Day 105 – Graphic novels

…

Beyond the Comic Strip: A Beginner’s Guide to Creating Your Own Graphic Novel

For a long time, the term “graphic novel” was met with a shrug. People thought of them as “just comic books”—fleeting entertainment for kids. But today, the graphic novel stands as a respected, powerful medium of literature. From memoirs like Persepolis to genre-bending epics like Watchmen, graphic novels prove that when you combine visual language with the written word, you unlock a storytelling potential that prose alone just can’t touch.

If you’ve ever dreamed of telling a story through panels, splash pages, and speech bubbles, you’re in the right place. Let’s break down what graphic novels actually are and how you can start crafting your own.

---

What Exactly is a Graphic Novel?

At its core, a graphic novel is a book-length narrative told through sequential art.

Unlike a comic book, which is typically a serialised, thin pamphlet released monthly, a graphic novel is a complete, self-contained story (or a collected volume) bound in a book format. It uses the visual medium—panels, gutters, character design, and colour theory—to control the pacing of the reader’s experience in a way that text-only books cannot.

In a graphic novel, the art isn’t just an “illustration” of the story; the art is the story.

---

How to Create Your Own Graphic Novel: A Step-by-Step Guide

Creating a graphic novel is a marathon, not a sprint. It’s a labour of love that requires patience and a fair bit of planning. Here is your roadmap from concept to finished product.

1. Develop Your “Hook” and Script

Every great graphic novel starts with an idea. But before you pick up a pencil, you need a script.

• The Synopsis: Summarise your story in a few paragraphs. What is the central conflict? Who is the protagonist?
• The Script: Write it like a screenplay, but include descriptions of what is happening in each panel. Keep your dialogue tight—remember, you have limited space on the page!

2. Character and World Design

Before you draw the first page, spend time in your sketchbook.

• Character Sheets: Draw your characters from different angles and with different expressions. If they aren’t consistent, the reader will get confused.
• World-Building: What does your setting feel like? Create a “visual bible” for your world so the architectural style and atmosphere remain cohesive throughout the book.

3. Thumbnails: The Blueprint

This is the most crucial step. Thumbnails are tiny, rough sketches of every page in your book. They don’t need to look good; they just need to map out the flow.

• Where does the reader’s eye go?
• Are the panels too crowded?
• Does the page turn reveal an exciting surprise?
• Pro-tip: Don’t skip this! Fixing a mistake in a thumbnail takes seconds; fixing it in an inked final page takes hours.

4. Pencilling and Inking

Now it’s time to commit to the paper (or screen).

• Pencilling: Draft the layout, body proportions, and backgrounds cleanly.
• Inking: Use fine-tip pens or digital brushes to finalise the lines. This gives the drawings weight and definition, making them “pop” off the page.

5. Lettering: The Silent Storyteller

Bad lettering can ruin great art. Make sure your word balloons are placed in the order they should be read (top to bottom, left to right). Use clear, readable fonts, and ensure there is enough “breathing room” around the text so the page doesn’t look cluttered.

6. Coloring (or Shading)

If you aren’t doing the book in black and white, this is where you solidify the mood. Colour is a powerful tool—cool blues can signal sadness, while jarring reds can indicate danger. If you’re sticking to black and white, focus on value—using shadows and hatching to create depth and contrast.

---

Final Thoughts: Just Start

The biggest hurdle isn’t the technical skill—it’s the daunting nature of the project. A graphic novel is a mountain of work, but you climb it one panel at a time.

Don’t aim for perfection on your first attempt. Aim for completion. Whether you’re using traditional pencils and ink or an iPad with Procreate, the most important tool you have is your voice.

So, what story are you going to draw first?

Day 104 – Writing Exercise

…

He brushed the curtain to one side and looked out the window.

There had been no reason to.  Usually, he just arrived at a hotel, checked in, partially unpacked, had a shower and went to bed.

His employers didn’t believe that he should arrive in the morning, get settled, study up on the details for the meeting the next morning, and be ready, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Instead, because he was usually on the last plane, it was always late, arriving at the destination just before the airport closed, and often, it was almost impossible to get a cab into the city.

Which invariably made him tired and angry by the time he reached the hotel. 

He would be lucky to get three hours of sleep, if at all.

And lucky enough, this time, to get a room with a balcony.  He decided to get some fresh air before turning in.  The day had been hot, but the night was cool with a gentle breeze.  The room was cold from the air conditioning, which he had turned off.

He should be looking at the agenda for the following day.  Instead, he took a bottle of beer from the bar fridge, turned all the lights off behind him, and went out into the night.

