.

Damn.  Now I was thinking about her and not the mission, a real problem.

I felt a buzz on my wrist, the watch computer vibrating to tell me it was time to move.

Phase 2

Down the corridor, sticking close to the wall, to the end and turn right.  The camera covering the entrance to the room would be off; that is, the red light would be out.

The surveillance monitoring guy would cut the camera at precisely the moment I reached the corner, giving me five seconds to get in the room.

Oddly, there was no surveillance in the room.

I reached the end, another buzz, five seconds, no red light, into the room and made sure the door didn’t slam shut. 

Just.

“Hello, Will.”

I think I did have a heart attack.

…

Eloise.  Larger than life, and looking very suave in all black.

She always could distract me.

“What the..”

I remembered to speak in hushed tones.  Surveillance didn’t know if the room was bugged, but others were, and it was assumed it might be.

My silence had been disturbed when she spoke, even if it was not very loud.

“You’re being set up.”

“How the hell did you know I would be here?”

“Dargers.”

Dargers was the reason I had got into the program,  the one who had been my mother’s handler and had been there when she died, on the job.

“Why?”

“Because you’re getting closer to the truth about your mother.    Fletcher’s in hospital fighting for his life.  Something happened just after you met.”

That was yesterday.  I’d seen another associated with her last mission, but they were still OK.  Or were they?

“You just got here?”

“No.  Been waiting.”

“I heard a door close just before I got here.”

“Then they’re coming for you.  We have to go.”  She handed me an envelope.  “The prize.  I don’t think it has the value you were led to believe.”

Probably not.

…

It came as no surprise that Eloise had neutralised the surveillance and cleared the path.  Or that she knew more about the organisation, because she had been a top-flight private investigator before signing on.

Before the end of the first week, she had categorised everyone: hopefuls and instructors.  That she even spoke to me was a surprise.  There were far more candidates who were more interested in her, but as the training progressed, I thought she hung out with me because she decided I was safe.

I never got to ask her why.

But I shared in her assessments and rode on her coat-tails, learning more from her than most of the instructors.  I still couldn’t understand why I survived the cut, and she didn’t.

Working with her once again only reinforced just how good she was.

Objective achieved; it was a matter of two people working together being better than one, simply because I couldn’t be in two places at once.  That’s when I opened the door; my instinct was to look left, and the threat was on the right.

The first threat, that is.

Our training had taught us that where there was one assassin, there was likely to be more, depending on the degree of danger you presented.  I found it hard to believe I could be a threat, but then I had been a little loose in who I questioned about my mother’s death.

It was a taboo question, but being immersed in the world she once excelled in had provided a unique opportunity.  I just didn’t think I would ruffle any feathers so quickly, or at all.

There were three would-be assassins.  We didn’t shoot to kill, which was our training, because we would be killing our own people, people who we had most likely trained with, or worked with.

Then there was the revelation.

There was another way in and out of the building that I had not been told about, and that in itself told me all I needed to know.

The briefing supervisor was compromised, or hadn’t been given the full brief.

Once out of the building, Eloise faded into the night as if she had never been there.  There had been no time for small talk, as much as I needed that one fleeting touch of hands as she left.

It reminded me that having feelings, or attachments, was at best a curse and at worst a death sentence in this job, if it was a job I wanted to take up, and those feelings I had for Eloise, having been rekindled, were going to make it impossible.

She had said as much about herself when she had left, not saying where she was going or what she was going to do. 

I had tried to put her out of my mind.

…

If this had been a normal operation, in and out, the package would simply be dropped off, and I would relocate and await the next mission.

This hadn’t been normal.

I had a cell number to call if anything went wrong.  The operations supervisor would have been aware of what had happened, and I would be called in for a debriefing.

I had a feeling Browning would be waiting on the end of the line to curate the fallout.  Dead people could be explained away; live people could talk.

I chose to sit on it until morning.  Uppermost in my mind was the fact that if the mission had gone the way Browning’s had planned, I would be either dead or captured, and sitting in a dark room somewhere awaiting interrogation.

I could still end up there.

Now, when I called, he would have to pretend that everything was fine, though there would be doubts as to how I did manage to escape what, in his mind, was meant to be an inescapable trap.

I dialled the number on the untraceable cell Eloise had given me.  The one I got for the mission was tracking my movements.  Those movements ended in the safe room.

Davidson couldn’t help himself when he answered.

“Where did you get that device?”

“I had reason to believe the mission device was compromised, as per training.  There was an unexpected visitor on the building, just before the ‘go’ signal.  Someone knew I was there.  I figured the cell was compromised and dumped it.”

“We had no prior intel of rogue movements, and our devices are secure.”

“Random factors, sir.  It’s what got a trainee tossed out of the program.  Remembered it at the last moment.  Saved me, by the way.  Three assassins tried to eliminate me.”

As if he wouldn’t know that he had three of his agents in the hospital wondering why they were not dead.

He sounded quite calm, which in a sense was disconcerting.

It was good that my training had taught me to trust no one, not even the people I worked for.

“Three?”  His incredulous tone was almost believable.

“Not unexpected, if you remember the briefing.  The organisation does contract some very nasty mercenaries as guards for their perimeter and internal security.”

“And you took care of them.”

“I believe so.  They weren’t shooting back.”

There was a moment’s silence while he digested that piece of information before asking the question he should have asked at the beginning.”

“Did you get what you were sent for?”

“Yes.”

“Then await further instructions on where you are to deliver the package.”

The line went dead.

Since the cell phone I was using was untraceable, he couldn’t send a team to eliminate me, but just to be safe, I powered it down and removed the SIM card, then changed locations.

I wasn’t going to wait to be summoned or hunted down.

…

The organisation I worked for was one of several that worked under the umbrella of the main intelligence service. 

