Tag: Reading

What I learned about writing – The use of idioms, those a reader will recognise and understand

Don’t Let Your Writing Get Lost in the Weeds: The Art of Using Idioms Wisely

We all want our writing to be engaging, vivid, and memorable. We strive for clarity, for that “aha!” moment in our readers’ minds. But sometimes, in our quest for impactful language, we can accidentally end up “clouding the issue.”

That’s where idioms come in. These colourful phrases, like “got it in the bag” or “bite the bullet,” can add personality and a touch of familiar flair to our prose. They’re the linguistic shorthand that allows us to paint a picture, convey a complex emotion, or express a common sentiment without lengthy explanations.

Think about it: instead of saying “we are absolutely certain of success,” “got it in the bag” instantly communicates that victory is assured. Or, “bite the bullet” is a far more evocative way to describe enduring something unpleasant than a simple “tolerate the difficulty.” These phrases resonate because they’re rooted in shared cultural understanding.

However, like any powerful tool, idioms require a deft hand. The key is balance and clarity.

The Pitfall of Obscurity:

One of the biggest mistakes a writer can make is to pepper their work with obscure idioms. While you might think a phrase like “all mouth and no trousers” perfectly captures someone’s boastfulness, if your reader has never encountered it, they’re not just confused – they’re lost. Instead of enhancing understanding, an obscure idiom creates a barrier, forcing the reader to stop and decipher your meaning, breaking the flow of your narrative. Stick to idioms that are generally well-understood by your target audience.

The Danger of Overuse:

On the flip side, too much of a good thing can be detrimental. Imagine reading a paragraph where every other sentence is an idiom. It starts to sound less like natural writing and more like a forced attempt to sound “clever.” This overuse can make your writing feel cluttered and even insincere. Readers might start to feel like they’re being bombarded with clichés rather than genuinely connecting with your message.

So, How Do You Strike the Right Chord?

  1. Know Your Audience: This is paramount. What idioms are common in their everyday language? What will they readily understand? If you’re writing for a general audience, stick to widely recognised idioms.
  2. Purposeful Placement: Use idioms when they truly add value. Do they make your point more concisely? Do they inject personality or emotion? If an idiom doesn’t serve a clear purpose, a more straightforward phrase might be better.
  3. Vary Your Language: Don’t rely solely on idioms. Blend them with clear, direct language. This creates a more natural and sophisticated writing style. An occasional idiom can shine; a constant barrage will dim their impact.
  4. When in Doubt, Leave it Out: If you’re not 100% sure an idiom will be understood, or if you’re worried about overdoing it, it’s often safer to opt for a more explicit phrasing. Clarity should always be the priority.

Idioms are valuable additions to a writer’s toolkit. When used thoughtfully and strategically, they can elevate your writing, making it more engaging and relatable. But remember, the goal is to illuminate, not obfuscate. So, use them wisely, and ensure your readers don’t end up feeling like they’ve been left “out in the cold.”

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 155

Day 155 – Fly by the seat of your pants

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The Art of the “Seat of the Pants”: Why Writing Without a Map is a Masterpiece in Progress

“The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair.” — Mary Heaton Vorse

This quote resonates with every writer who has ever stared at a blinking cursor. It strips away the romantic notion of the “divine muse” and replaces it with the stark, tactile reality of the craft. But beyond the discipline of sitting down, Vorse’s famous line carries a secondary, perhaps unintentional, meaning for a specific breed of writers: The Pantsers.

In the world of fiction, there are two primary archetypes: the Plotters (the architects who blueprint every room before a single brick is laid) and the Pantsers (the explorers who walk into a dark forest with only a lantern, trusting they’ll find the path as they go).

If you are a writer who finds the idea of an outline stifling, you aren’t just “making it up as you go”—you are practising the high art of discovery writing. Here is why the pantser methodology is not only valid but often leads to the most organic, surprising stories.

The Magic of “Not Knowing”

The greatest advantage of the pantser methodology is that it preserves the element of surprise. If a writer knows exactly what happens on page 200, the act of writing becomes a mechanical chore—a “connect the dots” exercise.

When you write by the seat of your pants, you are the first reader of your own story. If you’re bored, the reader is bored. But if you are genuinely shocked by a character’s betrayal or a sudden plot twist, your reader will be, too. There is an electric energy in a scene where the author doesn’t know how the protagonist is going to escape a locked room until they write the final paragraph of the chapter.

Embracing the “Organic” Character

Plotters often find themselves forcing characters to fit a pre-determined narrative arc. “He has to die here,” they might say, “because it’s in the outline.”

The pantser, however, allows the character to breathe. Because you aren’t tied to a rigid structure, you can listen to your characters. If a side character suddenly demands to have a larger role, or if your villain reveals a hidden vulnerability you didn’t anticipate, you have the flexibility to follow that thread. This creates a sense of “organic” development that feels less like a manufactured plot and more like a captured reality.

The “Seat of the Chair” Reality

Of course, there is a catch. The pantser methodology is not an excuse for aimlessness. This is where Vorse’s quote anchors us.

Writing by the seat of your pants requires more discipline, not less. Without a map, you are prone to getting lost. You might write yourself into a corner, produce three chapters of “fluff” that don’t move the story forward, or lose the main thread entirely.

To be a successful pantser, you must:

  1. Trust your instincts: If it feels right, chase it. If it feels like a dead end, dare to cut it.
  2. Edit ruthlessly: Because you don’t have an outline to guide you, your first draft will inevitably be messy. You must be willing to embrace the “vomit draft” and treat your revision process as the time when you finally build the scaffolding for the story you’ve discovered.
  3. Stay in the seat: You can only find the path if you keep moving. The pantser who doesn’t show up to the desk is just a dreamer; the pantser who shows up is a navigator.

The Final Verdict

Whether you are a meticulous plotter or a wild-card pantser, the truth remains: the story only exists when you apply your physical presence to the task.

If you feel like you’re failing because you don’t have a 50-page outline, stop judging yourself. Pick up your lantern, sit in your chair, and start walking into the woods. The story is waiting for you in the dark, and it’s likely far more interesting than anything you could have planned on paper.

Are you a plotter or a pantser? Do you find that your best ideas come when you have no idea where you’re going? Let’s talk about your process in the comments below.

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In a word: Prize

What you win, first prize in a raffle, though I don’t think I’ve ever won first prize.  Second maybe.  But, aren’t all raffles rigged?  

But despite my unfortunate run of luck, a prize is generally give to someone who works hard, or wins a race

Or I could have been a prize fighter but lacked the size and the strength, and out of curiosity how many prize fighters didn’t win a prize?

And if I had been a pirate, I could have sailed the seven seas to find a prize, namely a ship to attack and take as my own.

And as a prime example, a Chelsea supporter walking into a bar full of Manchester United fans could be called a prize idiot.

This is not to be confused with the word prise

Don’t relatives prise the last dollar out of a dying man’s hand?

Or prise the truth out of a witness, or a perpetrator

Or prise a window open like thieves do when we forget to lock them properly?

