Tag: Reading

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 177

Day 177 – Things to avoid

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Write Like a Pro: 3 Common Writing Pitfalls to Avoid

Great writing is like a good conversation: it should be clear, engaging, and easy to follow. However, even experienced writers sometimes fall into habits that obstruct the reader’s experience. To help you sharpen your prose, let’s look at three common mistakes—run-on sentences, overlong anecdotes, and unnecessary Latin phrases—and how to fix them.

1. Ditch the Run-On Sentences

A run-on sentence happens when two or more independent clauses are joined improperly, often without the necessary punctuation or conjunctions. They force the reader to hold their breath until they hit a period, which kills the rhythm of your content.

What NOT to write:

“I went to the store to buy groceries for the party but they were closed so I had to go to the neighbor’s house to ask for some sugar and then I realized I forgot my wallet at home anyway.”

How to do it properly:

  • Use a period: “I went to the store to buy groceries for the party, but it was closed. I had to go to my neighbour’s house for sugar, only to realise I’d left my wallet at home.”
  • Use a semicolon: “The store was closed; consequently, I had to ask my neighbour for sugar.”

2. Stop Cramming Stories into One Sentence

New writers often try to pack an entire narrative arc—the setting, the conflict, and the resolution—into a single, breathless sentence. If a story requires more than one sentence to explain, give it the space it needs. Breaking your thoughts into multiple sentences allows the reader to digest the information one piece at a time.

What NOT to write:

“When I was hiking in the Rockies last summer, I saw a massive grizzly bear standing just a few yards away from the trail, and my heart started racing as I slowly backed away, hoping it wouldn’t notice me while I reached for my bear spray, and eventually, I made it back to safety without a scratch.”

How to do it properly:

“While hiking in the Rockies last summer, I saw a massive grizzly bear standing just yards from the trail. My heart raced as I slowly backed away, praying it wouldn’t notice me reaching for my bear spray. Thankfully, I made it back to the trailhead without a scratch.”

3. Avoid Obscure Latin Phrases

Using Latin phrases like ad hoc, post hoc, or quid pro quo can make your writing feel pretentious or exclusionary. Unless you are writing for an academic, legal or medical journal, your goal should be clarity. If a simple English word does the job, use it.

What NOT to write:

“We formed the committee ad hoc to handle the budget crisis, but their efforts were ipso facto doomed from the start.”

How to do it properly:

“We formed a temporary committee to handle the budget crisis, but their efforts were inherently doomed from the start.”

Note: If you feel a specific Latin phrase is essential, ensure it is widely understood (like “et cetera” or “per se”), but even then, using plain English is almost always the more professional choice.

The Takeaway

Good writing isn’t about how many complex structures you can cram into a paragraph; it’s about how much value you can provide to the reader with the least amount of friction.

Remember:

  1. Break up your clauses to avoid run-ons.
  2. Give your stories the breathing room of multiple sentences.
  3. Choose common English over dusty Latin.

Your readers will thank you for it!

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365 Days of writing, 2026 – 177

Day 177 – Things to avoid

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Write Like a Pro: 3 Common Writing Pitfalls to Avoid

Great writing is like a good conversation: it should be clear, engaging, and easy to follow. However, even experienced writers sometimes fall into habits that obstruct the reader’s experience. To help you sharpen your prose, let’s look at three common mistakes—run-on sentences, overlong anecdotes, and unnecessary Latin phrases—and how to fix them.

1. Ditch the Run-On Sentences

A run-on sentence happens when two or more independent clauses are joined improperly, often without the necessary punctuation or conjunctions. They force the reader to hold their breath until they hit a period, which kills the rhythm of your content.

What NOT to write:

“I went to the store to buy groceries for the party but they were closed so I had to go to the neighbor’s house to ask for some sugar and then I realized I forgot my wallet at home anyway.”

How to do it properly:

  • Use a period: “I went to the store to buy groceries for the party, but it was closed. I had to go to my neighbour’s house for sugar, only to realise I’d left my wallet at home.”
  • Use a semicolon: “The store was closed; consequently, I had to ask my neighbour for sugar.”

2. Stop Cramming Stories into One Sentence

New writers often try to pack an entire narrative arc—the setting, the conflict, and the resolution—into a single, breathless sentence. If a story requires more than one sentence to explain, give it the space it needs. Breaking your thoughts into multiple sentences allows the reader to digest the information one piece at a time.

What NOT to write:

“When I was hiking in the Rockies last summer, I saw a massive grizzly bear standing just a few yards away from the trail, and my heart started racing as I slowly backed away, hoping it wouldn’t notice me while I reached for my bear spray, and eventually, I made it back to safety without a scratch.”