These groups had their offices scattered about the city, hiding behind what could easily be mistaken for legitimate businesses. 

The one I worked for, and run by Davidson, lived in a large sandstone turn-of-the-century building that also had lawyers, doctors and insurance agents.  It was odd turning up at the office and mingling with a very strange collection of civilians.

While it provided the sort of cover we needed, and it gave Davidson the sort of autonomy and control over who knew what he was doing, he wanted to be without the prying eyes of those he reported to; it wasn’t the most secure.  I often wondered what would happen if a shootout came to the corridors.

It hadn’t yet, but there was always a first time.

Being away from the ultra secure central operations centre, security was not as ting, and Davidson’s mall cop security set up, the brain child of his brother-in-law who was a locksmith, was adequate but not bulletproof.

It took me a week to find all the weak spots, the black holes in CCTV coverage, and the door codes, at least those beyond what was issued on our personal key cards.

And to discover that there was another way in that didn’t require a key card, and if Davison had got a proper security assessment, he would have discovered just how insecure the office was.

His office.

When sweeping the roof during my own security inspection I discovered a I discovered a hatch door that gave access to the roof, and below that, an attic, disused, that ran the length of the building.  It was once the servants’ quarters for each of them.

There were some very interesting comments on the walls.

There were back staircases that led to each floor, and invisible doorways so they could mysteriously come and go without being seen.

There was another, the one I would be using.  Davidson was a fresh air lover and had one of the windows in his office half open, playing havoc with everyone’s air conditioning.

He could be annoying like that.

I waited until he went to his one o’clock briefing, entered by the windows, and sat in his seat.  I had no interest in rifling through the drawers or poking around in the filing cabinets.

At precisely five minutes past two he came in, closed the door behind him, and then stopped.

I would have thought he’d notice me before then.

“You need to do something about security.  I, for one, wouldn’t feel safe if just about anyone could wander in off the street.”

His usual scowl turned a shade darker.  “You’re not just anyone, are you?”

I looked at the man who controlled so many lives, to do with as he pleased.  He wasn’t that man when my mother was killed in action, but he was her liaison in the field.  That much I’d discovered before the walls went up.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

His cell phone rang.  The puzzled expression on his face told me he was not expecting a call.

He took his phone out of his top pocket and looked at the screen, shook his head, and disconnected the call.

A few seconds later, a red dot from a laser sight appeared on the wall behind me. I knew there was something there when his expression changed, and then we both watched it until it appeared on his chest before disappearing.

“Is this some sort of sick joke?”

His cell phone rang again.

“Not me.  I think you might want to answer it.  Someone wants to get your attention.”

Who, though? I didn’t know.  I had not arranged anything.

He answered it.  “Whoever you are, you are in more trouble than you can imagine possible.”

Whoever was on the end of the call said something to him; his expression changed, this time to one I’d never expected from a man like him.

He pushed a button on the screen, and it came to life.

“You know better than to go into the lion’s den by yourself.”

Eloise.

“I had it covered.”

“Now you do.”

The red laser light reappeared.

Recognition flickered.  “Morgan.  You’re working with him?”

“Saving him from you, Davidson.  And still working on what I’m going to do about you killing a friend of mine, the same one who intimated to Blake that you were his mother’s liaison on that last mission.  You made a mistake.  It cost her her life, just part of the mess you’ve been cleaning up ever since.  Last night you went too far.”

“You haven’t got all of the facts.”

“I spoke to Richardson, just before he passed.  It was an illuminating discussion, one that answered several questions I had.”

If his expression was going to be an indication of his mood, then just the mention of Richardson brought fear.

“That’s impossible.”

“No.  What was impossible is that I found him.  You did a very good job of hiding him away, so far north he’s almost at the North Pole.  You even changed his name, Ralph Weimar.  You also figured out who I was, didn’t you?”

“A guess at best.  Your tradecraft gave you away.  Isabel Jenkins.”

“Harold Jenkins, another of your losses.”

Jenkins.  I knew that name from somewhere.

His shoulders slumped slightly, as if accepting that whatever he had been doing was over.

“So, not that any of what you think you know is relevant or even happened, what are you going to do?”

“End it.”

I saw the red dot focus on Davidson and then watched him die. 

I didn’t expect what happened next.  The dot moved to me. I thought I heard the bullet leave the gun just before it hit me, and in that fraction of a second before the pain came, it was lights out.

…

I think the miracle was that I was still alive.

I don’t remember anything from the moment Davidson was shot until I just woke, slowly focusing on a water stain on the roof above me.

It felt like I’d been hit by a truck. Or worse, one of those old steam locomotives.

There was an odd perfume aroma in the room, one that seemed familiar.  It was there, on the tip of my tongue.

That was overwritten by another memory, the one where I suddenly associated my predicament with being shot, which led to remembering those last few seconds in Davidson’s office, and then Eloise.

“There he is.”

Eloise.

“What happened?”

“You were saved from a fate worse than death.”

Another memory.  I was in Davidson’s office.  Then another: the realisation I didn’t have an exit strategy.  I was going to confront him … and then what?

“How?”

“You had to be a victim.  Davidson didn’t survive; he wasn’t meant to.  He had to pay for his mistakes.  You, though, you don’t deserve what they would have done to you.  He may have been a murderer, but he did get results.  We both knew there is no real honour in the job we would have had to do.  Don’t go back, even if they ask you.”

“Why are you doing this?  How did you know…?”

“I like you, have done since the first time I saw you.  You know me.  I can see through just about anyone.  And probably because your first words were not ‘babe’, ‘date’ and ‘fuck’.”

“I was going to ask you if you wanted a coffee and a chat once, but thought twice about it, then decided not to.  You had enough admirers.”

