Day 240

When is it time to hang up the quill?

…

The Writer’s Crossroads: When Is It Time to Hang Up the Quill?

Imagine for a moment. You’ve been writing for years, pouring your heart onto the page, publishing works on free sites, trying to garner a following. You’ve self-published your books on Amazon, seeing them as the culmination of countless hours, endless revisions, and boundless passion.

People read your stories. Most comments are of praise, echoing the beauty of your prose, the depth of your characters, the compelling nature of your plots. Reviews are overwhelmingly 4 and 5 stars, a testament to the quality you know you possess.

But sales? Only a few every week. A trickle, not the torrent you dreamed of, not the steady stream you need to even consider this a sustainable path.

And your query letters – letters you know are nothing short of brilliant, honed to perfection, showcasing your voice and vision – always come back with the same result: rejection. A polite “not for us,” or worse, silent dismissal.

It’s a scenario many writers know intimately, a soul-crushing paradox where internal validation clashes brutally with external reality. The question starts small, a whisper in the dark, then grows into a gnawing doubt: When is the time to hang up the quill?

The Pain of the Unseen Success

This isn’t about lacking talent. Your readers tell you otherwise. This isn’t about lack of effort. Years of dedication speak for themselves. This is about the heartbreaking disconnect between the quality of your work and its market reception. It’s about the emotional toll of constant rejection despite undeniable praise. It’s about feeling invisible in a crowded, noisy world.

Before You Hang It Up: Revisit Your “Why”

Before you even consider putting down your pen for good, ask yourself one crucial question: Why do you write?

• Is it for the joy of creation? Does the act of building worlds, crafting characters, and weaving narratives bring you profound satisfaction, regardless of external validation?
• Is it because you have stories that demand to be told? Do these ideas bubble up inside you, insistent, needing to be set free?
• Is it for the connection with readers? Do those few 4 and 5-star reviews, those occasional heartfelt comments, fuel your spirit enough to keep going?
• Is it for fame and fortune? Be honest. If it’s only for the big advance, the bestseller list, or the movie deal, then the current reality is indeed devastating.

The answer to this “why” is your compass.

When NOT to Hang Up the Quill

You might not be ready to quit if:

• The creative spark still ignites you. If writing still feels like breathing, like an essential part of who you are, then the fire isn’t out.
• Those few readers truly matter. If those handful of steady sales, those glowing reviews, remind you that your words do touch people, however few, don’t underestimate that impact.
• You haven’t truly explored all avenues. Have you tried different genres? Different marketing strategies (even self-taught ones)? Different writing communities? Different approaches to querying (pitching a different book, refining your synopsis)?
• You’re still learning and improving. Every rejection, every low sale, can be a data point. Are you actively seeking to understand why things aren’t working and adjusting your approach?

When It Might Be Time to Re-evaluate (Not Necessarily Quit)

There are legitimate reasons to reconsider your path, or at least, your approach:

• When the joy is gone, replaced by resentment. If writing has become a bitter chore, a source of constant stress and negativity, it might be time to protect your mental well-being.
• When your “why” has fundamentally shifted. If you started writing purely for the love of it, but now find yourself only chasing external metrics that aren’t materializing, and that chase is draining you, it’s time to check in.
• When you’ve genuinely exhausted all strategic and emotional resources. If you’ve tried everything you can think of, sought professional advice, taken breaks, and still feel utterly depleted with no hope in sight, take a step back.
• When the opportunity cost is too high. Is the time and energy you pour into writing preventing you from pursuing other passions, or even just living a balanced life?

Beyond Quitting: What Else Can You Do?

Hanging up the quill doesn’t have to be a surrender; it can be a pivot.

1. Take a Break, Not a Surrender: Step away for weeks or months. Let the creative well refill without pressure. Sometimes, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and new perspectives emerge.
2. Re-evaluate Your Strategy (Ruthlessly):
   • Marketing: Are you doing anything to market your self-published books effectively? This is often the biggest blind spot for writers. Learn about Amazon ads, social media, building an author platform.
   • Genre/Market: Is your brilliant work in a niche that’s too small? Or is it hard to categorize? Sometimes, a slight shift in genre or understanding market trends can make a huge difference.
   • Query Letters: Are they truly brilliant, or simply well-written? A brilliant query letter is strategic. It targets the right agent, highlights marketability, and hints at the “hook.” Consider professional query critiques.
   • Professional Feedback: Move beyond friends and family. Invest in a professional editor or sensitivity reader who can give you objective, market-aware advice on your manuscript’s strengths and weaknesses.
3. Redefine Success: Does success have to be a bestseller? Can it be the joy of finishing a manuscript? The connection with those few devoted readers? The personal growth you’ve experienced through the craft?
4. Write for Yourself (Again): If you’ve been constantly chasing trends or trying to impress agents, go back to writing the story only you can tell, purely for your own satisfaction. Publish it anonymously if you wish.
5. Explore Other Creative Outlets: Maybe your creative energy needs a different channel for a while – painting, music, coding, baking. It can refresh your writing perspective.

The Personal Journey

There’s no universal answer to “When is the time to hang up the quill?” It’s a deeply personal decision, one that only you can make. It’s not about being a “failure” if you choose to step back, nor is it about being “naive” if you choose to persist.

Listen to your writer’s heart. Does it still beat with the rhythm of stories untold? Does the mere thought of not writing feel like losing a part of yourself? If so, then perhaps it’s not time to hang up the quill. Perhaps, it’s simply time to sharpen it, to learn a new stroke, and to write a different kind of story – your own story of resilience, adaptation, and unwavering passion.

Day 240

When is it time to hang up the quill?

…

The Writer’s Crossroads: When Is It Time to Hang Up the Quill?

Imagine for a moment. You’ve been writing for years, pouring your heart onto the page, publishing works on free sites, trying to garner a following. You’ve self-published your books on Amazon, seeing them as the culmination of countless hours, endless revisions, and boundless passion.

People read your stories. Most comments are of praise, echoing the beauty of your prose, the depth of your characters, the compelling nature of your plots. Reviews are overwhelmingly 4 and 5 stars, a testament to the quality you know you possess.

But sales? Only a few every week. A trickle, not the torrent you dreamed of, not the steady stream you need to even consider this a sustainable path.

And your query letters – letters you know are nothing short of brilliant, honed to perfection, showcasing your voice and vision – always come back with the same result: rejection. A polite “not for us,” or worse, silent dismissal.

It’s a scenario many writers know intimately, a soul-crushing paradox where internal validation clashes brutally with external reality. The question starts small, a whisper in the dark, then grows into a gnawing doubt: When is the time to hang up the quill?

The Pain of the Unseen Success

This isn’t about lacking talent. Your readers tell you otherwise. This isn’t about lack of effort. Years of dedication speak for themselves. This is about the heartbreaking disconnect between the quality of your work and its market reception. It’s about the emotional toll of constant rejection despite undeniable praise. It’s about feeling invisible in a crowded, noisy world.

Before You Hang It Up: Revisit Your “Why”

Before you even consider putting down your pen for good, ask yourself one crucial question: Why do you write?

• Is it for the joy of creation? Does the act of building worlds, crafting characters, and weaving narratives bring you profound satisfaction, regardless of external validation?
• Is it because you have stories that demand to be told? Do these ideas bubble up inside you, insistent, needing to be set free?
• Is it for the connection with readers? Do those few 4 and 5-star reviews, those occasional heartfelt comments, fuel your spirit enough to keep going?
• Is it for fame and fortune? Be honest. If it’s only for the big advance, the bestseller list, or the movie deal, then the current reality is indeed devastating.

