Day 119 – The relevance of A Confederation of Dunces to downtrodden writers

…

The Patron Saint of the Misunderstood: Why A Confederation of Dunces Still Resonates with Downtrodden Writers

If you are a writer, you have undoubtedly wrestled with the feeling of belonging to a world that doesn’t quite fit your internal architecture. You have likely experienced the sting of rejection, the absurdity of the “literary establishment,” and the creeping suspicion that your work is being ignored by people who lack the intellectual rigour to appreciate it.

No character embodies this specific, agonising brand of isolation quite like Ignatius J. Reilly, the gargantuan protagonist of John Kennedy Toole’s posthumous masterpiece, A Confederation of Dunces.

For the downtrodden writer—the one working a soul-crushing day job while drafting a manuscript in a cramped apartment—Ignatius is both a cautionary tale and a dark, twisted mirror.

“I Mingle with My Peers or No One”

The defining line of Ignatius’s worldview is his famous declaration: “I mingle with my peers or no one, and since I have no peers, I mingle with no-one.”

On the surface, this is the ultimate expression of solipsistic arrogance. It is the peak of the “tortured genius” trope, where the ego becomes a barricade. However, for the writer who feels alienated, this sentiment hits differently. It speaks to the exhausting search for a creative community.

When you spend your life refining your voice and obsessing over the nuance of a sentence, the standard chatter of the world can feel like a profound waste of time. You don’t want to talk about the weather or the weekend; you want to talk about the collapse of modern morality, the structure of a perfect paragraph, or the decaying state of culture. When you can’t find that depth in others, the instinct is to retreat.

But there is a trap here. Ignatius uses this philosophy to justify his own inertia. He uses his “lack of peers” as a shield to avoid the vulnerability of being judged by the real world. For the rest of us, the lesson is clear: If you wait for your perfect peer group to emerge, you will be waiting forever.

The Tragedy of the Unfinished Manuscript

The irony of A Confederation of Dunces is that Ignatius is a writer—or, at least, he claims to be. He carries around his Big Chief writing tablet, filling it with philosophical rants and incoherent grievances against the “geometrical, theological, and geographical” decline of the twentieth century.

He is a writer who refuses to publish. He is a writer who spends more time correcting the perceived failures of others than completing his own work.

This is the great peril of the downtrodden writer. It is easy to become bitter, to develop a “Reilly-esque” disdain for the marketplace, and to convince yourself that your work is too “advanced” or “pure” for a public that prefers mindless pulp. We often use our high standards as a way to hide from the terrifying possibility that our work might be published and—far worse—dismissed.

Finding Solidarity in the Absurd

So, why read (or re-read) A Confederation of Dunces if you are currently feeling like a failure in the literary arts?

1. It’s a Reminder of the Danger of Ego: Toole’s novel is a comedy, not a biography, but it serves as a warning. Isolation is a creative desert. You need the grit of the real world—the very thing Ignatius scorns—to breathe life into your writing.
2. It Validates the Struggle: Toole himself struggled immensely to get his work published. His own tragic story adds a layer of poignancy to the book. He knew better than anyone what it felt like to be a genius without a seat at the table.
3. The Satire is Necessary: Sometimes, you have to laugh at the absurdity of it all. The world is full of “dunce” establishments, superficial trends, and people who will never understand the blood you pour into your pages. Acknowledging that and laughing at it, rather than letting it turn you into a recluse, is the only way to survive.

The Verdict

Ignatius J. Reilly’s tragedy is that he chose “no one” over the messiness of human connection. He chose the safety of his own mind over the risk of being misunderstood by the masses.

As a writer, your greatest work won’t come from sitting in a room alone, sneering at the world for not being up to your standards. It will come from acknowledging that while you may never find the “perfect” peer who understands every shade of your intent, there is a community of other writers just as broken, just as confused, and just as hopeful as you are.

Don’t be the person who mingles with “no one.” Find your fellow dunces. Share your stories. And for heaven’s sake, finish the manuscript.

Day 118 – Writing Exercise

…

With a job that took me all over the world, at times to some of the most scenic and visitor-friendly places to go, I never had the time to stop and smell the roses.

Ever.

There was never enough time.

Until…

I had to retire, forced because of injuries I had received in the line of duty.  It rendered me unfit to resume my chosen profession

Being told had been like the sky had fallen in on me.  The doctor, a relatively cheerful fellow, spoke the words in a matter-of-fact tone.

I doubt he realised the weight of those words on the recipient.  For him, it was another day in the office.  For me, it was the end of my world as I knew it.

Most of it was gobbledegook, until the end, the part that mattered.  The sentence…

“Movement will be difficult, and for a while, very tiring.  It will improve, but that will depend on your pain threshold.  No sudden movements, and plan your trips, short or long.  No stairs, avoid steep uphill and downhill paths, no running or jogging.  Maintain your exercise routine.  I think, at the very least, you are very lucky to be alive, and extremely lucky you have the mobility you have.”

My former boss, Roundtree, had a more profound way of looking at it.  “In other words, now you can get around to doing all those things you couldn’t before.”

“Skydiving, and downhill slalom?”

His bright expression turned into a frown, like the sun going behind a cloud.  “Don’t be obtuse, Sykes.  You know what I mean.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not your revered leader any more, Sykes.  You are the master of your destiny.  Have you told Wanda where you want to go?”

Wanda was the agency travel arrangements officer.  I had one last trip available.  First-class ticket to anywhere, and a fortnight in the best hotel.

“Florence.”