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 155

Day 155 – Fly by the seat of your pants

…

The Art of the “Seat of the Pants”: Why Writing Without a Map is a Masterpiece in Progress

“The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair.” — Mary Heaton Vorse

This quote resonates with every writer who has ever stared at a blinking cursor. It strips away the romantic notion of the “divine muse” and replaces it with the stark, tactile reality of the craft. But beyond the discipline of sitting down, Vorse’s famous line carries a secondary, perhaps unintentional, meaning for a specific breed of writers: The Pantsers.

In the world of fiction, there are two primary archetypes: the Plotters (the architects who blueprint every room before a single brick is laid) and the Pantsers (the explorers who walk into a dark forest with only a lantern, trusting they’ll find the path as they go).

If you are a writer who finds the idea of an outline stifling, you aren’t just “making it up as you go”—you are practising the high art of discovery writing. Here is why the pantser methodology is not only valid but often leads to the most organic, surprising stories.

The Magic of “Not Knowing”

The greatest advantage of the pantser methodology is that it preserves the element of surprise. If a writer knows exactly what happens on page 200, the act of writing becomes a mechanical chore—a “connect the dots” exercise.

When you write by the seat of your pants, you are the first reader of your own story. If you’re bored, the reader is bored. But if you are genuinely shocked by a character’s betrayal or a sudden plot twist, your reader will be, too. There is an electric energy in a scene where the author doesn’t know how the protagonist is going to escape a locked room until they write the final paragraph of the chapter.

Embracing the “Organic” Character

Plotters often find themselves forcing characters to fit a pre-determined narrative arc. “He has to die here,” they might say, “because it’s in the outline.”

The pantser, however, allows the character to breathe. Because you aren’t tied to a rigid structure, you can listen to your characters. If a side character suddenly demands to have a larger role, or if your villain reveals a hidden vulnerability you didn’t anticipate, you have the flexibility to follow that thread. This creates a sense of “organic” development that feels less like a manufactured plot and more like a captured reality.

The “Seat of the Chair” Reality

Of course, there is a catch. The pantser methodology is not an excuse for aimlessness. This is where Vorse’s quote anchors us.

Writing by the seat of your pants requires more discipline, not less. Without a map, you are prone to getting lost. You might write yourself into a corner, produce three chapters of “fluff” that don’t move the story forward, or lose the main thread entirely.

To be a successful pantser, you must:

  1. Trust your instincts: If it feels right, chase it. If it feels like a dead end, dare to cut it.
  2. Edit ruthlessly: Because you don’t have an outline to guide you, your first draft will inevitably be messy. You must be willing to embrace the “vomit draft” and treat your revision process as the time when you finally build the scaffolding for the story you’ve discovered.
  3. Stay in the seat: You can only find the path if you keep moving. The pantser who doesn’t show up to the desk is just a dreamer; the pantser who shows up is a navigator.

The Final Verdict

Whether you are a meticulous plotter or a wild-card pantser, the truth remains: the story only exists when you apply your physical presence to the task.

If you feel like you’re failing because you don’t have a 50-page outline, stop judging yourself. Pick up your lantern, sit in your chair, and start walking into the woods. The story is waiting for you in the dark, and it’s likely far more interesting than anything you could have planned on paper.

Are you a plotter or a pantser? Do you find that your best ideas come when you have no idea where you’re going? Let’s talk about your process in the comments below.

…

What I learned about writing – The literary writer, not pulp fiction

A quote by George Sand…

“I knew human nature well enough to depict it; in short, that all of the small tasks of which I was capable, literature, properly speaking, was the one that offered the most chance of success as a profession and – let us not mince words – was the way to earn my bread.”

…

When the Muse Meets the Mortgage: The Unromantic Truth of My Literary Calling

We’ve all heard the romanticised tales of artists, poets, and writers – struck by inspiration, driven by an insatiable passion, toiling away in garrets for the sheer love of their craft. While there’s undeniable truth to the passion part, there’s another, often unspoken, dimension to the creative life that an ancient, surprisingly honest quote brings into sharp focus:

“I knew human nature well enough to depict it; in short, that all of the small tasks of which I was capable, literature, properly speaking, was the one that offered the most chance of success as a profession and – let us not mince words – was the way to earn my bread.”

Let’s unpack this gem, because it speaks volumes about the pragmatic, often unromantic, journey of finding one’s professional purpose, especially in the arts.

The Unseen Power of Observation

“I knew human nature well enough to depict it.” This isn’t vanity; it’s a profound self-awareness, the very bedrock of a good writer. It speaks to an innate empathy, a keen eye for detail, and an understanding of the intricate dance of human emotions, motivations, and contradictions. Before words can flow, understanding must exist. This is the writer’s superpower: to see beyond the surface, to connect dots, and to translate the universal human experience into relatable narratives.

Many of us possess this kind of observational skill to varying degrees. We notice things others miss. We’re the friends people come to for advice because we “just get it.” For some, this skill is a social asset; for others, it’s the quiet engine of a potential career.

The Litany of “Small Tasks”

“All of the small tasks of which I was capable…” This is where most of us live, isn’t it? We shuffle through life, picking up skills, trying on different hats. We might be competent at a dozen different things – organising, problem-solving, number-crunching, designing. We can do them, often well enough. But there’s a difference between capability and calling, between competence and conviction.

This phrase beautifully captures the process of elimination. It’s the quiet concession that while we might be able to handle a variety of “small tasks,” none of them ignite that spark, none of them feel like the one. It’s a realistic appraisal of one’s diverse but perhaps diffuse talents, paving the way for the singular realisation.

Literature: The Most Probable Path to “Success”

“…literature, properly speaking, was the one that offered the most chance of success as a profession…” This is the pivotal moment. It’s not just about what you love to do, but what you can actually succeed at. And success, in this context, isn’t necessarily about fame or fortune, but about creating a sustainable livelihood from your distinct abilities.

For our anonymous author, the ability to depict human nature wasn’t just a passion; it was a skill that, when applied to literature, offered genuine professional viability. It wasn’t a whimsical choice but a strategic one. “Properly speaking” suggests a serious commitment to the craft – not just dabbling, but mastering the tools, understanding the market (even if that market was different centuries ago), and treating it as a legitimate profession.

It challenges the modern narrative that “following your passion” is enough. Sometimes, passion needs a sturdy bridge of practicality to cross into a career.

Let’s Not Mince Words: Earning My Bread

“…and – let us not mince words – was the way to earn my bread.” This is the mic drop. The raw, beautiful, and utterly human truth. Stripped of all artistic pretence, it comes down to survival. To put food on the table. To pay the rent.

This isn’t a cynical statement; it’s an honest one. For many creatives, the initial lure of their chosen field might be passion or talent, but the sustained effort, the diligent practice, and the strategic career decisions are often fueled by the fundamental need to make a living. There’s immense dignity in earning your bread through your craft, through the very expression of your unique insights and abilities.

The Modern Resonance

This centuries-old observation still holds remarkable power today. How many of us choose our careers not just because we love them, but because through them, we are best equipped to contribute, to find a sense of purpose, and yes, to earn our living?

Perhaps your “literature” isn’t writing stories, but is:

  • Designing elegant user interfaces because you understand human interaction.
  • Building innovative software because you can conceive of efficient systems.
  • Teaching complex subjects because you excel at simplifying knowledge.
  • Crafting beautiful objects because you have an eye for form and function.