The answer to this “why” is your compass.

When NOT to Hang Up the Quill

You might not be ready to quit if:

• The creative spark still ignites you. If writing still feels like breathing, like an essential part of who you are, then the fire isn’t out.
• Those few readers truly matter. If those handful of steady sales, those glowing reviews, remind you that your words do touch people, however few, don’t underestimate that impact.
• You haven’t truly explored all avenues. Have you tried different genres? Different marketing strategies (even self-taught ones)? Different writing communities? Different approaches to querying (pitching a different book, refining your synopsis)?
• You’re still learning and improving. Every rejection, every low sale, can be a data point. Are you actively seeking to understand why things aren’t working and adjusting your approach?

When It Might Be Time to Re-evaluate (Not Necessarily Quit)

There are legitimate reasons to reconsider your path, or at least, your approach:

• When the joy is gone, replaced by resentment. If writing has become a bitter chore, a source of constant stress and negativity, it might be time to protect your mental well-being.
• When your “why” has fundamentally shifted. If you started writing purely for the love of it, but now find yourself only chasing external metrics that aren’t materializing, and that chase is draining you, it’s time to check in.
• When you’ve genuinely exhausted all strategic and emotional resources. If you’ve tried everything you can think of, sought professional advice, taken breaks, and still feel utterly depleted with no hope in sight, take a step back.
• When the opportunity cost is too high. Is the time and energy you pour into writing preventing you from pursuing other passions, or even just living a balanced life?

Beyond Quitting: What Else Can You Do?

Hanging up the quill doesn’t have to be a surrender; it can be a pivot.

1. Take a Break, Not a Surrender: Step away for weeks or months. Let the creative well refill without pressure. Sometimes, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and new perspectives emerge.
2. Re-evaluate Your Strategy (Ruthlessly):
   • Marketing: Are you doing anything to market your self-published books effectively? This is often the biggest blind spot for writers. Learn about Amazon ads, social media, building an author platform.
   • Genre/Market: Is your brilliant work in a niche that’s too small? Or is it hard to categorize? Sometimes, a slight shift in genre or understanding market trends can make a huge difference.
   • Query Letters: Are they truly brilliant, or simply well-written? A brilliant query letter is strategic. It targets the right agent, highlights marketability, and hints at the “hook.” Consider professional query critiques.
   • Professional Feedback: Move beyond friends and family. Invest in a professional editor or sensitivity reader who can give you objective, market-aware advice on your manuscript’s strengths and weaknesses.
3. Redefine Success: Does success have to be a bestseller? Can it be the joy of finishing a manuscript? The connection with those few devoted readers? The personal growth you’ve experienced through the craft?
4. Write for Yourself (Again): If you’ve been constantly chasing trends or trying to impress agents, go back to writing the story only you can tell, purely for your own satisfaction. Publish it anonymously if you wish.
5. Explore Other Creative Outlets: Maybe your creative energy needs a different channel for a while – painting, music, coding, baking. It can refresh your writing perspective.

The Personal Journey

There’s no universal answer to “When is the time to hang up the quill?” It’s a deeply personal decision, one that only you can make. It’s not about being a “failure” if you choose to step back, nor is it about being “naive” if you choose to persist.

Listen to your writer’s heart. Does it still beat with the rhythm of stories untold? Does the mere thought of not writing feel like losing a part of yourself? If so, then perhaps it’s not time to hang up the quill. Perhaps, it’s simply time to sharpen it, to learn a new stroke, and to write a different kind of story – your own story of resilience, adaptation, and unwavering passion.

Day 239

Patronage, good or bad

…

Three Jobs for One Dream: Is Patronage a Blessing or a Breaking Point?

Ah, the writer’s life. It’s often romanticized, conjuring images of solitary genius, ink-stained fingers, and profound insights emerging from quiet contemplation. But behind many of those published tomes and celebrated screenplays, there’s a less glamorous, often unspoken reality: the support system. Specifically, the partner who shoulders the financial burden, allowing the artist to pursue their muse.

This brings us to a crucial question that buzzes in the ears of many aspiring writers and their long-suffering loved ones: Is patronage for writers, particularly from a spouse, a noble sacrifice or a ticking time bomb?

The Romantic Ideal vs. The Hard Realities

Let’s start with the ideal. The notion that a spouse should work three jobs – the early morning shift, the afternoon grind, and the late-night gig – all to allow their other half to finally tackle that novel, screenplay, or poetry collection they’ve always dreamed of writing. On the surface, it speaks of deep love, unwavering belief, and a shared vision for a future where one partner’s creative potential is fully realized. It’s an echo of historical patronage, albeit a deeply personal and intimate one.

And sometimes, it works. Sometimes, that sacrifice leads to a breakthrough, a published work, and a shared sense of accomplishment that strengthens the bond. The story of the supportive partner becomes part of the legend, a testament to true love and artistic dedication.

But let’s be honest, those success stories are often the exception, not the rule. More frequently, this intense level of spousal patronage breeds a complex cocktail of emotions that can corrode the very foundation of a relationship.

The Weight of Expectation and the Erosion of Self

Imagine the partner working those three jobs. Their days are a blur of labor, their nights are for crashing, not connecting. Their own dreams, hobbies, and personal growth are shelved indefinitely. They’re not just bringing home the bacon; they’re the entire farm.

On the other side, the writer, theoretically freed to create, often carries a crushing weight of expectation. Every blank page feels like a failure. Every hour not spent writing feels like a betrayal of the sacrifice being made for them. The pressure to “make it” becomes immense, turning the creative process, which should be joyful, into a source of debilitating anxiety.

This imbalance isn’t just financial. It’s emotional, physical, and psychological.

• For the working partner: Resentment begins to brew. Why are their dreams less important? Why is their exhaustion not acknowledged? Loneliness can set in, as the shared life they once had slowly morphs into one person supporting another’s isolated pursuit.
• For the writer: Guilt gnaws. The fear of failure paralyzes. Self-doubt magnifies. The creative well, instead of being nurtured, can dry up under the immense pressure to justify the cost.

At What Point Does It Become a Breaking Point?

This is the critical question. When does a loving dedication transform into an unsustainable burden? It’s rarely a sudden explosion; it’s more often a slow, insidious erosion, like water carving a canyon.

The breaking point isn’t just about financial strain, though that’s a huge part of it. It’s when:

1. Communication ceases: Conversations become solely about bills, children, or the writer’s progress, with no room for personal connection, shared joys, or the working partner’s struggles.
2. Resentment openly festers: Passive-aggressive comments, silent treatments, or outright arguments become commonplace, revealing the deep-seated anger and frustration.
3. Physical and mental health deteriorates: The working partner is constantly exhausted, stressed, or depressed. The writer is crippled by anxiety, guilt, or isolation.
4. The “dream” becomes an excuse: When the creative project repeatedly fails to materialize, or shows no significant progress despite years of sacrifice, the partner may start to see it not as a dream, but as an endless deferment of a shared future.
5. A lack of reciprocity: The working partner realizes their sacrifice is not being met with gratitude, practical help (where possible), or a concrete plan for future balance, but rather an expectation of continued, uncritical support.
6. Loss of shared identity: The couple stops being a partnership and becomes a patron-artist dynamic, with clear roles but little give-and-take.

