Day 231 – Writing in the first person

…

The Power of “I”: Unlocking the Advantages of the First-Person Novel

When you crack open a novel and the very first word you read is “I,” an unspoken social contract is formed between you and the narrator. You aren’t just an observer looking down from a cloud; you are strapped directly into the passenger seat of someone else’s mind.

First-person point of view (POV) is one of the most intimate and enduring tools in a writer’s arsenal. From classic masterpieces like The Catcher in the Rye and Jane Eyre to modern psychological thrillers like Gone Girl, the “I” narrator has the power to grip readers and refuse to let go.

If you’re an aspiring author trying to decide which POV to use, or a passionate reader wondering why certain books feel so visceral, understanding the advantages of the first-person novel is essential.

Let’s dive deep into the unique strengths of the first-person perspective and why it continues to dominate bestseller lists.

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1. Unmatched Intimacy and Emotional Resonance

The single greatest advantage of the first-person novel is proximity. In first-person, there is no filter between the character’s internal emotional landscape and the reader.

• Direct Access to Thoughts: We don’t just see characters cry; we hear the frantic, self-deprecating, or hopeful loops playing in their heads as they wipe away the tears.
• Instant Empathy: Even if a narrator makes terrible choices, experiencing their motivations, fears, and heartbreaks firsthand makes them deeply human. We understand why they do what they do, even if we don’t agree with it.

This level of intimacy creates a profound bond. Readers often finish a great first-person novel feeling like they have just said goodbye to a real-life friend.

2. A Distinct, Unforgettable Voice

In a crowded literary marketplace, voice is everything. First-person narrative allows authors to showcase a character’s unique personality not just through their actions, but through how they speak and think.

Think of Holden Caulfield’s cynical, slang-heavy cadence in The Catcher in the Rye, or Humbert Humbert’s hyper-articulate, manipulative prose in Lolita. The narrator’s voice becomes the music of the book.

• Rhythm and Diction: A weary detective, a sarcastic teenager, and a medieval peasant will all describe a rainy Tuesday differently. First-person forces the writing to be utterly specific to that character’s worldview, elevating the prose and making the storytelling infinitely more textured.

3. The Power of the Unreliable Narrator

One of the most thrilling narrative devices available in fiction is the unreliable narrator—and it only truly works in the first person.

Because we are locked inside one character’s perspective, we are vulnerable to their biases, blind spots, delusions, or outright lies.

• Building Suspense: When a narrator is convinced of something that the reader slowly realises is false, the tension skyrockets.
• The “Aha!” Moment: Twists hit harder in first-person because the reader has been actively complicit in believing the narrator’s deception. Think of Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl, where Nick and Amy Dunne’s conflicting first-person accounts keep readers guessing until the very end.

4. Heightened Suspense and Stakes

When the protagonist is the one telling the story, a very specific rule applies: They survived long enough to tell the tale.

While this might seem like a spoiler (we know the protagonist doesn’t die in chapter three), it actually heightens suspense in clever ways.

• The “How” Over the “If”: Instead of wondering if the character will survive, the reader wonders how they possibly escaped the nightmare they are currently describing.
• Subjective Danger: Because we only know what the narrator knows, we are ambushed by plot twists right alongside them. If they can’t see the killer sneaking up behind them in the dark, neither can we.

5. Built-In Focus and Streamlined Pacing

Third-person multi-POV novels can sometimes suffer from narrative bloat as authors jump between five different subplots across different continents. First-person acts as a natural anchor.

• Laser-Focused Narrative: Everything in a first-person novel filters through the protagonist’s experiences. If they aren’t there to witness it, it doesn’t happen (unless they hear about it secondhand). This keeps the plot tight, fast-paced, and intensely focused on the core conflict.
• Character-Driven Plots: First-person naturally prioritises internal growth and psychological transformation over sprawling world-building, making it the go-to choice for character-driven stories.

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Potential Pitfalls to Keep in Mind

While the advantages are powerful, writing in the first person comes with unique challenges:

• The “Head-Hopping” Restriction: You cannot show scenes where the protagonist is absent.
• The “I-Ego” Problem: If your narrator is too passive, whiny, or unlikable without being fascinating, readers will drop the book fast.
• Information Limits: It can be difficult to naturally reveal things the narrator wouldn’t reasonably know.

However, in the hands of a skilled writer, these limitations often force creative solutions that make the story even stronger.

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Conclusion: Is First-Person Right for Your Next Read—or Your Next Book?

The first-person novel is more than just a stylistic choice; it is an immersive experience. It transforms reading from a passive activity into a deeply empathetic, psychological journey. Whether you are looking to get lost in a complex character study, unravel a twisty mystery, or feel the raw electricity of a unique literary voice, the “I” narrator delivers like no other POV can.

Are you a writer planning your next project, or a reader with a favourite first-person novel? Let us know your thoughts in the comments below!

…

Day 230 – Writing Exercise

…

The thing about a quiet neighbourhood – houses not built on top of each other, people next door near but far enough away not to be annoying; if they tended to be annoying, is that you could hear the silence.

We had lived there for nearly ten years, the last family to move into the estate that had about twenty families scattered over acreage.  It was one of those miracle moments, a house popping up in my search browser when I put in the parameters.

One house.  This house.  We came, we saw, we met the neighbours.  We bought.  It was like we were meant to live there.

…

Ten years on, our anniversary neighbourhood party had wrapped up at precisely 10 pm as all parties did, and the participants had dispersed, the last straggler just disappearing around the corner, a few hundred yards from home.

I was on the front verandah looking up at the sky filled with stars, some brighter than others, and then, one that appeared to be moving.

My eyes watered, straining to see it. I blinked several times to squeeze the moisture out, opened them again and whatever it was had gone.  Or blended in, so it was just another star.

I had a telescope out back and would go have another look before I turned in.

Edie poked her head out the door.  “You’re probably breaking some community regulation standing out there after 10pm. What are you doing?”

“Testing them.”

It was a running joke.  The neighbourhood had some rather quirky rules, but nothing that caused us concern.  The lady in charge of community watch, as she called it, was due to retire this year, and everyone was waiting for the new guard.

And new rules.  More lenient rules.

“Come in.  It’s cold out there.”

It had got cold, especially in the last few minutes.  I shivered, took a last look out at the sky, then went in.  The auto light switched off.  All was well again.

“What were you doing out there?”

She was closing the shutters on the front windows, and the moonlight that had been seeping through the open blinds disappeared.  Except for the passage light, the house was in darkness.

We had streetlights, but they were so low that the light didn’t reach the ground.  Normal street lights put out a lot of light, enough to see the road, but these were deliberately subdued.

Another quirk produced by our fearless Community Watch leader, who seemed to hold such sway with city hall.

“I’m just going out back to check on a shooting star.  I’ll make a wish.”

“I need a new vehicle “

A quick kiss, a touch of hands, she headed towards the bedroom.  I would be back before she got into bed.

The auto lighting lit the way along the passage floor to the back door.  I went out onto the back patio and saw Jake, youngest son and the family astronomer, had left the telescope pointing in the direction of Mars.

He was obsessed with the belief that Martians were coming to Earth, and was adamant he had seen a ship land nearby last year, just before it switched on its cloud of invisibility.

Jake had an excellent imagination.

He was in the middle of writing his first Sci-Fi novel and had asked me to read some of it.  It was quite good but technical.  I hadn’t the heart to tell him it was so boring it put me to sleep.

I peered into the lens up at the sky and focused on the last position.  It was a bright star among many. And something else.  It seemed to be flashing, or a whole lot of stars were passing it, which made it seem like it was flashing.

Or maybe not.  Nothing was happening.

Just before I went in, I looked up, in time to see a shooting star, or what looked like one, light a path across the sky.

I made a wish, and went to bed.

…

I usually slept like a log.  It had been said that a bomb could go off next door and I’d sleep through it.  While no bombs had exploded, there were a number of events I had missed.

Tonight?  There was no reason why I should be awake, and yet I dozed off the moment my head hit the pillow.  I remember seeing the time on the digital clock beside the bed.  11:03.

I looked now, and it said 1:07.  What felt like five minutes later, it said 1:16.  I did not feel sleepy in the slightest.