She smiled.  “I’m glad I’m out of it.  It was a mistake, but a good one.  I met you.  Come work with me. I’m going back to being a Private Detective.  LA or Hollywood.  Maybe New York.  Who knows.  We can just get on the next train out and see where it takes us. What do you say?”

“How long will I be here?”

“A couple of days.  It’s a clean wound, nothing damaged.  You can thank me later.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Here.  Told them we’re about to be married and I wasn’t letting you out of my sight.  It amuses them. I kinda like the sound of it.  But it takes two to tango, so I can wait until you’re back on your feet, and we’ll see how good we can dance together.  Now, the doctor would like to talk to you, then the police.  I’ll be right here if you need me.  OK?”

“Dance?”  Perhaps there was a little confusion.

“Tango.  Yes.  Tango, Alpha, November, Golf, Oscar.”

I felt a surge of adrenalin run through me, and my mind cleared, taking a quick glance around the room, and ending on Eloise, only she was not Eloise, she was Baxter, Captain, my team leader, and I was Reynolds, Lieutenant, undercover.

She had just issued an Agent down signal, which I assumed to be me.  Protocol Five was instituted, and I was to follow her lead.

Something must have gone terribly wrong.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 223

Day 223 – Writing exercise

…

There’s no looking away when the proverbial hits the fan.

You hope that it’s never going to happen, and when it does, training kicks in, but there is always that shred of doubt, and that’s all it takes.

One time infinitesimal shred…

In what I believed to be an empty building, I was going through the plan, waiting for the seconds to tick down.

Then I heard a door close.  You know the type, one with a device that automatically closes it after you walk through.  The one that, if set properly, you don’t hear the door shut.

The one that I heard because it wasn’t set properly, or hadn’t been checked recently, and that last six inches gave out and banged as the door hit the jamb.

Which meant someone else was in the building.

I wanted to believe that it was someone leaving, but I knew no one was supposed to be there.  Not tonight.  Not at two am, because the night watchmen had just finished their rounds and were settling in to their packed lunches.

Who was it, and why were they there?

…

This mission required stealth and precision.  Three experts had gone over the building layout, the personnel who worked there, and the place where what I was supposed to take was easily removed.

The building expert had played his part.  He’d been spot on with the sensors and detection traps, and the doors and locks.

I was in the last position before advancing to the room that held the safe that held the objective.

The personnel expert had failed his job.  There was someone in the building who shouldn’t be.

Other than me.

That made the mission far more difficult.  But as I crouched in position, I had time to realise that no one could factor in a random element, a scenario that should have been considered but was missed.

Or maybe it hadn’t.

Maybe it had been overlooked deliberately, and was in the mix because I was supposed to be able to handle random situations.

It was just such a scenario that had got Eloise canned from the program.  She had been bitter about it, saying she had been the only one whose test had a random factor, that she had been deliberately targeted.

I had thought that too, because she had been very good, worked twice as hard, and had been the only girl.

Damn.  Now I was thinking about her and not the mission, a real problem.

I felt a buzz on my wrist, the watch computer vibrating to tell me it was time to move.

Phase 2

Down the corridor, sticking close to the wall, to the end and turn right.  The camera covering the entrance to the room would be off; that is, the red light would be out.

The surveillance monitoring guy would cut the camera at precisely the moment I reached the corner, giving me five seconds to get in the room.

Oddly, there was no surveillance in the room.

I reached the end, another buzz, five seconds, no red light, into the room and made sure the door didn’t slam shut. 

Just.

“Hello, Will.”

I think I did have a heart attack.

…

Eloise.  Larger than life, and looking very suave in all black.

She always could distract me.

“What the..”

I remembered to speak in hushed tones.  Surveillance didn’t know if the room was bugged, but others were, and it was assumed it might be.

My silence had been disturbed when she spoke, even if it was not very loud.

“You’re being set up.”

“How the hell did you know I would be here?”

“Dargers.”

Dargers was the reason I had got into the program,  the one who had been my mother’s handler and had been there when she died, on the job.

“Why?”

“Because you’re getting closer to the truth about your mother.    Fletcher’s in hospital fighting for his life.  Something happened just after you met.”

That was yesterday.  I’d seen another associated with her last mission, but they were still OK.  Or were they?

“You just got here?”

“No.  Been waiting.”

“I heard a door close just before I got here.”

“Then they’re coming for you.  We have to go.”  She handed me an envelope.  “The prize.  I don’t think it has the value you were led to believe.”

Probably not.

…

It came as no surprise that Eloise had neutralised the surveillance and cleared the path.  Or that she knew more about the organisation, because she had been a top-flight private investigator before signing on.

Before the end of the first week, she had categorised everyone: hopefuls and instructors.  That she even spoke to me was a surprise.  There were far more candidates who were more interested in her, but as the training progressed, I thought she hung out with me because she decided I was safe.

I never got to ask her why.

But I shared in her assessments and rode on her coat-tails, learning more from her than most of the instructors.  I still couldn’t understand why I survived the cut, and she didn’t.

Working with her once again only reinforced just how good she was.

Objective achieved; it was a matter of two people working together being better than one, simply because I couldn’t be in two places at once.  That’s when I opened the door; my instinct was to look left, and the threat was on the right.

The first threat, that is.

Our training had taught us that where there was one assassin, there was likely to be more, depending on the degree of danger you presented.  I found it hard to believe I could be a threat, but then I had been a little loose in who I questioned about my mother’s death.

It was a taboo question, but being immersed in the world she once excelled in had provided a unique opportunity.  I just didn’t think I would ruffle any feathers so quickly, or at all.

There were three would-be assassins.  We didn’t shoot to kill, which was our training, because we would be killing our own people, people who we had most likely trained with, or worked with.

Then there was the revelation.

