365 Days of writing, 2026 – 173

Day 173 – The unrelenting thriller

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Grab ’Em by the Throat: How to Write an Unrelenting Thriller

Legendary director Billy Wilder, the man behind Double Indemnity and Sunset Boulevard, had a simple, brutal piece of advice for storytellers: “Grab ’em by the throat and never let ’em go.”

In the world of thrillers, this isn’t just a stylistic choice—it is a functional necessity. If the reader stops to breathe, they might realise they’re holding a book. If they catch their breath, they might put it down to do the dishes or check their phone.

To create a truly unrelenting thriller, you have to treat your narrative like a chokehold. Here is how you master the grip.

1. The Hook isn’t a Suggestion—It’s a Siege

Most writers open with a scene-setter, a bit of atmosphere, or a slow burn. In an unrelenting thriller, that is a death sentence for your pacing.

Do not start with the protagonist waking up. Start with the moment their world shatters. Start with the body in the trunk, the phone call that shouldn’t be happening, or the gun pointed at their chest. The “throat-grabbing” begins on the very first page. If you spend three chapters building up to the inciting incident, you’ve already lost the reader’s adrenaline.

2. High Stakes, Higher Costs

An unrelenting thriller requires constant pressure. But pressure is meaningless if the protagonist has nothing to lose.

To keep the reader breathless, every decision your protagonist makes must cost them something. If they escape one trap, they should lose a vital tool, a piece of information, or a loved one in the process. Never let a victory be a clean one. By constantly stripping away their defences, you make the reader feel the desperation you’re trying to convey.

3. Kill the “Lull”

In screenwriting, we often talk about “beats.” In a thriller, these beats should feel like a rhythmic thumping—a heartbeat that never slows down.

If you find yourself writing a scene where two characters sit down for a long conversation to “explain the plot,” rewrite it. Move the scene to a moving vehicle. Put them in a building that’s burning down. The setting should always be working against the characters. If the scene is about information, make the delivery of that information dangerous.

4. The Principle of “Worst Case Scenario”

Whenever your protagonist thinks they’ve found a solution, present them with an even more terrifying problem.

This is the “never let ’em go” part of the Wilder philosophy. An unrelenting thriller is a series of escalating complications. Think of a staircase: every time the hero reaches a landing, they realise the stairs ahead are crumbling. Don’t give them a moment to process the last trauma before throwing the next one at them.

5. Short Sentences, Sharp Prose

The way you write affects the way the reader breathes. When you want the pace to accelerate, shorten your sentences. Use punchy, active verbs. Eliminate the modifiers that slow down the eye.

The long, winding, reflective sentence acts as a meditative pause, allowing the reader to lean back in their chair.
But this? This hits.

Use white space. Give the reader paragraphs that look like jagged shards of glass. It forces the reader’s eyes to move faster down the page, subconsciously mimicking the frantic pace of the plot.

6. The Psychological Clamp

Finally, remember that the most intense thrillers are internal. The reader needs to be gripped not just by the external danger, but by the protagonist’s psyche. We need to feel their sweat, their racing heart, and their irrational fear. Connect the reader’s nerves directly to the protagonist’s nervous system.

When your character is terrified, the reader should be checking the locks on their own doors.

The Takeaway

Billy Wilder knew that audiences are fickle. They want to be entertained, but more importantly, they want to be possessed by a story.

To write an unrelenting thriller, you must be a ruthless architect of tension. Stop being polite to your characters. Stop saving them. Keep the pressure on, keep the stakes rising, and keep your hands locked firmly around the reader’s attention span.

Don’t let go until the final period.

…

The 2 a.m. Rant: The march of progress inevitably destroys the past.

There is this thing called the march of progress.

It can be good, or it can be bad.

But the inevitability of it means that we have to destroy our past in order to build for the future. It’s a pity no one around a hundred years ago worked out that a certain amount of land needed to be set aside for future infrastructure, and then built around it.

The pity of it is that those same practices are with us now, and unfortunately, either the infrastructure is too costly to build because of the necessity to buy back, or it will never change. No one, sadly, is thinking of the future.

So, all I have of my childhood years, some fifty to sixty years ago, is memories, and when I go, they will be lost forever.

I remember, a long time ago now, the many holidays I spent at my grandmother’s place in the ‘country’. Back then, it was.