Finding a Sustainable Path Forward

So, is spousal patronage inherently bad? Not necessarily. But the extreme scenario of one partner working three jobs for years on end is almost certainly unsustainable and, frankly, unfair.

Instead of an all-or-nothing approach, consider a more balanced, communicative, and realistic path:

• Open and Honest Communication: Regularly discuss finances, progress, expectations, and most importantly, how both partners are feeling.
• Set Clear Timelines and Goals: “I’ll focus on writing for X months/years, and if it hasn’t generated income/interest by then, we’ll re-evaluate.” This provides a roadmap and reduces open-ended sacrifice.
• Shared Responsibility: Can the writer contribute in other ways? Part-time work, freelancing, managing the household, picking up childcare? Even a small income can alleviate significant pressure.
• Define Success Beyond Publication: Success can also mean completing a draft, getting positive feedback, or simply the joy of the creative process.
• Prioritize the Relationship: Remember why you’re together. Your shared life, well-being, and happiness should take precedence over any single project.

The journey of a writer is often long and arduous. Support is invaluable. But that support should never come at the cost of the supporter’s well-being, nor should it become an endless burden that ultimately breaks the very relationship it sought to nurture. True partnership means nurturing both the individual dreams and the collective future.

What are your thoughts? Have you experienced or witnessed similar situations? Share your perspective in the comments below.

Day 239

Patronage, good or bad

…

Three Jobs for One Dream: Is Patronage a Blessing or a Breaking Point?

Ah, the writer’s life. It’s often romanticized, conjuring images of solitary genius, ink-stained fingers, and profound insights emerging from quiet contemplation. But behind many of those published tomes and celebrated screenplays, there’s a less glamorous, often unspoken reality: the support system. Specifically, the partner who shoulders the financial burden, allowing the artist to pursue their muse.

This brings us to a crucial question that buzzes in the ears of many aspiring writers and their long-suffering loved ones: Is patronage for writers, particularly from a spouse, a noble sacrifice or a ticking time bomb?

The Romantic Ideal vs. The Hard Realities

Let’s start with the ideal. The notion that a spouse should work three jobs – the early morning shift, the afternoon grind, and the late-night gig – all to allow their other half to finally tackle that novel, screenplay, or poetry collection they’ve always dreamed of writing. On the surface, it speaks of deep love, unwavering belief, and a shared vision for a future where one partner’s creative potential is fully realized. It’s an echo of historical patronage, albeit a deeply personal and intimate one.

And sometimes, it works. Sometimes, that sacrifice leads to a breakthrough, a published work, and a shared sense of accomplishment that strengthens the bond. The story of the supportive partner becomes part of the legend, a testament to true love and artistic dedication.

But let’s be honest, those success stories are often the exception, not the rule. More frequently, this intense level of spousal patronage breeds a complex cocktail of emotions that can corrode the very foundation of a relationship.

The Weight of Expectation and the Erosion of Self

Imagine the partner working those three jobs. Their days are a blur of labor, their nights are for crashing, not connecting. Their own dreams, hobbies, and personal growth are shelved indefinitely. They’re not just bringing home the bacon; they’re the entire farm.

On the other side, the writer, theoretically freed to create, often carries a crushing weight of expectation. Every blank page feels like a failure. Every hour not spent writing feels like a betrayal of the sacrifice being made for them. The pressure to “make it” becomes immense, turning the creative process, which should be joyful, into a source of debilitating anxiety.

This imbalance isn’t just financial. It’s emotional, physical, and psychological.

• For the working partner: Resentment begins to brew. Why are their dreams less important? Why is their exhaustion not acknowledged? Loneliness can set in, as the shared life they once had slowly morphs into one person supporting another’s isolated pursuit.
• For the writer: Guilt gnaws. The fear of failure paralyzes. Self-doubt magnifies. The creative well, instead of being nurtured, can dry up under the immense pressure to justify the cost.

At What Point Does It Become a Breaking Point?

This is the critical question. When does a loving dedication transform into an unsustainable burden? It’s rarely a sudden explosion; it’s more often a slow, insidious erosion, like water carving a canyon.

The breaking point isn’t just about financial strain, though that’s a huge part of it. It’s when:

1. Communication ceases: Conversations become solely about bills, children, or the writer’s progress, with no room for personal connection, shared joys, or the working partner’s struggles.
2. Resentment openly festers: Passive-aggressive comments, silent treatments, or outright arguments become commonplace, revealing the deep-seated anger and frustration.
3. Physical and mental health deteriorates: The working partner is constantly exhausted, stressed, or depressed. The writer is crippled by anxiety, guilt, or isolation.
4. The “dream” becomes an excuse: When the creative project repeatedly fails to materialize, or shows no significant progress despite years of sacrifice, the partner may start to see it not as a dream, but as an endless deferment of a shared future.
5. A lack of reciprocity: The working partner realizes their sacrifice is not being met with gratitude, practical help (where possible), or a concrete plan for future balance, but rather an expectation of continued, uncritical support.
6. Loss of shared identity: The couple stops being a partnership and becomes a patron-artist dynamic, with clear roles but little give-and-take.

Finding a Sustainable Path Forward

So, is spousal patronage inherently bad? Not necessarily. But the extreme scenario of one partner working three jobs for years on end is almost certainly unsustainable and, frankly, unfair.

Instead of an all-or-nothing approach, consider a more balanced, communicative, and realistic path:

• Open and Honest Communication: Regularly discuss finances, progress, expectations, and most importantly, how both partners are feeling.
• Set Clear Timelines and Goals: “I’ll focus on writing for X months/years, and if it hasn’t generated income/interest by then, we’ll re-evaluate.” This provides a roadmap and reduces open-ended sacrifice.
• Shared Responsibility: Can the writer contribute in other ways? Part-time work, freelancing, managing the household, picking up childcare? Even a small income can alleviate significant pressure.
• Define Success Beyond Publication: Success can also mean completing a draft, getting positive feedback, or simply the joy of the creative process.
• Prioritize the Relationship: Remember why you’re together. Your shared life, well-being, and happiness should take precedence over any single project.

The journey of a writer is often long and arduous. Support is invaluable. But that support should never come at the cost of the supporter’s well-being, nor should it become an endless burden that ultimately breaks the very relationship it sought to nurture. True partnership means nurturing both the individual dreams and the collective future.

What are your thoughts? Have you experienced or witnessed similar situations? Share your perspective in the comments below.

Day 238

Writing exercise

…

She believed every one of his lies, the gaudier and more divorced from any semblance of possibility, the better.

….

Listening to her subject, John Terrance Wilkins Jamieson, the third, if you will, a name that in any other situation would have been one held in utter reverence, Amy quickly remembered the instructions of her handler.

‘Make him feel like you have his complete confidence, flatter him, feed the ego, draw the story out of him, it will come in layers, the first few, like topsoil, to be dug out and put aside, the next, the hard cover, the clay if you will. This will be hard to extract and require prompting, but not too much, and then, well, we shall see what we shall see.’

It hadn’t been that difficult. She knew the type, knew the levers to pull and the buttons to push, ever so gently. He was a man with a story, and he would tell it in his time, not hers, but it would come. It was not her job to sort the wheat from the chaff, just to be the one to dig.

