Day 140 – Writing longhand rather than digitally

…

The Case for the Page: Why Your Next First Draft Should Be Handwritten

In an era of lightning-fast keyboards, voice-to-text, and AI-assisted drafting, the act of putting pen to paper can feel almost prehistoric. Why reach for a pen when you can type at 80 words per minute? Why endure the hand cramp when you can edit with a simple backspace?

Yet, there is a growing movement of writers—from novelists to essayists—who are returning to the humble notebook for their first drafts. Beyond the aesthetic appeal of a leather-bound journal or the scratch of a fountain pen, there is a profound, functional benefit to writing in longhand.

If you’ve been feeling disconnected from your writing, here is why you might want to slow it down and go analog.

1. A Tangible Record of Your Evolution

When you write digitally, the “delete” key is a magician. You type a sentence, realise it’s weak, hit backspace, and it vanishes into the ether. It is as if the thought never existed.

In longhand, you cannot truly erase. You can only cross out.

This creates a tangible map of your creative process. When you look back at a physical page, you see the evolution of your ideas. You see the discarded phrases, the scribbled synonyms in the margins, and the sudden arrows pointing to a better arrangement. This “messy” draft becomes a record of your intellectual labor. It proves you didn’t just arrive at the finished product; you fought for it. There is a deep, psychological satisfaction in seeing that history remain on the page, rather than in a digital void.

2. The Permanence of Thought

Digital writing is ephemeral. Even with “Track Changes” or version history, the digital experience is defined by constant editing. We are trained to polish as we go, which stifles the raw, uninhibited flow of a first draft.

Longhand forces a slower pace, but it also provides a sense of finality. Once the ink touches the paper, the thought is “baked.” This forces you to be more deliberate with your word choices, yet paradoxically, it also allows you to make mistakes without the pressure to correct them immediately. Because you can’t easily “clean up” a handwritten draft, you are forced to keep moving forward, which is the golden rule of drafting: don’t look back until the page is full.

3. A Deeper Cognitive Connection

Neuroscience suggests that the brain processes information differently when we engage in handwriting. The physical act of forming letters and the tactile sensation of pen on paper activate different areas of the brain than typing does.

Many writers report that longhand helps them enter a “flow state” more easily. There are no notifications popping up in the corner of your notebook. No temptation to check email. No ability to reformat your font or check the word count every five minutes. It is just you and the paper, creating an environment where deep focus is the default, not the exception.

4. The Beauty of the “Permanent Erasure”

There is a unique kind of vulnerability in handwriting. Because you cannot delete, you learn to embrace the imperfection. You stop obsessing over the perfect opening sentence and start focusing on the truth of the sentence.

When you do eventually transcribe your handwritten draft into a digital format, you are essentially performing your first major edit. You aren’t just copying; you’re reading, refining, and selecting the best parts of what you wrote. It turns the editing process into a deliberate, second-pass creative act rather than a chore.

The Verdict?

Writing in longhand isn’t about being a Luddite. It’s about recognising that the “best” tools for efficiency aren’t always the “best” tools for creativity.

If your writing feels stagnant or you find yourself endlessly editing instead of creating, put the laptop away. Grab a pen. Feel the weight of the ink on the page. You might find that the best way to move your writing forward is to take a step back into the past.

Have you ever tried handwriting your first draft? Do you find it helps you unlock new ideas, or does it feel like extra work? Let me know in the comments below.

…

Day 140 – Writing longhand rather than digitally

…

The Case for the Page: Why Your Next First Draft Should Be Handwritten

In an era of lightning-fast keyboards, voice-to-text, and AI-assisted drafting, the act of putting pen to paper can feel almost prehistoric. Why reach for a pen when you can type at 80 words per minute? Why endure the hand cramp when you can edit with a simple backspace?

Yet, there is a growing movement of writers—from novelists to essayists—who are returning to the humble notebook for their first drafts. Beyond the aesthetic appeal of a leather-bound journal or the scratch of a fountain pen, there is a profound, functional benefit to writing in longhand.

If you’ve been feeling disconnected from your writing, here is why you might want to slow it down and go analog.

1. A Tangible Record of Your Evolution

When you write digitally, the “delete” key is a magician. You type a sentence, realise it’s weak, hit backspace, and it vanishes into the ether. It is as if the thought never existed.

In longhand, you cannot truly erase. You can only cross out.

This creates a tangible map of your creative process. When you look back at a physical page, you see the evolution of your ideas. You see the discarded phrases, the scribbled synonyms in the margins, and the sudden arrows pointing to a better arrangement. This “messy” draft becomes a record of your intellectual labor. It proves you didn’t just arrive at the finished product; you fought for it. There is a deep, psychological satisfaction in seeing that history remain on the page, rather than in a digital void.

2. The Permanence of Thought

Digital writing is ephemeral. Even with “Track Changes” or version history, the digital experience is defined by constant editing. We are trained to polish as we go, which stifles the raw, uninhibited flow of a first draft.

Longhand forces a slower pace, but it also provides a sense of finality. Once the ink touches the paper, the thought is “baked.” This forces you to be more deliberate with your word choices, yet paradoxically, it also allows you to make mistakes without the pressure to correct them immediately. Because you can’t easily “clean up” a handwritten draft, you are forced to keep moving forward, which is the golden rule of drafting: don’t look back until the page is full.