How to do it properly:

“While hiking in the Rockies last summer, I saw a massive grizzly bear standing just yards from the trail. My heart raced as I slowly backed away, praying it wouldn’t notice me reaching for my bear spray. Thankfully, I made it back to the trailhead without a scratch.”

3. Avoid Obscure Latin Phrases

Using Latin phrases like ad hoc, post hoc, or quid pro quo can make your writing feel pretentious or exclusionary. Unless you are writing for an academic, legal or medical journal, your goal should be clarity. If a simple English word does the job, use it.

What NOT to write:

“We formed the committee ad hoc to handle the budget crisis, but their efforts were ipso facto doomed from the start.”

How to do it properly:

“We formed a temporary committee to handle the budget crisis, but their efforts were inherently doomed from the start.”

Note: If you feel a specific Latin phrase is essential, ensure it is widely understood (like “et cetera” or “per se”), but even then, using plain English is almost always the more professional choice.

The Takeaway

Good writing isn’t about how many complex structures you can cram into a paragraph; it’s about how much value you can provide to the reader with the least amount of friction.

Remember:

  1. Break up your clauses to avoid run-ons.
  2. Give your stories the breathing room of multiple sentences.
  3. Choose common English over dusty Latin.

Your readers will thank you for it!

…

What I learned about writing – A slice of life, or a slice of imagination?

The Feast of the Impossible: Why We Don’t Want a Slice of Life, But a Slice of the Imagination

There is a culinary term often used in creative circles: the “slice of life.” It refers to narratives that capture the ordinary, the mundane, the painfully relatable reality of human existence. It’s the story of the difficult commute, the awkward first date, the slow, inevitable march of rent payments and domestic chores.

And while critics and readers praise these narratives for their mirror-like accuracy, a growing chorus of us—the dreamers, the schemers, the creators—have started to push the plate away.

We are perfectly familiar with reality. We live in it every day. Why, then, should we dedicate our precious leisure time to consuming its reheated leftovers?

We are not interested in a slice of life; what we want is a slice of the imagination.

The Tyranny of the Mundane

The argument against the strict “slice of life” isn’t an argument against authenticity; it’s an argument against limitation.

Reality, for all its occasional beauty, is often characterised by bureaucratic ennui, disappointing physics, and a predictable set of social rules. The slice of life, at its most restrictive, holds us hostage to these limitations. It dictates that things must be believable, that characters must struggle with only the problems we currently possess, and that the scope of human experience must fit within the current legal code and the known laws of thermodynamics.

When we turn to art, literature, or media, we are not looking for confirmation that the world is exactly as depressing and limited as we suspected. We are looking for a lift.

We seek the moment of transcendence—the moment that allows us to step outside the constraints of our five senses and the 24-hour news cycle. The slice of life provides comfort in shared familiarity; the slice of the imagination offers freedom in glorious impossibility.

The True Taste of Imagination

What exactly is this “slice of the imagination”?

It is the narrative that begins not where the road ends, but where the road should have begun if we had been allowed to choose the construction materials ourselves.

It is the hidden history whispered by an exiled queen on a planet visible only through a telescope carved from ice. It is the intricate workings of a clockwork city powered by collective dreams. It is the raw, untamed emotion of a character whose heartbreak causes the actual atmosphere to fracture.

Imagination gives us narratives designed not to confirm the limits of our world, but to test the limits of our humanity under impossible pressures.

Why Imagination Is More Authentic Than Reality

Despite popular misconception, investing in the imaginative is often a deeper, more rigorous exploration of truth than merely documenting the real.

  • It isolates the core idea: If you want to explore the nature of sacrifice, you can write a story about a parent giving up a promotion for their child (a slice of life). Or, you can write about a space traveller forced to stop the flow of time at the exact moment their daughter smiles, knowing they will be trapped alone in that instant forever (a slice of imagination). The latter, while impossible, isolates and intensifies the emotional truth of sacrifice far more effectively.
  • It offers universal empathy: A narrative depicting the specific political struggles of 1980s Eastern Europe might struggle to resonate with a modern teenager in Sydney. However, a story about an oppressed people fighting a magically-enforced totalitarian regime (Fantasy) or resisting a hive-mind alien force (Sci-Fi) speaks directly to the universal human impulse for freedom, regardless of the historical moment.
  • It is the blueprint for the future: Every innovation, every breakthrough, every architectural marvel that defines our modern existence began as a “slice of the imagination.” The aeroplane, the smartphone, the idea of universal healthcare—all were once impossible concepts derided by those content with the current “slice of life.” To celebrate the imagination is to celebrate potential itself.