Now it is just another suburb of Melbourne.

I remember the drive, and it used to take about half an hour, perhaps longer, and as we travelled, it was mostly the countryside we saw. Little towns like Beaconsfield, Officer, and Berwick are oases in the middle of farming land.

The last time I went for that same drive, there were endless houses.

My grandmother’s house was very large, and the land it was built on was extensive. There used to be gardens, several garages, several old cars, and a huge workshop.

My brother and I used to spend our Christmases exploring, and on a particular one, we found some tools and decided to recover some of them.

We found a huge fountain buried beneath the overgrowth, the centrepiece a statue, part of what must have been a remarkable display.

It was like we had our own secret garden.

There was also a fernery, also overgrown.

Now, sadly, all of it is gone, and in its place is a multilane highway that follows an alternate coastal route between Melbourne and Sydney.

All I have left are the memories of a time that will never return.

Perhaps it’s time to write it all down and preserve it for future generations.

What I learned about writing – Show, Don’t Tell: Painting Pictures with Your Words

We’ve all heard the writing advice: “Don’t use adjectives to describe.” It sounds like a recipe for bland, uninspired prose. “I feel terrible,” or “It was a delightful surprise” – these phrases are so common, they barely register. The instruction isn’t to eliminate description, but to evolve it. The real challenge, and immense reward, lies in crafting your words so that your reader experiences the feeling you want to convey, arriving at their own perfect description.

Think of yourself as a painter, not a labeller. A painter doesn’t just write “sad” over a canvas. They blend blues and greys, create drooping lines, and shade in hollows under the eyes. They evoke sadness through imagery, through the subtle manipulation of colour and form. Your words are your brushstrokes.

So, how do you achieve this evocative power? It’s about engaging your reader’s senses and emotions, and letting them do the heavy lifting. Here’s how to move beyond tired adjectives and paint vivid pictures that resonate:

1. Embrace Sensory Details: The Five Pillars of Experience

Adjectives often serve as a shortcut to describe a sensory input. Instead of saying something was “loud,” show the impact of that loudness.

Instead of: The music was loud.
Try: The bass vibrated through the floorboards, rattling the glassware on the counter. My ears rang long after the final chord.

This immediately tells the reader about the volume and its physical, visceral effect.

Instead of: The food was delicious.
Try: The aroma of roasting garlic and rosemary filled the air, mingling with the sweet scent of caramelised onions. The first bite melted on my tongue, a perfect balance of savoury and tangy.

Here, the reader can almost taste and smell the food, leading them to their own conclusion of deliciousness.

2. Focus on Actions and Reactions: What Do They Do?

How does your character, or the subject of your description, behave when experiencing a certain emotion or state? Their actions are far more telling than a simple adjective.

Instead of: She was angry.
Try: Her jaw clenched, and a muscle pulsed in her cheek. She slammed the cupboard door shut, the sound echoing through the silent kitchen. Her gaze, sharp and unwavering, bore into him.

These actions paint a picture of contained fury, a volcano ready to erupt.

Instead of: It was a surprising victory.
Try: The scoreboard blinked, then blinked again, showing the impossible score. A collective gasp swept through the stadium, followed by a roar that shook the foundations. Players stumbled over each other, faces a mixture of disbelief and elation.

The crowd’s reaction, the players’ astonishment – these are powerful indicators of surprise.

3. Use Vivid Verbs and Specific Nouns: The Building Blocks of Power

Often, a strong verb or a precise noun can carry the weight of an adjective.

Instead of: He was a timid person.
Try: He shuffled his feet, his eyes darting to the floor whenever someone spoke to him. His voice was a low murmur, barely audible above the din.

The verbs “shuffled” and “darting” create an image of hesitation and nervousness.

Instead of: The city was beautiful at night.
Try: The cityscape shimmered, a galaxy of twinkling lights against the velvet darkness. Neon signs bled vibrant colours onto the rain-slicked streets, painting fleeting masterpieces.

“Shimmered,” “twinkling,” and “bled” are much more evocative than “beautiful.”

4. Show Internal States Through Physical Manifestations: The Body Knows

Emotions often manifest physically. By describing these physical cues, you allow the reader to infer the internal state.