Edie was sound asleep, her breathing regular.  It always surprised me how easy it was for her to get to sleep.  Perhaps it was because of the early years with the children and the constant care they needed; she had taught mt herself to get what rest she could, no matter how short it was.

It had never been that easy for me.

It wasn’t the first time I had lain awake for hours, searching for that elusive moment.  I tried counting sheep, green sheep at that; I tried emptying my mind, but that was impossible.

1:38.

I slipped out into the cool night air and padded quietly across the room.  The door made a slight squeak as I opened it a fraction, the noise sounding very loud in that silence that came with the middle of the night.

I stepped into the passage, and the first of the footlights came on to guide the way.  I headed down towards the kitchen, where what I assumed was moonlight came through the open slats of the kitchen windows, filling that room with a pale whitish light.

On the tight hand side, the kitchen being on the left, was the dining room, with floor-to-ceiling windows that opened out onto the veranda that wrapped around the back of the house.

Outside the dining room was where the BBQ sat.

On that side, sitting on the veranda, the view stretched across a number the neighbours back yards that stretched down the the stream that divided pur properties from those on the other side, mostly ranches running either cattle or sheep.

Sometimes you could hear them at night, but mostly during the day.  When they were down in the lower pastures.  At the moment, they were higher up in the hills. 

Come Christmas, the vista from the back verandah would look like a Christmas card scene, one I could never get tired of.

Suddenly the dining room was filled with a very bright light, and it was almost as bright as day.  It lasted a few seconds before it just snapped off like someone had flicked a switch.

I had been almost blinded and couldn’t see anything for at least a few minutes before the inky blackness transformed into blurry shapes.

I crossed to the room and looked out the windows to see what I thought was some sort of vehicle, only it couldn’t be one because it was hovering above the ground.

My eyes were sore from the bright light before, and I think I must be hallucinating.  Under the craft were five figures, not human, and yet human-like, and walking towards them were the five members of the Richards, our next-door neighbours.

I just watched in utter fascination.

They stepped into the pool of very subdued light coming from under the floating vehicle, one by one, touched the hands of the newly arrived people and exchanged shapes.

Then the Richards went back to their house; the other creatures, human or otherwise, held hands and then disappeared.

Seconds later, the searing light reappeared and then was gone.  A second dose of light on my poor eyes looked a few minutes longer, and by the time my sight had returned, it was as if nothing had happened.

What had I just seen?

…

I woke up, and it was light.  Edie was already up and about, and it was just another day.

It didn’t feel like I had been awake for an hour or so, and in my head it felt like something had happened, only I couldn’t remember what.

I wasn’t tired, not like I had been awake half the night because I knew what that was like.

Something had happened.  Something significant, but it was just there, on the fringe of my memory, lurking, or waiting for me to find the right key and unlock that door.

“You going to stay in bed all day?”

Edie put her head in the door, on her way from the front door where she had collected the newspaper, to the kitchen where breakfast would be well underway.

It was just another normal day.

“Coming,,” I muttered.

“You snore.  I never realised it until last night.  You woke me.  Normally I can sleep through anything.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You do.  And talk in your sleep.”

I sat up and faced her.  That was frightening if it was true.  I often dreamed I was having strange conversations with people who were basically strangers, but only once.

“What did I say?”

“Something about old man Richards.  Not surprising you think he’s daft.  He hasn’t been the same since the accident.  Don’t hang about.  We have that appointment at the bank this morning.”

Then she was gone.

Richards.  There was that thing in my mind again, that memory that refused to come out of the vault.  Did it have something to do with Richards?

I shrugged.  It would return when it wanted to.  In the meantime, places to go and people to see.

…

Surprises were good, when they were surprises.  We had decided that after Elizabeth, the eldest daughter, got married, we would buy them a house.

With one thing and another, their six-month jaunt through Europe turned into a five-year work-and-play plan; they only decided to return when she fell pregnant.  Twins and a bot later, the place they were living in was too small, hence the house.

Everything was on track until Elizabeth saw us talking to the bank manager; she just happened to be in the neighbourhood and feared the worst: we had to downsize, or worse.

I was never very good at lying. Edie thought she had it under control, but what mother does with that first daughter.  The secret was barely intact.

Then we ran into the Richards, Bill and Betty.  It wasn’t a usual thing, and I couldn’t remember the last time.  Coming after the Elizabeth thing, I was a little shaken.

That nagging thing in the back of my mind got a bit of a shake.  Both the Richards seemed a little distracted, and Bill didn’t seem to recognise me.  Not at first, and I could see he was trying to cover it like people did when they have forgotten your name.

Betty was chatty, which was a change from her usual surly self; the reason she gave me many years ago was that Bill had dragged her out to this godforsaken place as punishment, though she never said what it was for.

Betty confused me with one of the other neighbours who looked a little like me, which I thought odd, but it wasn’t a thing.  Edie thought they were just the same as usual, vague and borderline rude.

Driving home, my head had got as far as deciding whatever was trying to get out had something to do with the Richards.

…

Once again I spent some time out with the telescope, studying the moon surface, and wondering if I’d live long enough to go there.  Every now and then a billionaire comes up with this idea of a weekend on the moon in a lunar hotel, and I dare to believe it might be possible in my lifetime.

The other day it had moved to Mars.  I’m sure the Martians wouldn’t mind, though I had no idea why I would think that.  It was like the day someone asked me what the Martians looked like, and I said, like us, only with synthetic bodies, so they could live in the atmosphere there.

It got me some very strange looks.

The sky was less crowded with stars, and there were clouds drifting by blocking the view.  It was a full moon, and I had a momentary thought of werewolves.  Not that they existed, but they were a part of folklore.

Then when the cloud cover was too thick, and the first spits of rain came, I went inside, made coffee and went to stand over by the patio windows.

A shard of lightning lit up the back yards of a number of the neighbours’ yards, as bright as day before darkness returned.

The rain became torrential.  The lightning was sporadic, and each time it lit up a different part of the countryside. 

There was a huge rumble just about overhead, followed by a bolt of lightning which, in the fraction of a second as it lit up the scene in front of me, I saw it land on Bill Richards, who had been standing out in his yard.

Another bolt hit our house, and there was a huge explosion.

That was all I remembered.

…

I was lying down in a brightly lit room; on one side, a man in a white coat was looking down at me.  On the other side, Edie was looking concerned.

“He’s been forgetting things, and talking in his sleep.  He hasn’t done that before.”

“It might be the settling process.  Sometimes it takes a few days.  The last upgrade was a little bigger than usual.”

“It worked for me.”

“You’re a 6AZ model.  More sophisticated algorithms because you are female.”

“You’re saying the male units are not as smart.”

What were they talking about?  Models, smart, sophistication.  I was just another person who was suffering from lack of sleep and hallucinations.

At least I think that was what I was there for.  This was a hospital?

Edie glanced at me.  “Oh, you’re awake?”

“That might be a matter of opinion.  I think I just woke in the middle of a nightmare.”

She smiled.  It didn’t fill me with confidence.

“You can’t go around telling people you saw aliens, Sam.  People get antsy when you say stuff like that.”

“I never said I saw aliens. When did I see aliens?”

“You said the Martians had landed next door and took the Richards away.  I mean, Sam, we saw them just a few hours ago.”

I was confused.  I could see in my head the spacecraft that was hovering next door and the body exchange of the Richards family.  I could remember meeting the Richards at the cafe, and how disoriented they had been.

The transfer process had still not been perfected.

Then I realised the truth.

“There it is,” the doctor said.  “It just needed a tweak.”

The doctor stepped away from the console, and I could see the twin flat lines running across the screen.  Memories and reality aligned.

I closed my eyes; everything went dark, and then opened them again.

Edie was looking concerned but relieved.  “How do you feel?”

“About sixty-four, give or take a week.  Getting old is not what it’s cracked up to be.”  I could feel something had happened, but couldn’t quite remember what it was.  “Another fall?”

“You need to remember to use your cane, Sam.  You are not as spry as you used to be.”

“No.  I guess not.”  I slowly got off the bed and stood.  I felt steady.

“Doc?”

“You’ll get there, Sam.  We all do in the end.  Just take care out there.”

“I will.”