The Imperative of Invention

To choose imagination is not to choose childish escapism; it is to choose necessary fuel. We need stories built out of invented metal and arcane logic because they train our minds to accept the possibility of a world radically different from the one we inhabit.

The imagination is the muscle we use to solve problems we haven’t encountered yet.

It is the necessary ingredient for those who refuse to accept the status quo—the engineers, the artists, the social reformers, and the writers who believe that if Reality is flawed, the only ethical response is to invent something better.

So, the next time you sit down to read, watch, or create, allow yourself to look past the documentary style and the accurate mirroring of your weekly routine. Demand complexity. Demand strangeness. Demand dragons, ships that sail between dimensions, and philosophical conundrums posed by sentient black holes.

Take the slice of the imagination. It’s a messy, glorious, impossible meal, and it’s the only one that truly nourishes the soul.

What is the most important “impossible” story that changed your perspective on the world? Share your favourite slice of the imagination in the comments below!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 176

Day 176 – There’s no such thing as writer’s block

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The Myth of the “Blocked” Writer: Why Terry Pratchett Was Right

“I’m just waiting for inspiration to strike.”

If you’ve spent any time around writers, you’ve heard it. It’s usually accompanied by a dramatic sigh, a stare out of a rain-streaked window, and a total lack of actual words on a page. We call it “writer’s block.” We treat it like a divine affliction—a spiritual wall that descends upon us, rendering us incapable of stringing a sentence together.

But what if the wall isn’t real?

The late, great Terry Pratchett once famously quipped: “There’s no such thing as writer’s block. That was invented by people in California who couldn’t write.”

It’s a brutal take, but it’s one that every professional should consider. If we strip away the romanticism of the “tortured artist,” what we’re left with is a simple truth: Writing is a job, not a mood.

The Comfort of the “Block”

Why do we cling to the idea of writer’s block? Because it’s an incredibly comfortable place to hide.

If I tell myself I have “writer’s block,” I am absolved of all responsibility. I’m not lazy; I’m “blocked.” I’m not failing to meet a deadline; I’m “waiting for the muse.” It transforms a technical failure—my inability to organize my thoughts or commit to a draft—into a mystical psychological condition.

The reality is that “writer’s block” is usually one of three things:

  1. Fear: You’re afraid the words won’t be perfect. Perfectionism is a form of procrastination.
  2. Lack of Preparation: If you don’t know what happens next in your story or your article, you haven’t done the heavy lifting of outlining or research.
  3. Fatigue: You’re tired, and your brain is telling you to take a break. That’s not a block; that’s just biology.

Writing as a Blue-Collar Trade

Pratchett wasn’t belittling the difficulty of writing; he was elevating it to a craft. He treated writing like a plumber treats a leaky pipe or a carpenter treats a frame. When a plumber has a pipe to fix, they don’t sit in their van waiting for the “spirit of plumbing” to descend. They pick up a wrench and get to work.

If you sit down to write and the words aren’t coming, don’t call it a “block.” Call it “the hard part.”

The hard part is where you realise your opening paragraph is weak. The hard part is where the middle of the essay sags. The hard part is showing up at 8:00 AM, staring at a blinking cursor, and deciding to write a bad sentence just to get the gears moving.

How to “Unblock” (Without the Drama)

If you want to move past the myth, stop waiting for the lightning bolt. Try these, provided you’re willing to do the work:

  • Write garbage on purpose: Give yourself permission to write the worst first draft in history. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can fix a bad paragraph.
  • Lower the bar: Sometimes the block is just a result of trying to write a masterpiece in the first pass. Aim for “functional” instead of “brilliant.”
  • The 15-Minute Rule: Commit to writing for just 15 minutes. No distractions. Usually, the resistance vanishes once the momentum starts.
  • Break the outline: If you’re stuck, it’s likely because you’re trying to force the story in a direction that doesn’t make sense. Revisit your notes. The problem is usually structural, not spiritual.

The Bottom Line

There are days when writing feels like pulling teeth with a pair of rusty pliers. That’s not a block—that’s just the cost of doing business.

So, next time you feel that familiar resistance, don’t look for an excuse. Don’t blame your environment or your creative juices. Pour a cup of coffee, sit down, and accept that writing is labour. As Pratchett knew better than anyone, the only way to get through the “block” is to write your way out of it, one word at a time.

What do you think? Is “writer’s block” just a fancy excuse, or is it a genuine psychological barrier for you? Let me know in the comments.

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365 Days of writing, 2026 – 176

Day 176 – There’s no such thing as writer’s block

…

The Myth of the “Blocked” Writer: Why Terry Pratchett Was Right

“I’m just waiting for inspiration to strike.”

