Day 159 – If you want to be a writer, write

…

The Writer’s Paradox: Why Consumption Isn’t Creation

We live in a culture that loves to romanticise the “writer’s life.” We imagine it involves a worn leather notebook, a steaming cup of artisan coffee, and someone hunched over a desk, reading the classics until the prose is so deeply ingrained in their psyche that they eventually exhale a masterpiece.

But there is a dangerous misconception hidden in that romantic ideal. It is the belief that if you read enough, if you consume enough “good” writing, you will eventually wake up one morning and find that the words have seeped into your marrow, ready to flow out of you onto the page.

Here is the cold, hard truth: If reading is your pleasure, then simply read. Enjoy the stories. Let them move you. But do not mistake the act of consumption for the act of creation.

The Illusion of Osmosis

Many aspiring writers fall into the trap of “productive procrastination.” They justify spending six hours a day reading literary journals, studying sentence structures, and analysing plot devices, telling themselves, “I’m doing research. I’m filling my well.”

While reading is vital fuel for any writer, it is not the engine. You can read every shelf in the library, but your shelves will never write a paragraph for you. There is no biological osmosis in writing. The words you consume do not undergo a mystical transformation inside your bones and emerge as your own voice.

Reading is a passive experience. It is a dialogue between you and the author. Writing, however, is a monologue—a messy, uncomfortable, and often lonely exertion of will.

The Anatomy of a Writer

If you want to be a writer, you must stop waiting for the inspiration of others to do the heavy lifting for you.

When you read, you are a spectator. When you write, you are an athlete. You can watch the Olympics every single day for ten years, but that won’t make you a runner. To run, you have to strap on the shoes and hit the pavement when your lungs are burning, and your legs are heavy.

To write, you have to:

• Face the blank cursor: It is the most terrifying and honest thing in the world.
• Write badly: You have to produce “bone marrow” that isn’t quite ready yet. You have to write the rough, ugly, incoherent drafts before you can ever arrive at the polished prose you admire in others.
• Commit to the output: A writer is defined by what they produce, not what they consume.

Stop Waiting, Start Doing

If you love books, keep reading. Let them be your sanctuary, your education, and your joy. But if you call yourself a writer, you must accept that your primary job is to create.

The words won’t flow out of your marrow until you force them out. They come from the friction of your own thoughts, your own experiences, and the sheer discipline of showing up to the page—even when you have nothing to say.

Don’t wait for the osmosis. Don’t wait for the “right time” or for your brain to be “full enough.”

If reading is your pleasure, read. But if you want to be a writer, write.

…

Days 157 and 158 – Writing Exercise

Start a story based on the premise of a book you read

…

From 24 floors above street level, the view out over the city was bleak.  Heavy dark clouds hung low in the sky, some concealing the tops of the nearby buildings. 

I could imagine the view from within those would be like being inside a cloud. 

In the distance, the falling rain looked like fog alternating between a solid opaque grey wall and a thin veil of mist.

At least, for the moment, it was not snowing.

Behind me, the wheels of industry, as my father once called them, were turning, almost invisible as the staff went about their work, quietly and efficiently.

My father also said that by surrounding yourself with the right people and rewarding them commensurately, your life would be so much easier.

It had become so easy that sometimes I wondered if my only purpose was to sign documents.

Anthea, my principal private secretary, had just delivered the final agreement for that latest acquisition.  She had perfected the art of arriving and departing as if she had a cloak of invisibility.

If i glanced slightly to the right, I would see her at her desk, always doing something, not like her predecessor, Miriam, who was prone to staring into space, or perhaps dreaming of married life.

Movement caught out of the corner of my right eye told me there might be a problem.  Anthea had just stood up, and was watching a courier cross the floor, coming towards her.

I went back to the gloom, thinking about the dining engagement tonight, and whether or not I would attend.  Attendance was optional.

Anthea locked then came in.  She did not have to wait to enter.

I turned.

“Mr Brickson, you have a certified letter.  Were you expecting one?”

“From?”  I wasn’t expecting anything, but that didn’t mean someone might send me a prospectus or details of a property for sale.

“It has the name Mary Waters, but no company.”

I searched my memory for the name, but there wasn’t a Mary Waters there.

She went over to my desk, took the letter opener out of the top drawer and carefully slit the flap, then took out a gilt-edged envelope with my name written in Gothic writing. 

She handed it to me.  Someone, Mary perhaps, had gone to a lot of trouble.  The envelope was sealed with wax.  I broke the seal and carefully slid the gilt-edged card out.

“The Ordinary Society for Oddfellows – A Charity Event,” I said, whatever that is.

Anthea looked it up on her handheld computer.

“A bunch of the more wealthy philanthropists who are apparently dedicated to putting money behind worthy projects.  You’d know most of them.”

She showed me the list.  Odd, they had never told me it existed, because I think I fitted the criteria.  Perhaps my philanthropy didn’t fit their criteria.

“Probably looking for new donors, and the invitation is really an interview.” I shrugged. I had enough organisations on my list to fund.

I handed her the card.  “A Friday night.  Maybe you could ask Dorothy out as your plus one.  She would be amused.”