After midnight, darkness had settled.  Office towers had only some areas lit, some floors in darkness, making the view look like a patchwork quilt.  Some floors were ablaze, perhaps waiting for the cleaners, or people were working back.

The neon advertising lights, glaringly bright, vied for attention, from the brighter colourful blinking advertisements atop buildings, standing out starkly against the black backdrop, to those static signs at ground level.

In the distance, a large stadium still had all the arc lights going, and it looked like a patch in daylight.  Had someone forgotten to turn the lights off?

In the morning, he would be hard-pressed to see any of it.

…

There was no rhyme or reason why his eyes ended up on a dull glow of a desk lamp in an office in a building almost across the road, on a diagonal line from his balcony.

He was standing in the darkness, the lighting of the room in the darkness, except for the bedside lamp, which was just visible from where he was standing.  It was dark on the balcony, and he would’ve been invisible to anyone looking his way.

The glow of the lamp showed a man and a woman in an office.  She was sitting on the desk, and he was sitting in his chair.  They had a look of familiarity about them, perhaps a pair in a relationship, perhaps married, perhaps an affair, his mind turning over the scenarios.

She was stunningly beautiful, still in her work clothes; he guessed she might be a lawyer or accountant, she had that university-acquired air of authority.  The man was all too familiar to him, the smartest man in the room type, the one who commanded attention. 

Politicians, law practice partner or management.  Definitely management.

The way she looked up at him, not the way a wife or girlfriend would.  There was something else going on there.

She laughed, that sort of laugh that changed her manner.  She was madly in love with him, and then he stood and came to her; she melded into his arms with a practised ease of long-term lovers.

Then, suddenly, the lights came on; someone had flicked a master switch. They were suddenly apart, and the whole atmosphere had changed.

Very businesslike.

The cleaners had arrived.

She collected her coat and handbag, gave a coy wave and headed off.  The secret assignation was over. 

It was true, he thought, that the janitorial staff were almost invisible.  The things they must know, if only they knew who they were.

…

I shrugged.  Enough of inventing the lives of others who were so much better off than I.

A third-year law clerk whose lot in life was to handle the small legal issues of our clients when we had to liaise with out-of-state matters.

This one was a deceased estate that the client’s mother had left behind, and a minor dispute over who had the final will. 

The client claimed to have the last true will and testament of Agatha Bernadette Williams, the lawyers who claim to represent the caretaker and his wife had what was a later will.

It was suspicious in the sense that the son, and rightful heir, according to him, had a detailed record of the last time his mother had made her will, with signed documents and statutory records of interviews and letters between the son and his mother.

The second will was simply writing on a piece of paper and was supported by two witnesses, not the caretaker and his wife, leaving everything to them.

It might not have been a problem if the estate were worth 50,000 dollars rather than fifty million, give or take.

The son considered the claim to be fake, my boss believed what the client told him, so they sent me.  I had very specific instructions.  Prove they were lying.  The problem, the lawyers, the caretaker and his wife had selected were very reputable and charged very high fees for one reason only.  They very rarely lost.

I had to wonder why they sent me into a legal minefield. 

I had a copy of the new will, the old will, reports from a handwriting expert, and a deposition from the son saying that the other will and the manner in which it was created were not done by his mother.

There was another document, the caretaker’s criminal history, and it didn’t make pleasant reading.

Why was it that money, particularly large chunks of it, brought out the worst in people?

…

I was staying in the hotel I was in because it was not far from the offices of our affiliate lawyers.  It was another reason why I was annoyed.  The affiliate lawyers could have sorted the problem, and I would not have had to get on a plane.

I hated planes.

I wanted to come by train, but my boss, Horace Aloysius Jacketine, the third, mind you, senior partner, determined this matter had to be settled now, today, no excuses, and no delays

I tried to argue the case for the local office, and failed.  One of us had to oversee it.  The lawyer handling the matter, Jennifer Joan Rickerson, herself from a long line of distinguished legal people, was disappointed.  I don’t blame her.  She was overqualified for a matter this small.

She did not play the female lawyer card, but I knew Horace had a low opinion of female lawyers, perhaps because he had been beaten by one once, and I suspected that had been his wife.  He married her, and she was no longer a competition.

Horace was a strange and remarkably out-of-date sort of man.  More than once, I thought he belonged in the late 1800s and had arrived here through a portal.  As you can appreciate, reading science fiction was almost the perfect escape from heavy legal matters.

I rose early and quickly scanned the documentation.  I was supposed to leave with the affiliate lawyers and request that they go through it before I left to return home.  Lawyers never moved that fast, but in this case, there seemed to be a rush for a result from both parties.