3. A Deeper Cognitive Connection

Neuroscience suggests that the brain processes information differently when we engage in handwriting. The physical act of forming letters and the tactile sensation of pen on paper activate different areas of the brain than typing does.

Many writers report that longhand helps them enter a “flow state” more easily. There are no notifications popping up in the corner of your notebook. No temptation to check email. No ability to reformat your font or check the word count every five minutes. It is just you and the paper, creating an environment where deep focus is the default, not the exception.

4. The Beauty of the “Permanent Erasure”

There is a unique kind of vulnerability in handwriting. Because you cannot delete, you learn to embrace the imperfection. You stop obsessing over the perfect opening sentence and start focusing on the truth of the sentence.

When you do eventually transcribe your handwritten draft into a digital format, you are essentially performing your first major edit. You aren’t just copying; you’re reading, refining, and selecting the best parts of what you wrote. It turns the editing process into a deliberate, second-pass creative act rather than a chore.

The Verdict?

Writing in longhand isn’t about being a Luddite. It’s about recognising that the “best” tools for efficiency aren’t always the “best” tools for creativity.

If your writing feels stagnant or you find yourself endlessly editing instead of creating, put the laptop away. Grab a pen. Feel the weight of the ink on the page. You might find that the best way to move your writing forward is to take a step back into the past.

Have you ever tried handwriting your first draft? Do you find it helps you unlock new ideas, or does it feel like extra work? Let me know in the comments below.

…

Day 139 – Writing Exercise

The hall was the quietest it had been while the king was still alive.

…

There had been a hush all over the kingdom after the old king had died.  He had lived for exactly 100 years, and right up until the last day, he had been wise and imposing.

Not once in his sixty-five-year reign had there been any talk of sedition or treason.  He was fair and forceful to everyone, whatever station in life they came from.

It was more than could be said for his forebears, some of whom had been ‘terrible’.  Ivan had been a particular example.  Some had been ‘benevolent’ like George, his grandfather.  He promised his Queen he would never be like his father before him, and he wasn’t.

When it came time for the eldest child, either male or female, to take over the role of Monarch of West Lexis, you were allowed to use your own name or pick one from a set.

Those sets included Ivan, George, Richard, John and Charles.  For the girls, the names were Elizabeth, Jane, Anne, Margaret and Susannah.

In the most recent line of succession, there had been three boys, George, Walter and John, and three girls, Elizabeth, Susan and Frances.  George was the eldest boy, and Elizabeth was the second eldest.

In an unusual accident whilst conducting the annual hunt, in which men went out into the woods to kill deer to stock up on meat for winter, it was the right of the eldest son to run the hunt.

He had been, it was said when the news of the fatality had been broadcast across the land, in the wrong place at the wrong time.  And it had been the first time ever.

It had caused great sadness, and a hundred days of mourning had to pass before the new monarch was crowned.  That had happened from the day after the old king was buried in the sacred graveyard of the monarchs, a place where only the Chancellor and his personal guard knew.

Once there, and buried, only then could his mortal soul continue on its journey to the final resting place of all monarchs, Valhalla.

…

Ludrig, Superintendent of the castle guard, was about to do the morning rounds, the day after it had been proclaimed that the hundred days of mourning were over.

The sun had come up through the mountains, a bright yellow, signifying not only a brilliant start to the next day, but a good omen, that the weight of the next monarchs would begin with the blessings of the Gods.

Life was beginning to return to the castle’s main corridors and rooms, with the castle workers moving on to clean and prepare for the coronation activities before the big day.

Ludrig’s job was to oversee those activities in conjunction with the Chancellor.  He was on top of the East tower, the first to see the sun every morning, when the skies were clear.

It was this morning, and along with the second in command of the castle guard, Walther, they had stood together, swords facing the first rays until the light glinted on the metal, then swore their allegiance to the new monarch.

Elizabeth.

The king had reached Valhalla, the hundred days of mourning were complete, the people no longer had to wear black out of respect, and life could begin again.

The two men sheathed their swords.  They were as much ceremonial as they were for battle, though no one could remember the last battle West Lexis had fought with anyone.

From the top of the castle, on a good day, one could see the main castle of East Lexia, quite a distance away.  On a good day, like today.

“Wonder what they’re thinking?”

“That it’s time for celebrations.  We have the three other Lexias dignitaries coming to the festivities, and the games are promising to be the best ever.

Ludrig was the current Joust champion and had just fallen short of winning the Knight, Grand Master title, a title he had held for the last five tournaments.

It was bound to happen eventually.  He was getting old, despite being remarkably fit for his age.

“All of them are, Walther.  And I have been working on the fault that caused the loss of the title last.  Sir Samson will not get away with it again.”

“I heard he has a new bag of tricks available.”

“What new tricks?  He talks big but doesn’t show us anything.  He is, as he had always been, a windbag.
He won’t know what hit him.”

Or so Ludrig thought. It was Ludrig’s only failing, his ego that refused to believe he could never be bested.

Walther shrugged.  That was in the future.