The lesson is clear: true professional fulfillment often lies at the intersection of what you’re genuinely good at, what you find meaningful, and what can realistically sustain you. It’s less about a lightning bolt of inspiration and more about a thoughtful, pragmatic assessment of your unique place in the world, and how best to earn your bread with the gifts you possess.

So, what’s your “literature”? What’s the one thing, among all the small tasks you’re capable of, that truly offers you a chance at success, and allows you to earn your bread, no mincing of words required?

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 154

Day 154 – A Writer’s Journey – Ian Fleming

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From Desk Jobs to Espionage: Why the “Accidental” Writer is More Common Than You Think

We often imagine the “Great Author” as someone born with an ink-stained soul—a tortured genius who spent their childhood reciting poetry and their adolescence crafting sprawling manuscripts in the glow of a candle.

But the history of literature tells a very different story. Take Ian Fleming, the creator of the world’s most iconic secret agent.

Before Fleming became a household name, he was a man desperately trying to outrun his own shadow. He cycled through jobs in journalism, merchant banking, and stockbroking, eventually landing in Naval Intelligence during World War II. It wasn’t until he retreated to his estate in Jamaica—suffering from a classic case of mid-life post-war boredom—that he sat down at a typewriter and hammered out Casino Royale.

Fleming didn’t start as a “writer.” He started as a man with a rich, complicated life who realised he had stories to tell.

As it turns out, Fleming isn’t an anomaly. In fact, he’s the archetype.

The “Portfolio Career” of the Author

If you look at the biographies of the world’s most beloved writers, you’ll find that very few of them spent their twenties in an MFA program. Instead, they were living.

  • Franz Kafka spent his days as an insurance clerk, navigating the crushing bureaucracy that would later inspire the bleak, surreal landscapes of The Trial.
  • Harper Lee worked as an airline ticket agent while struggling to write To Kill a Mockingbird.
  • Charles Bukowski ground out years at the post office, convinced that his life was a series of mundane failures until his prose finally caught fire.

For these writers, the “day job” wasn’t a distraction—it was the fuel. It provided the frustration, the observation, and the grit required to build a believable world.

Why Boredom and Disillusionment are Catalysts

Fleming’s transition from intelligence officer to novelist is a quintessential example of creative displacement. When you have spent your life in high-stakes, high-pressure environments—like intelligence work or banking—the sudden silence of civilian life can feel deafening.

Many writers emerge from this exact place:

  1. The Escape Hatch: Writing is often a way to reconcile with a past we can’t change. Fleming used the pages of Bond novels to process the shadowy, often morally grey world he had inhabited during the war.
  2. The Need to Orchestrate: People who have worked in rigid systems (like banking or the military) often turn to fiction because, for the first time, they are in total control. The author is the ultimate intelligence chief; they decide who lives, who dies, and how the plot unfolds.
  3. The “What If” Factor: Many accidental authors start writing because they are bored with reality. They find the world as it exists to lack adventure, mystery, or romance. Writing becomes the tool they use to build a version of the world that is, frankly, more interesting.

The “Ian Fleming Path” to Creativity

If you are currently sitting in a cubicle, working a job that feels worlds away from your creative ambitions, take heart. You aren’t “not a writer” because you aren’t currently writing. You are, like Fleming, building your archive.

You are observing office politics, understanding the nuances of human manipulation, learning how systems break, and experiencing the distinct, soul-sucking weight of boredom. These are not wasted years. These are the bricks you will use to build your own “Casino Royale.”

Many of the best writers in history didn’t start by chasing the dream of being an author. They started by living through enough reality that they eventually had to write it down to make sense of it.

So, if you’re looking for a sign to start that manuscript, look at Fleming in Jamaica. He didn’t wait for inspiration to strike; he waited until he was bored enough, experienced enough, and ready enough to translate his life into a legend.

Your day job is not a detour. It’s the prologue.

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 154

Day 154 – A Writer’s Journey – Ian Fleming

…

From Desk Jobs to Espionage: Why the “Accidental” Writer is More Common Than You Think

We often imagine the “Great Author” as someone born with an ink-stained soul—a tortured genius who spent their childhood reciting poetry and their adolescence crafting sprawling manuscripts in the glow of a candle.

But the history of literature tells a very different story. Take Ian Fleming, the creator of the world’s most iconic secret agent.

Before Fleming became a household name, he was a man desperately trying to outrun his own shadow. He cycled through jobs in journalism, merchant banking, and stockbroking, eventually landing in Naval Intelligence during World War II. It wasn’t until he retreated to his estate in Jamaica—suffering from a classic case of mid-life post-war boredom—that he sat down at a typewriter and hammered out Casino Royale.

Fleming didn’t start as a “writer.” He started as a man with a rich, complicated life who realised he had stories to tell.

As it turns out, Fleming isn’t an anomaly. In fact, he’s the archetype.

The “Portfolio Career” of the Author

If you look at the biographies of the world’s most beloved writers, you’ll find that very few of them spent their twenties in an MFA program. Instead, they were living.

  • Franz Kafka spent his days as an insurance clerk, navigating the crushing bureaucracy that would later inspire the bleak, surreal landscapes of The Trial.
  • Harper Lee worked as an airline ticket agent while struggling to write To Kill a Mockingbird.
  • Charles Bukowski ground out years at the post office, convinced that his life was a series of mundane failures until his prose finally caught fire.

For these writers, the “day job” wasn’t a distraction—it was the fuel. It provided the frustration, the observation, and the grit required to build a believable world.

Why Boredom and Disillusionment are Catalysts

Fleming’s transition from intelligence officer to novelist is a quintessential example of creative displacement. When you have spent your life in high-stakes, high-pressure environments—like intelligence work or banking—the sudden silence of civilian life can feel deafening.

Many writers emerge from this exact place:

  1. The Escape Hatch: Writing is often a way to reconcile with a past we can’t change. Fleming used the pages of Bond novels to process the shadowy, often morally grey world he had inhabited during the war.
  2. The Need to Orchestrate: People who have worked in rigid systems (like banking or the military) often turn to fiction because, for the first time, they are in total control. The author is the ultimate intelligence chief; they decide who lives, who dies, and how the plot unfolds.
  3. The “What If” Factor: Many accidental authors start writing because they are bored with reality. They find the world as it exists to lack adventure, mystery, or romance. Writing becomes the tool they use to build a version of the world that is, frankly, more interesting.

The “Ian Fleming Path” to Creativity

If you are currently sitting in a cubicle, working a job that feels worlds away from your creative ambitions, take heart. You aren’t “not a writer” because you aren’t currently writing. You are, like Fleming, building your archive.

You are observing office politics, understanding the nuances of human manipulation, learning how systems break, and experiencing the distinct, soul-sucking weight of boredom. These are not wasted years. These are the bricks you will use to build your own “Casino Royale.”

Many of the best writers in history didn’t start by chasing the dream of being an author. They started by living through enough reality that they eventually had to write it down to make sense of it.

So, if you’re looking for a sign to start that manuscript, look at Fleming in Jamaica. He didn’t wait for inspiration to strike; he waited until he was bored enough, experienced enough, and ready enough to translate his life into a legend.

Your day job is not a detour. It’s the prologue.