“Dorothy is still annoyed with me.”

“Not over, not asking her to the Symington opening?”

It has been the reopening of an old art gallery, which I regarded as somewhat boring, but Dorothy had been eager to attend.  She just forgot to tell me she was available, and then blamed me for not being able to read her mind.

“The same.”

“You can be a little absent-minded at times.”

I shrugged.  “I think she is more interested in that new chapter, the one whose thinking of running for the senate.  She said once she had a hankering to be a politician’s wife, you know, the power behind the man.  She seemed less interested when I told her I had no political ambition.”

“Who would want to?”

“It takes a certain type.”

“Do you want me to file it?”

“No.  Leave it on the desk.  The name of the society intrigues me.  I might ask Wegie to check it out.  There, just before something odd about it if I haven’t heard of it.”

Wegie was the company’s private detective.  Nor the usual gumshoe, Beth Wedge was a force to be reckoned with, a girl with SEAL training and attitude, very handy in a bar fight.

“Some might say you live under a rock.”

“Some might say you have work to do.”

…

I was always fascinated by how I managed to find my way into the society pages when I tried very hard to keep a low profile.

Maybe it was the fact I was not married, had not been married, or had a steady girlfriend.  It was not for the want of trying, it was just that most of the women I crossed paths with were divorced, widowed, too young, though I was yet to understand what the arbitrary age that was ‘too young’ meant.

Sometimes, who I was seen with at society events gained a certain notoriety, some unwanted, some not.  Being seen in society was a game; there were rules, and rules meant to be broken. I didn’t, and perhaps that was the problem.

I was not daring.

I was old school.

I would ‘die a lonely old man’.

That notoriety and interest made it difficult to simply ask someone to a cafe for coffee, or to dinner without being asked.

Dorothy had come close to being a ‘constant’ companion, but she was single, never married, and set in her ways.  She was a feminist, but not so much that it was a problem.

She was kind, generous, but easily upset.  I was still learning the cues and could still fall into a trap.

In short, life with her was not boring.

We had, she told me recently over dinner, four official dates.  Protocol dictated I buy her a present for his birthday, which was in a week or so.  I knew enough not to ask her age.

And just as she had popped into my mind, when considering a plus one for an event that I might not go to, she called.

Few people had my cell phone number.  It was a concession that I gave to her.

“Dorothy.”  I’d resumed my position by the windows.  The scenery had not changed.

“Phillip.  How are you?”

I’m sure my health was what she was calling about.  Things had got a little strange after our ‘discussion’ post the art gallery she had missed.

“Contemplating life while looking at the gloomy outlook.  The property agent said the views from the 24th floor are unparalleled.  Not today.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“No, it does not.”

“Perhaps I could help you to do something about that.  How about I take you to dinner tonight?  There’s a new restaurant I want to try.  My treat.”

I considered turning her down, but the fallout would be difficult to deal with.  With Dorothy, there was a downside to any seemingly simple event; she would have the tabloids and social media on speed dial, ready to promote her lifestyle blog, and being seen with me boosted her followers and likes.

She explained how it worked, but I still didn’t see the point of it, especially where I was involved.  I did not understand what influence I could have.

But she did make the event interesting.  She was not dull company, which I would call myself, and things generally happened, not always good.

“Where and when?  I’ll pick you up on the way.”

..

The Oddfellows had piqued my interest.

It cast a shadow over the previous evening, and Dorothy tried to keep the ship afloat.

Dinner was interesting.  I use that word loosely, and got yet another lesson in navigating the gastronomical world. 

Dorothy’s domain was the high-class restaurant scene, and amazingly, people followed both her blog and her opinions.  She praised the restaurant, and people went.  Some restaurants asked her to dine, and she would, insisting on paying, or I would.

It could be, at times, an interesting diversion.

But aside from all of that, and the fact we got along well together, there wasn”t that spark, the one that said you were meant to be together.

And there was that moment, when I delivered her back to her apartment, where we both knew this was a friend moment, and nothing more.

That short ride from her place to mine was a profound moment, one I think had been on my mind that morning.

Time enough to decide I would be going to the Oddfellows event.

…

My plus one when I didn’t have a plus one was Anthea.  The first time I asked, the social columns were guarded in making a big deal out of it.  Now, it was accepted that if I was not ‘with’ a woman, my ‘date’ was Anthea.

We had discussed it after the third outing, and she said then she would be flattered if I chose to give her ‘a second look’, but she could not be a wife and a Principal Personal Assistant.  And that she was not ready to be a wife, rich man or poor man.

She was my plus one for the Oddfellows.

The limousine picked her up at her apartment and brought her to mine.  As the saying goes, she scrubbed up nicely, but then I made sure she had everything she needed and was appropriate for the occasion.

More than once, she had arrived and held the eyes of every man in the room. She was that sort of woman, and I was the one privileged to be with her, not the other way around.

I may have been wealthy, but I did not regard wealth as the sole factor. My father had always insisted it was not wealth that made the man, but what he did with it. He made it very clear early on that it was our purpose on this earth to help others, and most importantly, the less well off

Continuing his legacy was one of the driving factors.

Attending charity events was obligatory, and donating to their cause if it was worthy.