“Nice place.  I trust your Italian is up to scratch?”

“Yes, sir.”

A frown, but then, I was never going to call him Walter.  It seemed so disrespectful.

“Well, good.  Well done.  Don’t forget to send postcards.”

“Top of the list, sir.”

“Excellent.”  He came over and shook my hand, then left with the doctor.  I would probably not see him again.

…

You meet interesting people in first class.  It was almost a first for me.  Usually, I was down the back with the rest of humanity.  The department’s attitude was all about anonymity.

I thought it was because the boss was cheap.

But, halfway into the flight from New York to Florence, I’d decided the only reason I’d travel first class was the comfort, and it paid off. 

It was not about the chef-inspired food delivered on monogrammed fine bone china, or the champagne and orange juice when I boarded.  It wasn’t even about that special pack each passenger received on first boarding.

It was just an expensive way to fly.

And see how the other half lived.  Which, by the way, was far more exciting than I usually did, though at times I got to pretend I had more wealth than an Arab Sheik.

There were not many, and they didn’t talk to each other.  There was a family, the mother and father were reasonable, and the two children were brats.  Two CEOs spent the time trying to prove one was better than the other, me, a pretender, a middle-aged woman who was a magazine editor, telling everyone she was on a freebie, a youngish woman who looked like an adventurer, with the whole Indiana Jones thing going on, and two men I suspected were Arab terrorists, or more likely drug cartel leaders.  Flashy but cheap.  I’d met their type before.

The Indiana Jones girl spoke to me before I said anything.  She was nearby and didn’t look the sort to indulge in sharing anything on a plane with strangers.  Neither was I.  It was surprisingly just how many did.

She was coming back from the restroom and simply stopped.  “First time?”

I looked up, surprised.  “Here, going to Italy, being a big boy and travelling alone…”

She smiled.  “Sharper than an Inca death dart.  Pick one.”  She leaned against the wall as the plane shuddered through some turbulence.

“Not the first time here.  Not Italy.  Always working, never got time to see the sights.  Retired, can now.  You?”

“Blogger.  Influencer.  To most, a wanker.  I try the experience for the more adventurous of us out there.”

“Ever crash and burn?”

“Frequently.  Just getting over another failed relationship.  I keep making the same mistake.”

She didn’t look to me to be the sort who made any mistakes. But thanks for sharing, but I don’t care.

“Married men?”

It was meant to be a light-hearted comment.  It went down with a lead balloon.  “You married?”

I think it came out more harshly than she intended.

“No.  No woman will have me.  Broken “

A glare, or a grim smile, she figured I was an obtuse old bastard, and it was time to move on.  A nod, and she went back to her seat.

It was a reminder that you can have everything and nothing.  Someone had told me that a while back, and it stuck

…

I got through the flight with painkillers and a great deal of tolerance.  I was going to kill the two children and hide them in the baggage compartment, but they were not worth the effort.  Leaving them alive was the best form of revenge on the parents.

Florence airports seemed very little different to than at JFK, other than the fact that the writing was in Italian and people tended to speak Italian.  They might have looked a little different, but I wasn’t paying attention.

I was heading to immigration to collect my one bag.  Travelling light was instilled into us.  Carry nothing you couldn’t afford to lose.  To me, all that mattered was a passport and a credit card.  Oh, and money.

I followed the adventuress, oddly in a hurry to get off the plane, turn her phone on and make a half dozen calls, each getting more frustration-laden till the last when I thought she was going to throw the cell phone at the wall.

Or the man who suddenly changed direction in front of her and caused her to stumble to avoid him.  The language was very unladylike.  The man just sailed on regardless.

She just happened to block my way, so I just stood there.  I thought about offering to help, but I got the impression she would not accept it. I would be one of ‘those’ men.

I still had no idea what ‘those’ meant.

She saw me.  “You again.”

Again what?  “You seem to be in a particularly bad mood.  I would have thought that impossible in this place.”

She frowned.  “You seem happy.”

“Just happy to be here.  See a few ancient statues, and go to the museum.  Steep myself in the aura of history.  Get some pizza and gelato.”

“You’re too old to be acting like a giddy tourist.”

She was right, but that was how I felt.  Or how I wanted to feel.

“Life’s too short to be perpetually in a hurry.”

I thought I’d stepped over that invisible line, as red spots appeared on her cheeks, but then she took a deep breath and slowly let it out

“You’re right.  The more haste, the less speed.  Tell me about the statues.”

I almost did a double-take.  Almost.

She fell in beside me, and we strolled to immigration.

…

Whilst I had no intention of spending more time with Deborah Travisore, adventuress and adventure travel influencer, beyond the walk to the immigration queue, she found me, standing back, waiting for the bags.

First class should be first off?  Right?  No.  Not today.  Or just not me.  She had collected four suitcases and several smaller bags, another person who didn’t understand the meaning of travelling light.

I made the mistake of asking if she had brought a menagerie with her. 

And had she not accepted it, had an eccentric sense of humour, my limousine ride from the airport to the hotel would have been less interesting.

If I were still in my former trade, firstly, I would have suspected her to be a foreign actor up to no good, and secondly, if it were and they wanted me dead, I would be.

Except it was patently clear she was who she said she was.  Exile alone and waiting for my bad, I looked up her website’s social media pages and the messy, broken relationships that she seemed to revel in.

Who else would you entrust their disastrous life to cultivate likes, followers, and social media traction?  What scared me was when, not if, I ended up on her website pages as Mr Eccentric, broken man. Astonishingly, she had over a quarter of a million followers.