…

What I learned about writing – Turning your real-life experiences into a story, and then with a great deal of luck, into a legendary film.

From Your Life to the Legendary Silver Screen: The Audacious Quest for Cinematic Immortality

We’ve all seen them – those incredible films that resonate deep within our souls, stories so potent and true, you just know they must have sprung from the messy, magnificent wellspring of real life. Think “Schindler’s List,” “127 Hours,” “The Pursuit of Happyness,” “Erin Brockovich.” These aren’t just great movies; they’re cultural touchstones, etched into our collective consciousness.

And who hasn’t, at some point, looked at a pivotal moment in their own life – a harrowing challenge, an unlikely triumph, a profound transformation – and thought, “Now that would make an amazing movie.”

The leap from your personal experience to a legendary film is, let’s be honest, vast. It’s akin to catching lightning in a bottle, then harnessing its power to illuminate the world. It requires a potent blend of authenticity, craft, perseverance, and indeed, a great deal of luck. But understanding the steps, the possible path, can turn a fleeting thought into a focused ambition.

Here’s how one might embark on this audacious, often miraculous, journey:

Step 1: Harvesting Your Truth – The Origin Story

Before you even think about a script, you must dive deep into your own experience. This isn’t just recounting events; it’s excavating the emotional core.

  • Identify the Core Conflict & Transformation: What was the central struggle? Who were you before, and who did you become after? Legendary stories thrive on profound change.
  • Pinpoint the Universal: While your experience is unique, what universal themes does it touch upon? Love, loss, injustice, courage, resilience, redemption? These are the hooks that connect your singular story to a global audience.
  • Embrace Authenticity, Not Just Facts: Don’t be afraid to explore the messy, uncomfortable, or unsung aspects. Truth, in its rawest form, is compelling.
  • The “Why Now?”: Why is this story important right now? What message does it carry for contemporary society?

This isn’t just memory; it’s meaningful introspection.

Step 2: Crafting the Narrative – From Raw Emotion to Gripping Story

Your life isn’t a film script; it’s a sprawling, unedited saga. The next crucial step is to shape that reality into a compelling narrative arc.

  • Outline the Narrative Beats: Think like a storyteller. What’s the inciting incident? The rising action? The climax? The falling action? The resolution? Even if it didn’t happen perfectly in real life, you need to find this structure.
  • Identify Your Protagonist (You, or an Alter-Ego): What are their desires, flaws, strengths? How do they drive the story forward?
  • Build Your Supporting Cast: Who are the key players in your life’s drama? What roles do they play in your journey?
  • Write It Down (Seriously, Write It): Start as a memoir, a detailed story, or even a treatment. Get the essence of the story, its characters, and its emotional journey down on paper in prose form. This is your foundation.

This is where “storytelling” begins its magic, often requiring you to condense, combine, or even slightly fictionalise elements to serve the larger truth.

Step 3: Translating to the Screen – The Art of the Screenplay

This is where the specialised craft truly begins. A screenplay is a blueprint, a visual language.

  • Learn Screenwriting Fundamentals: Read screenplays of films you admire. Understand structure (three-act, sequences), formatting, dialogue, and “show, don’t tell.”
  • Visualise Everything: How does your story look on screen? What are the key images, sounds, and moments that convey emotion without dialogue?
  • Find Your Voice: Even with technical rules, your unique perspective should shine through.
  • Consider Collaboration: Unless you are an experienced screenwriter, you might need to find a professional screenwriter who can adapt your story into a compelling script. This often means selling them the rights to your life story, or collaborating closely. Be prepared for changes – the film version won’t be a literal transcription of your life.

This stage transforms your story from a personal account into a potential cinematic experience.

Step 4: The Industry Gauntlet – Pitching, Persistence, and People

Even a brilliant script needs to find its way into the right hands. This is where the “luck” factor amplifies, but you can certainly increase your odds.

  • Seek Feedback & Refine: Share your script with trusted readers, writers’ groups, or professional consultants. Be open to critique and revise, revise, revise.
  • Build Your Network: Attend film festivals, writing conferences, and industry events. Connect with other emerging writers, producers, and directors.
  • Enter Contests & Fellowships: Prestigious screenwriting competitions (like The Nicholl Fellowships, Austin Film Festival) can open doors and get your script noticed by agents and producers.
  • Find Representation: A literary agent or manager can be crucial for getting your script read by studios and production companies. This often requires a strong script and some initial buzz.
  • The Pitch: Be ready to articulate your story’s essence, its universal appeal, and its marketability in a concise, compelling way.

This phase is a marathon of networking, rejection, and the occasional glimmer of hope.

Step 5: The Alchemy of Production – From Script to Silver Screen

If your script catches fire, it enters the labyrinthine world of development and production.

  • Optioning & Development Deals: A production company or studio might “option” your script, buying the exclusive right to develop it for a period. This is where the project gets a producer, perhaps a director attached, and financing is sought.
  • Creative Evolution (and Compromise): Be prepared for your story to be shaped by many hands – directors, actors, studio executives. Your initial vision might evolve significantly. This is a collaborative art form.
  • Casting the Dream: The right cast can elevate a good story to greatness, bringing characters to life in unexpected ways.
  • Filming & Post-Production: The arduous process of shooting, editing, scoring, and visual effects comes next.

This is where your story truly transforms, gaining flesh, blood, and a voice beyond your own.

Step 6: The Spark of Legend – Beyond Your Control

Achieving “legendary” status is the ultimate, and most unpredictable, outcome.

  • Critical Acclaim & Audience Resonance: A film needs to connect deeply with both critics and audiences, earning rave reviews and robust box office (though not always).
  • Cultural Impact: Does the film spark conversations? Does it influence other art? Does it stand the test of time, becoming a reference point for future generations?
  • The Right Moment: Sometimes, a story simply arrives at the perfect cultural moment, addressing unspoken needs or reflecting pressing issues. This is pure serendipity.
  • Awards & Recognition: While not the sole arbiter of “legendary,” major awards (Oscars, Golden Globes) certainly amplify a film’s reach and cemented its place in history.

This is the realm of magic, where your personal truth, skillfully told, transcends entertainment and becomes a lasting cultural artifact.

The path from your unique life experience to a legendary film is steep, winding, and littered with “almosts.” Many incredible stories remain untold, or stop short of the silver screen. But the very act of distilling your truth, crafting it into a compelling narrative, and daring to share it with the world is a profound journey in itself.

So, listen to the whisper of your own story. What profound truth is waiting to be unearthed? What cinematic masterpiece might be hiding within the chapters of your life? The first step, always, is simply to begin.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 153

Day 153 – Writing Exercise

…

I was lying in a hospital bed staring at the ceiling, after being told that morning that a few seconds either way of me getting to the hospital could have been a matter of life and death.

No visitors for two days, and a very laborious interview with the police where I was practically browbeaten into making a confession, of stuff I hadn’t done, and through mistaken identity..

They were determined to make me the scapegoat.  Now, looking at my brother who had made a special trip to see me, I was annoyed.

He should have been the one who was attacked. 

And all because I borrowed his car?

It seemed to me he was oblivious, or pretending to be obvious, to the fact that it should have been him and not me, but something told me I was never going to get him to admit that he was the one they wanted to hurt, not me. 