Edie took my hand.  “Come on.  Places to go; people to see.”

Funny.  I was thinking that myself.  It was like I was reading her mind.

She opened the door and glared at me as I went past her.

“Don’t,” she said, not in words but in her thoughts.  “I don’t want to go home, so stop being difficult.  Earth is so much better than Mars.”

I looked at her as she followed me out and closed the door.

That doctor was our supervisor and had been assessing me.  The Richards had cracked the week before, and he had them replaced.  We’d be next if I didn’t appear ‘fixed’.

She was right.  Back home we’d be in a factory, chained to a production line.

“Understood.”

“Good.”  Then out loud, for the benefit of those around us.  “I need you because we have a housewarming to plan.  The bank just approved the house purchase.  Elizabeth is going to be so surprised.”

In more ways than one.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 230 – Writing Exercise

…

The thing about a quiet neighbourhood – houses not built on top of each other, people next door near but far enough away not to be annoying; if they tended to be annoying, is that you could hear the silence.

We had lived there for nearly ten years, the last family to move into the estate that had about twenty families scattered over acreage.  It was one of those miracle moments, a house popping up in my search browser when I put in the parameters.

One house.  This house.  We came, we saw, we met the neighbours.  We bought.  It was like we were meant to live there.

…

Ten years on, our anniversary neighbourhood party had wrapped up at precisely 10 pm as all parties did, and the participants had dispersed, the last straggler just disappearing around the corner, a few hundred yards from home.

I was on the front verandah looking up at the sky filled with stars, some brighter than others, and then, one that appeared to be moving.

My eyes watered, straining to see it. I blinked several times to squeeze the moisture out, opened them again and whatever it was had gone.  Or blended in, so it was just another star.

I had a telescope out back and would go have another look before I turned in.

Edie poked her head out the door.  “You’re probably breaking some community regulation standing out there after 10pm. What are you doing?”

“Testing them.”

It was a running joke.  The neighbourhood had some rather quirky rules, but nothing that caused us concern.  The lady in charge of community watch, as she called it, was due to retire this year, and everyone was waiting for the new guard.

And new rules.  More lenient rules.

“Come in.  It’s cold out there.”

It had got cold, especially in the last few minutes.  I shivered, took a last look out at the sky, then went in.  The auto light switched off.  All was well again.

“What were you doing out there?”

She was closing the shutters on the front windows, and the moonlight that had been seeping through the open blinds disappeared.  Except for the passage light, the house was in darkness.

We had streetlights, but they were so low that the light didn’t reach the ground.  Normal street lights put out a lot of light, enough to see the road, but these were deliberately subdued.

Another quirk produced by our fearless Community Watch leader, who seemed to hold such sway with city hall.

“I’m just going out back to check on a shooting star.  I’ll make a wish.”

“I need a new vehicle “

A quick kiss, a touch of hands, she headed towards the bedroom.  I would be back before she got into bed.

The auto lighting lit the way along the passage floor to the back door.  I went out onto the back patio and saw Jake, youngest son and the family astronomer, had left the telescope pointing in the direction of Mars.

He was obsessed with the belief that Martians were coming to Earth, and was adamant he had seen a ship land nearby last year, just before it switched on its cloud of invisibility.

Jake had an excellent imagination.

He was in the middle of writing his first Sci-Fi novel and had asked me to read some of it.  It was quite good but technical.  I hadn’t the heart to tell him it was so boring it put me to sleep.

I peered into the lens up at the sky and focused on the last position.  It was a bright star among many. And something else.  It seemed to be flashing, or a whole lot of stars were passing it, which made it seem like it was flashing.

Or maybe not.  Nothing was happening.

Just before I went in, I looked up, in time to see a shooting star, or what looked like one, light a path across the sky.

I made a wish, and went to bed.

…

I usually slept like a log.  It had been said that a bomb could go off next door and I’d sleep through it.  While no bombs had exploded, there were a number of events I had missed.

Tonight?  There was no reason why I should be awake, and yet I dozed off the moment my head hit the pillow.  I remember seeing the time on the digital clock beside the bed.  11:03.

I looked now, and it said 1:07.  What felt like five minutes later, it said 1:16.  I did not feel sleepy in the slightest.

Edie was sound asleep, her breathing regular.  It always surprised me how easy it was for her to get to sleep.  Perhaps it was because of the early years with the children and the constant care they needed; she had taught mt herself to get what rest she could, no matter how short it was.

It had never been that easy for me.

It wasn’t the first time I had lain awake for hours, searching for that elusive moment.  I tried counting sheep, green sheep at that; I tried emptying my mind, but that was impossible.

1:38.

I slipped out into the cool night air and padded quietly across the room.  The door made a slight squeak as I opened it a fraction, the noise sounding very loud in that silence that came with the middle of the night.

I stepped into the passage, and the first of the footlights came on to guide the way.  I headed down towards the kitchen, where what I assumed was moonlight came through the open slats of the kitchen windows, filling that room with a pale whitish light.

On the tight hand side, the kitchen being on the left, was the dining room, with floor-to-ceiling windows that opened out onto the veranda that wrapped around the back of the house.

Outside the dining room was where the BBQ sat.

On that side, sitting on the veranda, the view stretched across a number the neighbours back yards that stretched down the the stream that divided pur properties from those on the other side, mostly ranches running either cattle or sheep.

Sometimes you could hear them at night, but mostly during the day.  When they were down in the lower pastures.  At the moment, they were higher up in the hills. 

Come Christmas, the vista from the back verandah would look like a Christmas card scene, one I could never get tired of.

Suddenly the dining room was filled with a very bright light, and it was almost as bright as day.  It lasted a few seconds before it just snapped off like someone had flicked a switch.

I had been almost blinded and couldn’t see anything for at least a few minutes before the inky blackness transformed into blurry shapes.

I crossed to the room and looked out the windows to see what I thought was some sort of vehicle, only it couldn’t be one because it was hovering above the ground.

My eyes were sore from the bright light before, and I think I must be hallucinating.  Under the craft were five figures, not human, and yet human-like, and walking towards them were the five members of the Richards, our next-door neighbours.

I just watched in utter fascination.

They stepped into the pool of very subdued light coming from under the floating vehicle, one by one, touched the hands of the newly arrived people and exchanged shapes.

Then the Richards went back to their house; the other creatures, human or otherwise, held hands and then disappeared.

Seconds later, the searing light reappeared and then was gone.  A second dose of light on my poor eyes looked a few minutes longer, and by the time my sight had returned, it was as if nothing had happened.

What had I just seen?

…

I woke up, and it was light.  Edie was already up and about, and it was just another day.

It didn’t feel like I had been awake for an hour or so, and in my head it felt like something had happened, only I couldn’t remember what.

I wasn’t tired, not like I had been awake half the night because I knew what that was like.

Something had happened.  Something significant, but it was just there, on the fringe of my memory, lurking, or waiting for me to find the right key and unlock that door.

“You going to stay in bed all day?”

Edie put her head in the door, on her way from the front door where she had collected the newspaper, to the kitchen where breakfast would be well underway.

It was just another normal day.

“Coming,,” I muttered.

“You snore.  I never realised it until last night.  You woke me.  Normally I can sleep through anything.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You do.  And talk in your sleep.”

I sat up and faced her.  That was frightening if it was true.  I often dreamed I was having strange conversations with people who were basically strangers, but only once.

“What did I say?”

“Something about old man Richards.  Not surprising you think he’s daft.  He hasn’t been the same since the accident.  Don’t hang about.  We have that appointment at the bank this morning.”

Then she was gone.

Richards.  There was that thing in my mind again, that memory that refused to come out of the vault.  Did it have something to do with Richards?

I shrugged.  It would return when it wanted to.  In the meantime, places to go and people to see.

…

Surprises were good, when they were surprises.  We had decided that after Elizabeth, the eldest daughter, got married, we would buy them a house.

With one thing and another, their six-month jaunt through Europe turned into a five-year work-and-play plan; they only decided to return when she fell pregnant.  Twins and a bot later, the place they were living in was too small, hence the house.

Everything was on track until Elizabeth saw us talking to the bank manager; she just happened to be in the neighbourhood and feared the worst: we had to downsize, or worse.