Something was not right.

…

My sixth sense got me the job at the law office.  That year, the candidates were given a case file and told to find what the key issues were so that a winning case could be prepared and executed.

Based on an old case that they had lost? I had heard from a previous intake candidate that it was a case that set the candidates up to fail.  No one had cracked it, and it was rumoured to be one of Horace’s old cases, and he refused to let it go.

I didn’t blame him.  The billable hours would have been worth a fortune.

We were given an hour, sat in a small, stuffy room, with a big binder of papers that hadn’t been filed properly, a fact that I realised later, but there was no need.  Discovery and document collection, and their collating, were always very messy.

I also learned a valuable lesson that day, that it was not a good idea to simply overlook something because it did fit a set of parameters.  The exercise in part was to sort out those who probed and those who glossed.

Five pages in, and my nose was twitching.

On page 397, I had the answer and wrote three lines on a sheet of legal note pad paper with the number they gave me, and I gave it to the receptionist, the same one who had looked down her nose at me when I arrived.

I doubted it would ever reach the person responsible and left feeling rather dejected.

But it did, and I got the job, the only one out of 29 candidates, and my first job was to write up the case in a way that we would have won.

After that, I got to work for Horace, which had its perks and its problems.

…

I took a dedicated elevator up to the 20th floor, where the law firm lived, atop the building.  It was that floor that cost a small fortune for the uninterrupted views, and the impression it made on the clients, that this was a law firm that consistently won.

We lived in the original historical building where the first law office was, our message being that we had been around for a long time and were reliable and resolute.  I thought the place creaked and groaned like an old sailing ship.

Clients like glass and concrete, not musty dark wood panelling that retained centuries of cigar smoke and carpets, well, I was never quite sure what that aroma was.

This office had lightning-fast elevators, an open layout where everyone had stunning views, and offices with glass walls.  There was nowhere to hide.  The breakout area was nothing less than spectacular.

It was where the receptionist left me, and where I made a cup of coffee with a machine that had a TV screen and lots of pictures of different types of coffee, but not one of just coffee.

Back home, our office had instant coffee in a large tin; you boiled the water and scooped sugar out of a large piece of vintage crockery. I didn’t have milk.

I was waiting for Jennifer Joan Rickerson.  She had an interesting voice on the phone, and I was eager to see if my imagination matched the reality.

“Mr Pargeter?”

The voice.  I turned and nearly dropped my cup.  It was the girl from the late-night office, in different clothes but just as stunning.  I noticed the slight wrinkle of her nose, a sign of disapproval.

I guess I was not her idea of lawyer material.

“I am.”

I was not sure if we shook hands, so I didn’t move, except to put the cup on the sink.

“I think you equally agree with me that there was no reason to send someone from your office.”

“I do.  But you try making the point with my boss. It’s a dotting the i and crossing the t exercise.”

She gave me one last disapproving look before saying, “We’re set up in the conference room.  The Caretaker’s lawyer will be coming in about an hour.”

I followed her into a large, very bright room surrounded by glass, with distracting views.

She sat at the head of the table, and I sat in the cheap seats.  I knew a lot about strategic seating, positions of power, and the place where the poor client, if necessary, was placed at a disadvantage.  She was obviously well-versed in strategy, especially when faced with a third-year legal representative.

The worst seat in the room was my biggest advantage.  That was why they could never see me coming.

“The Catetakers’ legal representatives had sent over their latest documents, which are in the blue folder.”

There were five folders, all different colours.  Their notes on the case were in the yellow folder.  Documents we had sent were in the green and purple folders.  The grey folder was empty; that was for today’s notes.

I took a plain manila folder out of my ancient satchel and slid it across the table.

“Another affidavit from the son.  He’s adamant that his mother would never create such a document, given how structured her life had been for so long.  Oddly, and with no relevance, my father was the most orderly man I ever knew, and in the last year of his life, that all fell apart.  I guess we don’t want to believe that it’s possible.”

Another of those rather interesting expressions that covered a multitude of thoughts.  If only I could read her mind…

“Anything is possible, but as you know, we only deal in facts, not possibilities.”

“Exactly.  What do you make of this case, based on the latest information supplied by the Catetaker?”

It would be interesting to hear what she thought.  I had made an assumption based on a single glance at the top page of the yellow folder.

“They have a strong case.  It’s going to come down to the court deciding the outcome.  Take a look at the documents and see what you think.  It’s going to be a battle to get any form of closure today, contrary to what is expected.”

“And if it was over fifty thousand dollars?” I asked, in my non-confrontational tone.