In the meantime, it was going to be non-stop preparations.  Tournaments to be set up, names of the competitors to be collected, sport fields set up, banquets for both nobles and the commoners to be set you and food arranged.

The young queen was out of mourning and could now tour the country, and the sister countries for many discussions and political policy reviews, the way the country would be run and how it would interact with her sister countries.

He was in charge of the Queen’s escort and had to prepare for that too.  It was going to be a very busy schedule.

“Time passes far too quickly for my liking.”

“Better get to it then.”

The last rays of the sun that lowered up onto the sky before it came out from behind the hills had dissipated, and the yellow orb glowed in a clear blue sky.  The omen was predicting peace, happiness, and prosperity for all.

The separated in the guard house below, Ludwig to report to the Queen, Walther to the barracks to begin drilling the men.  The lazy days were over.

…

It was a 500-year-old story, how the four kingdoms of Lexia came into existence.  Far, far back in the almost forgotten mists of time, there used to be one single kingdom.  Lexia.

And had not a miracle occurred, there would still be one kingdom.

Or, as some would say, very quietly, it was exactly the opposite.

But whether a miracle or a judgement from the Gods, the Queen of Lexia gave birth to four children on the same day, and under Lexia’s Royal charter, the eldest child was the rightful heir.

That meant the firstborn.

That edict remained in place until the King was on his deathbed, and the Queen, along with the then Chancellor, got the King to sign a decree that all children would become Monarchs in their own right, and that Lexia would be divided into four equal kingdoms, North, South, East, and West.  All the same size, each with a central castle, and an equal share of the country’s wealth.

And so it was done.

It had worked for 200 or more years before a dispute broke out between two of the kingdoms, a battle ensued, and then was quelled by the other two, with the surrender terms negotiated, life returned to normal.

Only for one kingdom, or more importantly, the Monarch, it didn’t.

David Montgomery, King of East Lexia, was discontent with how his kingdom was made to pay for the battle he didn’t start, 300 years ago, and it had festered since through the generations.

But he did know that it was the King of West Lexia, back then, who had something to do with the settlement terms, and had managed to get away with stealing a very valuable set of jewels that belonged to West Lexia.

It was one of the original four that Lexia, when united, used for coronations.  Each of the four had been granted a set each.

There was a story somewhere in the mists of time that was the true and correct account of the Jewels of the Moonbeam, said to be part of the astrological connection to the Gods.  And as far as Mongonery was concerned, West Lexia had them, and he wanted them back.

And with the coronation of the new Queen of West Lexia, it was time for the truth to come out.

…

It was early, the first day of the pre-coronation festivities, starting with the grand tour of West Lexia.

Not that Elizabeth hadn’t been out and about during the mourning period, after all, she was still the Queen, and had only to be officially recognised by government and the church.

At long last, and thankfully, she would not have to wear black. Only those who chose to would. 

Her personal maid, Nathalie, had set out a purple dress, relatively plain in design, but spoke of elegance and majesty.  With her Princess tiara and the sapphire necklace that was inherited from her mother on the day of succession, it would let everyone know that Elizabeth was their Queen.

Nathalie had worked hard to progress to be the Queen’s personal handmaid.  It had been her goal from the moment she started as a maid in the castle. She knew one day her mistress would become Queen, and had persevered through all the tantrums and youthful exuberance and their relationship that once started very rocky, had matured into one of mutual respect.

As one of her talents, the ability to converse, listen, and understand what she was either hearing or discussing, Nathalie always had her ears open, taking in everything around her. 

Her mistress never once asked to be a spy, but was genuinely surprised that Nathalie was always well across Castle affairs, and had stories she could tell, but she had learned early that discretion was a wise master.  Sometimes, just part of a story was not the whole story.

There was always a scandal, however, and Elizabeth loved scandal, especially if it involved her brothers and sisters and nobility, simply because of their hypocrisy.  Elizabeth herself had secrets, but she made sure that she was very discreet.

Elizabeth summoned Nathalie when it was time to get ready for the Chancellor’s morning visit, starting the conversation with the same question, “What is the gossip this morning?”

Nathalie had already laid out all her mistress’s clothing ready for the mistress to approve or disapprove, which didn’t happen very often, ready to put on, piece by piece.  Sometimes it could be a laborious job.

“Your Royal Highness.”  She curtsied.  “Outside the castle, there are rumours of incursions by bandits from the south.”

“We have those all the time.  Since the famine, it has been difficult for all of us, and some people think it is easier to steal than to try to mitigate the effects by doing something about it.  We built a dam, and now have the water to grow crops during famine.  As for the incursions, we will put a stop to them.”

She had spoken to the Chancellor, and he was drawing up a proclamation.  All thieves who were caught and found guilty were not going to enjoy the same accommodations her father extended to them.

There were other interesting snippets of conversation between the two, always in hushed tones because there was no telling who was listening, as the layers went on.

“Was there anything else?”  They were up to the top layer, a sash, the tiara, jewellery, and shoes.  This morning it was taking a long time.

“Have you heard of the Jewels of the Moonbeam?”

She stopped suddenly and gripped the arm of the girl. “Where did you hear that?”

Nathalie immediately went on the defensive, thinking she had gone too far, that it was a top secret subject, and should have inferred that from the fact she hadn’t heard very much and initially wasn’t going to say anything.