I was never very good at lying. Edie thought she had it under control, but what mother does with that first daughter.  The secret was barely intact.

Then we ran into the Richards, Bill and Betty.  It wasn’t a usual thing, and I couldn’t remember the last time.  Coming after the Elizabeth thing, I was a little shaken.

That nagging thing in the back of my mind got a bit of a shake.  Both the Richards seemed a little distracted, and Bill didn’t seem to recognise me.  Not at first, and I could see he was trying to cover it like people did when they have forgotten your name.

Betty was chatty, which was a change from her usual surly self; the reason she gave me many years ago was that Bill had dragged her out to this godforsaken place as punishment, though she never said what it was for.

Betty confused me with one of the other neighbours who looked a little like me, which I thought odd, but it wasn’t a thing.  Edie thought they were just the same as usual, vague and borderline rude.

Driving home, my head had got as far as deciding whatever was trying to get out had something to do with the Richards.

…

Once again I spent some time out with the telescope, studying the moon surface, and wondering if I’d live long enough to go there.  Every now and then a billionaire comes up with this idea of a weekend on the moon in a lunar hotel, and I dare to believe it might be possible in my lifetime.

The other day it had moved to Mars.  I’m sure the Martians wouldn’t mind, though I had no idea why I would think that.  It was like the day someone asked me what the Martians looked like, and I said, like us, only with synthetic bodies, so they could live in the atmosphere there.

It got me some very strange looks.

The sky was less crowded with stars, and there were clouds drifting by blocking the view.  It was a full moon, and I had a momentary thought of werewolves.  Not that they existed, but they were a part of folklore.

Then when the cloud cover was too thick, and the first spits of rain came, I went inside, made coffee and went to stand over by the patio windows.

A shard of lightning lit up the back yards of a number of the neighbours’ yards, as bright as day before darkness returned.

The rain became torrential.  The lightning was sporadic, and each time it lit up a different part of the countryside. 

There was a huge rumble just about overhead, followed by a bolt of lightning which, in the fraction of a second as it lit up the scene in front of me, I saw it land on Bill Richards, who had been standing out in his yard.

Another bolt hit our house, and there was a huge explosion.

That was all I remembered.

…

I was lying down in a brightly lit room; on one side, a man in a white coat was looking down at me.  On the other side, Edie was looking concerned.

“He’s been forgetting things, and talking in his sleep.  He hasn’t done that before.”

“It might be the settling process.  Sometimes it takes a few days.  The last upgrade was a little bigger than usual.”

“It worked for me.”

“You’re a 6AZ model.  More sophisticated algorithms because you are female.”

“You’re saying the male units are not as smart.”

What were they talking about?  Models, smart, sophistication.  I was just another person who was suffering from lack of sleep and hallucinations.

At least I think that was what I was there for.  This was a hospital?

Edie glanced at me.  “Oh, you’re awake?”

“That might be a matter of opinion.  I think I just woke in the middle of a nightmare.”

She smiled.  It didn’t fill me with confidence.

“You can’t go around telling people you saw aliens, Sam.  People get antsy when you say stuff like that.”

“I never said I saw aliens. When did I see aliens?”

“You said the Martians had landed next door and took the Richards away.  I mean, Sam, we saw them just a few hours ago.”

I was confused.  I could see in my head the spacecraft that was hovering next door and the body exchange of the Richards family.  I could remember meeting the Richards at the cafe, and how disoriented they had been.

The transfer process had still not been perfected.

Then I realised the truth.

“There it is,” the doctor said.  “It just needed a tweak.”

The doctor stepped away from the console, and I could see the twin flat lines running across the screen.  Memories and reality aligned.

I closed my eyes; everything went dark, and then opened them again.

Edie was looking concerned but relieved.  “How do you feel?”

“About sixty-four, give or take a week.  Getting old is not what it’s cracked up to be.”  I could feel something had happened, but couldn’t quite remember what it was.  “Another fall?”

“You need to remember to use your cane, Sam.  You are not as spry as you used to be.”

“No.  I guess not.”  I slowly got off the bed and stood.  I felt steady.

“Doc?”

“You’ll get there, Sam.  We all do in the end.  Just take care out there.”

“I will.”

Edie took my hand.  “Come on.  Places to go; people to see.”

Funny.  I was thinking that myself.  It was like I was reading her mind.

She opened the door and glared at me as I went past her.

“Don’t,” she said, not in words but in her thoughts.  “I don’t want to go home, so stop being difficult.  Earth is so much better than Mars.”

I looked at her as she followed me out and closed the door.

That doctor was our supervisor and had been assessing me.  The Richards had cracked the week before, and he had them replaced.  We’d be next if I didn’t appear ‘fixed’.

She was right.  Back home we’d be in a factory, chained to a production line.

“Understood.”

“Good.”  Then out loud, for the benefit of those around us.  “I need you because we have a housewarming to plan.  The bank just approved the house purchase.  Elizabeth is going to be so surprised.”

In more ways than one.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 229 – Write a little every day

…

Write a Little Every Day, Without Hope and Without Despair: The Ultimate Mantra for Creative Resilience

“Write a little every day, without hope and without despair.”

Attributed to the brilliant Danish author Isak Dinesen (pen name of Karen Blixen, author of Out of Africa), this single sentence is perhaps the most liberating piece of writing advice ever committed to paper.

In a modern creator economy obsessed with viral hits, massive word counts, and relentless hustle culture, Dinesen’s words feel like a cool breeze on a fevered brow. They strip away the performance, the anxiety, and the delusion, leaving behind the pure, quiet act of creation.

Let’s unpack this profound philosophy and explore how it can completely transform your relationship with your craft—whether you’re writing a novel, building a blog, or working on any long-term creative project.

---

The Anatomy of the Mantra

To truly understand Dinesen’s advice, we need to break it down into its three core components: consistency, the surrender of false hope, and the banishment of despair.

1. “Write a little every day…”

The first rule of Dinesen’s philosophy is deceptively simple: consistency over intensity.

Many aspiring writers fall into the trap of the “binge and burn” cycle. You wait for the muse to strike. You clear an entire weekend, chug espresso, write 5,000 words in a manic haze, and then—exhausted and drained—don’t write another word for three weeks.

Dinesen advocates for the compound interest of creativity. Writing 200 or 300 words a day might not feel like much, but over the course of a year, you will have a draft of a book. More importantly, showing up daily builds a creative identity. You stop identifying as someone who wants to write and start identifying as someone who writes.

2. “…without hope…”

This is usually the part that makes people double-take. Without hope? Isn’t hope what keeps writers going?

Dinesen isn’t telling you to be a pessimist; rather, she is warning you against the toxicity of conditional motivation.

• Hope that this sentence will be a masterpiece.
• Hope that this chapter will go viral.
• Hope that this book will get a six-figure book deal and land you on the bestseller list.

When you write with hope (in this specific, transactional sense), your self-worth becomes tethered to the outcome. If the writing is hard today, you feel hopeless. If the external validation doesn’t come, you want to quit. Dinesen urges us to detach from the result. Write because it is what you do, not because you are hoping the universe will grant you a reward for doing it.

3. “…and without despair.”

Just as we must let go of frantic hope, we must also release despair.

Every writer knows the voice of despair. It whispers: This is garbage. You have nothing to say. Everyone else is better than you. Why bother?

Despair paralyzes. It turns a blank page into a terrifying monolith. Dinesen’s antidote to despair is radical acceptance. Some days your writing will be brilliant; other days it will be clunky and mediocre. Both are a normal part of the process. By refusing to despair over a bad writing session, you keep the door open for tomorrow’s session. You remove the emotional drama from the craft.

---

Why Modern Creators Need This Philosophy More Than Ever

We live in an era of metrics. Every tweet, blog post, and video comes with a dashboard tracking views, likes, and shares. It is easier than ever to fall into the trap of writing for the algorithm rather than writing from the soul.

When you apply Dinesen’s “without hope and without despair” rule to the digital age, it acts as a powerful shield:

• Algorithm changes? Without hope, without despair. You keep writing.
• A piece bombs and gets zero engagement? Without hope, without despair. You keep writing.
• A piece goes viral and your inbox is flooded? Without hope, without despair. You keep writing.