If you’ve spent any time around writers, you’ve heard it. It’s usually accompanied by a dramatic sigh, a stare out of a rain-streaked window, and a total lack of actual words on a page. We call it “writer’s block.” We treat it like a divine affliction—a spiritual wall that descends upon us, rendering us incapable of stringing a sentence together.

But what if the wall isn’t real?

The late, great Terry Pratchett once famously quipped: “There’s no such thing as writer’s block. That was invented by people in California who couldn’t write.”

It’s a brutal take, but it’s one that every professional should consider. If we strip away the romanticism of the “tortured artist,” what we’re left with is a simple truth: Writing is a job, not a mood.

The Comfort of the “Block”

Why do we cling to the idea of writer’s block? Because it’s an incredibly comfortable place to hide.

If I tell myself I have “writer’s block,” I am absolved of all responsibility. I’m not lazy; I’m “blocked.” I’m not failing to meet a deadline; I’m “waiting for the muse.” It transforms a technical failure—my inability to organize my thoughts or commit to a draft—into a mystical psychological condition.

The reality is that “writer’s block” is usually one of three things:

  1. Fear: You’re afraid the words won’t be perfect. Perfectionism is a form of procrastination.
  2. Lack of Preparation: If you don’t know what happens next in your story or your article, you haven’t done the heavy lifting of outlining or research.
  3. Fatigue: You’re tired, and your brain is telling you to take a break. That’s not a block; that’s just biology.

Writing as a Blue-Collar Trade

Pratchett wasn’t belittling the difficulty of writing; he was elevating it to a craft. He treated writing like a plumber treats a leaky pipe or a carpenter treats a frame. When a plumber has a pipe to fix, they don’t sit in their van waiting for the “spirit of plumbing” to descend. They pick up a wrench and get to work.

If you sit down to write and the words aren’t coming, don’t call it a “block.” Call it “the hard part.”

The hard part is where you realise your opening paragraph is weak. The hard part is where the middle of the essay sags. The hard part is showing up at 8:00 AM, staring at a blinking cursor, and deciding to write a bad sentence just to get the gears moving.

How to “Unblock” (Without the Drama)

If you want to move past the myth, stop waiting for the lightning bolt. Try these, provided you’re willing to do the work:

  • Write garbage on purpose: Give yourself permission to write the worst first draft in history. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can fix a bad paragraph.
  • Lower the bar: Sometimes the block is just a result of trying to write a masterpiece in the first pass. Aim for “functional” instead of “brilliant.”
  • The 15-Minute Rule: Commit to writing for just 15 minutes. No distractions. Usually, the resistance vanishes once the momentum starts.
  • Break the outline: If you’re stuck, it’s likely because you’re trying to force the story in a direction that doesn’t make sense. Revisit your notes. The problem is usually structural, not spiritual.

The Bottom Line

There are days when writing feels like pulling teeth with a pair of rusty pliers. That’s not a block—that’s just the cost of doing business.

So, next time you feel that familiar resistance, don’t look for an excuse. Don’t blame your environment or your creative juices. Pour a cup of coffee, sit down, and accept that writing is labour. As Pratchett knew better than anyone, the only way to get through the “block” is to write your way out of it, one word at a time.

What do you think? Is “writer’s block” just a fancy excuse, or is it a genuine psychological barrier for you? Let me know in the comments.

…

What I learned about writing – Passive V Active voice

From Mire to Might: Your Blueprint for Conquering Passive Voice and Forging Powerful Prose

Ah, the passive voice. It’s the literary equivalent of that comfy old couch you sink into – sometimes it feels just right, but often it leaves you feeling a bit… flabby. As writers, we all know it exists. We’ve read the rules, seen the examples. Yet, like a sneaky saboteur, it still manages to creep into our drafts without us even realising it. One minute you’re flowing, the next you’re rereading a paragraph and thinking, “Wait, who’s actually doing this action?”

The struggle is real. Training ourselves to consistently choose active voice isn’t about memorising rules; it’s about rewiring our writing instincts. It’s about pulling ourselves out of that linguistic mire before we’ve even completely sunk. So, how do we practice this art, consciously and effectively? Let’s dive in.

Why Bother? A Quick Reminder of Active Voice’s Superpowers

Before we get to the “how,” let’s quickly refresh why active voice is so crucial for powerful writing:

  • Clarity: It leaves no doubt about who or what is performing the action.
  • Directness: It cuts straight to the point, avoiding unnecessary words.
  • Impact: It feels stronger, more confident, and more authoritative.
  • Engagement: It draws the reader in, making your sentences more dynamic.
  • Conciseness: It often shortens sentences, tightening your prose.