It was my second foray into the world of social media as a man in the street.  I had no pages, nothing on Facebook or Instagram, or anything.  I just created an email address the day before I got on the plane

The ride to the hotel scored me the result of six phone calls from exiting the plane to where she stumbled.

The man who had asked her to come, and made arrangements for her to run adventure tours and lectures, and who had made arrangements for her hotel stay, had been declared insolvent and arrested.

She had nothing to do and nowhere to go.  I said I would take her as far as my hotel.  What she did after that was her business.

Until I learned that the plane ticket had been paid for, the return ticket had been rescinded, and she didn’t have any more money.

Lesson learned?  Lots of followers meant not a lot of money.

At the hotel, I was met by the Assistant Manager and shown to my room.  I was hoping it would be the last time I saw Deborah.

Until…

My room phone rang.

Intrigued, I answered it.  “Yes?”

“Miss Travencore is insisting that you will verify she is who she says she is.”  It was the Assistant Manager in a rather tricky bind.

“Does that mean I have to pay her account if she cannot?”

“It means you have a connecting set of rooms, and you can hide her in one.  Not that I’m suggesting you do such a thing.  If not, we will escort her to the sidewalk.”

If she were a spy, which I was beginning to think was the case, because her landing on my lap like this was page one of the student playbook.

It was a case of keep your friends close and keep your enemies closer.

“Tell her it will be until she sorts herself out.”

So here was the problem.  Firstly, she was being far too obvious.  Secondly, she had a lot of work put into her cover story.  Thirdly, this type of decoy was usually a stunning-looking woman.  Deborah was attractive in a different way.

Perhaps she had a more interesting side that would emerge later.

Fourthly, and perhaps the one that would be my downfall, I was intrigued that anyone would care about an ex-spy.  I had no codes, no access, and no information or access to it. I had the internet, the same as everyone else.

I was here to look at antiquities, not duel with adversaries that were no longer adversaries.

I took a bottle of Italian beer out of the bar fridge and took a few sips while looking down on a main thoroughfare that led to the Duomo.  I was hoping to visit the church before the day was out.

I heard the door close next door.  Deborah was in residence.  It would cost me nothing for her to stay there; it was part of the package.

Satisfied that the aromas wafting up and in through my windows were exactly as I remembered them, I sat down to contemplate the afternoon.

Fifteen minutes.  I had a mental bet with myself that it would take ten.

A light rapping on the door.

I wasn’t going to open it, then after a sigh, I did.

“Deborah.”

“Call me Debbie.”

“Miss Travencore.”

“That sounds very formal.”

“So there are no misunderstandings.”

“There are no misunderstandings.”

“It will be interesting to see how quickly the complications add up.”

“I am not here to cause trouble, just to thank you for your generosity.”

“Consider me thanked.”  I went to close the door.

“Before you make a decision you might regret…”

I didn’t think any of the decisions I was considering I would regret, other than the one that submits her to a crude and painful field interrogation.

“Who are you, really, Miss Travencore?”

“Who I say I am.  I travel the world finding adventures for my devoted fans.  And, every now and then dabble in a hobby of mine.  This is certainly not one of those tasks.  I swear my uncle Walter puts far too much faith in me.”

“Uncle … Walter?”  An awful thought occurred to me.  My old boss had sent a minder.

“This Uncle Walter…”

“Calls you insufferable, Sykes.  He calls me incorrigible Debbie.  I told him I didn’t do babysitting.  And you wouldn’t want it.  Do you?”

“He refused to get you a room?”

“He said he was already paying for half the hotel.  You know what he’s like.  Three-star, ‘can-not-swing-a-cat’ rooms and overboiled eggs for breakfast.  I heard the crispy bacon is fantastic here.”

I shook my head.  I could have a long conversation with Walter, but it wouldn’t change a thing.  He’d mentioned his Lara Croft nice more than once, and the fact that she always seemed to make a mess of everything she touched, but somehow worked out.

Now she was here.

What was he thinking?

“I assume this is for how long?”

“Three weeks or you kill me, which he said you might do when you figure it out.  I saved you the trouble.  Kill me now.”

I looked her up and down.  Over the years, he had told me a lot about her, and I think I came to know her almost as well as he did.

“I’ve got a better idea.  Let’s go look at some statues and try the gelato.  You’ll love it.  And dress like a tourist, not like you’re about to swing from the trees.”

She smiled.  “If you try not to look like something you’re not, old and broken.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 118 – Writing Exercise

…

With a job that took me all over the world, at times to some of the most scenic and visitor-friendly places to go, I never had the time to stop and smell the roses.

Ever.

There was never enough time.

Until…

I had to retire, forced because of injuries I had received in the line of duty.  It rendered me unfit to resume my chosen profession

Being told had been like the sky had fallen in on me.  The doctor, a relatively cheerful fellow, spoke the words in a matter-of-fact tone.

I doubt he realised the weight of those words on the recipient.  For him, it was another day in the office.  For me, it was the end of my world as I knew it.

Most of it was gobbledegook, until the end, the part that mattered.  The sentence…

“Movement will be difficult, and for a while, very tiring.  It will improve, but that will depend on your pain threshold.  No sudden movements, and plan your trips, short or long.  No stairs, avoid steep uphill and downhill paths, no running or jogging.  Maintain your exercise routine.  I think, at the very least, you are very lucky to be alive, and extremely lucky you have the mobility you have.”

My former boss, Roundtree, had a more profound way of looking at it.  “In other words, now you can get around to doing all those things you couldn’t before.”

