Some more about my book

…

Ever woken up in another part of the world in a strange bed, in a hotel or guest house, and wondered where you are?  It seems that would happen a lot if you were a road warrior.

I’m not but I still have those moments even at home in my own bed.

Is it the dreams we have that disorient us?  Like mine because they take me to different places, and different situations, and above all, it takes me out of my mundane and boring existence.

It’s time to immerse myself in a more vicarious existence.

The world of a spy.

I think an action start might work better than just introducing the main character.

The last time we visited him in a hotel room, very hot, very hungover, and not very ready to work.

Why is he there?

Most espionage works during meetings with sources, informants, and important people who defect with a bag full of state secrets.

For wads of money, of course.

Where is he, right now?  Perhaps it could be said he was not in a good place.  A very tough few years, in the firing line, and the loss of colleagues begin to make him question everything and everyone.

There is going to be a last straw, you know, that one that breaks the camel’s back.

I’m working on his background story, a legend if you like, so I’m more acquainted with the character.  I want to be able to slip into his character and be him.  It makes it easier to write when you know everything about him or her.

And, yes, there will be a her.

And yes, jaded, world-weary or not, he’s not quite done with the bad guys yet.

It’s just he wishes the moments of self-doubt would get less rather than more.

Day 31

Minimalist writing.

I don’t think this is going to make me a better writer. I like to describe things, set the mood, set the place, set the characters, and then jump in.

Minimalism requires you to strip away all of that baggage and get to the heart of the matter.

Here’s the problem:

I spent the next seven days planning to remove my worst enemy.

Why?

There has to be motivation, though I guess it could be a series of short vignettes that explain the lead-up to this drastic situation.

I have a problem sometimes getting to the point. We get there, but perhaps we should have made a left at Alberquerqe and instead, went on the grand tour instead.

Just think, if I wanted to see London, Paris and Berlin, where would be the fun in that. I want to see everything possible in between, like the Eurostar, Disneyland, the Rhine and all those castles and vineyards.

Stories are like that, too. We need the details to make educated guesses and keep reading to see if we are right.

Day 31

Minimalist writing.

I don’t think this is going to make me a better writer. I like to describe things, set the mood, set the place, set the characters, and then jump in.

Minimalism requires you to strip away all of that baggage and get to the heart of the matter.

Here’s the problem:

I spent the next seven days planning to remove my worst enemy.

Why?

There has to be motivation, though I guess it could be a series of short vignettes that explain the lead-up to this drastic situation.

I have a problem sometimes getting to the point. We get there, but perhaps we should have made a left at Alberquerqe and instead, went on the grand tour instead.

Just think, if I wanted to see London, Paris and Berlin, where would be the fun in that. I want to see everything possible in between, like the Eurostar, Disneyland, the Rhine and all those castles and vineyards.

Stories are like that, too. We need the details to make educated guesses and keep reading to see if we are right.

Day 30

Today under the guise of words of wisdom, we have a concept of, if he wrote it, he could get rid of it.

OK, does that mean the writing goes from the pad straight into the bin? I’m sure all of has had a moment like that more than once.

Or is there something a lot deeper going on here?

I’m going with deep because there is another line, He had gotten rid of many things by writing them.

So does that mean if I write about the things that bug me, they’ll go away?

Sounds interesting.

My slant on this is. If you could write out all your problems and imagine a different happier ending to all of them. I mean I don’t really want to send my younger brother to the moon, but the thought is there.

I’m thinking that it might be a way to not pay expensive shrinks to analyse your problems, you could do it yourself, write the problems down like a quadratic equation, and solve them yourself.

Or work out how to send your brother to the moon yourself without having to plead with or pay millions of dollars to NASA.

Day 30

Today under the guise of words of wisdom, we have a concept of, if he wrote it, he could get rid of it.

OK, does that mean the writing goes from the pad straight into the bin? I’m sure all of has had a moment like that more than once.

Or is there something a lot deeper going on here?

I’m going with deep because there is another line, He had gotten rid of many things by writing them.

So does that mean if I write about the things that bug me, they’ll go away?

Sounds interesting.

My slant on this is. If you could write out all your problems and imagine a different happier ending to all of them. I mean I don’t really want to send my younger brother to the moon, but the thought is there.

I’m thinking that it might be a way to not pay expensive shrinks to analyse your problems, you could do it yourself, write the problems down like a quadratic equation, and solve them yourself.

Or work out how to send your brother to the moon yourself without having to plead with or pay millions of dollars to NASA.