There was another way in and out of the building that I had not been told about, and that in itself told me all I needed to know.

The briefing supervisor was compromised, or hadn’t been given the full brief.

Once out of the building, Eloise faded into the night as if she had never been there.  There had been no time for small talk, as much as I needed that one fleeting touch of hands as she left.

It reminded me that having feelings, or attachments, was at best a curse and at worst a death sentence in this job, if it was a job I wanted to take up, and those feelings I had for Eloise, having been rekindled, were going to make it impossible.

She had said as much about herself when she had left, not saying where she was going or what she was going to do. 

I had tried to put her out of my mind.

…

If this had been a normal operation, in and out, the package would simply be dropped off, and I would relocate and await the next mission.

This hadn’t been normal.

I had a cell number to call if anything went wrong.  The operations supervisor would have been aware of what had happened, and I would be called in for a debriefing.

I had a feeling Browning would be waiting on the end of the line to curate the fallout.  Dead people could be explained away; live people could talk.

I chose to sit on it until morning.  Uppermost in my mind was the fact that if the mission had gone the way Browning’s had planned, I would be either dead or captured, and sitting in a dark room somewhere awaiting interrogation.

I could still end up there.

Now, when I called, he would have to pretend that everything was fine, though there would be doubts as to how I did manage to escape what, in his mind, was meant to be an inescapable trap.

I dialled the number on the untraceable cell Eloise had given me.  The one I got for the mission was tracking my movements.  Those movements ended in the safe room.

Davidson couldn’t help himself when he answered.

“Where did you get that device?”

“I had reason to believe the mission device was compromised, as per training.  There was an unexpected visitor on the building, just before the ‘go’ signal.  Someone knew I was there.  I figured the cell was compromised and dumped it.”

“We had no prior intel of rogue movements, and our devices are secure.”

“Random factors, sir.  It’s what got a trainee tossed out of the program.  Remembered it at the last moment.  Saved me, by the way.  Three assassins tried to eliminate me.”

As if he wouldn’t know that he had three of his agents in the hospital wondering why they were not dead.

He sounded quite calm, which in a sense was disconcerting.

It was good that my training had taught me to trust no one, not even the people I worked for.

“Three?”  His incredulous tone was almost believable.

“Not unexpected, if you remember the briefing.  The organisation does contract some very nasty mercenaries as guards for their perimeter and internal security.”

“And you took care of them.”

“I believe so.  They weren’t shooting back.”

There was a moment’s silence while he digested that piece of information before asking the question he should have asked at the beginning.”

“Did you get what you were sent for?”

“Yes.”

“Then await further instructions on where you are to deliver the package.”

The line went dead.

Since the cell phone I was using was untraceable, he couldn’t send a team to eliminate me, but just to be safe, I powered it down and removed the SIM card, then changed locations.

I wasn’t going to wait to be summoned or hunted down.

…

The organisation I worked for was one of several that worked under the umbrella of the main intelligence service. 

These groups had their offices scattered about the city, hiding behind what could easily be mistaken for legitimate businesses. 

The one I worked for, and run by Davidson, lived in a large sandstone turn-of-the-century building that also had lawyers, doctors and insurance agents.  It was odd turning up at the office and mingling with a very strange collection of civilians.

While it provided the sort of cover we needed, and it gave Davidson the sort of autonomy and control over who knew what he was doing, he wanted to be without the prying eyes of those he reported to; it wasn’t the most secure.  I often wondered what would happen if a shootout came to the corridors.

It hadn’t yet, but there was always a first time.

Being away from the ultra secure central operations centre, security was not as ting, and Davidson’s mall cop security set up, the brain child of his brother-in-law who was a locksmith, was adequate but not bulletproof.

It took me a week to find all the weak spots, the black holes in CCTV coverage, and the door codes, at least those beyond what was issued on our personal key cards.

And to discover that there was another way in that didn’t require a key card, and if Davison had got a proper security assessment, he would have discovered just how insecure the office was.

His office.

When sweeping the roof during my own security inspection I discovered a I discovered a hatch door that gave access to the roof, and below that, an attic, disused, that ran the length of the building.  It was once the servants’ quarters for each of them.

There were some very interesting comments on the walls.

There were back staircases that led to each floor, and invisible doorways so they could mysteriously come and go without being seen.

There was another, the one I would be using.  Davidson was a fresh air lover and had one of the windows in his office half open, playing havoc with everyone’s air conditioning.

He could be annoying like that.

I waited until he went to his one o’clock briefing, entered by the windows, and sat in his seat.  I had no interest in rifling through the drawers or poking around in the filing cabinets.

At precisely five minutes past two he came in, closed the door behind him, and then stopped.

I would have thought he’d notice me before then.

“You need to do something about security.  I, for one, wouldn’t feel safe if just about anyone could wander in off the street.”

His usual scowl turned a shade darker.  “You’re not just anyone, are you?”

I looked at the man who controlled so many lives, to do with as he pleased.  He wasn’t that man when my mother was killed in action, but he was her liaison in the field.  That much I’d discovered before the walls went up.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

His cell phone rang.  The puzzled expression on his face told me he was not expecting a call.

He took his phone out of his top pocket and looked at the screen, shook his head, and disconnected the call.

A few seconds later, a red dot from a laser sight appeared on the wall behind me. I knew there was something there when his expression changed, and then we both watched it until it appeared on his chest before disappearing.

“Is this some sort of sick joke?”

His cell phone rang again.

“Not me.  I think you might want to answer it.  Someone wants to get your attention.”

Who, though? I didn’t know.  I had not arranged anything.

He answered it.  “Whoever you are, you are in more trouble than you can imagine possible.”

Whoever was on the end of the call said something to him; his expression changed, this time to one I’d never expected from a man like him.