This mindset keeps you grounded. It reminds you that the work is the reward, and the validation (or lack thereof) is just noise.

---

How to Apply Isak Dinesen’s Wisdom Today

If you want to integrate this legendary writing advice into your daily routine, here are three practical steps to take right now:

1. Lower the Bar: Commit to a ridiculously small daily goal—say, 150 words or 15 minutes. Make it so easy that you can do it even on your worst days.
2. Separate Creating from Editing: When you sit down to write your daily quota, turn off your inner critic. Do not judge the quality. Just get the words on the page. You can fix bad writing; you cannot fix a blank page.
3. Audit Your Motivations: Notice when you are writing for applause versus writing for the joy of expression. Gently steer your focus back to the simple act of putting pen to paper (or fingers to keys).

---

Final Thoughts

Writing is a marathon through a fog. You rarely know where you are going, and the destination is always changing. But if you can learn to put one foot in front of the other—to write a little every day, without hope and without despair—you will not only survive the journey; you might just find joy in the mist.

What did you write today? Let’s keep moving forward, one small word at a time.

…

Day 229 – Write a little every day

…

Write a Little Every Day, Without Hope and Without Despair: The Ultimate Mantra for Creative Resilience

“Write a little every day, without hope and without despair.”

Attributed to the brilliant Danish author Isak Dinesen (pen name of Karen Blixen, author of Out of Africa), this single sentence is perhaps the most liberating piece of writing advice ever committed to paper.

In a modern creator economy obsessed with viral hits, massive word counts, and relentless hustle culture, Dinesen’s words feel like a cool breeze on a fevered brow. They strip away the performance, the anxiety, and the delusion, leaving behind the pure, quiet act of creation.

Let’s unpack this profound philosophy and explore how it can completely transform your relationship with your craft—whether you’re writing a novel, building a blog, or working on any long-term creative project.

---

The Anatomy of the Mantra

To truly understand Dinesen’s advice, we need to break it down into its three core components: consistency, the surrender of false hope, and the banishment of despair.

1. “Write a little every day…”

The first rule of Dinesen’s philosophy is deceptively simple: consistency over intensity.

Many aspiring writers fall into the trap of the “binge and burn” cycle. You wait for the muse to strike. You clear an entire weekend, chug espresso, write 5,000 words in a manic haze, and then—exhausted and drained—don’t write another word for three weeks.

Dinesen advocates for the compound interest of creativity. Writing 200 or 300 words a day might not feel like much, but over the course of a year, you will have a draft of a book. More importantly, showing up daily builds a creative identity. You stop identifying as someone who wants to write and start identifying as someone who writes.

2. “…without hope…”

This is usually the part that makes people double-take. Without hope? Isn’t hope what keeps writers going?

Dinesen isn’t telling you to be a pessimist; rather, she is warning you against the toxicity of conditional motivation.

• Hope that this sentence will be a masterpiece.
• Hope that this chapter will go viral.
• Hope that this book will get a six-figure book deal and land you on the bestseller list.

When you write with hope (in this specific, transactional sense), your self-worth becomes tethered to the outcome. If the writing is hard today, you feel hopeless. If the external validation doesn’t come, you want to quit. Dinesen urges us to detach from the result. Write because it is what you do, not because you are hoping the universe will grant you a reward for doing it.

3. “…and without despair.”

Just as we must let go of frantic hope, we must also release despair.

Every writer knows the voice of despair. It whispers: This is garbage. You have nothing to say. Everyone else is better than you. Why bother?

Despair paralyzes. It turns a blank page into a terrifying monolith. Dinesen’s antidote to despair is radical acceptance. Some days your writing will be brilliant; other days it will be clunky and mediocre. Both are a normal part of the process. By refusing to despair over a bad writing session, you keep the door open for tomorrow’s session. You remove the emotional drama from the craft.

---

Why Modern Creators Need This Philosophy More Than Ever

We live in an era of metrics. Every tweet, blog post, and video comes with a dashboard tracking views, likes, and shares. It is easier than ever to fall into the trap of writing for the algorithm rather than writing from the soul.

When you apply Dinesen’s “without hope and without despair” rule to the digital age, it acts as a powerful shield:

• Algorithm changes? Without hope, without despair. You keep writing.
• A piece bombs and gets zero engagement? Without hope, without despair. You keep writing.
• A piece goes viral and your inbox is flooded? Without hope, without despair. You keep writing.

This mindset keeps you grounded. It reminds you that the work is the reward, and the validation (or lack thereof) is just noise.

---

How to Apply Isak Dinesen’s Wisdom Today

If you want to integrate this legendary writing advice into your daily routine, here are three practical steps to take right now:

1. Lower the Bar: Commit to a ridiculously small daily goal—say, 150 words or 15 minutes. Make it so easy that you can do it even on your worst days.
2. Separate Creating from Editing: When you sit down to write your daily quota, turn off your inner critic. Do not judge the quality. Just get the words on the page. You can fix bad writing; you cannot fix a blank page.
3. Audit Your Motivations: Notice when you are writing for applause versus writing for the joy of expression. Gently steer your focus back to the simple act of putting pen to paper (or fingers to keys).

---

Final Thoughts

Writing is a marathon through a fog. You rarely know where you are going, and the destination is always changing. But if you can learn to put one foot in front of the other—to write a little every day, without hope and without despair—you will not only survive the journey; you might just find joy in the mist.

What did you write today? Let’s keep moving forward, one small word at a time.

…

Days 227 and 228 – Writing Exercise

…

In my opinion, security was only as good as the people charged with maintaining it.

I had a security Chief, and he had minions.  I was not interested in the who, only that when he told me the house and grounds were secure, they were.

If you were to ask me, total security was impossible.  No one could be relied on to be one hundred percent focussed on the job, not when there were so many distractions.

I didn’t expect miracles.  I simply expected a modicum of professionalism.

In that I was disappointed.

…

I lived alone.

I never used to, but sadly the woman I married was not who I expected her to be.

Discreet.

I didn’t mind if she had other friends, so long as it never became public.  Even then it might not have bothered me, but it being a business rival, and involving stolen secrets, that was a step too far.

We did not part amicably.

And I don’t think I would ever trust another woman with any part of my life other than as an amiable acquaintance.

Thus my life, as described in a recent Sunday newspaper magazine article about me, was reclusive and a ‘frightful waste of an eligible bachelor’.

It was the last thing I considered myself to be, but it didn’t stop certain people from extolling the virtues of their unmarried daughters, or my friends from finding some available friends of theirs as a blind date.

They said it was a shame I didn’t have, at the very least, a full-time companion to accompany me as a plus one.

I actually thought that myself.

It was, in fact, the very reason I was still awake at two in the morning, staring at the ceiling and asking a rhetorical question: what was wrong with me?

And it was quiet enough to just hear a slight bump, like a book falling onto the floor.

Or it could have been my imagination.

Or it could have been once the clod hopper security guards doing his rounds in the dark.

Not for the first time.

I was awake anyway, so I must as well go down and see what was going on.  I’d been meaning to talk to Jameson, my head of security, and the guards assigned to the night shift.

I changed into gym clothes and shoes and, keeping the lights off, did my best to creep downstairs, remembering to avoid the fifth, eleventh and twentieth steps because they creaked.

The door to the study was ajar.  That was not how I left it.  Obviously the security guard had come and gone without shutting the door after him.

I was going to pull it shut when I decided I would go in, finish some business and then try to get some sleep.

I stepped in, shut the door behind me and switched on the light.

It was a surprise – no, more of a shock – to see I was not alone, and my companion was not a security guard but an intruder.  Dressed in black from head to foot.

There was only one way in and out: the door.  The windows didn’t open, though I had been contemplating changing that.

My eyes might have been playing tricks, but I swear my intruder was a woman.

She looked at me.  Surprise, but not fear.

Did she have a companion somewhere?  I would have to be careful.  I said, “Give me one reason I shouldn’t call the police.”

“I haven’t stolen anything yet.”

It was a woman.  Youngish. 

“What were you after?”

I couldn’t believe I was having a conversation with a thief who might turn violent at any moment.

“Not sure yet.  Something of value.  You’re that rich you wouldn’t miss it.”