Day 29

While this is a writing exercise, it is more about setting up a routine to write.

First, write for 25 minutes. That might, if the inspiration is flowing, take anything for a minute from inception to three weeks.

Dallying is called procrastination. Some might call it writer’s block. I’ll let you know what I write.

…

A change is as good as a holiday.

I said that once, in jest, but Joey had taken it to heart.

Joey was like that, ever since we were little, from that first day at elementary school, and then off and on until we graduated college.

Well, I did.  Joey had been too preoccupied with the latest love of his life, Agnetha from Sweden.  Apparently, she didn’t have a last name, or he just didn’t ask.

That was probably the reason why when she returned to Sweden and didn’t come back, Joey had no means of finding her.

He tried.

And now he was heartbroken

I looked at my phone and re-read the message that Joey had sent me.  It had been nearly three months, partly on that odyssey to Sweden, partly hiding at his parents’ retreat at Martha’s Vineyard wallowing in self-pity, and then just disappearing.

“I’m back, bigger and better than ever.  See you at the usual haunt, 3:00 pm.”

Typical Joey.

You could never keep a guy like him down.  After another round of psychoanalysis, his mother indulged his every whim, and there he was Joey 2.0.

This would be Joey 13.5.  Maybe.

Last time, he had gone surfer Dan, the rippling muscles and six pack, board shorts and muscle tee, and to top it off, the bleach blonde hair.

With that came the beach buggy and the most expensive surf board money could buy.  And after lessons from a would famous surfer, he still couldn’t stay on the board long enough to get to the other side of the wave.

What was it going to be this time?

I was supposed to have afternoon tea with Penelope, the girl I had decided to spend the rest of my life with.  I just had to tell her that.

I’d recognised the signs that she wanted more, but I had been holding back, waiting for a sign that my job was going to move upwards, with that a commensurate raise in salary that would fund the move in together.

We had been looking at apartments, but on what I was making, it wasn’t enough.  With the call from Wickham in HR this morning and the fact I was on the shortlist, I made it ideal to tell her.

I told her Joey had texted, and knowing how she felt about him, we could postpone until later, but she said she was only available then and didn’t mind.

That in itself should have set off alarm bells.

Perhaps I was too preoccupied with Joey 13.5.

I was running late, which was highly unusual, but Wickham called again, for no apparent reason, taking an inordinate amount of time to say nothing.

When I arrived, I saw Joey and Penelope talking animatedly, and if my eyes were not mistaken, flirting with him.

It was not hard to see why.

Joey had finally decided to become the executive type his father had always wanted, the heir apparent finally growing up.

Penelope had always joked about looking for that elusive, rich, dark, handsome billionaire type that always seemed to be taken.

There he was.

When she saw me, she suddenly became more aloof, which, to me, was the last warning sign that the good ship Lollypop had run aground.

What’s that saying?  He who hesitates is lost?

I put on my best happy to see you have and came up smiling and astonished in the same expression.

“Well, look who has finally joined the human race.”

I sat down next to Penelope but not next to Penelope.  She smiled in my direction, but I think she knew that I had seen their display.

There was no kissing or touching hands.

I could feel the icy wall building between us.

“Had to, Ethan. Had to.  Agnetha was the last straw that broke my mother’s tolerance level.  It was time to shape up or ship out.”

An inheritance of 20 billion dollars could do that to a young man.  I was lucky to put together 20 thousand dollars at best, and Penelope had expensive tastes.

“Can you believe it.  Joey is having a soiree at the Martha’s Vineyard place, and we’re invited.  It’ll be such fun.”

I saw the look between them.

I sighed.  That last look at the shoreline so near and yet so far, just before I went under.

Was it possible that I could just understand what Joey had felt when Agnetha had decided to go home and not leave a calling card?

“It will be, but I won’t be able to make it.”  I looked at her.  “But don’t cancel going because of me.  I’m sure you’ll be fine on your own.”

I stood.

“Hey, Ethan.  What’s going on.”

I looked at him.  “I’m sure you are more aware of what’s going on, Joey, than I am.”

There was a look of concern on Penelope’s face.  “Are you alright?”

I turned to her.  “Perfectly.  We’ll talk later, but I have to get back to work.  Wickham scheduled a meeting just before I stepped out, the reason I’m late.  You two carry on without me.  I wouldn’t make very good company at the moment.”

With a wan smile and a nod to Joey, I turned and left. I doubted I would see or hear from either of them again.