And this was not the first time it had happened.

“I think you know I was not the target,” I said, “and definitely not the one who committed any of the crimes I’m being accused of.  The mere fact that we are almost alike is a very telling factor.”

We were not twins but the year apart in age did little to tell us apart, even from quite close.  Cerise, his wife, had taken years before she could accurately tell us apart.

“You were running their distributional network,” he said.  “That had nothing to do with me.”

“I did what I was told, believing that what I was doing was at the behest of the company, and I would believe that was the case if I were in my own car, not yours.”

He was clutching at straws.  I had only told him a few days ago that the people I worked for were the McKenzies, people who were direct competitors.  It hadn’t gone down well.

It was when I realised I was being set up.  It might have explained what happened, but it came back to the car, and why he had asked me to take it from a downtown car park to his house.

“The bottom line is that they targeted the car and then hesitated before they tried to beat me to death.  I was not who they were looking for.”

He shrugged.  “Unless the police catch them, we’ll never know for sure.  I’ll get some people to investigate and arrange for some protection.  You’ll survive.”

I almost laughed at that.  I’ll survive.  Not if they came after me again.

“Thanks for nothing.”

Another minute, and he left.  I was surprised he’d stayed as long as he had.  It reflected the disdain he held for me and my choices when, a dozen years back, I refused to join the family firm.

Perhaps it was the people who turned up at all hours of the night and say, people who were not the sort of customers general merchants dealt with, not out of a shed at the back of the house, or an old factory turned into a warehouse.

My father was consolidating his criminal empire.  I discovered that when he was shot at the warehouse and died in the hospital three days later.  The shooter was never identified, despite the description I’d given to the police.  My brother refused to back me up.

He had no doubt done a deal not to shop them in return for them leaving us alone.  It was never going to hold.  But I left the business the day after my father died and got a legitimate job.

Or so I thought.

I guess that criminals and the kids of criminals never quite escape the stigma.  I got what I thought was a legitimate job, only to discover it was a rival organisation trying to muscle its way into my brother’s territory.

He didn’t know, not exactly, and I didn’t know until recently, and if there was a silver lining, this bashing had given me the perfect excuse to walk away.

That being the case, I had no job, I was nearly dead, and I had nowhere to go. I was not going to join the family firm.  Robert could have it all to himself.  If anything, I wanted revenge and to make the McKenzies pay.  If they were the attackers.

…

The room was empty and quiet.  The TV was on mute, running some game show that dealt with words and phrases.  It seemed pointless.

It was when Detective Chief Inspector Ramsen came in and closed the door behind her.  Years ago, when she was a Detective Sergeant, she had been the one to tell me the organisation that was behind my father’s death, just not who did it.

Perhaps she knew I would kill them if I found out.  The fact that I was the son of an alleged murderer did little to assuage her opinion.

She sat in the chair next to the bed.

“I hear your brother came to visit.”

She never said hello, nor asked how I felt.  Just sent the interrogators. 

“He was very sympathetic.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”

“Nor does fake sympathy from a heartless bitch.”

Her expression hardened.  “Someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning.”

She frowned.  I had called her worse.  She liked the idea that people thought she was as hard as any man in her station house.

“I wasn’t the target, and I am not part of my brother’s organisation.  He won’t admit it, but it was him they were after.”

“Perhaps, but you were working for the McKenzies.  They might have assumed you were a spy.  That could explain this attack.”

“I didn’t know that until last week.  You might want to tell that interrogation team that I was in his car.  Whoever sent the thugs made a mistake.”

She shook her head.  “They would have been watching you.  The car is irrelevant.”

“So, it’s the old adage, dead men tell no lies, or the truth.  I’m very lucky to be here.”

“Are you going back to the McKenzie’s?”

“No.  If old man McKenzie was the one who sent in the thug squad, simply because he doubted my loyalty, then what’s the point?”

“So, that means you’re in no man’s land.  Perhaps with no allegiance to anyone, you could help us.”

“I’m not going back.”

“You could end up in jail.”

“Good.  I’ll take my chances.”

“They’d be slim to none.”

“Better than going back into a nest of vipers.  Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Suit yourself.”

…

When everything goes wrong, you find out just who your friends are.

I didn’t have many, and those I thought I had were more acquaintances than friends.  We spoke, we had coffee, sometimes a drink after work, but that was it.

One thing I knew better than most was to never discuss business or your job in a workplace that thrived on secrecy, real or imaginary.

After all, when I first started, there were constant reminders not to discuss anything that happened with anyone inside and especially outside the company.

Now I knew why.

But, here’s the thing.  I didn’t talk to anyone when I discovered the true nature of the business.  I was simply shocked at the discoveries I made, but I kept them to myself.  That’s why it was impossible to believe they sent people after me.

It was also odd that they hadn’t sent someone to see me yet, though it was plausible they didn’t know.  The fact I hadn’t turned up for work, or called in as unavailable of course, would set off alarm bells,  and the last person who did that caused havoc.

Except if I knew the Chief Inspector, she would have turned up on their doorstep first thing for her version of a short chat, so the odds were they were still trying to figure out what to do.

Old Man McKenzie, one of the four Mackenzies in management, was by far the nastiest of the group.  I rumbled the fact that the legitimate business was acting as a front, that a well-trained group that kept the separation, and one of the four slipped once.  A step so slight had I blinked I would have missed it

Though it could be said that being brought up in a crime family should have made me very aware of what was really going on, it didn’t.  I was kept at arm’s length at home for a long time, and only introduced gradually once I was old enough.

But what I saw, I didn’t like. 

When my father was murdered because of warring families that had once worked together in harmony, I left home and left the business, not that I had spent much time working for it.

What happened after that was a matter of reflection, and disappointment.  I had been naive if I ever thought I could escape.  Perhaps had I moved to the other side of the country, or overseas, maybe, but I didn’t go far, just across town.

I went to an employment agency, filled out all the forms and was surprised when they found me a job, not far from where I was living at the time.

The people were friendly but not too friendly.  I was given on-the-job training, couriers work delivering parcels.  I thought it was like working for FedEx.  Over time, I rose to be a distribution manager, and then was in charge of a whole division.

And like I said, I would have been none the wiser if one of the drivers hadn’t made a fundamental error, delivering a parcel to the wrong address.  A report had been left on my desk, in my absence.  I came back, looked at it, checked the delivery against the orders and shipping dockets, noticing there were products on the delivery dockets not on the order.  Then I realised it was not my distribution centre but one of the other three; they were just dovetailing their deliveries in my vans.

A report not for me to action, I put it back where I found it, and went out to lunch, and when I came back, it was gone.  Later that night, I checked the orders and delivery dockets for the day, and at least forty of the customers got the same product.  The product?  Sugar cubes.

Then I checked the customers and found they were on a secondary distribution list, with about four or five hundred others.  Names, not businesses.  Runs every two weeks.  A bit more digging, quietly, I found what the product was.

None of my business.

Of course, even that wouldn’t have mattered, had it not been the one person I would never have believed to have any criminal intent. 

…

I must have drifted off into an uneasy sleep, something I thought would be impossible given the number and off times the nurses came to check what they called ‘vitals’.

Being annoyed so many times must raise anyone’s blood pressure.  I know mine was up.