“What if it had sentimental value?”

“You people don’t have hearts, just bank vaults.  You wouldn’t know what sentimental is.”

“And you do?”

“It comes with being poor.”

I looked her up and down. Nothing about her screamed poorhouse.  I recognised the outfit as being one the women wore at the gym I visited once a month.  They were not inexpensive clothes she was wearing.

I shrugged.  “Do you want me to give you a million pounds so you can become one of us, the un-sympathetics.”

“That would be a cop out and wouldn’t count.”

“Would you like me to find something worth a million pounds to leave with and become one of us?”

“The fence wouldn’t give me face value.  It would have to be worth a lot more, but even then I’d get screwed over the interpretation of what its value is.”

“I could come with you…”

She laughed.  “I see what this is.  You keep chatting while the security or police come.  I’d better go.”

“Empty-handed?”

“Shit happens. Especially to me.  Your security is shit too.  I’d sack the lot of them and get someone who knows what they’re doing.”

“Like you?”

“You’re annoying, you know that?”

“It’s been said.  Call me in the morning; we can talk about a job.”

She simply shook her head and barged past me on her way out.

The aroma of lavender lingered long after she had gone.

…

It was probably the most honest conversation I’d had with someone under the age of 50.  I was still sitting behind the desk in my study, trying to imagine what it was she was after.

It was not just random objects worth money.

She had been sent to get something specific.  It meant she would be back to try again. Or someone else who wouldn’t leave without it.

At eight, I went out to the cottage just inside the front gate where the head of security lived and ran his operation.  He had been recommended to me, and when interviewed had talked the talk

Now I had a breach.

I knocked; he seemed surprised to see me.

“Sir?  You up and about early.”

“What happened last night?”

He was about to say nothing but must have caught the edge of my tone.

“I heard there might have been a breach in the main house.  This morning the monitors are down, and a quick check shows some of the leads have been cut.  No alarms were disabled or triggered.  How did you know?”

“I had a conversation with a possible cat burglar last night.  I checked, and she hadn’t taken anything, but had she not dropped something on the floor, I would not have discovered her in the house.”

He invited me in, and we went to the control room.

His man was idly watching about ten screens.

“When was this?” He asked.

“About half past one in the morning.”

There were more cameras than screens.  The operator ran through the camera feeds from one in the morning to two, in fast-forward, and when he got to camera 16, overlooking the area that led up to the patio that adjoined mt study, a blurry figure in dark clothing was barely discernible against the dark background.

It was as if they knew the limitations of the system.

You would not have seen it unless you were looking for it, and four hours into the night shift, your attention wandering towards the land of nod.  But odd, no alarms went off

It explained how the intruder got into my study. 

And earned a termination notice for the night operator, and an apology.  It would have been moot if I’d been killed.

“I’ll see that it never happens again.”

I just glared at him and went back to the manor house.

…

I had breakfast in the drawing room, also a reading room, and where I took friends and relatives when they visited.  It was much more informal than the room we used for formal guests

This morning it was just Elsie, the breakfast server, and I, though I preferred to put food on my own plate, let her pour the coffee, and let her scowl at me when I did let her do her job.

“I heard there was a prowler.”

News travelled fast in a house like mine.

“A charming young lady cat burglar.  I asked her if she wanted a job.”  I took a plate back to the table, and she followed with the coffee.  I waited until she poured a cupful.

“Why would you?”

“She circumvented our security system.”

“Anyone could.”  Then she realised what she said.  “Sorry, I didn’t quite mean it like that.”

She did, but I’d let it pass.  Elsie was prone to speaking before thinking, sometimes an endearing quality.  The housekeeper, Mrs Jones, wanted to let her go, but I liked her, so she stayed.

A knock on the door. Abigail, one of two personal assistants, put her head in the doorway.  “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a caller who says she wants to finish what you started earlier this morning.”

The cat burglar.  Now that was a surprise. She came over and gave me the cell phone.  Both women left the room.

“Miss Burglar,” I said, “What can I do for you?”

“You mean what you said earlier?”

“Subject to a satisfactory interview, yes.”

“Where do I meet you?”

“Back here.  Only this time, don’t try to break in.  I have a front door; you can knock on it, and someone will answer it.”
–
“Later, then.”

She disconnected the call.

My first thought, she needed better access to steal whatever it was she needed to.  It meant she was not doing this because she wanted to, but because she had to.  Which meant someone had leverage.

My day just got less boring.

…

Just Jennifer arrives shortly before lunch, driving a beat-up Mini, a more modern version of an old Morris Mini I once drove.

She parked it with a flourish outside the front door, scuffing up the gravel surface and incurring a few wrathful remarks from the head gardener, a rather irascible Irishman called O’Rafferty.

She came to the front door, and Riley, the head of the household and head butler, answered it.  He did not suffer fools gladly, nor any others.

He had an old blunderbuss which he used to threaten church hawkers and door-to-door salesmen.  I had to bail him out of jail once.

He escorted Just Jennifer to the lunch room, which was still the drawing room used for all daytime meals, and afternoon high teas.

He announced her as Just Jennifer, told her to enter, and then closed the doors behind him.  Elsie was standing by the servery, fully aware of who Just Jennifer was.

Just Jennifer looked around the room, at Elsie in her finest morning servery clothes, the array of food and then me.

“This is ridiculous.  Do you know how many starving people there are?”

“Within the 10-mile radius of this house, yes.  We provide meals for as many who ask, as well as school lunches for every child who wants one.  Whatever is not used is given to several nearby homeless shelters where staff volunteer their services.  I visit them when I can.”

I said that not for the idea of getting acknowledgement; very few people were aware of what we did, and I preferred to keep it that way.  Someone once told me I couldn’t save the world, but I could help those nearby.

“I’m disappointed,” she said.

Surprising.  ‘Why?”

“Because I wanted to believe you were a heartless bastard.”

“It’s a free world.”

“Actually, it isn’t.”

I shook my head.

“Sit down and tell Elsie what you want, and she’ll get it for you.”

“I can do it myself.”

“That’s what I said, and Elsie took it badly.  She likes her job, and she’s very good at it.  And gets more appreciation than she did when she worked in a snobby men’s club in London.” I looked over in her direction, and she made a face that was less than the scowl she wore five minutes ago.

Just Jennifer sat and told Elsie what she would like.

Elsie served her first, then poured me a fresh cup of tea, then went back to her station.

“Is this what it’s like all the time?”

“No.  Sometimes I go down to the London residence.  Sometimes I go away for the weekend, you know, a change of scenery.”

“Why aren’t you married?”

“What woman could put up with all of this?”

“I could.”

“For about a week, yes.  A month tops.  Then you slowly go mad.  You love the idea of it.  That novelty wears off very quickly, once the media get a hold of you and then never let you alone.”

“If I work for you?”

“They’ll just ignore you.  Maybe as the hired help some enterprising reporter will offer you a large sum of money to betray me.”

“How big a pile?”

“A hundred to a thousand pounds.  They seem to think that’s a lot of money to someone like their impression of impoverished employees being taken advantage of.”

“What sort of job would you give me, given you know my talent?  And how much?”

“Are you looking for a job?”

“Since I failed last night, yes.  How quick people are to condemn you after one failure.”

“We live in a fickle world.  The job: personal bodyguard, which means basically all day, every day.  The pay: you get to live and eat free wherever we go, a dress allowance because you have to look the part, and an offshore account where you can deposit money for your retirement.  A lot of money.  I am buying your discretion.”

“No time off?”

“When nothing’s happening, yes, plenty of time off.  Which happens more often than not.  You have to sign an NDA, and not break it.  Everyone who works for me does.”

“Nothing bad; I have a line I don’t cross.”

I would like to see that line because breaking and entering and stealing seemed pretty bad to me.

“Nothing bad.  I hire an assassin to take care of those problems.”

She looked horrified.

“I don’t, but it’s a thought.  Some of those reporters cross lines and get away with literal murder.  I guess it goes with the territory.  You need time to think?”

“Over a second sandwich, perhaps.”  She looked at Elsie and nodded.

…

I didn’t believe for a moment she had come for a job, or that her one mistake had cost her her reputation.