They had been sitting in that room for an hour, she asking questions and he dodging them, making her the focus of the interview, and her bringing it back on track. Then it was time for a metaphorical yank…

“So, the people I represent are willing to pay, and pay a lot, for your story. But, and let me stress this one important point, they will pay only if I believe you have told me the truth. You’re probably thinking, I could tell this silly girl anything, and if I put just the right amount of emphasis and heart into it, I can make her believe anything. You probably could, if you wanted to, but you have to wonder, does she know anything about this? Is there more than one source? Does she know enough from all the peripheral information that is out there, truth and fiction?”

A little hardening of the tone, a little wariness creeping into his eyes. “Do you?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out. After all, you did ask for me, and I assume you believe that I have the credibility from previous stories that will give your story credence, set the narrative, as it were. You need me more than I need you, Mr Jamieson.”

He regarded her now with a degree of respect. “Call me John, please.”

“Wait an hour, and if I think you deserve it, I will.”

…

Jackson Jamieson, estranged father, said in an earlier interview when she was seeking background on the only son, one whom his father had hoped would take over the family business, not burn it to the ground. Shortly after that, his son had disappeared a few years back, but he still believed he was out there, somewhere. He did not recognise the man in the photo Amy had shown him, even though he had the same name. He didn’t have the scar running along the hairline on the left side of the forehead.

That was because it was not his son. Only a week before, the police had discovered that Jackson’s real son had died in a boating accident when John had been on holiday, and his remains, recently discovered and stored unidentified in a box in a lab, had a DNA test run on them, quite by accident. They had tested the wrong set of remains in another cold case. They were holding details of the remains’ identity until the fake Jackson was in custody.

As a result, the fake Jackson had been arrested, but only on the charge of impersonating a dead person, and by a quirk of fate, had been released from jail, and he had then disappeared. An APB went out, came across Amy’s desk, and she recognised Jackson as a man working as a barista at her usual coffee haunt.

She had gone to the police, but instead of arresting him, the devised a plan that would use her to get his story, and after a week, there were now in a special room, which she had described as an interview room for the media outlet she worked for, and she was going to record his story, just to make sure she didn’t get anything wrong.

And for the lead Detective on the case to step in in things got problematic.

They didn’t.

He simply wove a very believable story, woven into the fabric of the truth, what he believed to be the truth, and a set of lies, particularly well woven, from the moment he had gone overboard, hit his head, lost his memory, finally remembered who he was, and the everything that had happened from that point on was not his fault. He just happened to be in the same place at the same time, and there was nothing he could have done differently.

He took no responsibility, cursed his father as an angry, greedy, law-breaking monster who had perpetrated everything and dumped the blame on him. The only evidence the police had was his lies, and it was all circumstantial.

She believed him. She had one of those faces. And the training over the course of her career to make a subject feel at home, and safe, to tell their story in their own words, in their own time.

The story: complete and utter fairytale stuff, but she had to admit he was one of the best liars she had ever met. But as the saying goes, liars need to have good memories. It was clear that he and the real Jackson had spoken at length over the dealings with the father, and the feelings of inadequacy and inferiority forced upon him by the father; to an extent, it was almost like talking to the real Jackson.

But it was what he didn’t know about the real Jackson. The details his father and mother knew, the sort of detail the real Jackson would never have shared with anyone.

They reached the end of the interview, and Amy closed her notebook. She had been making notes and had a list of details and questions in her own particular brand of shorthand listed in it. She had seen him trying to read it, without looking like he could.

He was, nevertheless, quite confident he had won her over.

The door opened, and a man came into the room. John was immediately wary. “What are you?”

“The publisher’s Chief Editor. Just for the record, it everything you just told us the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

“Of course, why would I lie?”

“To save yourself from life imprisonment for murder. We found the real John’s body, and he was definitely murdered. Since you were the only two in the boat, which you claim he fell out of, we can assume you were there at the time of his death. A confession, Richard. That’s your real name, Richard Watkins. I am arresting you on the suspicion of murdering John Jamieson….”

Amy got her story, just not the one Richard hoped it would be.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 238

Writing exercise

…

She believed every one of his lies, the gaudier and more divorced from any semblance of possibility, the better.

….

Listening to her subject, John Terrance Wilkins Jamieson, the third, if you will, a name that in any other situation would have been one held in utter reverence, Amy quickly remembered the instructions of her handler.

‘Make him feel like you have his complete confidence, flatter him, feed the ego, draw the story out of him, it will come in layers, the first few, like topsoil, to be dug out and put aside, the next, the hard cover, the clay if you will. This will be hard to extract and require prompting, but not too much, and then, well, we shall see what we shall see.’

It hadn’t been that difficult. She knew the type, knew the levers to pull and the buttons to push, ever so gently. He was a man with a story, and he would tell it in his time, not hers, but it would come. It was not her job to sort the wheat from the chaff, just to be the one to dig.

They had been sitting in that room for an hour, she asking questions and he dodging them, making her the focus of the interview, and her bringing it back on track. Then it was time for a metaphorical yank…

“So, the people I represent are willing to pay, and pay a lot, for your story. But, and let me stress this one important point, they will pay only if I believe you have told me the truth. You’re probably thinking, I could tell this silly girl anything, and if I put just the right amount of emphasis and heart into it, I can make her believe anything. You probably could, if you wanted to, but you have to wonder, does she know anything about this? Is there more than one source? Does she know enough from all the peripheral information that is out there, truth and fiction?”

A little hardening of the tone, a little wariness creeping into his eyes. “Do you?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out. After all, you did ask for me, and I assume you believe that I have the credibility from previous stories that will give your story credence, set the narrative, as it were. You need me more than I need you, Mr Jamieson.”

He regarded her now with a degree of respect. “Call me John, please.”

“Wait an hour, and if I think you deserve it, I will.”

…

Jackson Jamieson, estranged father, said in an earlier interview when she was seeking background on the only son, one whom his father had hoped would take over the family business, not burn it to the ground. Shortly after that, his son had disappeared a few years back, but he still believed he was out there, somewhere. He did not recognise the man in the photo Amy had shown him, even though he had the same name. He didn’t have the scar running along the hairline on the left side of the forehead.

That was because it was not his son. Only a week before, the police had discovered that Jackson’s real son had died in a boating accident when John had been on holiday, and his remains, recently discovered and stored unidentified in a box in a lab, had a DNA test run on them, quite by accident. They had tested the wrong set of remains in another cold case. They were holding details of the remains’ identity until the fake Jackson was in custody.

As a result, the fake Jackson had been arrested, but only on the charge of impersonating a dead person, and by a quirk of fate, had been released from jail, and he had then disappeared. An APB went out, came across Amy’s desk, and she recognised Jackson as a man working as a barista at her usual coffee haunt.

She had gone to the police, but instead of arresting him, the devised a plan that would use her to get his story, and after a week, there were now in a special room, which she had described as an interview room for the media outlet she worked for, and she was going to record his story, just to make sure she didn’t get anything wrong.

And for the lead Detective on the case to step in in things got problematic.

They didn’t.

He simply wove a very believable story, woven into the fabric of the truth, what he believed to be the truth, and a set of lies, particularly well woven, from the moment he had gone overboard, hit his head, lost his memory, finally remembered who he was, and the everything that had happened from that point on was not his fault. He just happened to be in the same place at the same time, and there was nothing he could have done differently.

He took no responsibility, cursed his father as an angry, greedy, law-breaking monster who had perpetrated everything and dumped the blame on him. The only evidence the police had was his lies, and it was all circumstantial.