Now she had stepped over that line and couldn’t worm her way out.

“Two … two soldiers walking down the street,” Nathalie stammered breathlessly, now almost terrified.

Elizabeth immediately realised she had scared her maid, obviously fearing the worst.  The Royal Children had a reputation for quick tempers and appalling behaviour, and whilst her earlier years were difficult, she had matured.

She immediately softened her look and let her go, and gently caressed the red welt forming above her wrist.  “I am sorry, Nathalie, I don’t know what came over me.  It’s a touchy subject for all of the Royal families.”

“Then I shall not mention it again.”

“No. No.  We keep no secrets between us, Nathalie.  I would like to know anything you hear.  But please don’t tell anyone else.  But this, you overheard two soldiers?  Would you recognise them again?”

Nathalie looked surprised.  “No.  They all look the same to me.”

Elizabeth had to admit she was right.  Except for a small flag on the sleeves, one kingdom could not really be identified by another.  But she knew, instinctively, that they were not soldiers from her kingdom.

“Can you remember if they said anything else?”

“That was all I heard.  They were too far away, and I wasn’t going to follow them.  You know what soldiers do to servant girls.”

She did, and that was something else she had to address with the Chancellor.

As for the Jewels, she had only just heard from the Chancellor that they would have to visit the castle strongroom where family valuables were kept, along with the Kingdom’s fortune, to try on the Coronation jewellery, also known as West Lexia’s Jewels of the Moonbeam.

It was the first time she had ever heard of them.

“You must not repeat anything you heard about those Jewels.  They are a secret within a very small circle of this Kingdom.  You will never mention them again.  Am I clear?”

“I shall not, your Majesty.  You have my word of honour.”

“Excellent.  I know I can rely on you.”

They went back to finishing dressing.  Nathalie had to get home.  She had told one other person, her mother, and she was not one to hold her tongue at the best of times.

…

Walther had been summoned to the castle and the Queen’s chambers.  She needed escorting.  He brought three men, the leaders of each of the three groups that made up the guard.

It had been, he believed, the luck of the draw, his name with three others tossed into the box and to be drawn for who would be second in command.

Each of the four men was equally qualified, but Ludrig had been particularly pleased that he had drawn Walther’s name.

Walther had been his protege; he had taught him well, and unlike some of the others, was willing to learn and not improvise.

He was also intelligent and could improvise when it mattered, like in the middle of mock battles.  It made him an excellent choice for the Queen’s private guard.  It helped that she liked him, unlike his two predecessors, both of whom treated her like an errant child.

Both ended up languishing at a border guard post.

Walther believed in punctuality and respect for the uniform.  Each of his men was in ceremonial dress, but also armed, ready for anything.

A formidable force to be reckoned with.

And as they made their way from the guard’s mess to the Queen’s chambers, it was a reminder to the people that the guard were visible, available, and ready to protect the Queen and her people.

The cry, “Make way for the Queen’s guard,” was treated with the respect and reverence it deserved.

Outside the main chamber, the three guardsmen formed a line.  No one would pass unless bidden.

Walther entered when requested.

She was ready, taking two of her personal maids with her.  Walther would walk with her, half a step behind, the maids, one guard on either side of the maids and one at the rear.

Destination: the Treasury.

Ludrig had set up checkpoints and had men on guard.  It was the first real exercise since her accession.  Practice was over.

The path from the chamber required leaving the main castle and taking a path to one of the structures at the rear of the main castle, one of the granary, the middle, the church, or the other, the treasury. 

In the treasury was a vault, and in the vault were the Kingdom’s most valuable treasures.  The treasury was also where the Kingdom’s coins were struck, and they were currently creating a set of coins commemorating the coronation of the new Queen.

As far as Walther was concerned, his Queen was there to inspect the new coinage.

As expected, people turned out to see their Queen along the short path in the open.  Walther saw no hostility, but it wasn’t exactly as joyous as he thought it might be.

In fact, if someone had asked him what the general mood of the people was, it would be subdued, maybe even a little disappointed.  But alongside that, he noticed something else: men loitering.

They did not look like labourers or artisans; they were men who looked like they had military training, dressed in labourers’ clothes to hide behind.

That was far more worrisome and a matter to take up with Ludrig after this detail.

At the Treasury, they left the three-man guard at the entrance to the Treasury, and he joined the Queen, her two maids and the Chancellor who had just appeared from inside the main building.

From the entrance, they went to the vault.  The treasury guard was the only person who had a key, and by the time they reached the vault, the head of the guard, Smithton, arrived breathless.

And late.

Elizabeth was unimpressed.

The Chancellor apologised and said he would take care of the matter.  The atmosphere was quite tense. 

If it were up to Walther, he would have taken the guard and locked him up.

The vault was opened, and only the Queen and the Chancellor went in.

…

The vault was quite large and had various rooms within it for the treasures: one for gold, one for silver, one for spare utensils used throughout the castle, and another for gemstones.

And in the corner, a pedestal with a special box which held the Kingdom’s Jewels of the Moonbeam.

They were the most significant treasure in the Kingdom, used only for the Coronation of the new monarch.  Elizabeth had requested to see them.