In short, active voice breathes life and energy into your words.

Your Training Regimen: Exercises to Forge Active Voice Habits

This isn’t about shaming; it’s about sharpening. Here’s how to build your active voice muscle.

1. The “Be” Test & The “By Whom/What” Test (Your Detector Tools)

First, you need to be able to spot the passive voice.

  • The “Be” Test: Look for forms of the verb “to be” (is, am, are, was, were, be, being, been) followed by a past participle (a verb usually ending in -ed or -en).
    • Example: “The report was written by Jane.” (was + written)
    • Example: “Mistakes were made.” (were + made)
    • Important Note: Not every “to be” verb indicates passive voice, but it’s a huge flag to investigate.
  • The “By Whom/What” Test: If you can add “by [someone/something]” after the verb without the sentence becoming nonsensical, it’s likely passive.
    • Example: “The decision was made (by the committee).” ✅ Passive
    • Example: “She is happy (by her dog).” ❌ Not passive

Practice Drill: Go through a recent piece of your writing. With a highlighter (digital or physical), mark every instance where you see a “be” verb + past participle, and then apply the “by whom/what” test. Don’t correct yet – just identify. This trains your eye.

2. The “Who’s Doing What?” Drill (Rewiring Your Brain)

Once you’ve identified a passive sentence, your next step is to consciously find the actor and make them the star.

  • Step A: Find the Action. What is the main action taking place?
  • Step B: Find the Actor. Who or what is performing that action? (This might be hidden in a “by” phrase or completely absent).
  • Step C: Reconstruct. Make the actor the subject of the sentence, followed by the active verb, and then the object.
    • Passive: “The novel was written by a young author.”
    • Action: “written”
    • Actor: “a young author”
    • Active: “A young author wrote the novel.”
    • Passive: “Numerous errors were found during the review.”
    • Action: “found”
    • Actor: (Not explicitly stated, but implied: the reviewers)
    • Active: “The reviewers found numerous errors during the review.” (Or, if the reviewers are truly irrelevant, consider rephrasing entirely: “The review revealed numerous errors.”)

Practice Drill: Take all those highlighted passive sentences from your previous exercise. Now, rewrite each one into active voice. Focus on making the actor explicit and the verb direct. Do this rapidly, like a quick-fire exercise, to build speed and instinct.

3. The “Passive Purge” Editing Round (Systematic Correction)

When you’re drafting, don’t stop the flow to correct passive voice. Get your ideas down. The dedicated passive voice editing round comes after the initial draft.

  • First Pass: Write freely.
  • Second Pass (or later): Go through your entire draft, specifically looking for passive constructions. Treat it like a scavenger hunt. Tools like Grammarly or ProWritingAid can help flag them, but don’t just accept their suggestions blindly – understand why it’s passive and actively choose the best active alternative.

Practice Drill: Schedule a “Passive Purge” session for every piece of writing you produce for the next month. Make it a non-negotiable step in your editing process. The more you consciously identify and correct, the more your brain will start to flag it during the drafting stage.

4. Read Aloud (The Auditory Test)

Passive voice often sounds clunky, wordy, and indirect. Reading your work aloud forces you to hear the rhythm and flow (or lack thereof).

Practice Drill: Whenever you’re unsure about a sentence, read it aloud. If it sounds circuitous or less energetic than it could be, chances are a passive construction is lurking. Then, try rephrasing it actively and read that version aloud too. The difference in impact will often be stark.

5. Don’t Be a Zealot (Embrace the Nuance)

While active voice is generally stronger, passive voice does have its place. The goal isn’t to eradicate it entirely, but to use it consciously and strategically, not accidentally.

When passive is okay (or even preferred):

  • When the actor is unknown or unimportant: “The email was sent at midnight.” (Who sent it isn’t the point.)
  • When you want to emphasise the action or the recipient of the action over the actor: “The groundbreaking discovery was made in 2023.”
  • When you want to deliberately avoid naming the actor (for political or diplomatic reasons): “Mistakes were made.”
  • To vary sentence structure: Sometimes a passive sentence can provide a welcome rhythm change, if used sparingly.

Practice Drill: For every passive sentence you choose to keep, briefly note down why. This reinforces your understanding of its strategic uses and prevents it from being a crutch.

The Long Game: Consistency is Key

Training yourself to default to active voice is like building any other muscle – it requires consistent effort. You’ll stumble, you’ll miss things, and sometimes, a passive sentence will genuinely slip through. That’s okay. The goal isn’t perfection, but progress.

Make these drills a regular part of your writing routine. The more you consciously engage with identifying and transforming passive constructions, the deeper that active voice habit will embed itself. Soon, you’ll find yourself not just pulling yourself out of the mire, but steering clear of it altogether, forging prose that is undeniably powerful, clear, and impactful.