“Skydiving, and downhill slalom?”

His bright expression turned into a frown, like the sun going behind a cloud.  “Don’t be obtuse, Sykes.  You know what I mean.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not your revered leader any more, Sykes.  You are the master of your destiny.  Have you told Wanda where you want to go?”

Wanda was the agency travel arrangements officer.  I had one last trip available.  First-class ticket to anywhere, and a fortnight in the best hotel.

“Florence.”

“Nice place.  I trust your Italian is up to scratch?”

“Yes, sir.”

A frown, but then, I was never going to call him Walter.  It seemed so disrespectful.

“Well, good.  Well done.  Don’t forget to send postcards.”

“Top of the list, sir.”

“Excellent.”  He came over and shook my hand, then left with the doctor.  I would probably not see him again.

…

You meet interesting people in first class.  It was almost a first for me.  Usually, I was down the back with the rest of humanity.  The department’s attitude was all about anonymity.

I thought it was because the boss was cheap.

But, halfway into the flight from New York to Florence, I’d decided the only reason I’d travel first class was the comfort, and it paid off. 

It was not about the chef-inspired food delivered on monogrammed fine bone china, or the champagne and orange juice when I boarded.  It wasn’t even about that special pack each passenger received on first boarding.

It was just an expensive way to fly.

And see how the other half lived.  Which, by the way, was far more exciting than I usually did, though at times I got to pretend I had more wealth than an Arab Sheik.

There were not many, and they didn’t talk to each other.  There was a family, the mother and father were reasonable, and the two children were brats.  Two CEOs spent the time trying to prove one was better than the other, me, a pretender, a middle-aged woman who was a magazine editor, telling everyone she was on a freebie, a youngish woman who looked like an adventurer, with the whole Indiana Jones thing going on, and two men I suspected were Arab terrorists, or more likely drug cartel leaders.  Flashy but cheap.  I’d met their type before.

The Indiana Jones girl spoke to me before I said anything.  She was nearby and didn’t look the sort to indulge in sharing anything on a plane with strangers.  Neither was I.  It was surprisingly just how many did.

She was coming back from the restroom and simply stopped.  “First time?”

I looked up, surprised.  “Here, going to Italy, being a big boy and travelling alone…”

She smiled.  “Sharper than an Inca death dart.  Pick one.”  She leaned against the wall as the plane shuddered through some turbulence.

“Not the first time here.  Not Italy.  Always working, never got time to see the sights.  Retired, can now.  You?”

“Blogger.  Influencer.  To most, a wanker.  I try the experience for the more adventurous of us out there.”

“Ever crash and burn?”

“Frequently.  Just getting over another failed relationship.  I keep making the same mistake.”

She didn’t look to me to be the sort who made any mistakes. But thanks for sharing, but I don’t care.

“Married men?”

It was meant to be a light-hearted comment.  It went down with a lead balloon.  “You married?”

I think it came out more harshly than she intended.

“No.  No woman will have me.  Broken “

A glare, or a grim smile, she figured I was an obtuse old bastard, and it was time to move on.  A nod, and she went back to her seat.

It was a reminder that you can have everything and nothing.  Someone had told me that a while back, and it stuck

…

I got through the flight with painkillers and a great deal of tolerance.  I was going to kill the two children and hide them in the baggage compartment, but they were not worth the effort.  Leaving them alive was the best form of revenge on the parents.

Florence airports seemed very little different to than at JFK, other than the fact that the writing was in Italian and people tended to speak Italian.  They might have looked a little different, but I wasn’t paying attention.

I was heading to immigration to collect my one bag.  Travelling light was instilled into us.  Carry nothing you couldn’t afford to lose.  To me, all that mattered was a passport and a credit card.  Oh, and money.

I followed the adventuress, oddly in a hurry to get off the plane, turn her phone on and make a half dozen calls, each getting more frustration-laden till the last when I thought she was going to throw the cell phone at the wall.

Or the man who suddenly changed direction in front of her and caused her to stumble to avoid him.  The language was very unladylike.  The man just sailed on regardless.

She just happened to block my way, so I just stood there.  I thought about offering to help, but I got the impression she would not accept it. I would be one of ‘those’ men.

I still had no idea what ‘those’ meant.

She saw me.  “You again.”

Again what?  “You seem to be in a particularly bad mood.  I would have thought that impossible in this place.”

She frowned.  “You seem happy.”

“Just happy to be here.  See a few ancient statues, and go to the museum.  Steep myself in the aura of history.  Get some pizza and gelato.”

“You’re too old to be acting like a giddy tourist.”

She was right, but that was how I felt.  Or how I wanted to feel.

“Life’s too short to be perpetually in a hurry.”

I thought I’d stepped over that invisible line, as red spots appeared on her cheeks, but then she took a deep breath and slowly let it out

“You’re right.  The more haste, the less speed.  Tell me about the statues.”

I almost did a double-take.  Almost.

She fell in beside me, and we strolled to immigration.

…

Whilst I had no intention of spending more time with Deborah Travisore, adventuress and adventure travel influencer, beyond the walk to the immigration queue, she found me, standing back, waiting for the bags.

First class should be first off?  Right?  No.  Not today.  Or just not me.  She had collected four suitcases and several smaller bags, another person who didn’t understand the meaning of travelling light.

I made the mistake of asking if she had brought a menagerie with her. 

And had she not accepted it, had an eccentric sense of humour, my limousine ride from the airport to the hotel would have been less interesting.