Instead of: He was nervous.
Try: His palms were slick with sweat, and he kept running his tongue over his dry lips. A tremor ran through his leg as he tried to stand still.

This shows the physical symptoms of nervousness.

Instead of: She was happy.
Try: A wide smile stretched across her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes. She bounced on the balls of her feet, humming a tuneless melody.

The physical expression of joy is undeniable.

5. Employ Figurative Language: Similes and Metaphors

Similes and metaphors are your secret weapons for painting abstract concepts in concrete terms.

Instead of: The idea was terrible.
Try: The idea landed with the sickening thud of a lead weight in the pit of her stomach.

The metaphor clearly conveys the negative impact of the idea.

Instead of: The conversation was enjoyable.
Try: The conversation flowed like a gentle stream, each remark a smooth stone polished by friendly tides.

This simile creates a sense of ease and pleasure.

The Power of the Reader’s Interpretation

When you “show” instead of “tell,” you invite your reader into an active role. You’re not dictating their feelings; you’re providing the raw material for them to discover those feelings. This is where the magic happens. Your reader, drawing on their own experiences and emotions, will fill in the blanks with the perfect adjective, the precise nuance, the exact word that resonates most deeply with them.

So, the next time you find yourself reaching for a familiar adjective, pause. Ask yourself: What does this feel like? What does it look like? What does it sound like? What does it do? By painting with your words, you’ll create a richer, more immersive, and ultimately more unforgettable experience for your readers. Let them come to their own delightful surprise, and you’ll know you’ve truly succeeded.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 171/172

Days 171 and 172 – Writing Exercise

Nighttime under the trees in that part of the forest was as dark as …..

…

The most interesting fact about the forest was that if you took all the necessary precautions, you would be safe.

One precaution: never travel alone.

Another precaution, take the weapon you are more comfortable with.

And another, don’t go on foot, take a horse.

These basic tenets were drilled into us from an early age because, as beautiful and wondrous the forest was, it was still a dangerous place.

There were more than tenets that were applicable, like if your stay was going to be longer, or if you might not get back home in time, involving food and water.

That, of course, was mostly taken care of by learning forest craft, the recognition of dangerous versus harmless animals, which could be used for food. Recognising the trees and plants, those that could be eaten, those used for healing, and those to be left alone.

It was basic education for boys, and recently, when our king remarried after the first queen had died suddenly, it was extended to girls.

The new Queen had made it abundantly clear that girls would be afforded a number of privileges that boys were given.

These included skills such as swordmanship, using a bow and arrow, riding a horse, which only a few had access to, and participating in some less demanding tournament games.

But they could not become knights.

The King had been reluctant to introduce such measures, and wasn’t particularly in favour of it. Nor were the older citizens who had lived a different life and didn’t see the need for change.

That reluctance flowed down to the noblemen, the people who oversaw the King’s business in the provinces, so those changes were slow, if at all, to be implemented.

As for the boys themselves, they did not believe that girls were as strong or as smart as they were, and completely ignored any girls who tried to join their ranks.

I had no desire to be in the King’s army, nor did I know any girls who wanted to be either. It seemed to me they just wanted to have the idea they could challenge us, not take over, but I couldn’t convince my friends.

Perhaps they just wanted something to grumble about.

…

In our household, there was my sister Elizabeth, who had no intention of doing any boy’s work, and who was what most would call a fair maiden, my brother John, who had joined the King’s army, and me, James, old enough to get a position working as a gamekeeper’s assistant, as well as other duties, in the the King’s service.

We maintained the deer herds, the pheasants and other birds, the lakes for fishing and ducks, and a host of other animals. It also involved crops, all for the King’s table, and the castle marketplace for the people to buy.

Working in concert with the army, we kept the King’s domain free from trespassers from within and from other kingdoms. Poachers were a regular problem.

We also maintained the King’s smaller castles scattered about the kingdom, just in case he wanted a change of scenery, or he was having a hunt with the nobles, or royals from other kingdoms.

The next trek, to the other side of the mountain, was soon, and he was taking the whole family. No one wanted the job if they could avoid it because there was nowhere to hide. I volunteered. That part of the kingdom was the most picturesque.

And I knew that Rosalie, the maiden I had struck up a friendship with, was going with Princess Margaret as her handmaid, a huge promotion, and not undeserved. She worked hard and understood that nothing came easy.