The look said it all.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 104 – Writing Exercise

…

He brushed the curtain to one side and looked out the window.

There had been no reason to.  Usually, he just arrived at a hotel, checked in, partially unpacked, had a shower and went to bed.

His employers didn’t believe that he should arrive in the morning, get settled, study up on the details for the meeting the next morning, and be ready, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Instead, because he was usually on the last plane, it was always late, arriving at the destination just before the airport closed, and often, it was almost impossible to get a cab into the city.

Which invariably made him tired and angry by the time he reached the hotel. 

He would be lucky to get three hours of sleep, if at all.

And lucky enough, this time, to get a room with a balcony.  He decided to get some fresh air before turning in.  The day had been hot, but the night was cool with a gentle breeze.  The room was cold from the air conditioning, which he had turned off.

He should be looking at the agenda for the following day.  Instead, he took a bottle of beer from the bar fridge, turned all the lights off behind him, and went out into the night.

After midnight, darkness had settled.  Office towers had only some areas lit, some floors in darkness, making the view look like a patchwork quilt.  Some floors were ablaze, perhaps waiting for the cleaners, or people were working back.

The neon advertising lights, glaringly bright, vied for attention, from the brighter colourful blinking advertisements atop buildings, standing out starkly against the black backdrop, to those static signs at ground level.

In the distance, a large stadium still had all the arc lights going, and it looked like a patch in daylight.  Had someone forgotten to turn the lights off?

In the morning, he would be hard-pressed to see any of it.

…

There was no rhyme or reason why his eyes ended up on a dull glow of a desk lamp in an office in a building almost across the road, on a diagonal line from his balcony.

He was standing in the darkness, the lighting of the room in the darkness, except for the bedside lamp, which was just visible from where he was standing.  It was dark on the balcony, and he would’ve been invisible to anyone looking his way.

The glow of the lamp showed a man and a woman in an office.  She was sitting on the desk, and he was sitting in his chair.  They had a look of familiarity about them, perhaps a pair in a relationship, perhaps married, perhaps an affair, his mind turning over the scenarios.

She was stunningly beautiful, still in her work clothes; he guessed she might be a lawyer or accountant, she had that university-acquired air of authority.  The man was all too familiar to him, the smartest man in the room type, the one who commanded attention. 

Politicians, law practice partner or management.  Definitely management.

The way she looked up at him, not the way a wife or girlfriend would.  There was something else going on there.

She laughed, that sort of laugh that changed her manner.  She was madly in love with him, and then he stood and came to her; she melded into his arms with a practised ease of long-term lovers.

Then, suddenly, the lights came on; someone had flicked a master switch. They were suddenly apart, and the whole atmosphere had changed.

Very businesslike.

The cleaners had arrived.

She collected her coat and handbag, gave a coy wave and headed off.  The secret assignation was over. 

It was true, he thought, that the janitorial staff were almost invisible.  The things they must know, if only they knew who they were.

…

I shrugged.  Enough of inventing the lives of others who were so much better off than I.

A third-year law clerk whose lot in life was to handle the small legal issues of our clients when we had to liaise with out-of-state matters.

This one was a deceased estate that the client’s mother had left behind, and a minor dispute over who had the final will. 

The client claimed to have the last true will and testament of Agatha Bernadette Williams, the lawyers who claim to represent the caretaker and his wife had what was a later will.

It was suspicious in the sense that the son, and rightful heir, according to him, had a detailed record of the last time his mother had made her will, with signed documents and statutory records of interviews and letters between the son and his mother.

The second will was simply writing on a piece of paper and was supported by two witnesses, not the caretaker and his wife, leaving everything to them.

It might not have been a problem if the estate were worth 50,000 dollars rather than fifty million, give or take.

The son considered the claim to be fake, my boss believed what the client told him, so they sent me.  I had very specific instructions.  Prove they were lying.  The problem, the lawyers, the caretaker and his wife had selected were very reputable and charged very high fees for one reason only.  They very rarely lost.

I had to wonder why they sent me into a legal minefield. 

I had a copy of the new will, the old will, reports from a handwriting expert, and a deposition from the son saying that the other will and the manner in which it was created were not done by his mother.

There was another document, the caretaker’s criminal history, and it didn’t make pleasant reading.

Why was it that money, particularly large chunks of it, brought out the worst in people?

…

I was staying in the hotel I was in because it was not far from the offices of our affiliate lawyers.  It was another reason why I was annoyed.  The affiliate lawyers could have sorted the problem, and I would not have had to get on a plane.

I hated planes.