He pushed a button on the screen, and it came to life.

“You know better than to go into the lion’s den by yourself.”

Eloise.

“I had it covered.”

“Now you do.”

The red laser light reappeared.

Recognition flickered.  “Morgan.  You’re working with him?”

“Saving him from you, Davidson.  And still working on what I’m going to do about you killing a friend of mine, the same one who intimated to Blake that you were his mother’s liaison on that last mission.  You made a mistake.  It cost her her life, just part of the mess you’ve been cleaning up ever since.  Last night you went too far.”

“You haven’t got all of the facts.”

“I spoke to Richardson, just before he passed.  It was an illuminating discussion, one that answered several questions I had.”

If his expression was going to be an indication of his mood, then just the mention of Richardson brought fear.

“That’s impossible.”

“No.  What was impossible is that I found him.  You did a very good job of hiding him away, so far north he’s almost at the North Pole.  You even changed his name, Ralph Weimar.  You also figured out who I was, didn’t you?”

“A guess at best.  Your tradecraft gave you away.  Isabel Jenkins.”

“Harold Jenkins, another of your losses.”

Jenkins.  I knew that name from somewhere.

His shoulders slumped slightly, as if accepting that whatever he had been doing was over.

“So, not that any of what you think you know is relevant or even happened, what are you going to do?”

“End it.”

I saw the red dot focus on Davidson and then watched him die. 

I didn’t expect what happened next.  The dot moved to me. I thought I heard the bullet leave the gun just before it hit me, and in that fraction of a second before the pain came, it was lights out.

…

I think the miracle was that I was still alive.

I don’t remember anything from the moment Davidson was shot until I just woke, slowly focusing on a water stain on the roof above me.

It felt like I’d been hit by a truck. Or worse, one of those old steam locomotives.

There was an odd perfume aroma in the room, one that seemed familiar.  It was there, on the tip of my tongue.

That was overwritten by another memory, the one where I suddenly associated my predicament with being shot, which led to remembering those last few seconds in Davidson’s office, and then Eloise.

“There he is.”

Eloise.

“What happened?”

“You were saved from a fate worse than death.”

Another memory.  I was in Davidson’s office.  Then another: the realisation I didn’t have an exit strategy.  I was going to confront him … and then what?

“How?”

“You had to be a victim.  Davidson didn’t survive; he wasn’t meant to.  He had to pay for his mistakes.  You, though, you don’t deserve what they would have done to you.  He may have been a murderer, but he did get results.  We both knew there is no real honour in the job we would have had to do.  Don’t go back, even if they ask you.”

“Why are you doing this?  How did you know…?”

“I like you, have done since the first time I saw you.  You know me.  I can see through just about anyone.  And probably because your first words were not ‘babe’, ‘date’ and ‘fuck’.”

“I was going to ask you if you wanted a coffee and a chat once, but thought twice about it, then decided not to.  You had enough admirers.”

She smiled.  “I’m glad I’m out of it.  It was a mistake, but a good one.  I met you.  Come work with me. I’m going back to being a Private Detective.  LA or Hollywood.  Maybe New York.  Who knows.  We can just get on the next train out and see where it takes us. What do you say?”

“How long will I be here?”

“A couple of days.  It’s a clean wound, nothing damaged.  You can thank me later.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Here.  Told them we’re about to be married and I wasn’t letting you out of my sight.  It amuses them. I kinda like the sound of it.  But it takes two to tango, so I can wait until you’re back on your feet, and we’ll see how good we can dance together.  Now, the doctor would like to talk to you, then the police.  I’ll be right here if you need me.  OK?”

“Dance?”  Perhaps there was a little confusion.

“Tango.  Yes.  Tango, Alpha, November, Golf, Oscar.”

I felt a surge of adrenalin run through me, and my mind cleared, taking a quick glance around the room, and ending on Eloise, only she was not Eloise, she was Baxter, Captain, my team leader, and I was Reynolds, Lieutenant, undercover.

She had just issued an Agent down signal, which I assumed to be me.  Protocol Five was instituted, and I was to follow her lead.

Something must have gone terribly wrong.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 222

Day 222 – From a wish to ambition

…

The Birth of a Writer: At What Age Does the Inherent Desire to Write Actually Begin?

Every author has an origin story. Long before the book deals, the midnight editing sessions, and the sacred mug of cold coffee on the desk, there was a spark. A quiet, persistent urge that whispered, Put pen to paper. Tell a story.

But when does that inherent desire to write actually begin?

Is it during the wide-eyed pre-teen years, when the magic of chapter books first captures your imagination? Does it ignite in the turbulent, emotionally charged teenage years, fueled by first loves and heartbreak? Or does it wait patiently until adulthood, when real-world experience, careers, and hardships finally grant you the insight to understand the human condition?

The truth is, the writing bug doesn’t have a single birthday. It visits us at different stages of life, transforming us in unique ways depending on when it decides to strike. Let’s explore the three distinct phases where the desire to write commonly takes root, and how each shapes the writer you become.

1. The Pre-Teen Wonder: When Magic Becomes a Blueprint

For many writers, the journey begins in childhood. Think back to the days of flashlight-under-the-covers reading, when the world of Narnia, Hogwarts, or Camp Half-Blood felt more real than your actual backyard.

During the pre-teen years, books are pure magic. But for future writers, reading is never just a passive activity. It’s an invitation.

  • The Inspiration: You finish a beloved book, close the back cover, and feel a sharp pang of grief because the story is over. Then comes the realisation: I can make my own world.
  • The Output: These early efforts are often messy, heavily derivative fan-fictions or tales of magical kingdoms featuring pets as protagonists, written in spiral-bound notebooks with gel pens.
  • The Impact: Starting young instils a sense of play and boundless imagination. Pre-teen writers learn early on that the page is a limitless sandbox. They write for the sheer joy of creation, long before the inner critic learns how to speak.