I was fully aware of why no one else wanted to travel with the Royal party; the King was a good and fair man, but his Queen and her children did not treat the servants with any respect.

Out on parade the were model citizens; in private, they treated everyone with contempt. I guess that was one of the privileges of being a royal, but to me, it seemed things would go better if they treated the people, especially those who worked for them, with a little respect.

I had learned to just shut them out, do as I was told, no matter how incomprehensible it was, and never engage with them, unless they spoke to me first. Silence, I learned, was the only thing they understood.

…

John was home for a few days helping out his parents. My father was a blacksmith and had hoped John would follow him. It was good, honest work, but hard. John thought being in the Army was better.

After all, there had been no battles forever, and it was not like war would be declared any time soon. Father thought he was lazy, and they argued from time to time.

My father had no such ambitions for me and was glad I joined the gamekeepers, perhaps thinking there would be some meat for dinner on occasion. I got a rabbit or two from time to time, but that was about it.

I was not going to take a pheasant or a duck. My job was more important. Aside from the fact that the King treated people who worked for him and were caught thieving very harshly. I’d seen the result of one or two who thought they could get away with it.

With the King going away, John had deliberately kept a low profile to avoid being conscripted into guard duty and travelling with the royal party.

Being in the advance party, I would be going a few days ahead of the Royal departure to help get everything ready.

My job would be to help stock the food store.

“So, have you told fair Rosalie that you’re going?”

He had caught us stealing a moment and now liked to tease me about how she was too good for her parents, and I would never allow the match.

Mother thought I had an excellent chance. She worked in the castle kitchen as one of the cooks and had frequent contact with all the upstairs servants. She liked Rosalie and was surprised that she didn’t take any of the princesses’ nonsense.

She was likely the only one.

Most of the servants avoided the Princess and often refused to work with her, despite the punishment. It was better than being berated by her simply because she was in a bad mood.

“She was not all that interested, because she doesn’t expect we will have much time to be together. I’ll be out in the forest and fields, and she will be inside tending her mistress.”

He shook his head. “You are going to have to make your feelings known. Besides, it’s not a woman’s place to be working long after coming of age.”

“I can’t see why she can’t do that and be married and a mother “

“You try telling that to the Princess. Or the King. You’d be better off chasing after a farming girl. They don’t aspire to be something they’re not.”

She had treated him with deference, as befitting a lady’s personal handmaid, inheriting some of the family aloofness, and it annoyed him. He had said she was no better than us, putting on airs and graces, but I disagreed.

“Perhaps I will.”

“And perhaps they’ll throw you in the dungeons for being impertinent. Mind your tongue around them. I don’t want to plead to get you out of jail. Now, be off with you, or you’ll be late.”

I grabbed the sack I had my travelling gear in and said my usual goodbyes and headed towards the castle on my horse. I was lucky to get one of the best in the stable. He wasn’t the biggest, but he was strong and had a good nature.

I was going to treat this like an adventure rather than a chore.

…

The carriages and drays were lined up outside the rear entrance to the castle, the carriages taking the servants and the drays, everything the Royals would need for their stay.

All were just about packed and ready to go. I hitched my horse with the others and went over to the head gamekeepers who were organising their drays.

The whole courtyard was organised chaos.

Just as I approached him, a Royal Carriage was slowly picking a path through the crowd, going to the front of the wagons.

“What’s with the Royal Carriage? It’s a bit late for repairs,” I said.

“Good news.” He said it in a way that I knew it was anything but good news.

“The Princess has decided to go with the advance party. We are supposed to be leaving in an hour, that’s not going to happen.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Keep out of the Sergeant-at-Arms ‘ way. He has to completely rearrange the guard and is on the warpath.”

He was my brother’s immediate superior and was a hard man to please. He was about keeping his men alert and well-trained with physical exercise and war games. He would call those not up to the mark, and John had just avoided being thrown out, a disgrace his father would not take lightly.

Eldest sons always had greater expectations on their shoulders.

I could hear the Sergeant up ahead getting his troops into the front and rear platoons.

I went up the stairs into the foyer, where there were cases, boxes and trunks everywhere and about 20 servants, almost running hither and thither.

Rosalie was nowhere to be seen, which I took to mean she was getting ready to accompany her mistress, probably with very little time to organise.