“The necklace was one of four created at the time of the great split, each given a different colour, red, blue, green and amber.  Ours is the blue set.”

The Chancellor took out a special key and unlocked the box, as Elizabeth moved closer. 

He lifted the lid.

Both gasped.  The box was empty.

The Jewels were gone.

“Where is it?” Elizabeth asked.

“It was here the last time I looked.  I check once a month.”

“Can we have the coronation without it?”

“No.  The charter forbids it.”

Elizabeth went back to Walther.  “Seal off the castle.  No one out but let people come in.  Turn out the guard.  I want this whole castle searched from top to bottom.”  She gave him a drawing of the necklace the Chancellor had given her.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And if anyone tries to leave or gives you any trouble, lock them up.”

He nodded, then left. 

…

Charles Heath  2026

Day 139 – Writing Exercise

The hall was the quietest it had been while the king was still alive.

…

There had been a hush all over the kingdom after the old king had died.  He had lived for exactly 100 years, and right up until the last day, he had been wise and imposing.

Not once in his sixty-five-year reign had there been any talk of sedition or treason.  He was fair and forceful to everyone, whatever station in life they came from.

It was more than could be said for his forebears, some of whom had been ‘terrible’.  Ivan had been a particular example.  Some had been ‘benevolent’ like George, his grandfather.  He promised his Queen he would never be like his father before him, and he wasn’t.

When it came time for the eldest child, either male or female, to take over the role of Monarch of West Lexis, you were allowed to use your own name or pick one from a set.

Those sets included Ivan, George, Richard, John and Charles.  For the girls, the names were Elizabeth, Jane, Anne, Margaret and Susannah.

In the most recent line of succession, there had been three boys, George, Walter and John, and three girls, Elizabeth, Susan and Frances.  George was the eldest boy, and Elizabeth was the second eldest.

In an unusual accident whilst conducting the annual hunt, in which men went out into the woods to kill deer to stock up on meat for winter, it was the right of the eldest son to run the hunt.

He had been, it was said when the news of the fatality had been broadcast across the land, in the wrong place at the wrong time.  And it had been the first time ever.

It had caused great sadness, and a hundred days of mourning had to pass before the new monarch was crowned.  That had happened from the day after the old king was buried in the sacred graveyard of the monarchs, a place where only the Chancellor and his personal guard knew.

Once there, and buried, only then could his mortal soul continue on its journey to the final resting place of all monarchs, Valhalla.

…

Ludrig, Superintendent of the castle guard, was about to do the morning rounds, the day after it had been proclaimed that the hundred days of mourning were over.

The sun had come up through the mountains, a bright yellow, signifying not only a brilliant start to the next day, but a good omen, that the weight of the next monarchs would begin with the blessings of the Gods.

Life was beginning to return to the castle’s main corridors and rooms, with the castle workers moving on to clean and prepare for the coronation activities before the big day.

Ludrig’s job was to oversee those activities in conjunction with the Chancellor.  He was on top of the East tower, the first to see the sun every morning, when the skies were clear.

It was this morning, and along with the second in command of the castle guard, Walther, they had stood together, swords facing the first rays until the light glinted on the metal, then swore their allegiance to the new monarch.

Elizabeth.

The king had reached Valhalla, the hundred days of mourning were complete, the people no longer had to wear black out of respect, and life could begin again.

The two men sheathed their swords.  They were as much ceremonial as they were for battle, though no one could remember the last battle West Lexis had fought with anyone.

From the top of the castle, on a good day, one could see the main castle of East Lexia, quite a distance away.  On a good day, like today.

“Wonder what they’re thinking?”

“That it’s time for celebrations.  We have the three other Lexias dignitaries coming to the festivities, and the games are promising to be the best ever.

Ludrig was the current Joust champion and had just fallen short of winning the Knight, Grand Master title, a title he had held for the last five tournaments.

It was bound to happen eventually.  He was getting old, despite being remarkably fit for his age.

“All of them are, Walther.  And I have been working on the fault that caused the loss of the title last.  Sir Samson will not get away with it again.”

“I heard he has a new bag of tricks available.”

“What new tricks?  He talks big but doesn’t show us anything.  He is, as he had always been, a windbag.
He won’t know what hit him.”

Or so Ludrig thought. It was Ludrig’s only failing, his ego that refused to believe he could never be bested.

Walther shrugged.  That was in the future.

In the meantime, it was going to be non-stop preparations.  Tournaments to be set up, names of the competitors to be collected, sport fields set up, banquets for both nobles and the commoners to be set you and food arranged.

The young queen was out of mourning and could now tour the country, and the sister countries for many discussions and political policy reviews, the way the country would be run and how it would interact with her sister countries.

He was in charge of the Queen’s escort and had to prepare for that too.  It was going to be a very busy schedule.

“Time passes far too quickly for my liking.”

“Better get to it then.”

The last rays of the sun that lowered up onto the sky before it came out from behind the hills had dissipated, and the yellow orb glowed in a clear blue sky.  The omen was predicting peace, happiness, and prosperity for all.

The separated in the guard house below, Ludwig to report to the Queen, Walther to the barracks to begin drilling the men.  The lazy days were over.

…

It was a 500-year-old story, how the four kingdoms of Lexia came into existence.  Far, far back in the almost forgotten mists of time, there used to be one single kingdom.  Lexia.