She believed him. She had one of those faces. And the training over the course of her career to make a subject feel at home, and safe, to tell their story in their own words, in their own time.

The story: complete and utter fairytale stuff, but she had to admit he was one of the best liars she had ever met. But as the saying goes, liars need to have good memories. It was clear that he and the real Jackson had spoken at length over the dealings with the father, and the feelings of inadequacy and inferiority forced upon him by the father; to an extent, it was almost like talking to the real Jackson.

But it was what he didn’t know about the real Jackson. The details his father and mother knew, the sort of detail the real Jackson would never have shared with anyone.

They reached the end of the interview, and Amy closed her notebook. She had been making notes and had a list of details and questions in her own particular brand of shorthand listed in it. She had seen him trying to read it, without looking like he could.

He was, nevertheless, quite confident he had won her over.

The door opened, and a man came into the room. John was immediately wary. “What are you?”

“The publisher’s Chief Editor. Just for the record, it everything you just told us the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

“Of course, why would I lie?”

“To save yourself from life imprisonment for murder. We found the real John’s body, and he was definitely murdered. Since you were the only two in the boat, which you claim he fell out of, we can assume you were there at the time of his death. A confession, Richard. That’s your real name, Richard Watkins. I am arresting you on the suspicion of murdering John Jamieson….”

Amy got her story, just not the one Richard hoped it would be.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 237

Working on what pays, not necessarily what you would like to be working on

…

The Writer’s Dilemma: Why the Money-Paying Tale Often Takes Center Stage (and What It Means for Your Craft)

Every writer knows this internal monologue. It’s late, the house is quiet, and the cursor blinks expectantly. Before you, on one screen, is the outline for that sprawling, genre-bending novel that called you to writing in the first place – your magnum opus, your heart project. On another tab, emails from a client remind you of the looming deadline for that article on “The Top 10 Uses for Biodegradable Sponges” or that ghostwritten piece on “Modern Pet Grooming Techniques.”

And if you’re like many authors, the biodegradable sponges often win.

It’s a source of quiet guilt for some, a pragmatic acceptance for others, but the question remains: Why is it often postulated that it’s better to work on the money-paying tales, rather than the serious writing that sparked your passion, or that beloved pet project? Let’s peel back the layers of this very real writer’s dilemma.

1. The Unsexy Truth: Bills Don’t Pay Themselves

This is, overwhelmingly, the primary driver. Writing, for most, isn’t a guaranteed goldmine, especially when you’re starting out or delving into niche literary fiction. While the dream is to live off your art, the reality is that rent, groceries, internet bills, and – let’s be honest – that ever-growing coffee habit, require immediate, tangible income.

Money-paying tales – be it freelance articles, copywriting gigs, ghostwriting assignments, or even genre fiction with a reliable market – offer a more predictable cash flow. They keep the lights on, the laptop charged, and food on the table. Without this foundational stability, the mental and emotional space required for deeply serious, often financially unrewarding, creative work becomes almost impossible to cultivate.

2. Sharpening the Axe: Professionalism and Practice

Think of money-paying projects not as a distraction, but as a different kind of training. Even if the subject matter isn’t your passion, these gigs offer invaluable professional development:

• Meeting Deadlines: A crucial skill for any published author, even in the literary world.
• Adhering to Briefs/Guidelines: Learning to work within constraints hones your precision and adaptability.
• Understanding Your Audience: Every paying gig requires you to write for a specific reader, which is a transferable skill for any type of writing.
• Honing Craft: Whether it’s crafting compelling sentences, structuring arguments, or developing clear prose, every word you write is practice. Even “mundane” writing can teach you about flow, conciseness, and impact.
• Building a Reputation: Delivering quality work consistently, even on commercial projects, establishes you as a reliable and professional writer. This professional goodwill can open doors later.

Sometimes, the very act of writing anything takes the pressure off. Your “serious” work can feel monumental, intimidating. A paying gig, while perhaps less creatively fulfilling, can be a welcome change of pace, a chance to simply put words on a page without the intense emotional investment.

3. Building the Foundation (and the Platform)

For many, the “money tales” are a strategic investment in their larger writing career.

• Financial Runway: Earning money now means you might save up enough to take dedicated time off later to really immerse yourself in your passion project without immediate financial pressure.
• Publishing Credits: Even if it’s not the type of writing you ultimately want to be famous for, any published work builds a portfolio. It shows you’re a working writer, capable of producing content.
• Networking: Commercial projects often connect you with editors, publishers, and other industry professionals. These connections can be invaluable when you eventually pitch your more serious work.
• Market Intelligence: Working on commercially viable projects gives you a direct line to understanding what sells, what the market demands, and how publishing houses operate. This insight, while not dictating your art, can be useful for strategizing the release of your passion project.

4. The Creative Tug-of-War: Balancing Act, Not Betrayal

It’s natural to feel a pang of guilt or a sense of creative betrayal when you prioritize a paying gig over your deep-seated artistic ambitions. However, many authors view this not as an either/or, but as a strategic balancing act.

• Allocate Time: Dedicate specific hours or days to your passion project, even if it’s just 30 minutes a day. Consistency is key.
• Refuel Your Muse: Sometimes, the “light” work of a commercial gig can be less creatively draining than wrestling with your masterpiece, leaving you with more energy for your passion project when you do turn to it.
• Remember Your “Why”: Keep a tangible reminder of your larger goal – a sticky note, a vision board, a printed outline. This helps combat the feeling of drift.

In essence, for many, working on money-paying tales isn’t a surrender of artistic integrity, but a practical, often necessary, step on the path to sustaining a writing life. It’s about building a solid foundation, sharpening the tools of the trade, and sometimes, simply ensuring you have the time and resources to eventually tell the stories that truly matter most to your heart.

It’s a marathon, not a sprint, and sometimes the best way to keep running is to earn a little cash along the way.

---

What’s your take on this writer’s dilemma? How do you balance the demands of paying work with your passion projects? Share your strategies and insights in the comments below!

Day 237

Working on what pays, not necessarily what you would like to be working on

…

The Writer’s Dilemma: Why the Money-Paying Tale Often Takes Center Stage (and What It Means for Your Craft)

Every writer knows this internal monologue. It’s late, the house is quiet, and the cursor blinks expectantly. Before you, on one screen, is the outline for that sprawling, genre-bending novel that called you to writing in the first place – your magnum opus, your heart project. On another tab, emails from a client remind you of the looming deadline for that article on “The Top 10 Uses for Biodegradable Sponges” or that ghostwritten piece on “Modern Pet Grooming Techniques.”

And if you’re like many authors, the biodegradable sponges often win.

It’s a source of quiet guilt for some, a pragmatic acceptance for others, but the question remains: Why is it often postulated that it’s better to work on the money-paying tales, rather than the serious writing that sparked your passion, or that beloved pet project? Let’s peel back the layers of this very real writer’s dilemma.

1. The Unsexy Truth: Bills Don’t Pay Themselves

This is, overwhelmingly, the primary driver. Writing, for most, isn’t a guaranteed goldmine, especially when you’re starting out or delving into niche literary fiction. While the dream is to live off your art, the reality is that rent, groceries, internet bills, and – let’s be honest – that ever-growing coffee habit, require immediate, tangible income.