2. The Teenage Storm: When Emotion Demands an Outlet

If childhood writing is driven by imagination, teenage writing is driven by gasoline and matches.

The teen years are a whirlwind of firsts: first love, crushing rejection, identity crises, and a sudden, overwhelming awareness of the world outside oneself. For many, the inherent desire to write doesn’t come from a love of plotting; it comes from an urgent need to survive the emotional turbulence of growing up.

  • The Inspiration: Raw emotion. Whether it’s the dizzying high of a mutual crush or the devastating isolation of feeling misunderstood, life feels cinematic and high-stakes.
  • The Output: Poetry scrawled in the margins of algebra notebooks, angsty journal entries, and deeply emotional coming-of-age stories where the protagonists experience the exact emotional spectrum the author is currently navigating.
  • The Impact: Teenage writing teaches emotional honesty. It forces the writer to confront vulnerability and translate abstract feelings into concrete words. While these pieces might make you cringe a decade later, they build the vital muscle of emotional resonance.

3. The Adult Awakening: When Lived Experience Demands to Be Told

Not everyone catches the writing bug early. For many, the desire to write arrives much later in life—after years in the workforce, raising a family, navigating loss, or simply watching the world turn.

You might be sitting at a corporate desk, standing in your kitchen, or travelling the world when a sudden realisation hits: I have something to say.

  • The Inspiration: Perspective. Years of observing human behaviour, professional triumphs and failures, relationships that bloomed and withered, and the quiet resilience it takes to simply be an adult. You’ve seen how the world actually works, beyond the idealism of youth.
  • The Output: Rich, nuanced fiction with morally grey characters, reflective memoirs, deep non-fiction, or stories that explore the complexities of mid-life, grief, and reinvention.
  • The Impact: Adult-bloomed writers bring depth, pacing, and psychological realism to their work. They may lack the unbridled innocence of the pre-teen or the raw urgency of the teen, but they compensate with wisdom, patience, and a profound understanding of human motivation.

So, When Does It Truly Begin?

The beauty of the creative spirit is that it has no expiration date—and no single starting line.

  • If your journey started at age 10, your superpower is imagination.
  • If it started at age 15, your superpower is emotion.
  • If it started at age 40 (or 60, or 80), your superpower is perspective.

Ultimately, the inherent desire to write doesn’t belong to a specific age bracket. It belongs to the moment you decide that a story inside you deserves to exist outside of your head.

Whether you are dusting off a childhood dream, channelling current heartbreaks, or drawing from decades of life experience, the best time to start writing was yesterday. The second best time is right now.

When did the desire to write first strike you? Was it a childhood book, a teenage diary, or a later-in-life epiphany? Let us know in the comments below!

…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 222

Day 222 – From a wish to ambition

…

The Birth of a Writer: At What Age Does the Inherent Desire to Write Actually Begin?

Every author has an origin story. Long before the book deals, the midnight editing sessions, and the sacred mug of cold coffee on the desk, there was a spark. A quiet, persistent urge that whispered, Put pen to paper. Tell a story.

But when does that inherent desire to write actually begin?

Is it during the wide-eyed pre-teen years, when the magic of chapter books first captures your imagination? Does it ignite in the turbulent, emotionally charged teenage years, fueled by first loves and heartbreak? Or does it wait patiently until adulthood, when real-world experience, careers, and hardships finally grant you the insight to understand the human condition?

The truth is, the writing bug doesn’t have a single birthday. It visits us at different stages of life, transforming us in unique ways depending on when it decides to strike. Let’s explore the three distinct phases where the desire to write commonly takes root, and how each shapes the writer you become.

1. The Pre-Teen Wonder: When Magic Becomes a Blueprint

For many writers, the journey begins in childhood. Think back to the days of flashlight-under-the-covers reading, when the world of Narnia, Hogwarts, or Camp Half-Blood felt more real than your actual backyard.

During the pre-teen years, books are pure magic. But for future writers, reading is never just a passive activity. It’s an invitation.

  • The Inspiration: You finish a beloved book, close the back cover, and feel a sharp pang of grief because the story is over. Then comes the realisation: I can make my own world.
  • The Output: These early efforts are often messy, heavily derivative fan-fictions or tales of magical kingdoms featuring pets as protagonists, written in spiral-bound notebooks with gel pens.
  • The Impact: Starting young instils a sense of play and boundless imagination. Pre-teen writers learn early on that the page is a limitless sandbox. They write for the sheer joy of creation, long before the inner critic learns how to speak.

2. The Teenage Storm: When Emotion Demands an Outlet

If childhood writing is driven by imagination, teenage writing is driven by gasoline and matches.

The teen years are a whirlwind of firsts: first love, crushing rejection, identity crises, and a sudden, overwhelming awareness of the world outside oneself. For many, the inherent desire to write doesn’t come from a love of plotting; it comes from an urgent need to survive the emotional turbulence of growing up.

  • The Inspiration: Raw emotion. Whether it’s the dizzying high of a mutual crush or the devastating isolation of feeling misunderstood, life feels cinematic and high-stakes.
  • The Output: Poetry scrawled in the margins of algebra notebooks, angsty journal entries, and deeply emotional coming-of-age stories where the protagonists experience the exact emotional spectrum the author is currently navigating.
  • The Impact: Teenage writing teaches emotional honesty. It forces the writer to confront vulnerability and translate abstract feelings into concrete words. While these pieces might make you cringe a decade later, they build the vital muscle of emotional resonance.

3. The Adult Awakening: When Lived Experience Demands to Be Told

Not everyone catches the writing bug early. For many, the desire to write arrives much later in life—after years in the workforce, raising a family, navigating loss, or simply watching the world turn.

