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Tag: Reading
So, I’m sitting down and having a quiet drink when…
There’s nothing more I like to do at the end of a day than sit down and have a drink, usually Scotch and Soda or Bacardi and Coke.
But that’s the problem.
What is your definition of the end of the day?
No doubt for most it is probably that time when they get home from work, and take some time between then and dinner. From my memories of American sitcoms of the 1950s, it was over Sherry and included a summary from every one of their day.
It was a time when women, apparently, preferred to stay home than go to work. Odd, for some reason, that Hollywood would ignore the hard-won rights of women to have jobs, though some might argue out of necessity because of the war.
There was no computer games, contrary children, and that period, for the children was between coming home from school (doing homework) and going outside to play.
Yes, none of this disappearing into dark rooms for secret conversations on mobile phones or playing games on computers, or, dare I say it, being stuck in front of a television, pigging out on snack foods.
Any man these days who thought the 1950s sitcom scenario might be a social norm would be vilified by all and sundry. His children would be in a permanent battle to be left alone, his wife would divorce him if he even remotely suggested she stay home or have dinner on the table when he got home, and that peaceful hour or so before the expected dinner, well, that disappeared a long time ago.
If it ever existed in any era.
So much for American sitcom stereotypes.
Now, in similar sitcoms these days, the children are obnoxious to their parent, yes, every family it seems in the USA is broken, and the mother is the long-suffering one stuck with the children and having to work, whilst the ex is out having a great time with his new girlfriend/trophy wife.
Hollywood is still stereotyping, but it’s much more dark and gloomy.
This is added to the continual threat of online predators, online pornography further reducing women’s hard-won right to be seen as more than just a sex object, bullying, not only at school and online but in the workplace, and above all that it seems men still treat women as second class citizens, not the least of which are corporate entities, and government.
Oh, and the mention of having a drink before dinner in this day and age would be associated with alcoholism, or a drinking problem, caused by excessive stress, and almost always added to an apparent addiction to painkillers or antidepressants.
What might also be worse is the alarming statistics of the number of women now drinking wine by the gallon rather than a few drinks in that period between picking up the children from school and dinner, driven by, take your choice of, obnoxious children or absent-minded or chauvinistic husband.
Damn, have I stirred up a hornet’s nest?
Sorry, I think I’d better cancel the notion of having after work drinks, and since I do the cooking, so there’s no expectation for someone else getting dinner on the table.
At least we are still married, and the children never had to deal with a broken marriage and two warring parents, but if any of the reports on why children are the way they are, I guess mine missed out on playing one parent off against the other, or get to live in different houses, or tolerate parents other boy or girlfriends, and live on junk food, well not all of the time.
Are they normal?
Perhaps when someone defines normal I will probably tell you.
I ceased being so-called chauvinistic a long time ago, and I had to have an attitude readjustment along with it, because, I’m told, we live in a different world now.
Perhaps I will have that drink or three; it’s certainly a necessity in order to watch the increasingly bad news, the antics of our politicians, and to watch the world gradually go to hell in a handbasket.
Whilst being politely told that I drink too much!
“The Devil You Don’t”, be careful what you wish for
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John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follows.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
Writing about writing a book – a novel twist
I have decided to write about the process for me to write a book, working on the book at the same time. The character writing the book is fictional and bears no relation to me, well, mostly not.
You will join me on the rollercoaster.
It will be appearing a bit at a time over the coming months, with the first instalment below.
Day One
I woke to a day where the sun was shining through the crack in the curtains. It was not so much the brightness, but the fact it was moving, the gentle breeze moving the curtains and creating a strobing effect.
It was the first day of the rest of my life.
I was about to start the next Pulitzer Prize for literature. Or something like that.
For so many years now my life had been weighed down by the monotony of a job I hated, a life that was going nowhere, and the pursuit of that no existent fortune that I believed was the answer to all my problems.
Those prayers to the great God Money were never heeded.
So, contrary to the well-meaning advice everyone gave me, I ignored them all, sold off the albatross around my neck, a house with a gigantic mortgage attached, and moved into a small but comfortable garret in a picturesque part of town.
It was called a ‘renovators’ delight. What did it matter the wallpaper was peeling the paint fading and the carpet had seen better days.
It was mine.
Whether or not in the coming days, weeks, or months, I was a ‘renovator’ would be interesting.
My wife, Anne, had often said I wouldn’t know which end of the hammer to use.
Oh, and did I tell you, I moved on from her, or probably it was the other way around. I’d let her down one too many times, she said, and found someone else more ‘reliable’.
Good for her, my brother had always said she deserved someone better, and it surprised me the marriage lasted as long as it did. I still loved her, I always would.
I sprung out of bed and opened the curtains. Spread out in front of me was a blue sky, bright sunshine casting its glow over the park and gardens opposite.
On my darkest days, I used to sit on a bench and watch the ducks swimming in the pond. I wanted a carefree life like they had, and that was my dream.
Now I was living the dream.
Or would be till the money ran out.
I had enough for a year.
The second bedroom was the writing room. The walls were lined with shelves, books by my favourite authors, books on writing, all dog-eared and well-read.
The typewriter was sitting on the desk waiting for the first words to be written.
I had a computer, but I was not going to use it for the second draft.
I had a supply of writing pads. Like the great authors, I was going to write the first draft by hand, revise, and then type it.
I was going to be old school.
I sat down, picked up a pen, and scratched my head.
I began writing, ‘It was a dark and stormy night’.
That was a far as I got.
Maybe this was going to be harder than I thought.
Perhaps after coffee and toast …
© Charles Heath 2016-2019
My opinions are my own
It’s always a good thing to get that across especially if you work for an organization that could misinterpret what that opinion is, or generally have an opposing opinion. Of course, by saying your opinions are your own, you’re covering yourself from becoming unemployed, but is this a futile act?