She had come on a pretext, and hoping I’d be foolish enough to show her around.  It wasn’t the first subject she broached, but it came after the second sandwich.

And I hated to admit I liked her audacity.  Whatever she had been looking for, she had run out of time and needed a second visit.  And a list of possible places.

After all, I did have three separate safes in different places, scattered about the manor house, excluding a smaller one in my room.  I kept a gun there.

Just in case.

But as for what she was after, I couldn’t guess.  I was surprised I hadn’t got a call from Proctor, head of the London residence, about any break-ins.

I spoke to the lawyers earlier, and he said that it was probably an art thief, and that there were several canvases that were worth a lot to private collectors.

It had to be that.

I took her on a tour of the house and showed her the art collection, including the expensive pieces, but she didn’t seem that interested, or acted the part very well.  I did notice the surreptitious glances at the internal CCTV cameras and security within the house.  Maybe later I would ask her where the pitfalls were.

We ended up back in the drawing room, now cleared and back to being just a drawing room.

Abigail was waiting for me, a pensive expression meaning there was a problem.

“Can I have a private moment?”

“Is it top secret stuff?”

I knew what it was about, and it wasn’t.

“Not particularly.”

“Then don’t worry about Jennifer.  What is it?”

“Your plus one for tomorrow night.  Miss James is unable to get back in time from Santorini.  Shall I tell them you will be going alone?”

“Who can resist the Greek Islands in Summer?”

I looked over at Jennifer, who was trying her best to appear like she was ignoring us.  “Fancy going to a boring party.”  I looked at Abigail.  “Whose birthday is it again?”

“Lord Berenson.”

“Ah,  yes.  Lady Berenson had been trying to get me to take an interest in Tabitha.”

“It’s about time you settled down.”

“You are starting to sound like my mother.”

“She asked me to look after you.”

“And you have.”  I turned back to Jennifer, who was now looking at us.  “Care to go as my plus one.  It’d give you an excellent look at how the job would work, or not.”

“A plus one is not a bodyguard.”

“It is if you don’t want anyone to know you’re a bodyguard.”

Abigail simply shook her head.  “Let me know what you decide.”  And left.

“Who is she?”

“My principal private secretary, and de facto mother, apparently. Are you interested in going?  We’ll have to get you a dress because it’s a proper to-do, and dancing.  You do dance?”

“What sort of dancing?”

“Stuff an orchestra produces.  There’s no dangling disco balls and loud thumping noise that passes for music.  The cream of society will be there.  If you decide not to stay with me, you can research other wealthy prospects.”

“I’m done with that.”

“Are you in or out?”

“One night to test the water.  See if I like it or hate it.”

“Great.” I picked up the phone and called Abigail.

…

I wasn’t sure what sort of game I was playing, only that it could end badly. 

But it wouldn’t be any worse than the last time I was disappointed, given that I was the subject of the deception.

Maybe I wanted to unmask her.

Maybe I liked what I couldn’t have.

Maybe I was just tired of the life I was pretending to lead.  I understood now why my father collapsed under the weight of responsibility, trying to be everything all at once, and ending up master of nothing.

It was easy to say that I had to be an example to everyone.  That I learned quickly was impossible.

That I wanted to marry a simple girl with simple tastes and live in a simple house … no, none of that was possible.  Not when you have millions of people perched on your shoulders waiting for you to stumble.

My older brother ended his own life buried under the pressure of expectation, and my sister disappeared to New Zealand, leaving me the mess to clean up.  My parents died of natural causes, way before they should have.

I looked around the room and remembered that morning before my brother died, looking every bit the normal, self-controlled businessman who could absorb any amount of pressure and come out smiling.

I had no idea what he intended to do, only that a call from the police the next morning saying they had found him dead in his apartment.  An overdose.  He had never taken drugs in his life.  At least not that I ever knew about.

I closed my eyes, then opened them.

Just Jennifer was still there.  Looking a million pounds in the dress Abigail had ‘found’ and sent for a fitting.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Jennifer had tried not to show any feelings until the dress arrived.  One look, I thought, and she was hooked.  It was like Cinderella at the ball.

“It’s a peek into a world I could never be a part of.  All I’ve ever seen is the photos in magazines.”

“The photos lie.  That world is full of bitter and nasty people who look down on everyone.  Well, most of them. You don’t get to be as wealthy as they are without smashing a few heads along the way.”

“Do you?”

“I represent old money.  My forebears smashed the heads for me.  I just direct where it goes, the custodian till the next generation.”

“You have no children.”

“Don’t worry, there’s plenty of relatives who want me dead so they can claim the inheritance.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’ll have your bodyguard close.”

“They fix up a room for you?”

“It’s bigger than my flat, and that’s just the bedroom.  It’s like living in a fairy tale.”

I thought that too when I was old enough to realise where I’d landed.

It was late, and it had been a long day.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

…

Sleep wouldn’t come.

Trying to think about exactly what Jennifer was after was doing my head in.

I had hoped that keeping her close she might let something slip, but she had dodged all my questions so deftly I had to admit she might be smarter than me.

I had even considered the possibility she was an assassin hired by the obscure members of the family to kill me so they could get their hands on the inheritance.

The idea of inviting her into my room seemed just a little too forward, and a typical male thing when it came to considering a relationship, much the same as some would after a night in a pick-up bar, something I would never do.

My brother was one who fervently believed that was where he would find the woman of his dreams, rather than the austere and matronly types our mother found for us.  Nobility, she said, must marry nobility, her being the daughter of a Count.

I agreed with my brother, only I didn’t have his confidence, or his nerve to simply ask a woman if she wanted to have sex with him.

If she did come in, what would I do?  It was as much on my mind as why she was here.

Closer to just before dawn, I was lying in the dark, looking at objects just barely illuminated by the glow of the digital numbers on the clock.

The door cracked a little before it opened just enough to let a slim body pass.  It closed again, silently. 

I hoped death would be swift and silent.

Her white nightdress attracted the green light of the clock, enough to show part of her.  She stopped beside the bed, between the clock and me and looked down.

“You’re awake, aren’t you?”

Of course.  She had been listening for rhythmic breathing.

“How can I possibly sleep with you just down the corridor?”

“It should be easy.  I don’t mean anything to you.”

“Except as a plus one.  Why are you here?  To drive a dagger into the devil’s heart?”

“I thought we established you were heartless?”

I reached out and took her hand in mine.  I could feel a slight tremor, though that could have been me as much as her.  It has been a while since the last time I was this intimately involved.  Or not.

She didn’t pull her hand away.

“Really, why are you here?”

“Morbid fascination.  I didn’t come to steal anything.  I just wanted to see your house, the life you lead, the person you are, not what they write about you in the media.  You frightened me when you found me.  I thought you would call the police and have me arrested.  You didn’t.  That’s when I knew I had to see you again.  I’m nobody.”

“Well, later today you’ll be somebody.  If you want to be somebody.  I’m not joking when I say that your life could change dramatically, and not for the better.  There’s always a cost; it’s whether you want to pay it.  I have no choice.  You do.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“There’s a lot of that going around.  Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Let me stay for a bit.  I’m sure I heard ghosts rattling in the corridor.”

“It’s possible.  I’ve heard a few strange things in my time here.  Probably my disapproving parents.  Sure.  There’s room for four in this bed.”

She pulled back the covers and slipped in.  There was space between us. 

“I’m not carrying a hidden weapon.  It’s not possible in this nightdress I was given, and I don’t bite.  I reserved that for my sisters who were horrible to me for a long time.”

“Are you a car burglar?”

“Not a very good one.  You were my first victim.  And probably my last.  I’m thinking of taking up a career of being a plus one.  I’ll let you know how that goes.  Tomorrow, or perhaps it’s now, later today.”

She rolled over, facing away from me, then moved closer, then took my hand and held it closer to her.

“Good night.”

The only thought I had was that if she had come to kill me, I’d be dead now.  Either from a knife, but more likely from having a heart attack.

It was an interesting thought.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Where the dynasty begins

…

Ground Zero for Greatness: Why Location is the Ultimate Character in a Book Series

If you’re going to write a book series, sometimes it will be rooted in one particular place—the place I would call home.

Dynasties need a place that is theirs, to start from nothing. And when you’re building a multi-book epic, a generational saga, or even a sprawling television-style procedural, it’s all about picking a location.