You might be sitting at a corporate desk, standing in your kitchen, or travelling the world when a sudden realisation hits: I have something to say.

  • The Inspiration: Perspective. Years of observing human behaviour, professional triumphs and failures, relationships that bloomed and withered, and the quiet resilience it takes to simply be an adult. You’ve seen how the world actually works, beyond the idealism of youth.
  • The Output: Rich, nuanced fiction with morally grey characters, reflective memoirs, deep non-fiction, or stories that explore the complexities of mid-life, grief, and reinvention.
  • The Impact: Adult-bloomed writers bring depth, pacing, and psychological realism to their work. They may lack the unbridled innocence of the pre-teen or the raw urgency of the teen, but they compensate with wisdom, patience, and a profound understanding of human motivation.

So, When Does It Truly Begin?

The beauty of the creative spirit is that it has no expiration date—and no single starting line.

  • If your journey started at age 10, your superpower is imagination.
  • If it started at age 15, your superpower is emotion.
  • If it started at age 40 (or 60, or 80), your superpower is perspective.

Ultimately, the inherent desire to write doesn’t belong to a specific age bracket. It belongs to the moment you decide that a story inside you deserves to exist outside of your head.

Whether you are dusting off a childhood dream, channelling current heartbreaks, or drawing from decades of life experience, the best time to start writing was yesterday. The second best time is right now.

When did the desire to write first strike you? Was it a childhood book, a teenage diary, or a later-in-life epiphany? Let us know in the comments below!

…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 220/221

Days 220 and 221 – Writing Exercise

…

It was always the same answer, as it had been from the day I could ask questions: “Who was Uncle Robert?”

My mother was always the first to speak, as he was one of her mother’s siblings, saying he was the black sheep, the one who went down in a hail of bullets.

If that sounded dubious, the next part cemented that remark: that he had died a hero, saving a bus full of children

It was heroic, and he was my uncle, the original font of all things good about my mother’s family, even though once I grew up and understood the nuances of the English language, I also knew what sarcasm was, and how it applied to him.

My mother and two of my aunts on her side, when thinking they were alone and talking about him, dropped a trail of breadcrumbs that said he was a criminal somewhere in Chicago and if he wasn’t already dead, he should be.

That meant a lot.  And it was curious to us children that we should stop asking terrible questions about a man who no longer existed.

Over succeeding years, I tried, but it wasn’t easy because there was always someone inadvertently mentioning his name.

But as the years passed, and I started digging into the genealogical aspect of our family, a chance discovery of a ‘lost’ aunt on my mother’s side who was living on the other side of the country, Charlotte, told me her brother, my uncle, was not dead but very clearly alive.

And what’s more, she gave me his address.

And as soon as I was old enough to travel on my own, I got on the plane and went to Cincinnati.  It was, I discovered, where all the members of my mother’s family came from.

…

Considering where we lived in Arizona, a not-so-large town in the Southwest, Cincinnati was eye-opening.  To me, it was a big city, but not as big as Tucson or New York, where my older sister had gone, but enough to show there was a whole different world out there when I was ready to greet it.

At this time I just wanted to say hello and confirm that the mystery that had hung around for years was not a mystery at all, and then go home.

Of course things were never that simple.  It might have been simple if I had a plan, but all the plan was; was to get from the airport to the house where my potential uncle lived.

And to find out why he had been shunned, or more likely why he had shunned us.

Until I knocked on the door and a boy who looked exactly like me opened it.

“My God,” was his first comment.  It was followed by, “Well, aren’t you the clever one, then.”

Until that exact moment, I was not sure what I was fishing for, perhaps a slightly complimentary remark.  Charlotte had said the uncle was a bit of a smarty pants.  He’d obviously passed that on to his son.

“Is your father here?”

I knew who my uncle was because Charlotte had shown me his photo, and I had rung ahead to let him know who I was and what part in the family I was related. 

He hadn’t seemed impressed that I existed or that he cared whether he knew me or not, though I did detect a slight curiosity in his tone.

He asked only one question.   Was I visiting him of my own volition or had my mother told me to come?  I said that it was a result of my ancestry search that I’d discovered him, and I’d not told my mother anything about this visit.

I had assumed that telling my mother where I was going would set her off, after running a test scenario that just had his name on the tip of my tongue.  Something bad must have happened a long time ago, and it was so bad they stopped talking.

Perhaps I would have to mend some bridges.  After the meeting, of course, and if we dismissed the idea of killing our contemporaries to keep a secret.

There was a story to be had, and once I stepped over that threshold, I was determined to get it, or at the very least, the truth.

I didn’t feel too sanguine, though, just outside the front door, and in a moment of realising that it was quite possible I would not get over the first hurdle. 

I was looking at the uncle’s son’s not-backing-down expression, so I had to consider that first effort might all come to nothing, but perseverance was the ticket to this mission, not failure. 

Until another of my aunts, one I didn’t readily recognise, came down the stairs just inside the doorway.  She stopped on the last step, then put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Was she about to send me on my way?  She gave me an up-and-down look.  “You don’t look like your mother.”

“You don’t look like my mother, and you are supposed to be a sister.”

“Obviously your mother didn’t teach you about insolence.  You should go back to where you came from.”

“They don’t know I’m here, and I didn’t tell them.  I didn’t come to see you; I came to see my uncle.  Is he here or is he playing hide and seek?”

“You can leave now.”  She said.

A man came down the stairs and brushed past her.  There was no doubting who he was.

“You’re as feisty as your mother.  Jack, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

He came out the door and closed it behind him.  “Let’s walk.  I wouldn’t worry too much about them.  Annabel is your mother’s twin sister, the one she doesn’t talk about.  It will no doubt answer that question you have about the boy looking like you.”