I wanted to come by train, but my boss, Horace Aloysius Jacketine, the third, mind you, senior partner, determined this matter had to be settled now, today, no excuses, and no delays

I tried to argue the case for the local office, and failed.  One of us had to oversee it.  The lawyer handling the matter, Jennifer Joan Rickerson, herself from a long line of distinguished legal people, was disappointed.  I don’t blame her.  She was overqualified for a matter this small.

She did not play the female lawyer card, but I knew Horace had a low opinion of female lawyers, perhaps because he had been beaten by one once, and I suspected that had been his wife.  He married her, and she was no longer a competition.

Horace was a strange and remarkably out-of-date sort of man.  More than once, I thought he belonged in the late 1800s and had arrived here through a portal.  As you can appreciate, reading science fiction was almost the perfect escape from heavy legal matters.

I rose early and quickly scanned the documentation.  I was supposed to leave with the affiliate lawyers and request that they go through it before I left to return home.  Lawyers never moved that fast, but in this case, there seemed to be a rush for a result from both parties.

Something was not right.

…

My sixth sense got me the job at the law office.  That year, the candidates were given a case file and told to find what the key issues were so that a winning case could be prepared and executed.

Based on an old case that they had lost? I had heard from a previous intake candidate that it was a case that set the candidates up to fail.  No one had cracked it, and it was rumoured to be one of Horace’s old cases, and he refused to let it go.

I didn’t blame him.  The billable hours would have been worth a fortune.

We were given an hour, sat in a small, stuffy room, with a big binder of papers that hadn’t been filed properly, a fact that I realised later, but there was no need.  Discovery and document collection, and their collating, were always very messy.

I also learned a valuable lesson that day, that it was not a good idea to simply overlook something because it did fit a set of parameters.  The exercise in part was to sort out those who probed and those who glossed.

Five pages in, and my nose was twitching.

On page 397, I had the answer and wrote three lines on a sheet of legal note pad paper with the number they gave me, and I gave it to the receptionist, the same one who had looked down her nose at me when I arrived.

I doubted it would ever reach the person responsible and left feeling rather dejected.

But it did, and I got the job, the only one out of 29 candidates, and my first job was to write up the case in a way that we would have won.

After that, I got to work for Horace, which had its perks and its problems.

…

I took a dedicated elevator up to the 20th floor, where the law firm lived, atop the building.  It was that floor that cost a small fortune for the uninterrupted views, and the impression it made on the clients, that this was a law firm that consistently won.

We lived in the original historical building where the first law office was, our message being that we had been around for a long time and were reliable and resolute.  I thought the place creaked and groaned like an old sailing ship.

Clients like glass and concrete, not musty dark wood panelling that retained centuries of cigar smoke and carpets, well, I was never quite sure what that aroma was.

This office had lightning-fast elevators, an open layout where everyone had stunning views, and offices with glass walls.  There was nowhere to hide.  The breakout area was nothing less than spectacular.

It was where the receptionist left me, and where I made a cup of coffee with a machine that had a TV screen and lots of pictures of different types of coffee, but not one of just coffee.

Back home, our office had instant coffee in a large tin; you boiled the water and scooped sugar out of a large piece of vintage crockery. I didn’t have milk.

I was waiting for Jennifer Joan Rickerson.  She had an interesting voice on the phone, and I was eager to see if my imagination matched the reality.

“Mr Pargeter?”

The voice.  I turned and nearly dropped my cup.  It was the girl from the late-night office, in different clothes but just as stunning.  I noticed the slight wrinkle of her nose, a sign of disapproval.

I guess I was not her idea of lawyer material.

“I am.”

I was not sure if we shook hands, so I didn’t move, except to put the cup on the sink.

“I think you equally agree with me that there was no reason to send someone from your office.”

“I do.  But you try making the point with my boss. It’s a dotting the i and crossing the t exercise.”

She gave me one last disapproving look before saying, “We’re set up in the conference room.  The Caretaker’s lawyer will be coming in about an hour.”

I followed her into a large, very bright room surrounded by glass, with distracting views.

She sat at the head of the table, and I sat in the cheap seats.  I knew a lot about strategic seating, positions of power, and the place where the poor client, if necessary, was placed at a disadvantage.  She was obviously well-versed in strategy, especially when faced with a third-year legal representative.

The worst seat in the room was my biggest advantage.  That was why they could never see me coming.

“The Catetakers’ legal representatives had sent over their latest documents, which are in the blue folder.”

There were five folders, all different colours.  Their notes on the case were in the yellow folder.  Documents we had sent were in the green and purple folders.  The grey folder was empty; that was for today’s notes.

I took a plain manila folder out of my ancient satchel and slid it across the table.