If I were still in my former trade, firstly, I would have suspected her to be a foreign actor up to no good, and secondly, if it were and they wanted me dead, I would be.

Except it was patently clear she was who she said she was.  Exile alone and waiting for my bad, I looked up her website’s social media pages and the messy, broken relationships that she seemed to revel in.

Who else would you entrust their disastrous life to cultivate likes, followers, and social media traction?  What scared me was when, not if, I ended up on her website pages as Mr Eccentric, broken man. Astonishingly, she had over a quarter of a million followers.

It was my second foray into the world of social media as a man in the street.  I had no pages, nothing on Facebook or Instagram, or anything.  I just created an email address the day before I got on the plane

The ride to the hotel scored me the result of six phone calls from exiting the plane to where she stumbled.

The man who had asked her to come, and made arrangements for her to run adventure tours and lectures, and who had made arrangements for her hotel stay, had been declared insolvent and arrested.

She had nothing to do and nowhere to go.  I said I would take her as far as my hotel.  What she did after that was her business.

Until I learned that the plane ticket had been paid for, the return ticket had been rescinded, and she didn’t have any more money.

Lesson learned?  Lots of followers meant not a lot of money.

At the hotel, I was met by the Assistant Manager and shown to my room.  I was hoping it would be the last time I saw Deborah.

Until…

My room phone rang.

Intrigued, I answered it.  “Yes?”

“Miss Travencore is insisting that you will verify she is who she says she is.”  It was the Assistant Manager in a rather tricky bind.

“Does that mean I have to pay her account if she cannot?”

“It means you have a connecting set of rooms, and you can hide her in one.  Not that I’m suggesting you do such a thing.  If not, we will escort her to the sidewalk.”

If she were a spy, which I was beginning to think was the case, because her landing on my lap like this was page one of the student playbook.

It was a case of keep your friends close and keep your enemies closer.

“Tell her it will be until she sorts herself out.”

So here was the problem.  Firstly, she was being far too obvious.  Secondly, she had a lot of work put into her cover story.  Thirdly, this type of decoy was usually a stunning-looking woman.  Deborah was attractive in a different way.

Perhaps she had a more interesting side that would emerge later.

Fourthly, and perhaps the one that would be my downfall, I was intrigued that anyone would care about an ex-spy.  I had no codes, no access, and no information or access to it. I had the internet, the same as everyone else.

I was here to look at antiquities, not duel with adversaries that were no longer adversaries.

I took a bottle of Italian beer out of the bar fridge and took a few sips while looking down on a main thoroughfare that led to the Duomo.  I was hoping to visit the church before the day was out.

I heard the door close next door.  Deborah was in residence.  It would cost me nothing for her to stay there; it was part of the package.

Satisfied that the aromas wafting up and in through my windows were exactly as I remembered them, I sat down to contemplate the afternoon.

Fifteen minutes.  I had a mental bet with myself that it would take ten.

A light rapping on the door.

I wasn’t going to open it, then after a sigh, I did.

“Deborah.”

“Call me Debbie.”

“Miss Travencore.”

“That sounds very formal.”

“So there are no misunderstandings.”

“There are no misunderstandings.”

“It will be interesting to see how quickly the complications add up.”

“I am not here to cause trouble, just to thank you for your generosity.”

“Consider me thanked.”  I went to close the door.

“Before you make a decision you might regret…”

I didn’t think any of the decisions I was considering I would regret, other than the one that submits her to a crude and painful field interrogation.

“Who are you, really, Miss Travencore?”

“Who I say I am.  I travel the world finding adventures for my devoted fans.  And, every now and then dabble in a hobby of mine.  This is certainly not one of those tasks.  I swear my uncle Walter puts far too much faith in me.”

“Uncle … Walter?”  An awful thought occurred to me.  My old boss had sent a minder.

“This Uncle Walter…”

“Calls you insufferable, Sykes.  He calls me incorrigible Debbie.  I told him I didn’t do babysitting.  And you wouldn’t want it.  Do you?”

“He refused to get you a room?”

“He said he was already paying for half the hotel.  You know what he’s like.  Three-star, ‘can-not-swing-a-cat’ rooms and overboiled eggs for breakfast.  I heard the crispy bacon is fantastic here.”

I shook my head.  I could have a long conversation with Walter, but it wouldn’t change a thing.  He’d mentioned his Lara Croft nice more than once, and the fact that she always seemed to make a mess of everything she touched, but somehow worked out.

Now she was here.

What was he thinking?

“I assume this is for how long?”

“Three weeks or you kill me, which he said you might do when you figure it out.  I saved you the trouble.  Kill me now.”

I looked her up and down.  Over the years, he had told me a lot about her, and I think I came to know her almost as well as he did.

“I’ve got a better idea.  Let’s go look at some statues and try the gelato.  You’ll love it.  And dress like a tourist, not like you’re about to swing from the trees.”

She smiled.  “If you try not to look like something you’re not, old and broken.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 117 – Is writing fiction an escape from reality

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The Plunge: Why Fiction Isn’t an Escape—It’s a Collision with Reality

When people think of fiction, they often think of “escapism.” They imagine the reader curled up in a leather chair, clutching a paperback like a life raft, waiting to be spirited away to a land of dragons, interstellar empires, or swooning Victorian romances. The common assumption is that we read—and write—to get away from the messiness of our actual lives.

But the Southern Gothic master Flannery O’Connor had a vastly different, more jarring perspective. She famously suggested that writing (and reading) fiction is not a retreat into fantasy, but a “plunge into reality.” For O’Connor, fiction is not a sedative; it is a shock to the system.