As I turned to leave, she came down the staircase from the princess’s quarters, in a fluster. I hadn’t seen her in anything other than completely calm.

“James,” she said, loud enough for me to hear.

I turned. “Rosalie. I hear you’re coming with us.”

She came over, breathless from rushing about. “Last minute. Everything’s a little chaotic. I’m supposed to be riding with her. She’s not going to start out in the carriage. She might ask you to ride with us, to tell her about the lands. I don’t know why she would want to know. Just be aware. I have to go.”

So much for staying out of the way of the Sergeant at Arms.

…

Instead of starting out at first light, it was the middle of the morning. Luckily, the cold weather was on its way out, and the warmer, sunny days were about to grace the Kingdom.

It was that part of the year when it was not too cold and not too hot, when everything was about to grow again after the winter.

All around, there were new buds on the trees, and flowers started to come out, releasing their fragrances. Animals were coming out of hibernation and could be heard foraging for food.

Leaving this late meant we would have to break the journey in the forest, a consideration that would not have mattered except now the Princess was coming with us, provision had to be made for her overnight comfort.

The rest of us would be sleeping out in the open, not a problem for the gamekeepers; we were used to sleeping tough, but the servants at least had soft beds to sleep on. It was going to be an interesting evening.

The procession had formed up, the soldiers at the front ready, the princess’s carriage next, five carriages for the servants, the gamekeepers, and those who wished to ride on a horse, then fifteen drays with everything else, followed by the rear soldiers.

Everything was ready to go when there was sudden movement at the first carriage, then the Sergeant and the princess came down the procession and stopped where the gamekeepers were waiting.

“James,” the Sergeant’s voice carried an element of annoyance.

I moved out of my position, in the middle row, to stand in front of him. “Sir.”

“Up the front. The Princess would like your presence beside her.”

Nothing was said. He turned and rode off. I joined the Princess and followed him.

“There are more qualified gamekeepers who can attend to your requirements, your majesty.”

She looked sideways at me. “I know, but you are the one I requested.”

This, of course, was going to make my life hell. Riley, the head gamekeeper, was the one who should be up there with her, not me.

We returned to her position in the procession, in front of the carriage. Rosalie was there on her horse, sitting confidently. It was a surprise to discover she was a very good horsewoman, perhaps cementing her position as the Princess went for a ride most mornings.

I was on one side and Rosalie on the other, with four guardsmen as her personal escort.

The sergeant at the head of the procession gave the order, and we were off.

…

The princess was more interested in the life of her handmaiden and the man she had obviously mentioned in discussions they had, rather than ask me about land and animal matters.

Instead, she asked about my family and what I found so interesting about being a gamekeeper. It whiled away the time as we travelled along the winding road, heading through farm land, forests and Plains, stopping briefly for lunch and resting the horses, then heading towards the mountain pass.

Part of the way was alongside the largest lake in the Kingdom, named after the King’s forebears, and stopped briefly so she could see the old summer castle on the far side, now in ruins, and accessible only by boat.

Given what I knew about the Princess, her behaviour and attitude were completely at odds with what I was led to believe. Of course, it was the first time I had been this close or talked to her, or any of them.

We had begun the steady climb up to the pass. Not far from it we would break before it got too dark, so the Royal tent could be raised.

The Princess requested we go hunting to see if she could bring back dinner. I did say that perhaps it was best left to the gamekeepers, but she said she had learned how to use a bow and arrow and shooting arrows into a round target was no incentive to improve or give her satisfaction.

She wanted to hit a moving target.

I went to get the head gamekeeper, and she stopped me. She was tired of getting experts, rather than ordinary people, who treated her with disdain, unlike the Prince, her brother.

She was right; the head gamekeeper wouldn’t chastise her, but he made it clear he didn’t like being dismissed or disrespected.

More trouble with my bosses when we got back home then. The Princess would soon lose interest, and I would be tossed on the scrap heap.

And much to the Sergeant’s dismay, when she told him her request and the conditions, we went hunting. The Princess, I, and two soldiers. If she had her way, the two soldiers would have been omitted. She told them to keep their distance.

I’d been to the resting place recently and familiarised myself with the tracks, some of which looked like they had been used recently, and with the rock pool that was about 10 minutes ride from the main track as part of the annual review.