“Another affidavit from the son.  He’s adamant that his mother would never create such a document, given how structured her life had been for so long.  Oddly, and with no relevance, my father was the most orderly man I ever knew, and in the last year of his life, that all fell apart.  I guess we don’t want to believe that it’s possible.”

Another of those rather interesting expressions that covered a multitude of thoughts.  If only I could read her mind…

“Anything is possible, but as you know, we only deal in facts, not possibilities.”

“Exactly.  What do you make of this case, based on the latest information supplied by the Catetaker?”

It would be interesting to hear what she thought.  I had made an assumption based on a single glance at the top page of the yellow folder.

“They have a strong case.  It’s going to come down to the court deciding the outcome.  Take a look at the documents and see what you think.  It’s going to be a battle to get any form of closure today, contrary to what is expected.”

“And if it was over fifty thousand dollars?” I asked, in my non-confrontational tone.

The look said it all.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 103 – It’s easy, all I have to do is write stories

…

Beyond the Myth: Leigh Brackett and the Hard Truth of Professional Fiction

For many aspiring writers, the dream begins early. It’s a seductive, glittering mirage: the idea that you can simply sit down, tap a few keys or scrawl across a page, and “easy money” will flow forth in exchange for your tales.

Leigh Brackett, the legendary “Queen of Space Opera” and the force behind iconic screenplays like The Big Sleep and The Empire Strikes Back, began her journey with that very notion. For Brackett, the idea of writing as a living wasn’t just a career path; it was a beckoning light that captivated her at the age of thirteen.

But as Brackett’s prolific career eventually proved, the distance between the idea of easy money and the reality of a professional writing career is vast. To turn a childhood fascination into a lifelong vocation, Brackett—and anyone who follows in her footsteps—had to learn that writing is not a shortcut to riches; it is a discipline of iron.

The Myth of the “Easy” Vocation

When you are thirteen, the act of storytelling feels like magic. It is unburdened by deadlines, market trends, or the daunting weight of editorial rejection. Brackett, like many others, viewed the pen as a wand.

However, Brackett quickly learned that the “easy money” myth is a dangerous trap. It ignores the cold, hard reality that writing for a living is a business. It requires more than just a vivid imagination; it requires the fortitude to treat your craft with the same seriousness as an architect treats a blueprint or a surgeon treats a theatre.

What Else Does It Take?

If not “easy money,” then what fueled Brackett’s longevity in a field as fickle as pulp fiction and Hollywood screenwriting? It takes a combination of grit, adaptability, and a relentless evolution of craft.

1. The Discipline of the “Daily Grind”

Brackett didn’t wait for the Muses to descend. She understood that a professional writer shows up. She treated writing as a job, sitting down at the typewriter day after day, regardless of whether the words flowed like water or felt like pulling teeth. Inspiration is for amateurs; professionals have a schedule.

2. Radical Adaptability

Brackett’s career path was a testament to survival. She moved from the pulps of the 1940s to the high-stakes world of Hollywood noir, and eventually to the blockbusters of the late 70s. She didn’t cling to one medium. She learned the nuances of dialogue, the structure of a screenplay, and the pacing of a novel. To succeed for decades, you must be willing to learn new languages of storytelling and pivot when the industry shifts.

3. Developing a “Thick Skin”

The myth suggests that writing is a form of self-expression where your soul is the product. The reality is that your work is a commodity subject to intense scrutiny, brutal edits, and rejection. Brackett’s ability to take the “notes” from studio executives or editors without losing the integrity of her voice was vital. She understood that being edited wasn’t a personal attack; it was part of the refinement process.

4. The Craft over the Ego

Finally, it takes a genuine, unyielding love for the craft itself. Brackett didn’t just love the “money” or the “status”; she loved the challenge of building worlds. When the money was thin, and the deadlines were crushing, it was the intellectual puzzle of constructing a narrative—of finding the right word, the perfect plot twist, the emotional anchor—that kept her in the chair.

The Takeaway

Leigh Brackett’s journey from a thirteen-year-old dreamer to a titan of science fiction reminds us that while writing can become a career, it is never “easy.”

If you are looking for easy money, there are faster ways to find it. But if you are looking for a vocation—a calling that demands your best, pushes your limits, and forces you to grow every single day—then you are in the right place. Just remember: professional writing is earned in the trenches, one word at a time, long after the myth of “easy” has faded away.

Day 103 – It’s easy, all I have to do is write stories

…

Beyond the Myth: Leigh Brackett and the Hard Truth of Professional Fiction

For many aspiring writers, the dream begins early. It’s a seductive, glittering mirage: the idea that you can simply sit down, tap a few keys or scrawl across a page, and “easy money” will flow forth in exchange for your tales.