It was why I decided to attend.

The report compiled by Wegie told me it was a new but interesting charity that was looking for donors.  I was here to be convinced.

It said to be there at 7:00 for 7:30.  Anthea and I arrived at 7:25 and were not the last.  She stole the show, and being escorted to our table, near the front, had everyone watching us. 

The table had 4 couples, all of whom were acquaintances.  We had met at other events, had similar backgrounds and interests as I did, and I figured whoever put us there knew exactly how to woo their prospective donors

The thing is, I was not sitting with strangers.  That might have negatively influenced me if I were.

Just before the event began, the woman who owned the name Mary Waters took the podium and gave us an introduction to what she said was the newly formed Oddfellows Society.

She made it sound like a Boys’ Own adventure.  She said she was available to answer any questions as the night progressed.  At the end, over coffee, brandy or Port, there was an auction, with all proceeds to go to one of my favourite charities.

It sounded like it was going to be an interesting night.

…

My turn with the inimitable Mary Waters came two hours into the event.  It followed a three-course meal that, if I had brought Dorothy, it would have been described as pedestrian.

I was not suprised, but I was slightly disappointed considering the ticket price.  Perhaps Mary perceived my feelings during the stroll out to the foyer and into a meeting room where the two of us sat on opposite sides of the table.

She seemed surprised that I made sure she was seated properly before I sat down.

“I was taking a punt that you might attend.  I had been advised that you were very selective in the events you choose to attend.”

“It has nothing to do with the event, just whether ir not I want to go out.”

“I had expected to see you with Dorothy.  I was hoping to talk about food with her.  I’m glad she did not come; the caterers let us down badly.”

“I did not come for the dining.”

“Some do, and it influences how they respond.”

“It shouldn’t.”

First thing I noticed, she was not afraid to speak plainly.  Second, she looked at you when she spoke to you.  Eye contact.  A faint smile and a sparkle in her eyes, like she was genuinely happy to be there and talking to you.

Third thing and most important, she made me feel at ease.  Some people could make you brace for the incoming.

“What would you like to know?” She asked.

The question that least entered my mind at that very moment was the one I wasn’t going to ask, ‘Are you married?’ Which was strange because normally it was never on my radar.

“Why have I never heard of you before I got the invitation?”

“Perhaps we don’t move in the same circles.”

“We do now.  Where were you before this?”  Her expression changed slightly, and I realised my questions were blunter than I realised.

“Does it matter?”

I leaned back and relaxed.  “No.  It’s just that you have popped up as a breath of fresh air from the usual crowd who run these events and who attend these events.”

“I’m but one humble worker among many.”

“Don’t undersell yourself. May I call you Mary?”

“It is my name.”

“But sometimes it’s presumptuous to call you by your first name in a formal situation.”

“Are you always so wrapped up in protocol?”

“My father always said manners make the man.”

She had a folder in front of her, rather sparsely filled, with my name in Gothic script.  She had not opened it, which meant she didn’t need to consult the information in it.  It made me wonder what information people collected on me

“What does your assessment of me say?”

“What makes you think….”

“You’d be silly if you didn’t suss out the viability of the donors before inviting them.  There are wealthy people out there, but it’s sometimes all on paper, or their assets are leveraged, and sometimes they have crippling debt ratios.  I thought about starting a foundation and inviting others, but it was too much effort.  Your organisation is brave.”

“You have the lowest debt ratio in the building.  It’s not my organisation.”

“Then at least you know my check won’t bounce at the auction.  Whose is it?”

She frowned for a moment.  “This is not how this interview is supposed to go.”

“We can end it here.  You have impressed me sufficiently to decide if you have a worthwhile charity that is known to me to support, I will consider becoming a donor.”

“I can ask no less.   Now, can I ask you a favour?”

“It depends…”

“My bosses asked me if I would like to auction a private dinner with me as your guest.  I’ll be honest, I declined, simply because the sort of people out there,” she gestured towards the main ballroom, “are mostly kind and generous people, but some are not.  I will accept a bid of one million dollars if you wish to be my dining companion.”

“That’s not about money.”

“It is for a particular charity.”

“Why offer this to me?”

She looked at me with an expression that told me it was like I had spoken to her in a foreign language.

“When?” I asked.

“When you issue the invitation.”

I looked again at the woman sitting opposite me and tried to look into her soul, because there was just a hint of mistrust creeping in.  The offer was direct, and hung heavy with implication.

I wanted to get to know her better, but this was not the right way to do it.

And it was a million dollars, not that it mattered.

I shrugged.  If I didn’t see the money again, I don’t think I’d be all that bothered.  If she were running a scam, I’d get Wegie to find her and deal with it.

“OK.  Who do I make the check out to?”

She told me, I signed it, gave it to her, and left the room.  I did not expect to see her again, nor expect the million dollars would ever see its intended target.

But it was an entertaining evening.

…

Anthea and I were in my office having coffee.

She had run through several new clauses in a small purchase we just made to supplement the computer services organisation.  It was a new project, one I decided we needed to service the whole organisation.  It was certainly cheaper to buy the company than to contract its services.

My cell phone vibrated, and I looked at the screen.