But what did she mean by that? And why would a medium built on “made-up” stories be more real than the world we walk through every day?

The Myth of the Ivory Tower

We often treat reality as a surface-level phenomenon: the bills we pay, the traffic we sit in, and the small talk at the office. We mistake the mundane for the “real.”

O’Connor believed that our day-to-day lives are often shielded by habit, social propriety, and a deep-seated desire to look away from the darker, more profound truths of human existence. We live in a state of semi-consciousness, buffered by the comforts of our routines.

When you sit down to write serious fiction, you cannot stay on that surface level. To create a character that rings true, you have to strip away the pleasantries. You have to descend into the motivations, the flaws, the spiritual hungers, and the terrifying contradictions that define human nature.

Fiction as a “Shock to the System”

O’Connor’s stories—filled with grotesque characters, sudden violence, and moments of divine mystery—are famous for their lack of comfort. She didn’t write to soothe the reader; she wrote to wake them up.

When she talked about fiction being a “plunge into reality,” she was describing a process of confrontation. A well-crafted story forces the reader to look at things they’d rather ignore: the cruelty we are capable of, the absurdity of our own self-importance, and the jagged edges of truth.

If you are writing fiction, you aren’t hiding from reality; you are excavating it. You are taking the raw, incoherent chaos of the human experience and tightening it into a narrative lens. By the time the reader closes the book, if the work is good, they shouldn’t feel “escaped.” They should feel exposed. They should feel as though they’ve just been shaken awake.

The Mirror of the Grotesque

O’Connor famously said, “To the hard of hearing you shout, and for the almost-blind you draw large and startling figures.”

This is why her work is so often shocking. She used the “grotesque” not to be weird for the sake of it, but to force the reader to focus on reality. Because we have become so desensitised to the “normal” world, we need something startling—something slightly distorted—to help us see clearly again.

When we write fiction, we are essentially holding a mirror up to the world. But we don’t hold it up to show the world its own reflection in the mirror; we hold it up to show the world the things it refuses to see when it looks in the mirror of daily life.

Why It Matters

If we view writing only as an escape, we limit the power of the craft. We treat it as a toy rather than a tool.

When you approach the blank page, don’t ask yourself, “How can I make this world different from mine?” Instead, ask, “How can I capture the reality of this world more accurately?” How can I convey the heaviness of a choice, the shame of a secret, or the terror of an epiphany?

Writing isn’t about running away from the world. It is the brave act of diving headlong into the fray. It is the act of looking at the human condition—with all its blood, bone, and light—and refusing to blink.

As O’Connor knew, the truth is often a shock. But it is only through that shock that we ever truly find our way home.

Day 117 – Is writing fiction an escape from reality

…

The Plunge: Why Fiction Isn’t an Escape—It’s a Collision with Reality

When people think of fiction, they often think of “escapism.” They imagine the reader curled up in a leather chair, clutching a paperback like a life raft, waiting to be spirited away to a land of dragons, interstellar empires, or swooning Victorian romances. The common assumption is that we read—and write—to get away from the messiness of our actual lives.

But the Southern Gothic master Flannery O’Connor had a vastly different, more jarring perspective. She famously suggested that writing (and reading) fiction is not a retreat into fantasy, but a “plunge into reality.” For O’Connor, fiction is not a sedative; it is a shock to the system.

But what did she mean by that? And why would a medium built on “made-up” stories be more real than the world we walk through every day?

The Myth of the Ivory Tower

We often treat reality as a surface-level phenomenon: the bills we pay, the traffic we sit in, and the small talk at the office. We mistake the mundane for the “real.”

O’Connor believed that our day-to-day lives are often shielded by habit, social propriety, and a deep-seated desire to look away from the darker, more profound truths of human existence. We live in a state of semi-consciousness, buffered by the comforts of our routines.

When you sit down to write serious fiction, you cannot stay on that surface level. To create a character that rings true, you have to strip away the pleasantries. You have to descend into the motivations, the flaws, the spiritual hungers, and the terrifying contradictions that define human nature.

Fiction as a “Shock to the System”

O’Connor’s stories—filled with grotesque characters, sudden violence, and moments of divine mystery—are famous for their lack of comfort. She didn’t write to soothe the reader; she wrote to wake them up.

When she talked about fiction being a “plunge into reality,” she was describing a process of confrontation. A well-crafted story forces the reader to look at things they’d rather ignore: the cruelty we are capable of, the absurdity of our own self-importance, and the jagged edges of truth.

If you are writing fiction, you aren’t hiding from reality; you are excavating it. You are taking the raw, incoherent chaos of the human experience and tightening it into a narrative lens. By the time the reader closes the book, if the work is good, they shouldn’t feel “escaped.” They should feel exposed. They should feel as though they’ve just been shaken awake.

The Mirror of the Grotesque

O’Connor famously said, “To the hard of hearing you shout, and for the almost-blind you draw large and startling figures.”

This is why her work is so often shocking. She used the “grotesque” not to be weird for the sake of it, but to force the reader to focus on reality. Because we have become so desensitised to the “normal” world, we need something startling—something slightly distorted—to help us see clearly again.

When we write fiction, we are essentially holding a mirror up to the world. But we don’t hold it up to show the world its own reflection in the mirror; we hold it up to show the world the things it refuses to see when it looks in the mirror of daily life.

Why It Matters

If we view writing only as an escape, we limit the power of the craft. We treat it as a toy rather than a tool.