Now, go forth and write brilliantly, actively!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 175

Day 175 – Generating Electric Tension

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The Static of Solitude: Generating Electricity from the Void

In the quiet corners of our lives, we often look for grand catalysts to spark change. We wait for lightning, for a massive surge, for the dramatic shift that flips the switch from darkness to light. But as Paul Auster masterfully demonstrates in his haunting novella Ghosts, the most persistent electric tension doesn’t come from a thunderstorm. It is generated by the friction of almost nothing at all.

In Ghosts, Blue is hired by White to watch Black. He sits in a room in Brooklyn, staring out a window, day after day, waiting for something to happen. Nothing happens. And yet, the tension in the book is palpable—it is a live wire humming with a lethal, invisible current.

How does Auster generate such high-voltage suspense out of such absolute emptiness? The answer is a lesson in the physics of the human psyche: Voltage is measured by the gap, not the density.

1. The Power of the Potential Difference

In electrical engineering, voltage is the difference in potential energy between two points. If two points are identical, there is no flow. If they are vastly contrasted but held in proximity, the potential for a spark becomes infinite.

Auster creates this “potential difference” by placing Blue in a state of sensory deprivation and forced observation. By stripping away the noise of the world—the plot, the dialogue, the movement—he creates a vacuum. When you remove everything, the smallest stimulus starts to vibrate with impossible weight. A man across the street shifting his chair; the color of a notebook; the act of writing a report that says nothing. In a void, these tiny inputs act like high-frequency waves. We are conditioned to look for meaning, and when the narrative denies us that meaning, our brains begin to arc across the terminals of the story, creating heat, pressure, and electric tension.

2. The Loop of Infinite Reflection

Ghosts is a hall of mirrors. Blue watches Black, but Blue is also being watched by White (or is he?). The act of observation becomes a closed circuit.

When you generate energy from “very little,” you must create a feedback loop. In the novella, there is no external power source. The energy comes from the loop itself—the circularity of the characters’ existences. Because the characters cannot escape their roles, the tension builds internally. It is a kinetic process: the harder you try to resolve the nothingness, the more tension you generate. Auster shows us that the most exhausting, high-voltage way to live is to remain trapped in a state of unresolved surveillance.

3. The Art of the Static

Think of the static electricity you feel on a dry winter day. It’s barely visible—a tiny prick against your skin—but it is the result of a massive buildup of separated charges.

Auster writes with “static” in mind. He keeps his prose sparse, almost clinical. He doesn’t give us the “lightning strike” of a dramatic climax. Instead, he maintains a steady, low-humming current of uncertainty. By withholding information, he forces the reader to provide the energy. We are the ones who supply the voltage; we are the ones who worry, who speculate, and who feel the jump-scare of a simple sentence like, “Black is reading a book.”

Generating Your Own Spark

If you have ever felt the crushing weight of a quiet Sunday, or the agonising tension of waiting for a message that never comes, you understand the physics of Ghosts. We don’t need grand events to feel the thrill of the “electric.” We only need:

  • A Vacuum: Remove the distractions that act as insulators.
  • A Gap: Set up a situation where you are observing something you cannot influence.
  • The Loop: Allow yourself to ruminate on the point of contact.

In the end, Auster teaches us that “very, very little” is actually a massive reservoir of power. You don’t need a hurricane to light up the room. Sometimes, all you need is a single, solitary figure in a room, waiting for the silence to speak.

The tension isn’t in the event. The tension is in the waiting. And that, as it turns out, is enough to power an entire world.

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 175

Day 175 – Generating Electric Tension

…

The Static of Solitude: Generating Electricity from the Void

In the quiet corners of our lives, we often look for grand catalysts to spark change. We wait for lightning, for a massive surge, for the dramatic shift that flips the switch from darkness to light. But as Paul Auster masterfully demonstrates in his haunting novella Ghosts, the most persistent electric tension doesn’t come from a thunderstorm. It is generated by the friction of almost nothing at all.

In Ghosts, Blue is hired by White to watch Black. He sits in a room in Brooklyn, staring out a window, day after day, waiting for something to happen. Nothing happens. And yet, the tension in the book is palpable—it is a live wire humming with a lethal, invisible current.

How does Auster generate such high-voltage suspense out of such absolute emptiness? The answer is a lesson in the physics of the human psyche: Voltage is measured by the gap, not the density.

1. The Power of the Potential Difference

In electrical engineering, voltage is the difference in potential energy between two points. If two points are identical, there is no flow. If they are vastly contrasted but held in proximity, the potential for a spark becomes infinite.