When I woke, it was not a nurse, but someone dropping into the visitor chair.  Someone who wore a fragrant scent.

I opened my eyes.  And blinked.

Scarlet McKenzie.

Most of the people in that company were scared of her.  She had a temper and could make a grown man wither before her.

I spent most of my time avoiding her.

“Chris.”

“Scarlet.”  I decided to use her first name, which was a risk.  It didn’t matter; I wasn’t going back.

She scowled, but let it pass.

“You’re not at work.”

Was it a statement or was it something else?

“For obvious reasons.”

“What happened?”

“I thought that was obvious, too.  Are you here to finish the job?”

She looked surprised. “What job?  You think I had something to do with it?”

It was hard to tell whether she was utterly shocked or a darned good actress.

“I was attacked in my brother’s car by a McKenzie hit team.”

“And your brother…” A strange look came over her face.  “.. is Callum Waterson.”

“I used to be Christopher Waterson.  I left home after your people killed my father.  When I joined the firm, it wasn’t owned by the McKenzies, that came later.  I knew who you were; I simply expected you would continue to keep a legitimate company.  I thought you were the straight man running it.”

“I am.  And it is legitimate.  I made it very clear I wanted nothing to do with their business.”

“You just supplement the drivers deliveries.  It’s brilliant by the way.”

“I’m not in charge of that side of things, and I wasn’t impressed when I discovered what they were doing.”

“You didn’t deny setting the dogs on my brother.”

“That wasn’t me, and believe me, if I had a seat at the table at would not have happened.  But then, if I put two and two together, I would bet on the fact that it was Bennie making a move on the leadership.  My father’s retiring, and stupidly made it a contest between Bennie and Reggie.  Only Reggie could come up with a hair-brained scheme like trying to assassinate your brother.”

She shook her head.  “And only Reggie could get it so spectacularly wrong.  I’m sorry.”

In that moment, I think I could see the dilemma I had in her expression, that spot between the proverbial rock and a hard place.  And dare I say it, I felt sorry for her.

“If it’s any consolation, I know how you feel.”

She gave me a strange look, one that I couldn’t interpret. 

“Are you coming back?”

“No.  It would be rather awkward facing up to the people who ordered a hit on your brother, made a mistake and tried to kill me instead.  I don’t really care what went on there. I’m done with it.  When I get out of this place, I’m disappearing for good.”

“Where?”

“It wouldn’t be an ambush if I told you.”

“And if I came with you?”

“We’d disappear together.  But I would get your hopes up thinking it would be the life you’re accustomed to.”

“You’d be surprised to learn what I could become accustomed to.  Make plans for two, and I’ll call you.  I’ll sort out your absence at work.”

She smiled, more of a grimace than amusement, then left.  I wondered for a moment how a girl with an outfit worth more than my car was going to disappear without leaving a trail of cash payments or credit card records in her wake.

Never going to happen.

…

Nevertheless, as the weeks passed and the physios got me back on my feet, albeit awkwardly at first, when I was discharged from the hospital, I could walk again, after a fashion.

My brother had visited me once to tell me that he knew who had attacked me, and realised it was him they were after.

He was surprised to learn anyone cared that much.  It surprised me that he was a leader of a crime family, because it usually meant he had to be ruthless.

What I didn’t know was that he had been transitioning the crime proceeds to funding legitimate businesses, and that was making more than the crime was with less risks

And cleaning up the vulnerable youths by taking them off the streets and giving them something to do.  Perhaps he was a target because he was reducing the McKenzie’s customer pool.

I asked him what he was going to do, and he said nothing.  What would be the point?  He did say that he had passed on the message that if anything happened to me, there would be repercussions.  As for Reggie, he intimated that he wasn’t the smartest one in that family and would never take over from his father.

I went home, such as it was, and spent a few days staring at the walls.  I’d told Callam that I was going away, overseas on a slow boat, and probably wouldn’t be coming back.

It didn’t seem to bother him.  I was always what he called a lost cause.

I found the slow boat, what might have been called in days gone by a tramp steamer, but in reality a cargo ship with a few passenger cabins.  It was heading to Florida, as good a place as any to start an odyssey.

What I wanted, rather than needed, fitted into a small battered suitcase.  Then I sent a cryptic message to Scarlett’s cell phone, and decided if she didn’t call, I was going anyway.  I had never quite believed she would just up and leave.

Her family probably wouldn’t let her.

I found my way to the ship, did the customary immigration checks and cleared to board the boat.  I waited an hour, and she didn’t show.  I was not surprised. 

The steward gave me the tour of the ship’s facilities, which were first class, as to be expected considering how much the tickets cost, and then delivered me to the suite. 

He opened the door, I went in, and he closed it behind me.  I leaned against the door and took it in.  It was a surprise even after seeing photos of it.

“You took your time.”

A female voice came from another room, and then she appeared.

Scarlet.

“You came?”

“Would I ask you to get me a ticket if I wasn’t coming?”

“I didn’t hear anything from you.”

“I didn’t want them to find out.  They think I’m visiting an aunt up country.  They’re never going to change.  And I don’t want anything to do with their criminal activities.”

“And you don’t mind being with me?”

She smiled.  “I’ve kept my eye on you.  You get on with the job, you don’t try to big note yourself, you handle people with respect and care.  I know you like me, because every now and then, I see you, calculating the odds of whether or not I would say yes to an invitation to coffee or lunch.  I would have said yes, you know.  I don’t bite.  Well, maybe sometimes, but I believe your company will be exactly what I need.”  She looked around.  “I love the boat.”  She held out her hand.  “Come.  I’ll show you the suite.  Do you know how nice this was going to be?”

“I had photographs.”

“It’s better than that.  And a balcony.  Sea air, hazy afternoons, reading or just sleeping…”

“Or we’ll get tangled up in an Atlantic storm.”

“Hush, you’re denting the romantic feeling that’s running through me.”

I took her hand and felt a shiver go through her.  It was most likely the aftereffect of the notion she had escaped.  It would wear off once the reality set in, but perhaps I should try being in the moment too, as she gently pulled me in the direction of the bedroom.

There was only one bed.

“So.  Sleeping arrangements,” she said.  “I like the left-hand side, I do not like people who snore, and, well, you’ll find out soon enough.  There’s enough room for four, so it’s not like we’ll run into each other.”

Her enthusiasm was infectious.  I wondered how I could have contemplated doing this on my own.  For years, I had denied myself the pleasure of company, given the family I had and the world I was in.  I had given the idea of finding a nice girl and dating, but it only got as far as Scarlet.  I had no idea how she would respond, so I didn’t bother.

And if I were truthful, given who she was and who I was, it would never have got to first base.  It never occurred to me that she was in exactly the same boat as i was.

Perhaps I should just let it flow and see where it takes us.

I relaxed.  “Have you been put on the balcony?”

“Of course.  Come.  You’re going to love it.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 153

Day 153 – Writing Exercise

…

I was lying in a hospital bed staring at the ceiling, after being told that morning that a few seconds either way of me getting to the hospital could have been a matter of life and death.

No visitors for two days, and a very laborious interview with the police where I was practically browbeaten into making a confession, of stuff I hadn’t done, and through mistaken identity..