Perhaps it’s better to not say anything because everything you say and do eventually find its way to those you want most not to hear about it, perhaps one of the big negatives of the internet and social media.
And…
It seems odd to me that you can’t have an opinion of your own, even if it is contrary to that of the organization you work for, and especially if their opinion has changed over time. An opposing opinion, not delivered in a derogatory manner, would have the expectation of sparking healthy debate, but it doesn’t always end up like that.
I’m sure there are others out there that will disagree, and use the overused word, loyalty’. Perhaps their mantra will be ‘keep your opinions to yourself’.
This, too, often crops up in personal relationships, and adds weight to the statement, ‘you can pick your friends but not your relatives’.
I’m told I have an opinion on everything, a statement delivered in a manner that suggests sarcasm. Whether it’s true or not, isn’t the essence of free speech, working within the parameters of not inciting hate, bigotry, racism or sexism, a fundamental right of anyone in a democracy?
Seems not.
There’s always someone out there, higher up the food chain, with an opinion of their own, obviously the right one, and who will not hesitate to silence yours. But, isn’t it strange that in order to silence you, they have to use leverage, like your job, to get theirs across.
Well, my opinions are in my writing, and whether you agree with them or not, I’m sure you will let me know. In a robust but respectful manner.
Unlike some, my door is always open.
I looked at the calendar and got a shock
I’m guessing I’m not the only one.
November usually drags. Sometimes, being a so-called shoulder period for flying, we go off on a well deserved holiday when prices are affordable.
Not this year.
November is NaNoWriMo month so I had to stay home and get that done.
It was worth it because I wrote 75,000 words, and only a few chapters short of another novel. And it was fun to write.
This was withstanding the fact the ice hockey season had started and we have discovered we can get the live coverage, at a reasonable hour of the day.
It also meant that I didn’t have time to get anything else done except for a few new blog entries.
My other four episodic stories didn’t get a look in and they still sit where they were at the start of the month.
Now it’s December, and once I get the last chapter of the NaNoWriMo project completed, I’m straight back to the four stories.
But…
Christmas is just around the corner.
And that’s a whole new ball game.
A place called home
I’m always on the lookout for inspiration for stories, especially the short stories I attach to photographs in my Being Inspired series, and one of the topis that has been suggested is along the lines of the following.
There is certainly a lot of scope with these.
Home is where the heart is
One’s home is the preferred place to all others, the one you are most emotionally attached, i.e. you have the deepest affection for. It may not necessarily be a physical place though.
I must say I tend to agree with this because every time I go away, I’m always looking forward to coming home.
Even when I’ve had to stay away for a few months, it’s not possible to call that home, it’s just another place to stay.
On the other hand…
It’s the name of a song by Elvis Presley.
And it has been the title of several films.
The Hallmark channel presses this point home time and time again.
Pliny the Elder is credited with coming up with the saying.
Home is what you make it
This is a similar saying, but, to me, it means something completely different
Though many will say this means that it’s where family and friends can come to, a place where memories can be made, I don’t believe it’s the same as the first saying.
What you make of it depends on your circumstances, you can hate it because it might be because you’re stuck with one parent with perhaps a step-parent. Or you might love it because you’ve escaped a bad situation.
But it’s not necessarily where your heart is.
Wherever I hang my hat I call home
Barbra Streisand made this song famous, and probably means that no matter where you are, it is home to you. It would be more fitting for someone who doesn’t necessarily see their true home very often, ie you work in the diplomatic service or in the military and you move around a lot.
Home away from home
This is a place that is as good as your real home.
NANOWRIMO Supplementary Day Two
Without the pressure of a time limit, and no distractions, I was able to sit down and go over the plan for the last few chapters.
I had got to a point in the story where I was satisfied with what I’d written, but it did have ramifications later on, ramifications that were not in the original plan.
That later on, of course, is now, so once I’d looked at the plan, read the previous two chapters to get my bearings, it was easier to write.
But…
Isn’t there always a but?
As I’m writing, another thought came to mind. Some time ago I realised there needed to be another action sequence arising out of an event that had sparked an impromptu and ill fated attempted kidnapping.
That had to be avenged, but in the rough draft I had already written, it didn’t figure in the ending.
Now it does, and I have written it, and it’s great.
Even if I say so myself.
Tomorrow I will be covering the fallout from this event.
“Sunday in New York”, it’s a bumpy road to love
“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.
When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.
From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.
There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.
Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.
Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?
Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?
Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?
As they say in the classics, read on!
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Inspiration, maybe
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And the story:
It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.
The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.
He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.
The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent. We were following the car he was in, from a discrete distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.
There was nowhere for him to go.
The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road were now on. Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.
Where was he going?
“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter. He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.
“What?”
“I think he’s made us.”
“How?”
“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing. Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain. He’s just sped up.”
“How far away?”
“A half-mile. We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”
It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”
“Step on it. Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”
Easy to say, not so easy to do. The road was treacherous, and in places just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three thousand footfall down the mountainside.
Good thing then I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.
Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster. We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.
Or so we thought.
Coming quickly around another corner we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.
“What the hell…” Aland muttered.
I was out of the car, and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility. The car was empty, and no indication where he went.
Certainly not up the road. It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit. Up the mountainside from here, or down.
I looked up. Nothing.
Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”
Then where did he go?
Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.
“Sorry,” he said quite calmly. “Had to go if you know what I mean.”
I’d lost him.
It was as simple as that.
I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.
I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.
It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.
“Maybe next time,” Alan said.
“We’ll get him. It’s just a matter of time.”
© Charles Heath 2019
Find this and other stories in “Inspiration, maybe” available soon.