And had not a miracle occurred, there would still be one kingdom.

Or, as some would say, very quietly, it was exactly the opposite.

But whether a miracle or a judgement from the Gods, the Queen of Lexia gave birth to four children on the same day, and under Lexia’s Royal charter, the eldest child was the rightful heir.

That meant the firstborn.

That edict remained in place until the King was on his deathbed, and the Queen, along with the then Chancellor, got the King to sign a decree that all children would become Monarchs in their own right, and that Lexia would be divided into four equal kingdoms, North, South, East, and West.  All the same size, each with a central castle, and an equal share of the country’s wealth.

And so it was done.

It had worked for 200 or more years before a dispute broke out between two of the kingdoms, a battle ensued, and then was quelled by the other two, with the surrender terms negotiated, life returned to normal.

Only for one kingdom, or more importantly, the Monarch, it didn’t.

David Montgomery, King of East Lexia, was discontent with how his kingdom was made to pay for the battle he didn’t start, 300 years ago, and it had festered since through the generations.

But he did know that it was the King of West Lexia, back then, who had something to do with the settlement terms, and had managed to get away with stealing a very valuable set of jewels that belonged to West Lexia.

It was one of the original four that Lexia, when united, used for coronations.  Each of the four had been granted a set each.

There was a story somewhere in the mists of time that was the true and correct account of the Jewels of the Moonbeam, said to be part of the astrological connection to the Gods.  And as far as Mongonery was concerned, West Lexia had them, and he wanted them back.

And with the coronation of the new Queen of West Lexia, it was time for the truth to come out.

…

It was early, the first day of the pre-coronation festivities, starting with the grand tour of West Lexia.

Not that Elizabeth hadn’t been out and about during the mourning period, after all, she was still the Queen, and had only to be officially recognised by government and the church.

At long last, and thankfully, she would not have to wear black. Only those who chose to would. 

Her personal maid, Nathalie, had set out a purple dress, relatively plain in design, but spoke of elegance and majesty.  With her Princess tiara and the sapphire necklace that was inherited from her mother on the day of succession, it would let everyone know that Elizabeth was their Queen.

Nathalie had worked hard to progress to be the Queen’s personal handmaid.  It had been her goal from the moment she started as a maid in the castle. She knew one day her mistress would become Queen, and had persevered through all the tantrums and youthful exuberance and their relationship that once started very rocky, had matured into one of mutual respect.

As one of her talents, the ability to converse, listen, and understand what she was either hearing or discussing, Nathalie always had her ears open, taking in everything around her. 

Her mistress never once asked to be a spy, but was genuinely surprised that Nathalie was always well across Castle affairs, and had stories she could tell, but she had learned early that discretion was a wise master.  Sometimes, just part of a story was not the whole story.

There was always a scandal, however, and Elizabeth loved scandal, especially if it involved her brothers and sisters and nobility, simply because of their hypocrisy.  Elizabeth herself had secrets, but she made sure that she was very discreet.

Elizabeth summoned Nathalie when it was time to get ready for the Chancellor’s morning visit, starting the conversation with the same question, “What is the gossip this morning?”

Nathalie had already laid out all her mistress’s clothing ready for the mistress to approve or disapprove, which didn’t happen very often, ready to put on, piece by piece.  Sometimes it could be a laborious job.

“Your Royal Highness.”  She curtsied.  “Outside the castle, there are rumours of incursions by bandits from the south.”

“We have those all the time.  Since the famine, it has been difficult for all of us, and some people think it is easier to steal than to try to mitigate the effects by doing something about it.  We built a dam, and now have the water to grow crops during famine.  As for the incursions, we will put a stop to them.”

She had spoken to the Chancellor, and he was drawing up a proclamation.  All thieves who were caught and found guilty were not going to enjoy the same accommodations her father extended to them.

There were other interesting snippets of conversation between the two, always in hushed tones because there was no telling who was listening, as the layers went on.

“Was there anything else?”  They were up to the top layer, a sash, the tiara, jewellery, and shoes.  This morning it was taking a long time.

“Have you heard of the Jewels of the Moonbeam?”

She stopped suddenly and gripped the arm of the girl. “Where did you hear that?”

Nathalie immediately went on the defensive, thinking she had gone too far, that it was a top secret subject, and should have inferred that from the fact she hadn’t heard very much and initially wasn’t going to say anything.

Now she had stepped over that line and couldn’t worm her way out.

“Two … two soldiers walking down the street,” Nathalie stammered breathlessly, now almost terrified.

Elizabeth immediately realised she had scared her maid, obviously fearing the worst.  The Royal Children had a reputation for quick tempers and appalling behaviour, and whilst her earlier years were difficult, she had matured.

She immediately softened her look and let her go, and gently caressed the red welt forming above her wrist.  “I am sorry, Nathalie, I don’t know what came over me.  It’s a touchy subject for all of the Royal families.”

“Then I shall not mention it again.”

“No. No.  We keep no secrets between us, Nathalie.  I would like to know anything you hear.  But please don’t tell anyone else.  But this, you overheard two soldiers?  Would you recognise them again?”

Nathalie looked surprised.  “No.  They all look the same to me.”