They were determined to make me the scapegoat.  Now, looking at my brother who had made a special trip to see me, I was annoyed.

He should have been the one who was attacked. 

And all because I borrowed his car?

It seemed to me he was oblivious, or pretending to be obvious, to the fact that it should have been him and not me, but something told me I was never going to get him to admit that he was the one they wanted to hurt, not me. 

And this was not the first time it had happened.

“I think you know I was not the target,” I said, “and definitely not the one who committed any of the crimes I’m being accused of.  The mere fact that we are almost alike is a very telling factor.”

We were not twins but the year apart in age did little to tell us apart, even from quite close.  Cerise, his wife, had taken years before she could accurately tell us apart.

“You were running their distributional network,” he said.  “That had nothing to do with me.”

“I did what I was told, believing that what I was doing was at the behest of the company, and I would believe that was the case if I were in my own car, not yours.”

He was clutching at straws.  I had only told him a few days ago that the people I worked for were the McKenzies, people who were direct competitors.  It hadn’t gone down well.

It was when I realised I was being set up.  It might have explained what happened, but it came back to the car, and why he had asked me to take it from a downtown car park to his house.

“The bottom line is that they targeted the car and then hesitated before they tried to beat me to death.  I was not who they were looking for.”

He shrugged.  “Unless the police catch them, we’ll never know for sure.  I’ll get some people to investigate and arrange for some protection.  You’ll survive.”

I almost laughed at that.  I’ll survive.  Not if they came after me again.

“Thanks for nothing.”

Another minute, and he left.  I was surprised he’d stayed as long as he had.  It reflected the disdain he held for me and my choices when, a dozen years back, I refused to join the family firm.

Perhaps it was the people who turned up at all hours of the night and say, people who were not the sort of customers general merchants dealt with, not out of a shed at the back of the house, or an old factory turned into a warehouse.

My father was consolidating his criminal empire.  I discovered that when he was shot at the warehouse and died in the hospital three days later.  The shooter was never identified, despite the description I’d given to the police.  My brother refused to back me up.

He had no doubt done a deal not to shop them in return for them leaving us alone.  It was never going to hold.  But I left the business the day after my father died and got a legitimate job.

Or so I thought.

I guess that criminals and the kids of criminals never quite escape the stigma.  I got what I thought was a legitimate job, only to discover it was a rival organisation trying to muscle its way into my brother’s territory.

He didn’t know, not exactly, and I didn’t know until recently, and if there was a silver lining, this bashing had given me the perfect excuse to walk away.

That being the case, I had no job, I was nearly dead, and I had nowhere to go. I was not going to join the family firm.  Robert could have it all to himself.  If anything, I wanted revenge and to make the McKenzies pay.  If they were the attackers.

…

The room was empty and quiet.  The TV was on mute, running some game show that dealt with words and phrases.  It seemed pointless.

It was when Detective Chief Inspector Ramsen came in and closed the door behind her.  Years ago, when she was a Detective Sergeant, she had been the one to tell me the organisation that was behind my father’s death, just not who did it.

Perhaps she knew I would kill them if I found out.  The fact that I was the son of an alleged murderer did little to assuage her opinion.

She sat in the chair next to the bed.

“I hear your brother came to visit.”

She never said hello, nor asked how I felt.  Just sent the interrogators. 

“He was very sympathetic.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”

“Nor does fake sympathy from a heartless bitch.”

Her expression hardened.  “Someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning.”

She frowned.  I had called her worse.  She liked the idea that people thought she was as hard as any man in her station house.

“I wasn’t the target, and I am not part of my brother’s organisation.  He won’t admit it, but it was him they were after.”

“Perhaps, but you were working for the McKenzies.  They might have assumed you were a spy.  That could explain this attack.”

“I didn’t know that until last week.  You might want to tell that interrogation team that I was in his car.  Whoever sent the thugs made a mistake.”

She shook her head.  “They would have been watching you.  The car is irrelevant.”

“So, it’s the old adage, dead men tell no lies, or the truth.  I’m very lucky to be here.”

“Are you going back to the McKenzie’s?”

“No.  If old man McKenzie was the one who sent in the thug squad, simply because he doubted my loyalty, then what’s the point?”

“So, that means you’re in no man’s land.  Perhaps with no allegiance to anyone, you could help us.”

“I’m not going back.”

“You could end up in jail.”

“Good.  I’ll take my chances.”

“They’d be slim to none.”

“Better than going back into a nest of vipers.  Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Suit yourself.”

…

When everything goes wrong, you find out just who your friends are.

I didn’t have many, and those I thought I had were more acquaintances than friends.  We spoke, we had coffee, sometimes a drink after work, but that was it.

One thing I knew better than most was to never discuss business or your job in a workplace that thrived on secrecy, real or imaginary.

After all, when I first started, there were constant reminders not to discuss anything that happened with anyone inside and especially outside the company.

Now I knew why.

But, here’s the thing.  I didn’t talk to anyone when I discovered the true nature of the business.  I was simply shocked at the discoveries I made, but I kept them to myself.  That’s why it was impossible to believe they sent people after me.

It was also odd that they hadn’t sent someone to see me yet, though it was plausible they didn’t know.  The fact I hadn’t turned up for work, or called in as unavailable of course, would set off alarm bells,  and the last person who did that caused havoc.

Except if I knew the Chief Inspector, she would have turned up on their doorstep first thing for her version of a short chat, so the odds were they were still trying to figure out what to do.

Old Man McKenzie, one of the four Mackenzies in management, was by far the nastiest of the group.  I rumbled the fact that the legitimate business was acting as a front, that a well-trained group that kept the separation, and one of the four slipped once.  A step so slight had I blinked I would have missed it

Though it could be said that being brought up in a crime family should have made me very aware of what was really going on, it didn’t.  I was kept at arm’s length at home for a long time, and only introduced gradually once I was old enough.

But what I saw, I didn’t like. 

When my father was murdered because of warring families that had once worked together in harmony, I left home and left the business, not that I had spent much time working for it.

What happened after that was a matter of reflection, and disappointment.  I had been naive if I ever thought I could escape.  Perhaps had I moved to the other side of the country, or overseas, maybe, but I didn’t go far, just across town.

I went to an employment agency, filled out all the forms and was surprised when they found me a job, not far from where I was living at the time.

The people were friendly but not too friendly.  I was given on-the-job training, couriers work delivering parcels.  I thought it was like working for FedEx.  Over time, I rose to be a distribution manager, and then was in charge of a whole division.

And like I said, I would have been none the wiser if one of the drivers hadn’t made a fundamental error, delivering a parcel to the wrong address.  A report had been left on my desk, in my absence.  I came back, looked at it, checked the delivery against the orders and shipping dockets, noticing there were products on the delivery dockets not on the order.  Then I realised it was not my distribution centre but one of the other three; they were just dovetailing their deliveries in my vans.

A report not for me to action, I put it back where I found it, and went out to lunch, and when I came back, it was gone.  Later that night, I checked the orders and delivery dockets for the day, and at least forty of the customers got the same product.  The product?  Sugar cubes.

Then I checked the customers and found they were on a secondary distribution list, with about four or five hundred others.  Names, not businesses.  Runs every two weeks.  A bit more digging, quietly, I found what the product was.