It was a surprise to see a message from an unlisted number.

“Who is it from?”

“Someone who shouldn’t know this number.”

“Then don’t open it.”

“And not learn who it is?”

“You may not want to know.”

Maybe, maybe not.  I opened it.

It was, in part, a copy of an email acknowledgement from a charity known to me, thanking the Oddfellows for the specific donation of one million dollars.

Then, “I am surprised you have not called to set the date for our dining engagement and then realised I had not given you a number to call.”

The number was added, with a prompt, “Feel free to call me any time.”

I kept the number and deleted the message.  I had not told Anthea about the money or the auction. I doubt she would have approved.

“Anyone you know.”

“As much as it may surprise you, yes.”

She had commented on how long I had spent with Mary; it seems she had been watching and timing the other prospective donors’ times.  Perhaps she had not auctioned herself to them, either.

Then, letting just enough time pass before it sounded accusatory, she asked, “Have you heard from that Oddfellow girl, Mary something or other?”

If it had been anyone else making that comment, I would have said the undertone was of jealousy, but I knew Anthea was not that sort of person.

Still…

“I have.”  And then told her and the interview, the proposition, and then the text message.

She took it all in, changing her expression several times.  Then she smiled.

“If I’m not mistaken, I believe you are smitten.”

“I’d like to say you’re wrong, but for the first time I feel as though there’s something between us.”

“What did Wegie say?”

She knew I was careful enough not to take anyone at face value.  “She is just a woman doing a job, no pretentiousness, not from wealthy parents, just honest, hard-working farmers from the Midwest.”

“Could she fit into your world?”

“Does she have to?  It might come to nothing, after all, it is just dinner.”

“Then what have you got to lose?”

I looked out across the city in that moment, and a shaft of light burst through the cloud cover, giving the scene a very warm glow.

It was a sign.

I took out my cell phone and dialled the number.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Days 157 and 158 – Writing Exercise

Start a story based on the premise of a book you read

…

From 24 floors above street level, the view out over the city was bleak.  Heavy dark clouds hung low in the sky, some concealing the tops of the nearby buildings. 

I could imagine the view from within those would be like being inside a cloud. 

In the distance, the falling rain looked like fog alternating between a solid opaque grey wall and a thin veil of mist.

At least, for the moment, it was not snowing.

Behind me, the wheels of industry, as my father once called them, were turning, almost invisible as the staff went about their work, quietly and efficiently.

My father also said that by surrounding yourself with the right people and rewarding them commensurately, your life would be so much easier.

It had become so easy that sometimes I wondered if my only purpose was to sign documents.

Anthea, my principal private secretary, had just delivered the final agreement for that latest acquisition.  She had perfected the art of arriving and departing as if she had a cloak of invisibility.

If i glanced slightly to the right, I would see her at her desk, always doing something, not like her predecessor, Miriam, who was prone to staring into space, or perhaps dreaming of married life.

Movement caught out of the corner of my right eye told me there might be a problem.  Anthea had just stood up, and was watching a courier cross the floor, coming towards her.

I went back to the gloom, thinking about the dining engagement tonight, and whether or not I would attend.  Attendance was optional.

Anthea locked then came in.  She did not have to wait to enter.

I turned.

“Mr Brickson, you have a certified letter.  Were you expecting one?”

“From?”  I wasn’t expecting anything, but that didn’t mean someone might send me a prospectus or details of a property for sale.

“It has the name Mary Waters, but no company.”

I searched my memory for the name, but there wasn’t a Mary Waters there.

She went over to my desk, took the letter opener out of the top drawer and carefully slit the flap, then took out a gilt-edged envelope with my name written in Gothic writing. 

She handed it to me.  Someone, Mary perhaps, had gone to a lot of trouble.  The envelope was sealed with wax.  I broke the seal and carefully slid the gilt-edged card out.

“The Ordinary Society for Oddfellows – A Charity Event,” I said, whatever that is.

Anthea looked it up on her handheld computer.

“A bunch of the more wealthy philanthropists who are apparently dedicated to putting money behind worthy projects.  You’d know most of them.”

She showed me the list.  Odd, they had never told me it existed, because I think I fitted the criteria.  Perhaps my philanthropy didn’t fit their criteria.

“Probably looking for new donors, and the invitation is really an interview.” I shrugged. I had enough organisations on my list to fund.

I handed her the card.  “A Friday night.  Maybe you could ask Dorothy out as your plus one.  She would be amused.”

“Dorothy is still annoyed with me.”

“Not over, not asking her to the Symington opening?”

It has been the reopening of an old art gallery, which I regarded as somewhat boring, but Dorothy had been eager to attend.  She just forgot to tell me she was available, and then blamed me for not being able to read her mind.

“The same.”

“You can be a little absent-minded at times.”

I shrugged.  “I think she is more interested in that new chapter, the one whose thinking of running for the senate.  She said once she had a hankering to be a politician’s wife, you know, the power behind the man.  She seemed less interested when I told her I had no political ambition.”

“Who would want to?”

“It takes a certain type.”

“Do you want me to file it?”

“No.  Leave it on the desk.  The name of the society intrigues me.  I might ask Wegie to check it out.  There, just before something odd about it if I haven’t heard of it.”