Before you plot your twists, before you name your protagonist, and long before you figure out how the story ends, you have to choose the dirt. Because in serialised fiction, geography isn’t just a backdrop; it’s the heartbeat of your entire fictional universe.

Here is why your series needs a definitive home base, and how to pick a location that can carry the weight of an entire dynasty.

---

1. The Power of “Home” in Serialised Fiction

Think of the most iconic series in literature and pop culture. Game of Thrones is inextricably linked to Winterfell and the stark brutality of the North. Lord of the Rings always circles back to the comforting, green hearth of the Shire. In crime fiction, Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch is Los Angeles—the asphalt, the traffic, the neon-lit grit.

When a series has a distinct home, it offers the reader a psychological anchor. No matter how chaotic the plot gets, or how many new characters are introduced in book three or four, returning to “home” provides a sense of continuity.

As a writer, establishing a home base gives you a baseline. You can’t show how much a character or a family has changed unless you show them against the backdrop of where they started.

2. Dynasties Need Dirt: Starting from Nothing

Every great dynasty—whether it’s the Corleones in The Godfather, the Roys in Succession, or a fantasy bloodline clawing its way to a throne—needs a genesis point.

To make a dynasty compelling, you have to show the climb. And to show the climb, you need a starting block that feels tactile, specific, and often, limiting.

• The Mud and the Scaffolding: Starting from nothing means your characters are shaped by the geography of their struggle. Are they mining coal in a bleak valley? Are they scraping by in a crowded port city? The physical environment dictates their resourcefulness, their culture, and their desperation.
• The Claim: A dynasty isn’t just a family; it’s real estate. The moment a group of characters stakes a claim on a specific piece of land—whether it’s an abandoned farm, a contested borough, or an uncharted island—the story shifts from mere survival to legacy-building.

When you pick a location, ask yourself: What does this dirt demand from the people who walk on it?

3. How to Choose the Right Location for Your Series

Picking a location isn’t about just pointing a finger at a map or making up a cool-sounding fantasy name. It’s a strategic choice that will dictate the trajectory of your entire series. Here’s how to nail it:

Give the Location Personality

Treat your setting like a main character. It should have moods, history, biases, and secrets. A coastal town isn’t just “near the water”—it’s salty, isolated, suspicious of outsiders, and at the mercy of the tides. The weather, the architecture, the local cuisine, and the regional slang should all bleed into the narrative.

Ensure Room for Expansion

A common pitfall in series writing is picking a location that is too small. If your entire story takes place in a single room or a tiny village, you’ll run out of narrative fuel by book two. Ensure your chosen location has layers: neighbourhoods, surrounding wilderness, political jurisdictions, or hidden undergrounds that you can peel back as the series progresses.

Make It Inhospitable (At Least a Little Bit)

Comfort breeds stagnation; struggle breeds dynasties. Whether it’s harsh winters, political corruption, economic depression, or literal monsters at the gates, your location should present ongoing obstacles. A dynasty is forged in the forge, after all.

4. The Location Evolves With You

One of the greatest joys of writing a series is watching the home base change over time.

In Book 1, your characters might be shivering in a leaky shack on the edge of town, dreaming of something better. By Book 5, that same shack might be replaced by a sprawling estate, or serve as the historic foundation of a massive corporate or political empire.

Because the location stays the same while the characters change, the setting becomes a measuring stick for time and ambition. Readers love nothing more than recognising a street corner, a building, or a landmark that appeared in the first book, but seeing it entirely transformed through the lens of the characters’ success (or downfall).

---

Final Thoughts: Plant Your Flag

If you’re staring at a blank document, paralysed by the sheer scope of the series you want to write, stop trying to plot the ending. Stop trying to introduce every character.

Instead, look for the place.

Find the town, the planet, the estate, or the street corner that feels like the epicentre of your imagination. Plant your flag there. Make it messy, make it real, and make it home. Because once you find the right location, the dynasty will build itself.

…

Where the dynasty begins

…

Ground Zero for Greatness: Why Location is the Ultimate Character in a Book Series

If you’re going to write a book series, sometimes it will be rooted in one particular place—the place I would call home.

Dynasties need a place that is theirs, to start from nothing. And when you’re building a multi-book epic, a generational saga, or even a sprawling television-style procedural, it’s all about picking a location.

Before you plot your twists, before you name your protagonist, and long before you figure out how the story ends, you have to choose the dirt. Because in serialised fiction, geography isn’t just a backdrop; it’s the heartbeat of your entire fictional universe.

Here is why your series needs a definitive home base, and how to pick a location that can carry the weight of an entire dynasty.

---

1. The Power of “Home” in Serialised Fiction

Think of the most iconic series in literature and pop culture. Game of Thrones is inextricably linked to Winterfell and the stark brutality of the North. Lord of the Rings always circles back to the comforting, green hearth of the Shire. In crime fiction, Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch is Los Angeles—the asphalt, the traffic, the neon-lit grit.

When a series has a distinct home, it offers the reader a psychological anchor. No matter how chaotic the plot gets, or how many new characters are introduced in book three or four, returning to “home” provides a sense of continuity.

As a writer, establishing a home base gives you a baseline. You can’t show how much a character or a family has changed unless you show them against the backdrop of where they started.

2. Dynasties Need Dirt: Starting from Nothing

Every great dynasty—whether it’s the Corleones in The Godfather, the Roys in Succession, or a fantasy bloodline clawing its way to a throne—needs a genesis point.

To make a dynasty compelling, you have to show the climb. And to show the climb, you need a starting block that feels tactile, specific, and often, limiting.

• The Mud and the Scaffolding: Starting from nothing means your characters are shaped by the geography of their struggle. Are they mining coal in a bleak valley? Are they scraping by in a crowded port city? The physical environment dictates their resourcefulness, their culture, and their desperation.
• The Claim: A dynasty isn’t just a family; it’s real estate. The moment a group of characters stakes a claim on a specific piece of land—whether it’s an abandoned farm, a contested borough, or an uncharted island—the story shifts from mere survival to legacy-building.

When you pick a location, ask yourself: What does this dirt demand from the people who walk on it?

3. How to Choose the Right Location for Your Series

Picking a location isn’t about just pointing a finger at a map or making up a cool-sounding fantasy name. It’s a strategic choice that will dictate the trajectory of your entire series. Here’s how to nail it:

Give the Location Personality

Treat your setting like a main character. It should have moods, history, biases, and secrets. A coastal town isn’t just “near the water”—it’s salty, isolated, suspicious of outsiders, and at the mercy of the tides. The weather, the architecture, the local cuisine, and the regional slang should all bleed into the narrative.

Ensure Room for Expansion

A common pitfall in series writing is picking a location that is too small. If your entire story takes place in a single room or a tiny village, you’ll run out of narrative fuel by book two. Ensure your chosen location has layers: neighbourhoods, surrounding wilderness, political jurisdictions, or hidden undergrounds that you can peel back as the series progresses.

Make It Inhospitable (At Least a Little Bit)

Comfort breeds stagnation; struggle breeds dynasties. Whether it’s harsh winters, political corruption, economic depression, or literal monsters at the gates, your location should present ongoing obstacles. A dynasty is forged in the forge, after all.

4. The Location Evolves With You

One of the greatest joys of writing a series is watching the home base change over time.

In Book 1, your characters might be shivering in a leaky shack on the edge of town, dreaming of something better. By Book 5, that same shack might be replaced by a sprawling estate, or serve as the historic foundation of a massive corporate or political empire.

Because the location stays the same while the characters change, the setting becomes a measuring stick for time and ambition. Readers love nothing more than recognising a street corner, a building, or a landmark that appeared in the first book, but seeing it entirely transformed through the lens of the characters’ success (or downfall).

---

Final Thoughts: Plant Your Flag

If you’re staring at a blank document, paralysed by the sheer scope of the series you want to write, stop trying to plot the ending. Stop trying to introduce every character.

Instead, look for the place.

Find the town, the planet, the estate, or the street corner that feels like the epicentre of your imagination. Plant your flag there. Make it messy, make it real, and make it home. Because once you find the right location, the dynasty will build itself.

…