None of my business.

Of course, even that wouldn’t have mattered, had it not been the one person I would never have believed to have any criminal intent. 

…

I must have drifted off into an uneasy sleep, something I thought would be impossible given the number and off times the nurses came to check what they called ‘vitals’.

Being annoyed so many times must raise anyone’s blood pressure.  I know mine was up.

When I woke, it was not a nurse, but someone dropping into the visitor chair.  Someone who wore a fragrant scent.

I opened my eyes.  And blinked.

Scarlet McKenzie.

Most of the people in that company were scared of her.  She had a temper and could make a grown man wither before her.

I spent most of my time avoiding her.

“Chris.”

“Scarlet.”  I decided to use her first name, which was a risk.  It didn’t matter; I wasn’t going back.

She scowled, but let it pass.

“You’re not at work.”

Was it a statement or was it something else?

“For obvious reasons.”

“What happened?”

“I thought that was obvious, too.  Are you here to finish the job?”

She looked surprised. “What job?  You think I had something to do with it?”

It was hard to tell whether she was utterly shocked or a darned good actress.

“I was attacked in my brother’s car by a McKenzie hit team.”

“And your brother…” A strange look came over her face.  “.. is Callum Waterson.”

“I used to be Christopher Waterson.  I left home after your people killed my father.  When I joined the firm, it wasn’t owned by the McKenzies, that came later.  I knew who you were; I simply expected you would continue to keep a legitimate company.  I thought you were the straight man running it.”

“I am.  And it is legitimate.  I made it very clear I wanted nothing to do with their business.”

“You just supplement the drivers deliveries.  It’s brilliant by the way.”

“I’m not in charge of that side of things, and I wasn’t impressed when I discovered what they were doing.”

“You didn’t deny setting the dogs on my brother.”

“That wasn’t me, and believe me, if I had a seat at the table at would not have happened.  But then, if I put two and two together, I would bet on the fact that it was Bennie making a move on the leadership.  My father’s retiring, and stupidly made it a contest between Bennie and Reggie.  Only Reggie could come up with a hair-brained scheme like trying to assassinate your brother.”

She shook her head.  “And only Reggie could get it so spectacularly wrong.  I’m sorry.”

In that moment, I think I could see the dilemma I had in her expression, that spot between the proverbial rock and a hard place.  And dare I say it, I felt sorry for her.

“If it’s any consolation, I know how you feel.”

She gave me a strange look, one that I couldn’t interpret. 

“Are you coming back?”

“No.  It would be rather awkward facing up to the people who ordered a hit on your brother, made a mistake and tried to kill me instead.  I don’t really care what went on there. I’m done with it.  When I get out of this place, I’m disappearing for good.”

“Where?”

“It wouldn’t be an ambush if I told you.”

“And if I came with you?”

“We’d disappear together.  But I would get your hopes up thinking it would be the life you’re accustomed to.”

“You’d be surprised to learn what I could become accustomed to.  Make plans for two, and I’ll call you.  I’ll sort out your absence at work.”

She smiled, more of a grimace than amusement, then left.  I wondered for a moment how a girl with an outfit worth more than my car was going to disappear without leaving a trail of cash payments or credit card records in her wake.

Never going to happen.

…

Nevertheless, as the weeks passed and the physios got me back on my feet, albeit awkwardly at first, when I was discharged from the hospital, I could walk again, after a fashion.

My brother had visited me once to tell me that he knew who had attacked me, and realised it was him they were after.

He was surprised to learn anyone cared that much.  It surprised me that he was a leader of a crime family, because it usually meant he had to be ruthless.

What I didn’t know was that he had been transitioning the crime proceeds to funding legitimate businesses, and that was making more than the crime was with less risks

And cleaning up the vulnerable youths by taking them off the streets and giving them something to do.  Perhaps he was a target because he was reducing the McKenzie’s customer pool.

I asked him what he was going to do, and he said nothing.  What would be the point?  He did say that he had passed on the message that if anything happened to me, there would be repercussions.  As for Reggie, he intimated that he wasn’t the smartest one in that family and would never take over from his father.

I went home, such as it was, and spent a few days staring at the walls.  I’d told Callam that I was going away, overseas on a slow boat, and probably wouldn’t be coming back.

It didn’t seem to bother him.  I was always what he called a lost cause.

I found the slow boat, what might have been called in days gone by a tramp steamer, but in reality a cargo ship with a few passenger cabins.  It was heading to Florida, as good a place as any to start an odyssey.

What I wanted, rather than needed, fitted into a small battered suitcase.  Then I sent a cryptic message to Scarlett’s cell phone, and decided if she didn’t call, I was going anyway.  I had never quite believed she would just up and leave.

Her family probably wouldn’t let her.

I found my way to the ship, did the customary immigration checks and cleared to board the boat.  I waited an hour, and she didn’t show.  I was not surprised. 

The steward gave me the tour of the ship’s facilities, which were first class, as to be expected considering how much the tickets cost, and then delivered me to the suite. 

He opened the door, I went in, and he closed it behind me.  I leaned against the door and took it in.  It was a surprise even after seeing photos of it.

“You took your time.”

A female voice came from another room, and then she appeared.

Scarlet.

“You came?”

“Would I ask you to get me a ticket if I wasn’t coming?”

“I didn’t hear anything from you.”

“I didn’t want them to find out.  They think I’m visiting an aunt up country.  They’re never going to change.  And I don’t want anything to do with their criminal activities.”

“And you don’t mind being with me?”

She smiled.  “I’ve kept my eye on you.  You get on with the job, you don’t try to big note yourself, you handle people with respect and care.  I know you like me, because every now and then, I see you, calculating the odds of whether or not I would say yes to an invitation to coffee or lunch.  I would have said yes, you know.  I don’t bite.  Well, maybe sometimes, but I believe your company will be exactly what I need.”  She looked around.  “I love the boat.”  She held out her hand.  “Come.  I’ll show you the suite.  Do you know how nice this was going to be?”

“I had photographs.”

“It’s better than that.  And a balcony.  Sea air, hazy afternoons, reading or just sleeping…”

“Or we’ll get tangled up in an Atlantic storm.”

“Hush, you’re denting the romantic feeling that’s running through me.”

I took her hand and felt a shiver go through her.  It was most likely the aftereffect of the notion she had escaped.  It would wear off once the reality set in, but perhaps I should try being in the moment too, as she gently pulled me in the direction of the bedroom.

There was only one bed.

“So.  Sleeping arrangements,” she said.  “I like the left-hand side, I do not like people who snore, and, well, you’ll find out soon enough.  There’s enough room for four, so it’s not like we’ll run into each other.”

Her enthusiasm was infectious.  I wondered how I could have contemplated doing this on my own.  For years, I had denied myself the pleasure of company, given the family I had and the world I was in.  I had given the idea of finding a nice girl and dating, but it only got as far as Scarlet.  I had no idea how she would respond, so I didn’t bother.

And if I were truthful, given who she was and who I was, it would never have got to first base.  It never occurred to me that she was in exactly the same boat as i was.

Perhaps I should just let it flow and see where it takes us.

I relaxed.  “Have you been put on the balcony?”

“Of course.  Come.  You’re going to love it.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026