Elizabeth had to admit she was right.  Except for a small flag on the sleeves, one kingdom could not really be identified by another.  But she knew, instinctively, that they were not soldiers from her kingdom.

“Can you remember if they said anything else?”

“That was all I heard.  They were too far away, and I wasn’t going to follow them.  You know what soldiers do to servant girls.”

She did, and that was something else she had to address with the Chancellor.

As for the Jewels, she had only just heard from the Chancellor that they would have to visit the castle strongroom where family valuables were kept, along with the Kingdom’s fortune, to try on the Coronation jewellery, also known as West Lexia’s Jewels of the Moonbeam.

It was the first time she had ever heard of them.

“You must not repeat anything you heard about those Jewels.  They are a secret within a very small circle of this Kingdom.  You will never mention them again.  Am I clear?”

“I shall not, your Majesty.  You have my word of honour.”

“Excellent.  I know I can rely on you.”

They went back to finishing dressing.  Nathalie had to get home.  She had told one other person, her mother, and she was not one to hold her tongue at the best of times.

…

Walther had been summoned to the castle and the Queen’s chambers.  She needed escorting.  He brought three men, the leaders of each of the three groups that made up the guard.

It had been, he believed, the luck of the draw, his name with three others tossed into the box and to be drawn for who would be second in command.

Each of the four men was equally qualified, but Ludrig had been particularly pleased that he had drawn Walther’s name.

Walther had been his protege; he had taught him well, and unlike some of the others, was willing to learn and not improvise.

He was also intelligent and could improvise when it mattered, like in the middle of mock battles.  It made him an excellent choice for the Queen’s private guard.  It helped that she liked him, unlike his two predecessors, both of whom treated her like an errant child.

Both ended up languishing at a border guard post.

Walther believed in punctuality and respect for the uniform.  Each of his men was in ceremonial dress, but also armed, ready for anything.

A formidable force to be reckoned with.

And as they made their way from the guard’s mess to the Queen’s chambers, it was a reminder to the people that the guard were visible, available, and ready to protect the Queen and her people.

The cry, “Make way for the Queen’s guard,” was treated with the respect and reverence it deserved.

Outside the main chamber, the three guardsmen formed a line.  No one would pass unless bidden.

Walther entered when requested.

She was ready, taking two of her personal maids with her.  Walther would walk with her, half a step behind, the maids, one guard on either side of the maids and one at the rear.

Destination: the Treasury.

Ludrig had set up checkpoints and had men on guard.  It was the first real exercise since her accession.  Practice was over.

The path from the chamber required leaving the main castle and taking a path to one of the structures at the rear of the main castle, one of the granary, the middle, the church, or the other, the treasury. 

In the treasury was a vault, and in the vault were the Kingdom’s most valuable treasures.  The treasury was also where the Kingdom’s coins were struck, and they were currently creating a set of coins commemorating the coronation of the new Queen.

As far as Walther was concerned, his Queen was there to inspect the new coinage.

As expected, people turned out to see their Queen along the short path in the open.  Walther saw no hostility, but it wasn’t exactly as joyous as he thought it might be.

In fact, if someone had asked him what the general mood of the people was, it would be subdued, maybe even a little disappointed.  But alongside that, he noticed something else: men loitering.

They did not look like labourers or artisans; they were men who looked like they had military training, dressed in labourers’ clothes to hide behind.

That was far more worrisome and a matter to take up with Ludrig after this detail.

At the Treasury, they left the three-man guard at the entrance to the Treasury, and he joined the Queen, her two maids and the Chancellor who had just appeared from inside the main building.

From the entrance, they went to the vault.  The treasury guard was the only person who had a key, and by the time they reached the vault, the head of the guard, Smithton, arrived breathless.

And late.

Elizabeth was unimpressed.

The Chancellor apologised and said he would take care of the matter.  The atmosphere was quite tense. 

If it were up to Walther, he would have taken the guard and locked him up.

The vault was opened, and only the Queen and the Chancellor went in.

…

The vault was quite large and had various rooms within it for the treasures: one for gold, one for silver, one for spare utensils used throughout the castle, and another for gemstones.

And in the corner, a pedestal with a special box which held the Kingdom’s Jewels of the Moonbeam.

They were the most significant treasure in the Kingdom, used only for the Coronation of the new monarch.  Elizabeth had requested to see them.

“The necklace was one of four created at the time of the great split, each given a different colour, red, blue, green and amber.  Ours is the blue set.”

The Chancellor took out a special key and unlocked the box, as Elizabeth moved closer. 

He lifted the lid.

Both gasped.  The box was empty.

The Jewels were gone.

“Where is it?” Elizabeth asked.

“It was here the last time I looked.  I check once a month.”

“Can we have the coronation without it?”

“No.  The charter forbids it.”

Elizabeth went back to Walther.  “Seal off the castle.  No one out but let people come in.  Turn out the guard.  I want this whole castle searched from top to bottom.”  She gave him a drawing of the necklace the Chancellor had given her.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And if anyone tries to leave or gives you any trouble, lock them up.”

He nodded, then left. 

…

Charles Heath  2026

Day 138 – That last work

…

The Final Page: How Do You Choose Your Last Story?