“I wasn’t going to ask.”

“You were.  What made you think there was a long-lost uncle?”

“The way my mother talks about a part of her life that seems like a made-up story.  How many siblings were there?”

“Fourteen.  Same father, two different women, sisters.  Your grandfather married Elsie first and had eight children, including your mother and Annabel, the last two of the eight, and after they were born Elsie died from afterbirth complications, then he married Agnes, Elsie’s younger sister, and had six more of which I was the first.  Your mother and Amnabel were blamed for her death; each blamed the other, and then the family fractured.”

…

We ended up in a cafe and the story took three cups of coffee.

The grandparents, the marriages, the family fractures, the children, and loss.  Perhaps I was too young to understand the nuances of family, other than my father’s edit that family was supposed to be everything, a hard tenet to follow given how my mother was the complete antithesis of it.

It was why I only assumed there were eight siblings: my mother and her older brothers and sisters, the evil sister Annabel, not knowing Annabel was her twin, and this other bunch of people that I thought belonged to another branch of the family.

My mother never assimilated with her father, and I knew that her mother was dead, but she never seemed to mention her with any fondness. 

No surprise.  She had never got to meet her at the point where she could bond with her or remember her.  She only had a stepmother, though she never mentioned her.  In fact, she rarely mentioned her life before marrying my father, and he seemed quite at home not mentioning her parents either.

The only people both my siblings and I knew were the grandparents on my father’s side.

Now I had a more detailed understanding of mt mothers whole family, and some of the reasons why she never mentioned them.

I could understand why Annabel hated me; she hated her twin, who had been born in a house that treated them badly.  I could not imagine what it would be like to be blamed by everyone for the death of their mother.

Even when it was not their fault, as my uncle had gone out of his way to find the truth and try for years to repair the fractures.

By the time I got back on the plane to go home, two days later, and after sitting at the table with my other six aunts and uncles, I was not sure whether I should be pleased or disappointed I’d found out the family secret.

…

When I walked in the door, back home, and feeling exhausted from the long trip, I wasn’t expecting to walk into a minefield.

My mother was standing in the hallway, arms crossed, and looking black as thunder.

Melanie.  The sister who could never keep a secret.  I had to tell someone in case there was a problem while I was away.

I guess if there was a chance to score points, she would take it.

“You went to Cincinnati?”

It was a statement, not a question.

My father, or anyone else who was around, had seen the storm brewing and left to find a safe haven.

“I did.  Part of this deep desire to see something of this great country I live in.  Maybe next month I’ll go to Texas.”  Better to be flippant.

“So Cincinnati was just a spot like pinning the tail on the donkey?”

“No.  It seemed significant, like you mentioning it with loathing.  I wanted to find out if it was as bad as you seem to think it is.”

“You have no idea what I think.”

“Actually, I think I might have some idea.  I met your twin sister, the evil Annabel.  I get it, by the way.  Sisters can be shitty to one another, and I imagine that can only intensify with a twin.  It’s amusing to discover she had exactly the same loathing of you, which makes it quite funny.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.  After all the times you told me I had to be nice to my siblings, you went and did the exact opposite.  Did Dad know you were one of fourteen?”

“I told him my father was in a mental home and my mother was dead.  I’d like it to stay that way.”

“Why?”

“Because it was better that way.”  The black clouds were passing, and the edge had gone out of her tone.  She was still angry but not as much.

“You spoke to Anthony?”

“You knew he was still in Cincinnati?”

“Of course.  He is my stepbrother, perhaps the only one worth talking to, and the only one who took the time to find the truth.”

“And you knew Annabel was staying with him?”

“You went to the home we were brought up in.  She was never going to leave him, married or otherwise.  You would have met your doppelganger Eric, too.”  She shrugged.  “She dated your father for the whole of high school, got pregnant, which, given the type of girl she was, surprised no one.  It’s why he looks like you; he’s your father’s illegitimate child.  He invited her to the prom, and she got sick, and told me to go with him instead so another girl wouldn’t steal him from her.”

I could see how that would work.  “Except…”

“He preferred me.  One night it took.  The Prom.  She was a bitch at the best of times.  I wasn’t.  You can only put up with that stuff for so long.  But there was the pregnancy and the obligation.  Our parents expected him to do the right thing.  He didn’t.”

I could see now why Annabel hated her.  Bad choices and expectations.

She continued, “To make things easier for her, I left home, came here, told him he had to marry her, but he said he’d made his bed, asked me to marry him.  I said no.  He eventually married her, the child was born, and then they divorced.  She cheated on him, not surprising.  A year later, your father came here, asked me again, and I said yes.  She hated me ever since.  The guy she ended up with was better for her, but you could never tell her anything.  She blew that marriage up too, by the way.”

I had some experience in breaking up with a first love.  The next was never the same, even after you got over that broken heart, which I didn’t think I had.

“I’m sure there’s a moral in this story somewhere.  If anything, given my family, perhaps it’s better not to get married, or if you do, stick to one wife, and not have eight, six or fourteen kids.  And not marry a twin.”

I thought i saw the beginnings of a smile.  I could have been mistaken.

“What are you going to do with this newfound knowledge?”

“Talk to the aunts and uncles I know about the aunts and uncles they quite clearly knew about but never spoke about because of you.”

“Not me exactly.  Out of deference to me.  They regretted blaming us for our mother’s death, because at that age everything was more intense and easily explained in a child’s head, aside from our father hammering it in because of his own misery.

It was what it was.  I should have handled it better, but I didn’t.  Perhaps in some small way, you doing what you just did might be the first step along a long path back.  If you want, invite Anthony to come and visit you.  See what he says.”

I knew what he would say, but I wasn’t going to tell her.

I’d let that be a surprise.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026