Leigh Brackett, the legendary “Queen of Space Opera” and the force behind iconic screenplays like The Big Sleep and The Empire Strikes Back, began her journey with that very notion. For Brackett, the idea of writing as a living wasn’t just a career path; it was a beckoning light that captivated her at the age of thirteen.

But as Brackett’s prolific career eventually proved, the distance between the idea of easy money and the reality of a professional writing career is vast. To turn a childhood fascination into a lifelong vocation, Brackett—and anyone who follows in her footsteps—had to learn that writing is not a shortcut to riches; it is a discipline of iron.

The Myth of the “Easy” Vocation

When you are thirteen, the act of storytelling feels like magic. It is unburdened by deadlines, market trends, or the daunting weight of editorial rejection. Brackett, like many others, viewed the pen as a wand.

However, Brackett quickly learned that the “easy money” myth is a dangerous trap. It ignores the cold, hard reality that writing for a living is a business. It requires more than just a vivid imagination; it requires the fortitude to treat your craft with the same seriousness as an architect treats a blueprint or a surgeon treats a theatre.

What Else Does It Take?

If not “easy money,” then what fueled Brackett’s longevity in a field as fickle as pulp fiction and Hollywood screenwriting? It takes a combination of grit, adaptability, and a relentless evolution of craft.

1. The Discipline of the “Daily Grind”

Brackett didn’t wait for the Muses to descend. She understood that a professional writer shows up. She treated writing as a job, sitting down at the typewriter day after day, regardless of whether the words flowed like water or felt like pulling teeth. Inspiration is for amateurs; professionals have a schedule.

2. Radical Adaptability

Brackett’s career path was a testament to survival. She moved from the pulps of the 1940s to the high-stakes world of Hollywood noir, and eventually to the blockbusters of the late 70s. She didn’t cling to one medium. She learned the nuances of dialogue, the structure of a screenplay, and the pacing of a novel. To succeed for decades, you must be willing to learn new languages of storytelling and pivot when the industry shifts.

3. Developing a “Thick Skin”

The myth suggests that writing is a form of self-expression where your soul is the product. The reality is that your work is a commodity subject to intense scrutiny, brutal edits, and rejection. Brackett’s ability to take the “notes” from studio executives or editors without losing the integrity of her voice was vital. She understood that being edited wasn’t a personal attack; it was part of the refinement process.

4. The Craft over the Ego

Finally, it takes a genuine, unyielding love for the craft itself. Brackett didn’t just love the “money” or the “status”; she loved the challenge of building worlds. When the money was thin, and the deadlines were crushing, it was the intellectual puzzle of constructing a narrative—of finding the right word, the perfect plot twist, the emotional anchor—that kept her in the chair.

The Takeaway

Leigh Brackett’s journey from a thirteen-year-old dreamer to a titan of science fiction reminds us that while writing can become a career, it is never “easy.”

If you are looking for easy money, there are faster ways to find it. But if you are looking for a vocation—a calling that demands your best, pushes your limits, and forces you to grow every single day—then you are in the right place. Just remember: professional writing is earned in the trenches, one word at a time, long after the myth of “easy” has faded away.

Days 101 and 102 – Writing exercise

A random few pages of a novel you might write – the idea of a story

…

It was a perfect day for a funeral.  Overcast, cold, snow imminent, after a week of snow culminating on a blizzard the night before.

I shivered.  Was it her Ghost?

No one had told me Gwen had died, and I had to find out from a newspaper.  I guess that was the price to be paid for being an ex.

It was not my choice; she had decided to move on to bigger and better things with a man who was, in her words, aspired to far more than I ever would.

At the time, I would have agreed with her.  I didn’t make a fuss when I discovered the affair, nor did I make it difficult for her to do as she wished.  I loved her, always would, and it was better to let her follow her heart.

The children, Ben and Amber, decided they wanted to go with her; the thought of living in a mansion and having a life of luxury was more appealing than staying with me.

Again, I didn’t object, believing they would be happier there.

And now, twenty years almost to the day she left, here we were.  A cemetery.  The last place I expected to be ten days before Christmas.

Oh, by the way, I hadn’t been invited to the funeral service, so I didn’t get into the church, which was for families and celebrities only. No, I was at the burial plot, waiting to have the last word.

Perhaps not getting an invite was a blessing in disguise.

To say that I abhorred Jerry Northington-Jobson from the very first moment I saw him would be an understatement.

He was the only child of perhaps the fifth richest noble family in the country, spoilt beyond reason, indolent, rude, and the last man I expected Gwen would so much as look once at let alone twice.