Wegie was the company’s private detective.  Nor the usual gumshoe, Beth Wedge was a force to be reckoned with, a girl with SEAL training and attitude, very handy in a bar fight.

“Some might say you live under a rock.”

“Some might say you have work to do.”

…

I was always fascinated by how I managed to find my way into the society pages when I tried very hard to keep a low profile.

Maybe it was the fact I was not married, had not been married, or had a steady girlfriend.  It was not for the want of trying, it was just that most of the women I crossed paths with were divorced, widowed, too young, though I was yet to understand what the arbitrary age that was ‘too young’ meant.

Sometimes, who I was seen with at society events gained a certain notoriety, some unwanted, some not.  Being seen in society was a game; there were rules, and rules meant to be broken. I didn’t, and perhaps that was the problem.

I was not daring.

I was old school.

I would ‘die a lonely old man’.

That notoriety and interest made it difficult to simply ask someone to a cafe for coffee, or to dinner without being asked.

Dorothy had come close to being a ‘constant’ companion, but she was single, never married, and set in her ways.  She was a feminist, but not so much that it was a problem.

She was kind, generous, but easily upset.  I was still learning the cues and could still fall into a trap.

In short, life with her was not boring.

We had, she told me recently over dinner, four official dates.  Protocol dictated I buy her a present for his birthday, which was in a week or so.  I knew enough not to ask her age.

And just as she had popped into my mind, when considering a plus one for an event that I might not go to, she called.

Few people had my cell phone number.  It was a concession that I gave to her.

“Dorothy.”  I’d resumed my position by the windows.  The scenery had not changed.

“Phillip.  How are you?”

I’m sure my health was what she was calling about.  Things had got a little strange after our ‘discussion’ post the art gallery she had missed.

“Contemplating life while looking at the gloomy outlook.  The property agent said the views from the 24th floor are unparalleled.  Not today.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“No, it does not.”

“Perhaps I could help you to do something about that.  How about I take you to dinner tonight?  There’s a new restaurant I want to try.  My treat.”

I considered turning her down, but the fallout would be difficult to deal with.  With Dorothy, there was a downside to any seemingly simple event; she would have the tabloids and social media on speed dial, ready to promote her lifestyle blog, and being seen with me boosted her followers and likes.

She explained how it worked, but I still didn’t see the point of it, especially where I was involved.  I did not understand what influence I could have.

But she did make the event interesting.  She was not dull company, which I would call myself, and things generally happened, not always good.

“Where and when?  I’ll pick you up on the way.”

..

The Oddfellows had piqued my interest.

It cast a shadow over the previous evening, and Dorothy tried to keep the ship afloat.

Dinner was interesting.  I use that word loosely, and got yet another lesson in navigating the gastronomical world. 

Dorothy’s domain was the high-class restaurant scene, and amazingly, people followed both her blog and her opinions.  She praised the restaurant, and people went.  Some restaurants asked her to dine, and she would, insisting on paying, or I would.

It could be, at times, an interesting diversion.

But aside from all of that, and the fact we got along well together, there wasn”t that spark, the one that said you were meant to be together.

And there was that moment, when I delivered her back to her apartment, where we both knew this was a friend moment, and nothing more.

That short ride from her place to mine was a profound moment, one I think had been on my mind that morning.

Time enough to decide I would be going to the Oddfellows event.

…

My plus one when I didn’t have a plus one was Anthea.  The first time I asked, the social columns were guarded in making a big deal out of it.  Now, it was accepted that if I was not ‘with’ a woman, my ‘date’ was Anthea.

We had discussed it after the third outing, and she said then she would be flattered if I chose to give her ‘a second look’, but she could not be a wife and a Principal Personal Assistant.  And that she was not ready to be a wife, rich man or poor man.

She was my plus one for the Oddfellows.

The limousine picked her up at her apartment and brought her to mine.  As the saying goes, she scrubbed up nicely, but then I made sure she had everything she needed and was appropriate for the occasion.

More than once, she had arrived and held the eyes of every man in the room. She was that sort of woman, and I was the one privileged to be with her, not the other way around.

I may have been wealthy, but I did not regard wealth as the sole factor. My father had always insisted it was not wealth that made the man, but what he did with it. He made it very clear early on that it was our purpose on this earth to help others, and most importantly, the less well off

Continuing his legacy was one of the driving factors.

Attending charity events was obligatory, and donating to their cause if it was worthy.

It was why I decided to attend.

The report compiled by Wegie told me it was a new but interesting charity that was looking for donors.  I was here to be convinced.

It said to be there at 7:00 for 7:30.  Anthea and I arrived at 7:25 and were not the last.  She stole the show, and being escorted to our table, near the front, had everyone watching us. 

The table had 4 couples, all of whom were acquaintances.  We had met at other events, had similar backgrounds and interests as I did, and I figured whoever put us there knew exactly how to woo their prospective donors

The thing is, I was not sitting with strangers.  That might have negatively influenced me if I were.

Just before the event began, the woman who owned the name Mary Waters took the podium and gave us an introduction to what she said was the newly formed Oddfellows Society.