Money-paying tales – be it freelance articles, copywriting gigs, ghostwriting assignments, or even genre fiction with a reliable market – offer a more predictable cash flow. They keep the lights on, the laptop charged, and food on the table. Without this foundational stability, the mental and emotional space required for deeply serious, often financially unrewarding, creative work becomes almost impossible to cultivate.

2. Sharpening the Axe: Professionalism and Practice

Think of money-paying projects not as a distraction, but as a different kind of training. Even if the subject matter isn’t your passion, these gigs offer invaluable professional development:

• Meeting Deadlines: A crucial skill for any published author, even in the literary world.
• Adhering to Briefs/Guidelines: Learning to work within constraints hones your precision and adaptability.
• Understanding Your Audience: Every paying gig requires you to write for a specific reader, which is a transferable skill for any type of writing.
• Honing Craft: Whether it’s crafting compelling sentences, structuring arguments, or developing clear prose, every word you write is practice. Even “mundane” writing can teach you about flow, conciseness, and impact.
• Building a Reputation: Delivering quality work consistently, even on commercial projects, establishes you as a reliable and professional writer. This professional goodwill can open doors later.

Sometimes, the very act of writing anything takes the pressure off. Your “serious” work can feel monumental, intimidating. A paying gig, while perhaps less creatively fulfilling, can be a welcome change of pace, a chance to simply put words on a page without the intense emotional investment.

3. Building the Foundation (and the Platform)

For many, the “money tales” are a strategic investment in their larger writing career.

• Financial Runway: Earning money now means you might save up enough to take dedicated time off later to really immerse yourself in your passion project without immediate financial pressure.
• Publishing Credits: Even if it’s not the type of writing you ultimately want to be famous for, any published work builds a portfolio. It shows you’re a working writer, capable of producing content.
• Networking: Commercial projects often connect you with editors, publishers, and other industry professionals. These connections can be invaluable when you eventually pitch your more serious work.
• Market Intelligence: Working on commercially viable projects gives you a direct line to understanding what sells, what the market demands, and how publishing houses operate. This insight, while not dictating your art, can be useful for strategizing the release of your passion project.

4. The Creative Tug-of-War: Balancing Act, Not Betrayal

It’s natural to feel a pang of guilt or a sense of creative betrayal when you prioritize a paying gig over your deep-seated artistic ambitions. However, many authors view this not as an either/or, but as a strategic balancing act.

• Allocate Time: Dedicate specific hours or days to your passion project, even if it’s just 30 minutes a day. Consistency is key.
• Refuel Your Muse: Sometimes, the “light” work of a commercial gig can be less creatively draining than wrestling with your masterpiece, leaving you with more energy for your passion project when you do turn to it.
• Remember Your “Why”: Keep a tangible reminder of your larger goal – a sticky note, a vision board, a printed outline. This helps combat the feeling of drift.

In essence, for many, working on money-paying tales isn’t a surrender of artistic integrity, but a practical, often necessary, step on the path to sustaining a writing life. It’s about building a solid foundation, sharpening the tools of the trade, and sometimes, simply ensuring you have the time and resources to eventually tell the stories that truly matter most to your heart.

It’s a marathon, not a sprint, and sometimes the best way to keep running is to earn a little cash along the way.

---

What’s your take on this writer’s dilemma? How do you balance the demands of paying work with your passion projects? Share your strategies and insights in the comments below!

Day 235 and Day 236

Imagine a story about an affair that disrupts the life of a married couple.

…

I put the phone down and leaned back in the chair.

It was not what I expected, and then it was.  I just didn’t think I’d get to hear about it.

And it was nothing I did that precipitated the call.  That came from someone else, a person I was not pleased with.  Saying they would do something after I said I didn’t care showed poor judgment.

I could understand why they did, and in other circumstances, I would probably not feel as bad, but their actions had forced my hand.

“Sir?”

James, the butler who had served my father, then me, the very soul of discretion, looked over from the sideboard.

The question, in not so many words, was whether I wanted a drink, not whether I needed one.  The truth was, I needed one.

A nod in his direction, he put ice in a crystal glass and poured a small quantity of Scotch into it.  He placed it on a tray and brought it over.

“Thank you, James.  That will be all.”

“Yes, sir.  Good night, sir.”

Silence reigned after the door closed for a few minutes before my cell phone, sitting on the armrest of the chair, buzzed.

I looked at the screen.  “Cecily.”

My sister was calling.  Why?  Our business was concluded the week before, and she had promised not to call me unless it was absolutely necessary.  She wanted to run the company her way, and I was happy for her to do so.

I shrugged and answered it.

“Yes, Cecily?”

“I just had a strange call from Jack Burroughs.”

Jack Burroughs was the Chief Financial Officer.  He moved in strange, or what I called strange, circles.  He was also just a little strange himself, but work-related, he was a genius.

“He is strange, Cecily.”

“He told me he saw Margaret in a …” and then didn’t, or couldn’t bring herself to use the words.

I didn’t think she knew that Burroughs was gay simply because he didn’t identify as one. 

“He saw her at Moreno’s.”  Moreno’s was an obscure bar that celebrities sometimes went to so they would not make the media headlines. When I didn’t answer immediately, she took a deep breath, then said, “You know?”

“I got a call from someone else.”

“What is she doing there?”

“What do you think she is doing there?”

Silence as she grappled with the ramifications.

“So, you knew that she was…?”

“I suspected.  She told me before we married that she had been in a relationship with a girl, and it wasn’t who she thought she was.  Seems it’s not the case, and they’re back together.”

“What are you going to do?”

“It’s done.  I’m no longer part of the company or anything.  There’s the prenuptial you insisted on, so no one is walking away from this with anything.  It hasn’t been much of a relationship for nearly six months now, so I’m going to break the news that there’s no more money and we’re moving to the log cabin, courtesy of your generosity.”

“Oh.  Make me the bad guy.”

“You’ll make such a good one.  Don’t worry yourself.  I’m disappointed, but it’s not unexpected.  And I’ll get over it.  I am going to the log cabin, by the way, in the next few days.”

“OK.  Call me if you need anything.”

She took it better than I thought she would.

…

I waited.

I thought about watching a movie or reading a book, but in the end, I decided to do some reading of a different sort.  I had been sent a prospectus and background paper on a new concept car, one that wasn’t going to destroy the world.

By the time I got through to the end, three hundred pages of technical details that I would have to pass to the research department, I heard the front door open and close.

Frances had returned.

I looked at the clock, and it was 3:13 in the morning.

I heard her take that first step up the staircase to the room, then stopped.  Perhaps she had seen the light under the door in the sitting room.

A moment later, she appeared in the doorway.  She still had that ability to make my heart miss a beat every time I saw her.

I wondered then I’d she ever really loved me.

“You’re up late.”

“Reading, lost track of time.”

“Oh.”  She came in and sat opposite me, slightly askew on the chair.  She never really sat properly in the chair or any chair.

“Did you have a good night?”

She had said she was going out with some of her old friends from school days, and technically, she was not lying.

“I did.”  She gave me a curious look.  “Eloise was there.”

Eloise was the previous girlfriend.  I had our legal department check up on her, and she was one of those people whose private life was private.  She wasn’t married, had male friends, but was financially independent.

I never understood why she had picked Margaret as her lover, but I  freely admit I didn’t know much about love.

“You did say they were your old friends.  Was she happy to see you?”

Again, another curious look, though this time, is more wary.

She sighed.  “How long have you known?” 

“Long enough.  And before you say anything, I’m not surprised.  I haven’t really been there for you of late.  I’m sorry.”