Auster creates this “potential difference” by placing Blue in a state of sensory deprivation and forced observation. By stripping away the noise of the world—the plot, the dialogue, the movement—he creates a vacuum. When you remove everything, the smallest stimulus starts to vibrate with impossible weight. A man across the street shifting his chair; the color of a notebook; the act of writing a report that says nothing. In a void, these tiny inputs act like high-frequency waves. We are conditioned to look for meaning, and when the narrative denies us that meaning, our brains begin to arc across the terminals of the story, creating heat, pressure, and electric tension.

2. The Loop of Infinite Reflection

Ghosts is a hall of mirrors. Blue watches Black, but Blue is also being watched by White (or is he?). The act of observation becomes a closed circuit.

When you generate energy from “very little,” you must create a feedback loop. In the novella, there is no external power source. The energy comes from the loop itself—the circularity of the characters’ existences. Because the characters cannot escape their roles, the tension builds internally. It is a kinetic process: the harder you try to resolve the nothingness, the more tension you generate. Auster shows us that the most exhausting, high-voltage way to live is to remain trapped in a state of unresolved surveillance.

3. The Art of the Static

Think of the static electricity you feel on a dry winter day. It’s barely visible—a tiny prick against your skin—but it is the result of a massive buildup of separated charges.

Auster writes with “static” in mind. He keeps his prose sparse, almost clinical. He doesn’t give us the “lightning strike” of a dramatic climax. Instead, he maintains a steady, low-humming current of uncertainty. By withholding information, he forces the reader to provide the energy. We are the ones who supply the voltage; we are the ones who worry, who speculate, and who feel the jump-scare of a simple sentence like, “Black is reading a book.”

Generating Your Own Spark

If you have ever felt the crushing weight of a quiet Sunday, or the agonising tension of waiting for a message that never comes, you understand the physics of Ghosts. We don’t need grand events to feel the thrill of the “electric.” We only need:

  • A Vacuum: Remove the distractions that act as insulators.
  • A Gap: Set up a situation where you are observing something you cannot influence.
  • The Loop: Allow yourself to ruminate on the point of contact.

In the end, Auster teaches us that “very, very little” is actually a massive reservoir of power. You don’t need a hurricane to light up the room. Sometimes, all you need is a single, solitary figure in a room, waiting for the silence to speak.

The tension isn’t in the event. The tension is in the waiting. And that, as it turns out, is enough to power an entire world.

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The 2 a.m. Rant: Old TV Shows don’t die, they just live on streaming services

I have been watching television for a long, long time, and a lot of it has come from either the US or Britain.

I have Foxtel by satellite, and it has a channel that shows all of these old series, such as

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The Prisoner, a rather fascinating series that starred Patrick McGoohan, about a man who became a number. Of course, week after week, we puzzled over who he was and came to the conclusion he was an ex-spy put out to pasture. Each week, he’d try to escape; each week, a big white ball would appear on the scene. And what was his number? 7 I think.

Years later, I saw Patrick McGoohan in an episode of Columbo, so he must have been popular in the US.

The Avengers, which was my all-time favourite because of Emma Peel. Yes, huge crush, I’m afraid. But, then, I think Diana Rigg had a lot more men with crushes. Nobody really cared about the others, one of whom was Patrick McNee, but I couldn’t tell you who his character was, or who Emma’s partner in the show was.

The New Avengers was not a patch on the original, but I did watch a few episodes because of Purdy, who, of course, was Joanna Lumley, equally as intriguing as Emma Peel.

The Saint, only because I liked reading the book versions of the stories by Leslie Charteris, and my mother liked Roger Moore, so we got to see it. That came from when Moore was in Ivanhoe, a real knight rather than a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Roger Moore, of course, turned up later, among other roles, as James Bond. Probably not the best contender for the role.

Upstairs, Downstairs, a forerunner to Downton Abbey, the first introduction to the lost class system that gradually disappeared from the 1900’s onwards.

Rumpole of the Bailey, which starred an Australian actor, Leo McKern, who was a delightful claret drinking barrister who never had ambitions of being a judge, and hinged his success on the infamous Penge Bungalow Murders trial. I like reading the books too.

Are You Being Served, with John Inman and others, made this show a riot of a comedy. We saw John Inman much later in a stage play in Melbourne, and when two people turned up late and interrupted the performance, Inman recited all the lines of all the roles up to that point so they wouldn’t be left in the dark about what was going on,

It was one of those rare performances when you just had to be there to believe it.

More on other series later.