I was hoping the animals would come to the pool to drink at sunset, making it easy for her.

…

There were facets to the Princess that were, at least from my perspective, surprising.

The first, she had worn the sort of clothing I’d expect her brother would. She had not worn a dress, which was normal for the Royals when travelling.

In them, from almost any angle, she could be mistaken for her brother, except for the long golden hair. For the hunt, she had tucked it up into a plain cap.

The second, she had excellent horsemanship skills, and I guessed it was because she liked to get out of the castle. It was another plus for Rosalie because, as she said, she could ride a horse before she could walk. She always went riding with her mistress, rain, hail, snow or sleeting.

The third is her wanting to be able to use a bow and arrow. By all accounts, meaning tavern talk, she was lazy and indolent, and wandered the castle and grounds looking for fault.

The girl sitting next to me on her horse, just short of the water hole, was anything but that person. Perhaps, in this setting, she was acting differently, but I got the impression that she had relaxed into a different version.

Perhaps getting away from the stifling role she had in court, her duties, perceived or otherwise, she didn’t have to be that person.

“Why are we sitting here?” Impatient and noisy.

“I’m listening,” I whispered.

“For what?” The horse was picking up her impatience and moved.

“Waiting to hear if any animals are nearby. It’s a waiting game where patience and silence will be rewarded.”

A grace sideways told me that wasn’t in her playbook.

She patted the horse’s neck and whispered something in its ear, probably an insult for me.

I motioned her to move with me slowly and prepare to shoot. Hopefully, she would realise that her window of opportunity would be very short.

We were 20 paces from the pool edge with a clear view of the front and side for a few yards. The thicket came almost up to the rocky edge.

Then suddenly, a fawn came out of the thicket, and she shot her arrow. A hit. It went down.

She shrieked in delight. The two cards thought she was in trouble and came racing up to us. The shriek also served to scare everything else nearby away.

“Just in time,” she said to them. “Bring it back to the camp.” Then to me, “Thank you. I will be more patient and quieter next time.”

I was hoping there wouldn’t be a next time. I was also hoping that we didn’t meet the foal’s mother on the way back to camp.

…

Nighttime under the trees in that part of the forest was as dark as the castle cellar without torchlight, though infinitely more scary for those not used to being out in the open.

Tent or no tent.

The guards were grumbling; there were no warm places like there had been back at the castle, and they had to suffer the cold night and the endless sounds around them.

There was little difference between a large deer and a man, though the man might be a lot quieter.

I got to spend the meal time with Rosalie, where we all got to share the venison, appreciating that we had one of the cooks who knew how to prepare the meat, with bread brought from the castle stores.

It was a treat for everyone, most of whom did not get to have meat, except from a large pot. There was also ale for the men on guard duty. I spent time doing a circuit of the camp, through the thicket and part of the forest.

We were carrying torches and making noise as a means of scaring off animals and men if there were any out. It must have worked because we didn’t encounter any on our patrol.

The next morning, after some bread and a short period of exercise to get the men into shape, we packed up and continued.

The Princess, the Sargent said, was impressed with me, so I got to ride with her again. The track over the mountain pass was as incredibly breathtaking as ever, the view going all the way to the castle, surrounded by manicured lawns and gardens and the bordering lake not far away.

It was the most picturesque of all the residences and a fitting place for a quiet stay.

It was also the place for hunting and fishing, and on the way back to camp, the Princess, very excited from the kill, said she was going after a wild boar next, to prove to her brother that she was made of stronger stuff.

I couldn’t see how that could end well. They were very big, very heavy and didn’t die when you wanted them to. I’d seen what they could do in the rampage and was going to have to talk her out of it.

Thank goodness, then her brother, the Prince, was waiting for us when we arrived. She had assumed she was going to be in charge, but her father perhaps had an inkling as to her motives.

We were going to be caught in the middle of a battle between the siblings.

…

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the Past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The Birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus, the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all rewrites, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation. I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample. I was going to give them the re-worked short story. Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally, it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself. We were there for New Year’s, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening, we were out late and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow; it was cold and wet, and apartment buildings were shimmering in the street light, and I thought, “This is the place where my main character will live”.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected. I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went, so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller Centre is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy man with few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party. I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble. No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

…

Get it here: https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4