“Who told you?”

“Would you believe me?”

“Eloise.”

“She said you were unhappy when you ran into each other.  It just grew from there.  She said she had never stopped loving you.  I can see why.”

“She asked me to come back.”

“And?”

“I am married to you.  You are my husband, and people have expectations.  You might have expectations.”

I shrugged.  “Maybe once upon a time, but now?  I’m no longer working for the company or any part of it.  Everything I had, the company owned.  If you so desire, you can leave without regret.  There’s nothing more for you to do.”

“You’ll still be that many about town.”

“No.  You’ll find that once people discover you have nothing, no job, no wealth, no status, they simply stop calling and stop inviting.  Cecily had offered me the use of a log cabin my father used to go to when he needed a few days away.  Montana or Wyoming or some such place.”

“Are you alright?  I mean, the company and everything.  It’s your life.”

“Not any more.  It’s Cecily’s now.  Everything.”

“When?”

“About two months ago.  When I realised that whatever we had was over.  Like I said, I don’t blame you.  I did to you what my father did to my mother.  Things are a little different in my case.  You found someone else to fill that void.  My mother simply killed herself.”

It had been preventable, and I had blamed my father for it.  It culminated in the argument that killed him.  Yelling at me, he had a heart attack and dropped dead in front of me.  I hadn’t recovered from that, but bounced into this relationship, then married, and some could say it was doomed from the start.

“I’m sorry.  Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know.  I was trying to get past it, but instead of sharing, I just threw myself into the job.  There was no need to burden yourself with my problems.”

She shook her head.  “That was silly.  I made the commitment and would have helped in any way I could.  It might have brought us closer together.”

“Or pushed you away.  You can not change who you are, Frances.  It will always be there, and if you have to fight it, it will eventually be a fight you will lose.  I don’t want that for you.”

“But what about you?”

“I’m fine. I’ll get to read the classic, sit by a light fire, catch and eat food that is fresh, not supermarket fresh.  The fresh mountain air, well, that might kill me or cure me.”

She sat, the conversation seemingly over, adjusting her dress and then readjusting it as if something was not quite right.  I knew she preferred tank tops, short skirts, and jeans to the expensive clothes she believed she had to wear.

“I can stay, if you like.  Go up to the cabin, wherever it is.  Are there bears and snakes?”

“Probably.  You don’t have to, but you can’t stay here.  You can take what’s yours, though, but it will have to be before the end of the week.”

She gave me a steely look.  “Then it’s over, we’re over?”

“Yes.  You should have told me, Frances.  I deserved at least that much.”

“I know.  I’m sorry.”

There was another knock on the door.  For the hour of the morning, it was quite busy.

James came out to open it, then ushered the visitor in.  Eloise.

I saw Frances glance at her and mouth the words, “Why are you here?”

“I’ve come to take Frances home.”  She said it in a tone that suggested she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

I looked at her.  “I have no objection if that’s what you think.  Frances has always been free to decide what she wants to do.  I only asked if she was intending to get into trouble, that she be discreet.”

“It has always been so

“Until you went to Moreno’s, which was a calculated move on your part.  Whatever your reasons, it was wasted effort.  I have nothing, I own nothing, nor does Frances.”

“It was not about the money,” Frances said, looking at Eloise, and her expression was priceless.  “Was it?”

Eloise looked at me.  “You’re in the top one hundred richest men in the country.  You can’t tell me that just disappeared overnight.”

“No, you’re right, it didn’t.  That happened last week when I signed the final documents to give it all to my sister Cecily.  I had reached the end of my association, and the company rules state that I could only be in charge for five years, at the end of which I have to walk away.  I didn’t have to forgo my personal wealth during the process, but having it all wasn’t the same as having everything.  Frances, according to her agreement, will be equally as penniless the moment she walks out of this apartment.  She now owns as much as I do.  Nothing. I truly hope you were not asking her to come back because she was about to become a billionaire.”

Judging by the expression on Eloise’s face, I think that was exactly what she believed.

Eloise swivelled on Frances.  “Is this true?”

“Why does it matter?”

“You are entitled to half of everything he had, prenuptial or not.  Even your lawyers would…”

And there she stopped, perhaps realising what she had said and done, because Frances was greatly surprised, and her expression, to me, didn’t augur well for their relationship lasting.

Her tone was soft, and there was a slight tremor in her voice. Perhaps now the full realisation of Eloise’s intent was clear,  “Even if I didn’t divorce him, there was never any money.  There never was because I never needed it.  I had nice things, but they were never mine, and I have no claim on them, nor would I want to.  I told you a while back that I’ve had enough of the high life.  Now I think I would prefer to embrace the country air in Wyoming.”

Perhaps Eloise, too, was beginning to see what the reality of the situation was.  I got the impression Frances had tried to tell her, and she wouldn’t listen. 

“I thought…” Eloise began.

“She was about to become mega-rich?” I finished the sentence for her.  “No.”

I could see the expression on Frances’ face change from surprise, to shock, to something bordering on anger, if not rage.  And come to the same conclusion about the same time I did. 

“You didn’t just run into me, did you?”  Frances said, so quietly I almost missed it.

“You’re a silly girl who will never have anything.  Not unless you stand up for yourself.  I’ll show myself out.”

We both watched her leave.

…

©  Charles Heath 2025

Day 235 and Day 236

Imagine a story about an affair that disrupts the life of a married couple.

…

I put the phone down and leaned back in the chair.

It was not what I expected, and then it was.  I just didn’t think I’d get to hear about it.

And it was nothing I did that precipitated the call.  That came from someone else, a person I was not pleased with.  Saying they would do something after I said I didn’t care showed poor judgment.

I could understand why they did, and in other circumstances, I would probably not feel as bad, but their actions had forced my hand.

“Sir?”

James, the butler who had served my father, then me, the very soul of discretion, looked over from the sideboard.

The question, in not so many words, was whether I wanted a drink, not whether I needed one.  The truth was, I needed one.

A nod in his direction, he put ice in a crystal glass and poured a small quantity of Scotch into it.  He placed it on a tray and brought it over.

“Thank you, James.  That will be all.”

“Yes, sir.  Good night, sir.”

Silence reigned after the door closed for a few minutes before my cell phone, sitting on the armrest of the chair, buzzed.

I looked at the screen.  “Cecily.”

My sister was calling.  Why?  Our business was concluded the week before, and she had promised not to call me unless it was absolutely necessary.  She wanted to run the company her way, and I was happy for her to do so.

I shrugged and answered it.

“Yes, Cecily?”

“I just had a strange call from Jack Burroughs.”

Jack Burroughs was the Chief Financial Officer.  He moved in strange, or what I called strange, circles.  He was also just a little strange himself, but work-related, he was a genius.

“He is strange, Cecily.”

“He told me he saw Margaret in a …” and then didn’t, or couldn’t bring herself to use the words.

I didn’t think she knew that Burroughs was gay simply because he didn’t identify as one. 

“He saw her at Moreno’s.”  Moreno’s was an obscure bar that celebrities sometimes went to so they would not make the media headlines. When I didn’t answer immediately, she took a deep breath, then said, “You know?”

“I got a call from someone else.”

“What is she doing there?”

“What do you think she is doing there?”

Silence as she grappled with the ramifications.

“So, you knew that she was…?”

“I suspected.  She told me before we married that she had been in a relationship with a girl, and it wasn’t who she thought she was.  Seems it’s not the case, and they’re back together.”