When his parents died, in suspicious circumstances, I might add, he became the seventh Earl of something or other, the owner of a dozen estates in England and throughout Europe, and then Gwen’s second husband.

He was a lucky man.

Until she died.

In the last week, there was little else in the newspapers, every minute detail of his affairs, of his company’s misdemeanours, and the most telling of all, how he had, in twenty-plus years, spent every penny of his inheritance, and then some, on bad investments, gambling, and simply travelling around the world.

Had Gwen been alive to see it, it would have destroyed her.  I honestly believed she had no idea what their financial state would have been.

Nor would she, or any of her friends, had they been invited, have appreciated the funeral he had planned.

My cell phone vibrated in my hand.

“It’s over, sir.”

“Thank you.”

I felt, for a second, like I was in a spy novel.  It was nothing like that, just a friend who had got into the church where the service was being held, so I’d know when the coffin would arrive at the plot.

It seemed an odd way of seeing her to her final resting place, but it was the only way.  My request for a seat in the church had been denied.

It took about ten minutes before the procession came into view, with the priest leading the way.  Jerry Northington-Jobson, at the head of the coffin bearers, looked every bit the stricken husband over the loss of his wife.

Yet, according to the message I just received on the service, he had delivered a somewhat emotional eulogy that lacked, yes, real emotion.

It took five more minutes before the coffin was laid on the struts over the open grave, and those willing to brave the minus temperature to hear the last eulogy before her body was committed to the ground.

Fittingly, light snow began to fall at the same time the priest uttered his first words, in Latin.

I had forgotten they were both Roman Catholic.  That had been another strike against me; I did not have the same faith in God.

Then it was over, and the cold scattered the participants, and within a quarter hour, everyone was gone.  Everyone but this strange old man, standing at the grave, shedding a tear or two.

“Are you really an irascible old man?”

I turned, then looked down.  It was a girl, dressed in black, about five or six years old.

“It depends on who told you that.”

“My mother.  She tells me you are my long-lost grandfather, the one we never talk about.”

OK, that was a surprise.  Having not heard about any children, the children were too busy making asses of themselves in public as befitting the rich and somewhat famous; it was not improbable that this was my great-granddaughter.

“And why is that?”  I kept my voice in the same low conspiratorial tone.

“He deserted my grandmother, but I think he dodged a bullet.”

I almost laughed, just managing to keep a straight face.  She was obviously repeating what she had heard elsewhere, but it was hard to believe it would come from Amber.  The last words I spoke to her, she hated me.

“What’s your name?”

“Daisy “

“I’m Ken.  Sometimes irascible, but I don’t go out very often.”

“Do you always hide?”

“Not usually, but today it was prudent.  I don’t want to cause trouble at your grandmother’s funeral.”

“You don’t have to worry.  My grandfather has already done that.  My mother says he’s an ass too, so it must be something all grandfathers have in common.”

A distinct possibility, I thought.  I scanned the few people remaining, the snow falling harder now, and her mother was not one of them, or at least anyone I might recognise as Amber.  It had been so long that she may have changed, and I’d not know her.

“It is most likely because we are old.  Where is your mother?”

“In the church still.  She is not very well.  She told me to come out and see if you had come.  Her description was quite accurate.”

I had changed, too, so how could she know what I looked like?  Unless she had guessed that I might turn up at the funeral, invited or not.

“Do you think she might want to see me?”

“I think so.  It’s a bit hard sometimes to tell what she’s thinking.  Perhaps we should go and find out.”

The snow had settled in, falling steadily.  It was time to get indoors, preferably near a large fire.  There was one waiting for me back at the inn where I was staying for a few days.

“OK.  Lead the way.”

Her little hand slipped into mine, and we headed towards the church.  A thought did cross my mind that she was far too trusting of strangers, but then, I didn’t feel like one.  Perhaps she had sensed that.

Still, I would have a word with her mother about it.

We dusted off the snow before going into the church.  Not far from the entrance, a solitary person was sitting, head in hands.

Daisy left me and went up to her mother, shaking her.  “Mummy, mummy, I found the man.”

Her mother lifted her head slowly and turned towards me.

Amber.  All grown up.  That was the first shock; the second was that she was the spitting image of her mother, exactly as I had seen her that first day I met her.  So flawless, so beautiful, so English.

The second shock was that she was very, very ill.

“Hello, daddy.”

I walked over as she stood and held out her arms.  The next moment, she collapsed, and I just managed to catch her.

She was not just ill; she was very near death.  I recognised the signs; she had the disease that finally killed her mother.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026