When you approach the blank page, don’t ask yourself, “How can I make this world different from mine?” Instead, ask, “How can I capture the reality of this world more accurately?” How can I convey the heaviness of a choice, the shame of a secret, or the terror of an epiphany?

Writing isn’t about running away from the world. It is the brave act of diving headlong into the fray. It is the act of looking at the human condition—with all its blood, bone, and light—and refusing to blink.

As O’Connor knew, the truth is often a shock. But it is only through that shock that we ever truly find our way home.

Day 115 and 116 – Writing Evercise

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It was my second-to-last test before the final results of my year of in-field training were aggregated into a posting or an ignominious exit.

The last effort had been, as far as I was concerned, sabotaged by a colleague whose efforts were less than stellar, but had been schmoozing the test panel.

But, as someone else said, we cannot allow ourselves to believe the test panel would be so naive.

We should not have known who was on the test panel, but maybe that was also part of the test.  In the field, there were no panel members there to listen to your whining. You were on your own, or dead.

I sat alone that morning, not knowing who to trust.  Breakfast was a decent spread, worthy of a five-star hotel, but I had little appetite.  Two cups of strong black coffee and a scan of the morning newspaper.

The world was, as usual, still going to hell in a handbasket.  Page eight had a small piece about a missing scientist, one of several I’d read about over the last three months.

Patterns.

All seemed to have visited a nightclub, Ryker’s, in the seedier part of Boise, Idaho. 

Coincidence, maybe, but three of us had been given instructions to hole up in three separate three-star hotels that someone wanting to remain anonymous would stay at.

I had made the decision to have breakfast at an upmarket hotel and observe another class of people, just for a surveillance exercise.  I’d dressed up so that I’d fit in, channelling the lawyer/accountant vibe.

My cell phone was sitting nearby, waiting for the call.  It could be any time, or not for days.  We had to be able to deal with boredom and still stay honed.

It wasn’t easy.

The dining room was quite full.  For half an hour, guests and friends arrived and departed.  It was quite full, and wait staff were continuously threading their way, pouring coffee, taking orders, and being abused.

My waitress was amiable, even effervescent.  She smiled, filled the cup, and moved on.

As I watched her leave, I heard a scuffle nearby, and a body slid into the seat to my left.

A girl, mid-thirties, dyed blonde with dark roots, a recent change.  She wore a red blouse and a dark blue pantsuit.  Professional?

She turned to see me looking at her.  Usually, people ask before sitting down.

“Sorry.”  Breathless like she had been running.  I hadn’t seen her arrive.

She hadn’t brought anything with her.

Perhaps I should ask the question.  “Are you alright?”

She was scanning the entrance to the room, then stiffened.

I saw two men, one short, one medium, in cheap suits.  They were not police, perhaps private security.  They scanned the room, stopped at my table and without appearing to, moved quickly towards me.

“Oh, God.”  She looked as if she had seen the devil himself.

“Who are they?” I asked casually, keeping an eye on their progress.

“Trouble.”

“Do you need help?”

“You can’t…”

I shrugged.  As they approached, I stood.  I motioned for her to stay seated and raised a hand to my coffee waitress to come over.

The two men and the waitress arrived at the same time.  They took up positions that cut off the girl’s exit.  The look on my breakfast companion’s face was stark terror.

The waitress asked, “Coffee?”

“No.  Call the police.  The two men behind you are fugitives from a kidnapping my team have bren trackeing using this young lady as a decoy.”

I showed my FBI badge and showed it to the shorter man. “You don’t want to do this, especially with the CCTV cameras focused on you.”

“Walk away,” the short one said.

People were starting to notice, and a ripple was going through the room.  Police appeared at the entrance.  The waitress headed towards them quickly.  I had expected the two men to impede her progress.

The two men ran.  They headed for the nearest exit away from the policemen and disappeared from sight.  I put the ID away and sat.

The girl spoke to them and pointed in my direction, then in the direction the men had taken, and they followed them.  The waitress disappeared.

The girl did not look relieved in the slightest.  I said, “The police can deal with them.”

Another waiter stopped and filled our cups with black coffee and moved on.  It was as if nothing had happened, except there were a few looking and guessing at what had happened. I said, “Exactly how did you end up here?”

“Are you really FBI?”

“In a manner of speaking.”  I noticed then a purple mark on her wrist.  “What is that in your arm?”

She hid it.  “Nothing.”

“It’s something that might save you. What is it?”

“A pass-out stamp from a nightclub.”

“Ryker’s?”

She sucked in her breath and went on the defensive.  “It’s nothing to do with this?”

“Are you a scientist?”

“Who are you?”  She stood.  “I’ve got to go.”

I stood.  “Fine.  But I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong?”

“No.  I can’t.” 

She took two steps, then stopped.  I think we both had the same thought.  Those men had not left; they were waiting for her to leave.  Somewhere outside the building.

She said quietly, “Not here.”

…

We left in the opposite direction from the two men.  I walked slightly in front of her, protecting her as I had been shown to do in similar situations.

The thought crossed my mind that this was a simulation, and I was surrounded by some of the best actors I’d seen, too good for our usual simulations.  They were second-year graduates honing their skills.

I had a gun, a license to carry, and instructions never to use it in plain sight.  I nearly broke that rule.

At the doorway, I checked and rechecked the perimeter and considered the possible four locations where they could be.  I didn’t think they’d attack inside the building, not the way they left in a hurry, their cover blown.

And on CCTV.  That was bad enough.  I was on it too.  But, here’s the thing.  How often do you find yourself in a situation that is so random, it’s unexplainable?