If you knew that the words you were about to type would be your very last—that after this final period, your keyboard would go silent forever—what would you write?

It’s a haunting question, isn’t it? It strips away the pressure of career milestones, the need for SEO optimisation, or the desire to please a specific audience. It forces you to stand at the edge of your own creative legacy and ask: What is the one thing that truly matters?

For me, the answer is clear, yet paralysing: It would be a work of fiction.

But then, the paralysis sets in. If you have only one story left in the chamber, how do you choose which one to fire?

The Burden of Choice

The problem with choosing a “final” story is that fiction is a mirror. Depending on the day, the weather, or the ache in my heart, the reflection changes.

Some days, I want to write a sprawling epic—a tapestry of human resilience that spans generations, trying to capture the entirety of the human experience. Other days, I feel drawn to the quiet, domestic tragedy of a single conversation in a kitchen, where everything is said without a word being spoken.

How do you decide? Do you choose:

• The Story You Haven’t Told Yet: The one that’s been living in the back of your mind for years, gathering dust, waiting for the “perfect” time?
• The Story You’ve Already Tried to Write: The one that never came out quite right, a chance to finally fix the pacing, the ending, the soul of it?
• The Story That Changes Nothing: A lighthearted romp, a piece of pure escapism, a final gift of joy rather than a heavy philosophical anchor?

The Search for the “Essence”

If I had to make the choice, I think I would stop trying to find the “perfect” plot and start looking for the “essence.”

A final work shouldn’t be about showing off technical skill or proving a point. It should be an act of translation. It should be the attempt to take that one, singular feeling—that strange, beautiful, and terrifying realisation of what it means to be alive—and pin it to the page like a butterfly.

I would choose a story that feels like a sunset: something that acknowledges the fading light but finds the most brilliant, saturated colours in the final moments. It wouldn’t necessarily be a “sad” story, but it would have to be an honest one.

How Would You Choose?

The beauty of this thought experiment—even if it’s purely hypothetical—is that it clarifies your values. It tells you what, deep down, you think a story is for.

Does your final piece aim to teach? To entertain? To confess? To build a world so immersive that others can hide in it when you’re gone?

If you were sitting at your desk, knowing this was your final act, would you agonise over the genre, the plot twists, or the clever turns of phrase? Or would you finally let go of the ego and write the one thing that makes you feel most human?

I’m curious to know how you would approach this. If you had one last story to tell, what would be the heartbeat behind it? Would you write the story you were meant to write, or the story you wanted to write?

Let’s talk about it in the comments. After all, we’re still here, and the pages are still blank. We might as well start writing.

…

Day 138 – That last work

…

The Final Page: How Do You Choose Your Last Story?

If you knew that the words you were about to type would be your very last—that after this final period, your keyboard would go silent forever—what would you write?

It’s a haunting question, isn’t it? It strips away the pressure of career milestones, the need for SEO optimisation, or the desire to please a specific audience. It forces you to stand at the edge of your own creative legacy and ask: What is the one thing that truly matters?

For me, the answer is clear, yet paralysing: It would be a work of fiction.

But then, the paralysis sets in. If you have only one story left in the chamber, how do you choose which one to fire?

The Burden of Choice

The problem with choosing a “final” story is that fiction is a mirror. Depending on the day, the weather, or the ache in my heart, the reflection changes.

Some days, I want to write a sprawling epic—a tapestry of human resilience that spans generations, trying to capture the entirety of the human experience. Other days, I feel drawn to the quiet, domestic tragedy of a single conversation in a kitchen, where everything is said without a word being spoken.

How do you decide? Do you choose:

• The Story You Haven’t Told Yet: The one that’s been living in the back of your mind for years, gathering dust, waiting for the “perfect” time?
• The Story You’ve Already Tried to Write: The one that never came out quite right, a chance to finally fix the pacing, the ending, the soul of it?
• The Story That Changes Nothing: A lighthearted romp, a piece of pure escapism, a final gift of joy rather than a heavy philosophical anchor?

The Search for the “Essence”

If I had to make the choice, I think I would stop trying to find the “perfect” plot and start looking for the “essence.”

A final work shouldn’t be about showing off technical skill or proving a point. It should be an act of translation. It should be the attempt to take that one, singular feeling—that strange, beautiful, and terrifying realisation of what it means to be alive—and pin it to the page like a butterfly.

I would choose a story that feels like a sunset: something that acknowledges the fading light but finds the most brilliant, saturated colours in the final moments. It wouldn’t necessarily be a “sad” story, but it would have to be an honest one.

How Would You Choose?

The beauty of this thought experiment—even if it’s purely hypothetical—is that it clarifies your values. It tells you what, deep down, you think a story is for.

Does your final piece aim to teach? To entertain? To confess? To build a world so immersive that others can hide in it when you’re gone?

If you were sitting at your desk, knowing this was your final act, would you agonise over the genre, the plot twists, or the clever turns of phrase? Or would you finally let go of the ego and write the one thing that makes you feel most human?

I’m curious to know how you would approach this. If you had one last story to tell, what would be the heartbeat behind it? Would you write the story you were meant to write, or the story you wanted to write?

Let’s talk about it in the comments. After all, we’re still here, and the pages are still blank. We might as well start writing.

…