She made it sound like a Boys’ Own adventure.  She said she was available to answer any questions as the night progressed.  At the end, over coffee, brandy or Port, there was an auction, with all proceeds to go to one of my favourite charities.

It sounded like it was going to be an interesting night.

…

My turn with the inimitable Mary Waters came two hours into the event.  It followed a three-course meal that, if I had brought Dorothy, it would have been described as pedestrian.

I was not suprised, but I was slightly disappointed considering the ticket price.  Perhaps Mary perceived my feelings during the stroll out to the foyer and into a meeting room where the two of us sat on opposite sides of the table.

She seemed surprised that I made sure she was seated properly before I sat down.

“I was taking a punt that you might attend.  I had been advised that you were very selective in the events you choose to attend.”

“It has nothing to do with the event, just whether ir not I want to go out.”

“I had expected to see you with Dorothy.  I was hoping to talk about food with her.  I’m glad she did not come; the caterers let us down badly.”

“I did not come for the dining.”

“Some do, and it influences how they respond.”

“It shouldn’t.”

First thing I noticed, she was not afraid to speak plainly.  Second, she looked at you when she spoke to you.  Eye contact.  A faint smile and a sparkle in her eyes, like she was genuinely happy to be there and talking to you.

Third thing and most important, she made me feel at ease.  Some people could make you brace for the incoming.

“What would you like to know?” She asked.

The question that least entered my mind at that very moment was the one I wasn’t going to ask, ‘Are you married?’ Which was strange because normally it was never on my radar.

“Why have I never heard of you before I got the invitation?”

“Perhaps we don’t move in the same circles.”

“We do now.  Where were you before this?”  Her expression changed slightly, and I realised my questions were blunter than I realised.

“Does it matter?”

I leaned back and relaxed.  “No.  It’s just that you have popped up as a breath of fresh air from the usual crowd who run these events and who attend these events.”

“I’m but one humble worker among many.”

“Don’t undersell yourself. May I call you Mary?”

“It is my name.”

“But sometimes it’s presumptuous to call you by your first name in a formal situation.”

“Are you always so wrapped up in protocol?”

“My father always said manners make the man.”

She had a folder in front of her, rather sparsely filled, with my name in Gothic script.  She had not opened it, which meant she didn’t need to consult the information in it.  It made me wonder what information people collected on me

“What does your assessment of me say?”

“What makes you think….”

“You’d be silly if you didn’t suss out the viability of the donors before inviting them.  There are wealthy people out there, but it’s sometimes all on paper, or their assets are leveraged, and sometimes they have crippling debt ratios.  I thought about starting a foundation and inviting others, but it was too much effort.  Your organisation is brave.”

“You have the lowest debt ratio in the building.  It’s not my organisation.”

“Then at least you know my check won’t bounce at the auction.  Whose is it?”

She frowned for a moment.  “This is not how this interview is supposed to go.”

“We can end it here.  You have impressed me sufficiently to decide if you have a worthwhile charity that is known to me to support, I will consider becoming a donor.”

“I can ask no less.   Now, can I ask you a favour?”

“It depends…”

“My bosses asked me if I would like to auction a private dinner with me as your guest.  I’ll be honest, I declined, simply because the sort of people out there,” she gestured towards the main ballroom, “are mostly kind and generous people, but some are not.  I will accept a bid of one million dollars if you wish to be my dining companion.”

“That’s not about money.”

“It is for a particular charity.”

“Why offer this to me?”

She looked at me with an expression that told me it was like I had spoken to her in a foreign language.

“When?” I asked.

“When you issue the invitation.”

I looked again at the woman sitting opposite me and tried to look into her soul, because there was just a hint of mistrust creeping in.  The offer was direct, and hung heavy with implication.

I wanted to get to know her better, but this was not the right way to do it.

And it was a million dollars, not that it mattered.

I shrugged.  If I didn’t see the money again, I don’t think I’d be all that bothered.  If she were running a scam, I’d get Wegie to find her and deal with it.

“OK.  Who do I make the check out to?”

She told me, I signed it, gave it to her, and left the room.  I did not expect to see her again, nor expect the million dollars would ever see its intended target.

But it was an entertaining evening.

…

Anthea and I were in my office having coffee.

She had run through several new clauses in a small purchase we just made to supplement the computer services organisation.  It was a new project, one I decided we needed to service the whole organisation.  It was certainly cheaper to buy the company than to contract its services.

My cell phone vibrated, and I looked at the screen.

It was a surprise to see a message from an unlisted number.

“Who is it from?”

“Someone who shouldn’t know this number.”

“Then don’t open it.”

“And not learn who it is?”

“You may not want to know.”

Maybe, maybe not.  I opened it.

It was, in part, a copy of an email acknowledgement from a charity known to me, thanking the Oddfellows for the specific donation of one million dollars.

Then, “I am surprised you have not called to set the date for our dining engagement and then realised I had not given you a number to call.”

The number was added, with a prompt, “Feel free to call me any time.”

I kept the number and deleted the message.  I had not told Anthea about the money or the auction. I doubt she would have approved.

“Anyone you know.”

“As much as it may surprise you, yes.”