No unusual movement and no heads peeking from behind walls.  If it were me, I’d call for reinforcements and stake out every entrance and exit.

Movement, just in the corner of my eye.  Or not. 

Batten down the nerves and go back to basics.

Don’t stand still, keep moving, steady but not fast enough to attract attention.  Look purposeful, like you have somewhere to be, and above all, look like you know where you’re going.

But…

New city, no time to check the necessary information about it, the hotel, the exits, how to leave without being seen.  That was going to be my after-breakfast task.

I should have done it yesterday when I arrived.

Then a thought: basement.  All hotels had a basement.

Towards the back, stairs.  Down.  Through the lobby.  Damn.  I shook my head.

“We have to go down.  Via the lobby.”

“They’ll be waiting.”

She was right.  We needed a diversion.

I said a small prayer, crossed the passage and broke the fire alarm, setting it off.  Then we headed through the lobby.

She was right.  But they had not expected us to cross from front to back, but from back to front.  They got caught on the exodus heading for the front door, after we got through to the stairs.

And down, down a corridor and into the kitchen, through to the rear entrance left ajar so the smokers could get in and out.

It was where we would leave the building.

Just as bullets pinged off the wall above our heads as we exited.  I dove to the right behind a dumpster, dragging her with me, hearing her groan as we hit the ground, as more bullets pinged off the metal bin.

I pulled out my gun and fired several random shots in their direction, and the volley ended.

From the frying pan into the fire…

The door opened behind me, and several bullets hit the wall. Someone returned fire, then the alley went quiet.

Then, “You can come out now.”

The waitress.

We both got up off the ground and came out to see the waitress, who was no longer a waitress.  She showed us a State Police department badge.  “Detective Somers, who the hell are you two?”

“Agent Alex Pettigrew, FBI.  I think I’ve stumbled into something I don’t want to know about.”

The girl, “Professor Jane Blanch, neither of you has clearance high enough to ask any more questions.”

“And those two men?”

“You don’t want to know,” Jane said. She looked at Somers.  “Are they dead?”

“I hope not.  They have a thousand questions to answer.  Look,” she said to me.  “Just wrap yourself up and leave, and don’t come back.  This is not your jurisdiction.”

“As right as that might sound in your head as the right thing to say, it is not.  Whatever just happened is symptomatic of something much, much larger and is not going away.  It has something to do with Ryker’s Nightclub, science, and research.  Jane is not the first scientist to disappear from that cohort.”

“Pack it up and walk away, FBI man.  This is not your rodeo.”

“You going to save this woman?  There’ll be more where those two came from.”

“That’s my job.  You can leave it with me.  Miss.”  She had her hand in the Professor’s arm.”

The Professor looked at me.  “Thanks.”

“You feel safe with the Detective?”

“Of course.  Thank you again.”

…

Convenient.

When something doesn’t feel right, it generally isn’t.

As I watched them head down the alley, I had a bad thought.  What if what I saw was just a show?  This was the trouble distinguishing between what was real and what was training.

More than once, I’d say, in the post mission review after a training session and have my ass handed to me in a sling.

Do not trust anything or anyone.  The enemy will come to you dressed in any disguise, as your friend, as someone you can trust.  And thirty seconds later, they end up with a bullet between the eyes.

You rarely saw the bullet that had your name on it.

I waited until they were out of sight and followed discreetly.  I noted they did not go back into the hotel.

Jurisdictional issues were common.  County and State police pulled jurisdiction on what they called their patch.  We were not supposed to pull rank and were obliged to advise local authorities if we were working their patch.

Sometimes we didn’t have time.

I should be expecting a phone call if a different sort after breaking cover.  If the detective decided to call it, or if the detective was a detective.

I reached the end of the alleyway and stopped.  Should I have a weapon ready or just poke my head around the corner? 

This could go wrong in so many ways.

Ideally, there would be no one there.  The remote chance, the two men, the bogus detective and the girl were waiting.

I peered around the corner.

Two police cars, four officers, the detective and the girl standing by one of the cars.  No flashing lights, so not an active situation.

The detective was on her cell phone.

Not my problem.

But…

Where were the people who were shooting at us?  If there were police at the end of the alley, the fact that there were shooters in an urban environment would have led to lights and perpetrators under arrest.

There were no shooters anywhere, and they certainly had time to get away.

I leaned against the wall.  It had to be a simulation, and I failed because I had let the girl go into what was potentially a life-threatening situation.

My cell phone vibrated.  Yes, I’d learned the lesson about having an active or loud ringtone, exposing my presence.

No one else knew this number.  It was the bad news.

“Yes?”

“You have passed the final test and are being assigned under your FBI cover name.  We received a call from Somers, a detective with ISP investigations, to verify your identity.  You identified a possible kidnap victim, one of several in the past six months, and prevented a possible situation.”

“It was several notices in various newspapers.  I had no idea it was going to happen or if it meant anything.  She just sat at my table.”

“Not in your hotel.”

“Boring breakfast, sir.”

“A coincidence that just got you into the service.  Now you need to prove you belong there.  She’s waiting around the corner.  Good to see you didn’t trust that she was who she said she was, but I’m not going to ask what you intended to do if there was a problem.”

“Neither did I.  Good thing you called.”

Silence.  Perhaps flippancy wasn’t the way to go.

“Report through the usual channels.  We will update your cell with your support teams.  Good luck.”

I sighed, more in relief than anything else.  Then I pocketed the phone and walked around the corner.

She was expecting me.

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©  Charles Heath  2026