What I learned about writing – The ‘Wow’ Factor

How do we write a story with the characters playing particular roles, make it a story that by the end, the reader says, ‘wow, that gave me an insight I didn’t have before’

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Beyond the Surface: Crafting Stories That Reveal Profound Insight

We’ve all been there. You finish a book, a short story, or even a compelling anecdote, and for a moment, the world looks a little different. A subtle shift has occurred in your understanding, a corner of your mind has been illuminated, and you find yourself thinking, “Wow. I never thought about it that way before.”

As writers, this is the Holy Grail. We don’t just want to entertain; we want to resonate. We want to leave our readers with more than just a memory of plot points, but with a genuine, lasting insight. And often, the key to unlocking this lies not just in the story itself, but in how we craft our characters and the “particular roles” they play.

The Power of “Particular Roles” – Beyond the Obvious

When we talk about characters playing “particular roles,” it’s easy to think of archetypes: the hero, the villain, the mentor, the damsel in distress. While these are foundational, to achieve that “wow” insight, we need to delve deeper.

A character’s “role” isn’t just their job title or their place in the narrative structure. It’s their societal function, their familial position, their self-perception, the expectations others place upon them, and even the masks they wear.

  • The Unyielding CEO: Is she truly ruthless, or is her iron facade a shield against a past vulnerability?
  • The Meek Assistant: Is his quiet compliance a sign of weakness, or a calculated strategy for survival in a cutthroat environment?
  • The Rebellious Teenager: Is her defiance simply adolescent angst, or a desperate cry for authenticity in a world that demands conformity?

These are the “particular roles” we define. But the magic happens not when the character plays the role, but when they interact with it, challenge it, or are ultimately defined by its unexpected complexities.

Unveiling the Unseen: The Art of Subversion and Empathy

The “wow” insight rarely comes from a character simply acting as expected. It emerges when we, the readers, witness the tension between a character’s assigned role and their true nature, their hidden motivations, or the profound impact that role has had on their soul.

Here’s how we achieve it:

  1. Establish the Role (and its Expectations): Introduce your character within a clearly defined role, even if it’s a stereotype. Let the reader settle into their preconceived notions. This sets the stage for the revelation.
    • Example: Introduce the gruff, solitary old man who seemingly hates children.
  2. Introduce Conflict That Challenges the Role: Place the character in a situation that forces them to act outside the confines of their established role, or reveals the cost of maintaining it. This conflict should expose a deeper layer of who they are.
    • Example: A lost child appears on the old man’s doorstep during a blizzard, forcing him to choose between his solitude and his humanity.
  3. Explore the “Why” Behind the Role: What experiences, fears, or desires moulded them into this role? What sacrifices have they made, or what truths have they suppressed to maintain it? This is where empathy is forged.
    • Example: As the old man reluctantly cares for the child, flashbacks reveal he lost his own daughter years ago, and his gruffness is a defensive mechanism against further heartbreak. His solitude isn’t misanthropy; it’s grief.
  4. Show the Gradual Erosion or Unravelling: The insight isn’t usually a sudden, dramatic reveal (though it can be). More often, it’s a slow burn, a series of small moments where the reader pieces together the character’s true self, seeing past the initial role.
    • Example: The child’s innocent questions chip away at the old man’s defences. He finds himself sharing stories, showing kindness, and slowly, painfully, re-engaging with the world he’d shut out.
  5. Connect to a Universal Truth: The character’s specific journey should illuminate a broader human experience. Their struggle with their “role” should reflect something we all grapple with: the masks we wear, the expectations we face, the hidden pains we carry, or the unexpected sources of strength we find.
    • Example: The reader realises that true grief isn’t about avoiding pain, but about finding the courage to connect again. The “insight” here isn’t just about the old man, but about the nature of grief and resilience itself.

The “Aha!” Moment: When the Reader Connects the Dots

The true “wow” moment isn’t when you tell the reader something. It’s when they discover it, often feeling like they’ve connected dots that were always there but previously invisible.

It’s the realization that:

  • The “villain” isn’t evil, but a product of an unjust system, fighting for a warped version of good.
  • The “hero” carries immense personal baggage, and their strength comes from battling internal demons as much as external foes.
  • The seemingly “insignificant” background character holds the key to an entirely different perspective on the main conflict.

By meticulously crafting characters who embody specific roles, then showing the pressures, hypocrisies, sacrifices, or hidden depths that lie beneath those roles, we don’t just tell a story – we create an experience. We invite the reader into a deeper understanding of human nature, challenging their assumptions and expanding their worldview.

So, as you build your next story, think about the roles your characters play. Then, ask yourself: How can I use this role not just as a descriptor, but as a crucible in which a profound, unforgettable insight can be forged? That’s when your readers will close the book, pause, and say, “Wow.”