She had commented on how long I had spent with Mary; it seems she had been watching and timing the other prospective donors’ times.  Perhaps she had not auctioned herself to them, either.

Then, letting just enough time pass before it sounded accusatory, she asked, “Have you heard from that Oddfellow girl, Mary something or other?”

If it had been anyone else making that comment, I would have said the undertone was of jealousy, but I knew Anthea was not that sort of person.

Still…

“I have.”  And then told her and the interview, the proposition, and then the text message.

She took it all in, changing her expression several times.  Then she smiled.

“If I’m not mistaken, I believe you are smitten.”

“I’d like to say you’re wrong, but for the first time I feel as though there’s something between us.”

“What did Wegie say?”

She knew I was careful enough not to take anyone at face value.  “She is just a woman doing a job, no pretentiousness, not from wealthy parents, just honest, hard-working farmers from the Midwest.”

“Could she fit into your world?”

“Does she have to?  It might come to nothing, after all, it is just dinner.”

“Then what have you got to lose?”

I looked out across the city in that moment, and a shaft of light burst through the cloud cover, giving the scene a very warm glow.

It was a sign.

I took out my cell phone and dialled the number.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

More about my second novel

…

In all of the goings-on, with Zoe chasing down old acquaintances in Bucharest, then moving on to  Yuri, then Olga, we forget that Isobel and Rupert are on her trail, with Sebastian in tow.

It’s not so much Sebastian in charge anymore, not after going rogue and shooting his boss and John’s mother, an act that Rupert witnesses after following Sebastian on the hunch that he was up to something.

Rupert realises that Worthington still presents a major problem, and on the basis that Worthington was going to realise it’s not Zoe shooting at him, Worthington had to be taken off the chessboard.

Unfortunately, he has to enlist Sebastian to get a crew together to kidnap him and take him to a safe house.

Meanwhile, Isobel, with a computer in hand, takes up vigil at the hospital with John’s mother, pretending she is her daughter.  There, she tracks Zoe via her cell phone to an address in Zurich.

Then, miraculously, John’s cell phone reappears and is active long enough for her to get a location, and see that a 96-second phone call is made to a phone in Zurich, Zoe’s.

Then it disappears again.

Isobel then calls Zoe and gives her the address.  It’s a short call.

Calls to Sebastian and Rupert mobilise them, and everyone is on their way to John’s location.

…

More about my second novel

…

In all of the goings-on, with Zoe chasing down old acquaintances in Bucharest, then moving on to  Yuri, then Olga, we forget that Isobel and Rupert are on her trail, with Sebastian in tow.

It’s not so much Sebastian in charge anymore, not after going rogue and shooting his boss and John’s mother, an act that Rupert witnesses after following Sebastian on the hunch that he was up to something.

Rupert realises that Worthington still presents a major problem, and on the basis that Worthington was going to realise it’s not Zoe shooting at him, Worthington had to be taken off the chessboard.

Unfortunately, he has to enlist Sebastian to get a crew together to kidnap him and take him to a safe house.

Meanwhile, Isobel, with a computer in hand, takes up vigil at the hospital with John’s mother, pretending she is her daughter.  There, she tracks Zoe via her cell phone to an address in Zurich.

Then, miraculously, John’s cell phone reappears and is active long enough for her to get a location, and see that a 96-second phone call is made to a phone in Zurich, Zoe’s.

Then it disappears again.

Isobel then calls Zoe and gives her the address.  It’s a short call.

Calls to Sebastian and Rupert mobilise them, and everyone is on their way to John’s location.

…

Day 156 – The past is a great resource

…

The Archive of Experience: Why Your Past is Your Greatest Resource

In our modern, fast-paced world, we are obsessed with the “next.” We are constantly looking toward the next milestone, the next innovation, and the next version of ourselves. While forward momentum is essential for growth, we often overlook the most powerful tool in our arsenal for navigating the future: our own history.

The past is not merely a collection of memories or a series of “what-ifs.” It is a dynamic, living resource—a vast library of data, lessons, and patterns that, when leveraged correctly, can become the foundation for our future success.

Here is why your past is the most valuable asset you own.

1. The Laboratory of Pattern Recognition

Patterns are the language of reality. Whether in business, relationships, or personal habits, history tends to rhyme. When you look back at your past experiences—both the triumphs and the failures—you begin to see recurring themes.

Did you notice that you always thrive when you collaborate, but struggle when you’re isolated? Do you see a trend in the types of challenges that tend to derail your progress? By analysing your past, you aren’t just remembering; you are engaging in pattern recognition. This allows you to walk into new situations with a “map” that others, who haven’t done the work of reflection, lack.

2. Failure as R&D (Research and Development)

We often treat our past mistakes as sources of shame. However, in the world of professional innovation, a failed experiment is simply a piece of data that proves what doesn’t work.

When you treat your past failures as “Research and Development,” you strip away the emotional sting and replace it with objective intelligence. Every “no” you received, every project that stalled, and every lapse in judgment is a refined instruction manual for how to handle similar situations in the future. You are the only person who possesses the unique training data of your own life—don’t let it go to waste.