“What are you going to do?”

“It’s done.  I’m no longer part of the company or anything.  There’s the prenuptial you insisted on, so no one is walking away from this with anything.  It hasn’t been much of a relationship for nearly six months now, so I’m going to break the news that there’s no more money and we’re moving to the log cabin, courtesy of your generosity.”

“Oh.  Make me the bad guy.”

“You’ll make such a good one.  Don’t worry yourself.  I’m disappointed, but it’s not unexpected.  And I’ll get over it.  I am going to the log cabin, by the way, in the next few days.”

“OK.  Call me if you need anything.”

She took it better than I thought she would.

…

I waited.

I thought about watching a movie or reading a book, but in the end, I decided to do some reading of a different sort.  I had been sent a prospectus and background paper on a new concept car, one that wasn’t going to destroy the world.

By the time I got through to the end, three hundred pages of technical details that I would have to pass to the research department, I heard the front door open and close.

Frances had returned.

I looked at the clock, and it was 3:13 in the morning.

I heard her take that first step up the staircase to the room, then stopped.  Perhaps she had seen the light under the door in the sitting room.

A moment later, she appeared in the doorway.  She still had that ability to make my heart miss a beat every time I saw her.

I wondered then I’d she ever really loved me.

“You’re up late.”

“Reading, lost track of time.”

“Oh.”  She came in and sat opposite me, slightly askew on the chair.  She never really sat properly in the chair or any chair.

“Did you have a good night?”

She had said she was going out with some of her old friends from school days, and technically, she was not lying.

“I did.”  She gave me a curious look.  “Eloise was there.”

Eloise was the previous girlfriend.  I had our legal department check up on her, and she was one of those people whose private life was private.  She wasn’t married, had male friends, but was financially independent.

I never understood why she had picked Margaret as her lover, but I  freely admit I didn’t know much about love.

“You did say they were your old friends.  Was she happy to see you?”

Again, another curious look, though this time, is more wary.

She sighed.  “How long have you known?” 

“Long enough.  And before you say anything, I’m not surprised.  I haven’t really been there for you of late.  I’m sorry.”

“Who told you?”

“Would you believe me?”

“Eloise.”

“She said you were unhappy when you ran into each other.  It just grew from there.  She said she had never stopped loving you.  I can see why.”

“She asked me to come back.”

“And?”

“I am married to you.  You are my husband, and people have expectations.  You might have expectations.”

I shrugged.  “Maybe once upon a time, but now?  I’m no longer working for the company or any part of it.  Everything I had, the company owned.  If you so desire, you can leave without regret.  There’s nothing more for you to do.”

“You’ll still be that many about town.”

“No.  You’ll find that once people discover you have nothing, no job, no wealth, no status, they simply stop calling and stop inviting.  Cecily had offered me the use of a log cabin my father used to go to when he needed a few days away.  Montana or Wyoming or some such place.”

“Are you alright?  I mean, the company and everything.  It’s your life.”

“Not any more.  It’s Cecily’s now.  Everything.”

“When?”

“About two months ago.  When I realised that whatever we had was over.  Like I said, I don’t blame you.  I did to you what my father did to my mother.  Things are a little different in my case.  You found someone else to fill that void.  My mother simply killed herself.”

It had been preventable, and I had blamed my father for it.  It culminated in the argument that killed him.  Yelling at me, he had a heart attack and dropped dead in front of me.  I hadn’t recovered from that, but bounced into this relationship, then married, and some could say it was doomed from the start.

“I’m sorry.  Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know.  I was trying to get past it, but instead of sharing, I just threw myself into the job.  There was no need to burden yourself with my problems.”

She shook her head.  “That was silly.  I made the commitment and would have helped in any way I could.  It might have brought us closer together.”

“Or pushed you away.  You can not change who you are, Frances.  It will always be there, and if you have to fight it, it will eventually be a fight you will lose.  I don’t want that for you.”

“But what about you?”

“I’m fine. I’ll get to read the classic, sit by a light fire, catch and eat food that is fresh, not supermarket fresh.  The fresh mountain air, well, that might kill me or cure me.”

She sat, the conversation seemingly over, adjusting her dress and then readjusting it as if something was not quite right.  I knew she preferred tank tops, short skirts, and jeans to the expensive clothes she believed she had to wear.

“I can stay, if you like.  Go up to the cabin, wherever it is.  Are there bears and snakes?”

“Probably.  You don’t have to, but you can’t stay here.  You can take what’s yours, though, but it will have to be before the end of the week.”

She gave me a steely look.  “Then it’s over, we’re over?”

“Yes.  You should have told me, Frances.  I deserved at least that much.”

“I know.  I’m sorry.”

There was another knock on the door.  For the hour of the morning, it was quite busy.

James came out to open it, then ushered the visitor in.  Eloise.

I saw Frances glance at her and mouth the words, “Why are you here?”

“I’ve come to take Frances home.”  She said it in a tone that suggested she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

I looked at her.  “I have no objection if that’s what you think.  Frances has always been free to decide what she wants to do.  I only asked if she was intending to get into trouble, that she be discreet.”

“It has always been so

“Until you went to Moreno’s, which was a calculated move on your part.  Whatever your reasons, it was wasted effort.  I have nothing, I own nothing, nor does Frances.”

“It was not about the money,” Frances said, looking at Eloise, and her expression was priceless.  “Was it?”

Eloise looked at me.  “You’re in the top one hundred richest men in the country.  You can’t tell me that just disappeared overnight.”

“No, you’re right, it didn’t.  That happened last week when I signed the final documents to give it all to my sister Cecily.  I had reached the end of my association, and the company rules state that I could only be in charge for five years, at the end of which I have to walk away.  I didn’t have to forgo my personal wealth during the process, but having it all wasn’t the same as having everything.  Frances, according to her agreement, will be equally as penniless the moment she walks out of this apartment.  She now owns as much as I do.  Nothing. I truly hope you were not asking her to come back because she was about to become a billionaire.”

Judging by the expression on Eloise’s face, I think that was exactly what she believed.

Eloise swivelled on Frances.  “Is this true?”

“Why does it matter?”

“You are entitled to half of everything he had, prenuptial or not.  Even your lawyers would…”

And there she stopped, perhaps realising what she had said and done, because Frances was greatly surprised, and her expression, to me, didn’t augur well for their relationship lasting.

Her tone was soft, and there was a slight tremor in her voice. Perhaps now the full realisation of Eloise’s intent was clear,  “Even if I didn’t divorce him, there was never any money.  There never was because I never needed it.  I had nice things, but they were never mine, and I have no claim on them, nor would I want to.  I told you a while back that I’ve had enough of the high life.  Now I think I would prefer to embrace the country air in Wyoming.”

Perhaps Eloise, too, was beginning to see what the reality of the situation was.  I got the impression Frances had tried to tell her, and she wouldn’t listen. 

“I thought…” Eloise began.

“She was about to become mega-rich?” I finished the sentence for her.  “No.”

I could see the expression on Frances’ face change from surprise, to shock, to something bordering on anger, if not rage.  And come to the same conclusion about the same time I did. 

“You didn’t just run into me, did you?”  Frances said, so quietly I almost missed it.

“You’re a silly girl who will never have anything.  Not unless you stand up for yourself.  I’ll show myself out.”

We both watched her leave.

…

©  Charles Heath 2025