3. The Anchor of Resilience

There is a specific kind of confidence that comes from knowing you have survived 100% of your worst days. When the present feels overwhelming, looking back at your own history serves as a powerful anchor.

By remembering the times you felt trapped, confused, or defeated and recalling exactly how you navigated your way out, you remind yourself of your inherent resilience. The past doesn’t just show you where you’ve been; it proves your capacity to transcend adversity. It transforms the question “Can I get through this?” into “I have gotten through this before, and I will do it again.”

4. Harvesting Your “Hidden Hits”

Sometimes, we get so focused on the future that we forget the skills, passions, and insights we once possessed. Perhaps you were a great writer in college, a creative problem solver in your first job, or someone who naturally brought people together in a community group.

Modern life often causes us to prune away parts of ourselves to fit into a specific “career box.” Returning to your past allows you to rediscover forgotten talents. It is a process of harvesting the “hidden hits” of your early life and re-integrating them into your current identity to create a more well-rounded, effective version of yourself.

How to Use Your Past Effectively

To turn your past into a resource rather than a prison, you must change your relationship with it:

• Practice Objective Reflection: Spend time journaling about past events as if you were an unbiased observer. Write down what happened, what you did, and what the outcome was.
• Extract the Lesson: Don’t stop at the memory. Ask yourself, “What did this teach me that I am still using today?”
• Forgive the “Past You”: Recognise that the version of you in the past was making the best decisions they could with the information they had at the time. Compassion for your past self is the key to clarity for your future self.

The Bottom Line

Your past is not a graveyard; it is a goldmine. It is where your wisdom resides and where your most authentic lessons are stored. By mining your history for its insights, patterns, and proofs of strength, you stop being a victim of your experiences and start becoming the architect of your future.

Don’t just move forward—move forward informed. Your past is waiting to tell you exactly how to win.

…

Day 156 – The past is a great resource

…

The Archive of Experience: Why Your Past is Your Greatest Resource

In our modern, fast-paced world, we are obsessed with the “next.” We are constantly looking toward the next milestone, the next innovation, and the next version of ourselves. While forward momentum is essential for growth, we often overlook the most powerful tool in our arsenal for navigating the future: our own history.

The past is not merely a collection of memories or a series of “what-ifs.” It is a dynamic, living resource—a vast library of data, lessons, and patterns that, when leveraged correctly, can become the foundation for our future success.

Here is why your past is the most valuable asset you own.

1. The Laboratory of Pattern Recognition

Patterns are the language of reality. Whether in business, relationships, or personal habits, history tends to rhyme. When you look back at your past experiences—both the triumphs and the failures—you begin to see recurring themes.

Did you notice that you always thrive when you collaborate, but struggle when you’re isolated? Do you see a trend in the types of challenges that tend to derail your progress? By analysing your past, you aren’t just remembering; you are engaging in pattern recognition. This allows you to walk into new situations with a “map” that others, who haven’t done the work of reflection, lack.

2. Failure as R&D (Research and Development)

We often treat our past mistakes as sources of shame. However, in the world of professional innovation, a failed experiment is simply a piece of data that proves what doesn’t work.

When you treat your past failures as “Research and Development,” you strip away the emotional sting and replace it with objective intelligence. Every “no” you received, every project that stalled, and every lapse in judgment is a refined instruction manual for how to handle similar situations in the future. You are the only person who possesses the unique training data of your own life—don’t let it go to waste.

3. The Anchor of Resilience

There is a specific kind of confidence that comes from knowing you have survived 100% of your worst days. When the present feels overwhelming, looking back at your own history serves as a powerful anchor.

By remembering the times you felt trapped, confused, or defeated and recalling exactly how you navigated your way out, you remind yourself of your inherent resilience. The past doesn’t just show you where you’ve been; it proves your capacity to transcend adversity. It transforms the question “Can I get through this?” into “I have gotten through this before, and I will do it again.”

4. Harvesting Your “Hidden Hits”

Sometimes, we get so focused on the future that we forget the skills, passions, and insights we once possessed. Perhaps you were a great writer in college, a creative problem solver in your first job, or someone who naturally brought people together in a community group.

Modern life often causes us to prune away parts of ourselves to fit into a specific “career box.” Returning to your past allows you to rediscover forgotten talents. It is a process of harvesting the “hidden hits” of your early life and re-integrating them into your current identity to create a more well-rounded, effective version of yourself.

How to Use Your Past Effectively

To turn your past into a resource rather than a prison, you must change your relationship with it:

• Practice Objective Reflection: Spend time journaling about past events as if you were an unbiased observer. Write down what happened, what you did, and what the outcome was.
• Extract the Lesson: Don’t stop at the memory. Ask yourself, “What did this teach me that I am still using today?”
• Forgive the “Past You”: Recognise that the version of you in the past was making the best decisions they could with the information they had at the time. Compassion for your past self is the key to clarity for your future self.

The Bottom Line

Your past is not a graveyard; it is a goldmine. It is where your wisdom resides and where your most authentic lessons are stored. By mining your history for its insights, patterns, and proofs of strength, you stop being a victim of your experiences and start becoming the architect of your future.

Don’t just move forward—move forward informed. Your past is waiting to tell you exactly how to win.

…