…

Then take a five-minute break.

Second, repeat the process up to 3 times.

At the end of each increase the rest time to 15 or more minutes.

Feel happy about what’s been written.

…

Well, here’s the rub, lately I’ve been writing and it hasn’t impressed me, and for the last few days, I’ve been rewriting, and reinventing.

I am my own harshest critic.

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 29

While this is a writing exercise, it is more about setting up a routine to write.

First, write for 25 minutes. That might, if the inspiration is flowing, take anything for a minute from inception to three weeks.

Dallying is called procrastination. Some might call it writer’s block. I’ll let you know what I write.

…

A change is as good as a holiday.

I said that once, in jest, but Joey had taken it to heart.

Joey was like that, ever since we were little, from that first day at elementary school, and then off and on until we graduated college.

Well, I did.  Joey had been too preoccupied with the latest love of his life, Agnetha from Sweden.  Apparently, she didn’t have a last name, or he just didn’t ask.

That was probably the reason why when she returned to Sweden and didn’t come back, Joey had no means of finding her.

He tried.

And now he was heartbroken

I looked at my phone and re-read the message that Joey had sent me.  It had been nearly three months, partly on that odyssey to Sweden, partly hiding at his parents’ retreat at Martha’s Vineyard wallowing in self-pity, and then just disappearing.

“I’m back, bigger and better than ever.  See you at the usual haunt, 3:00 pm.”

Typical Joey.

You could never keep a guy like him down.  After another round of psychoanalysis, his mother indulged his every whim, and there he was Joey 2.0.

This would be Joey 13.5.  Maybe.

Last time, he had gone surfer Dan, the rippling muscles and six pack, board shorts and muscle tee, and to top it off, the bleach blonde hair.

With that came the beach buggy and the most expensive surf board money could buy.  And after lessons from a would famous surfer, he still couldn’t stay on the board long enough to get to the other side of the wave.

What was it going to be this time?

I was supposed to have afternoon tea with Penelope, the girl I had decided to spend the rest of my life with.  I just had to tell her that.

I’d recognised the signs that she wanted more, but I had been holding back, waiting for a sign that my job was going to move upwards, with that a commensurate raise in salary that would fund the move in together.

We had been looking at apartments, but on what I was making, it wasn’t enough.  With the call from Wickham in HR this morning and the fact I was on the shortlist, I made it ideal to tell her.

I told her Joey had texted, and knowing how she felt about him, we could postpone until later, but she said she was only available then and didn’t mind.

That in itself should have set off alarm bells.

Perhaps I was too preoccupied with Joey 13.5.

I was running late, which was highly unusual, but Wickham called again, for no apparent reason, taking an inordinate amount of time to say nothing.

When I arrived, I saw Joey and Penelope talking animatedly, and if my eyes were not mistaken, flirting with him.

It was not hard to see why.

Joey had finally decided to become the executive type his father had always wanted, the heir apparent finally growing up.

Penelope had always joked about looking for that elusive, rich, dark, handsome billionaire type that always seemed to be taken.

There he was.

When she saw me, she suddenly became more aloof, which, to me, was the last warning sign that the good ship Lollypop had run aground.

What’s that saying?  He who hesitates is lost?

I put on my best happy to see you have and came up smiling and astonished in the same expression.

“Well, look who has finally joined the human race.”

I sat down next to Penelope but not next to Penelope.  She smiled in my direction, but I think she knew that I had seen their display.

There was no kissing or touching hands.

I could feel the icy wall building between us.

“Had to, Ethan. Had to.  Agnetha was the last straw that broke my mother’s tolerance level.  It was time to shape up or ship out.”

An inheritance of 20 billion dollars could do that to a young man.  I was lucky to put together 20 thousand dollars at best, and Penelope had expensive tastes.

“Can you believe it.  Joey is having a soiree at the Martha’s Vineyard place, and we’re invited.  It’ll be such fun.”

I saw the look between them.

I sighed.  That last look at the shoreline so near and yet so far, just before I went under.

Was it possible that I could just understand what Joey had felt when Agnetha had decided to go home and not leave a calling card?

“It will be, but I won’t be able to make it.”  I looked at her.  “But don’t cancel going because of me.  I’m sure you’ll be fine on your own.”

I stood.

“Hey, Ethan.  What’s going on.”

I looked at him.  “I’m sure you are more aware of what’s going on, Joey, than I am.”

There was a look of concern on Penelope’s face.  “Are you alright?”

I turned to her.  “Perfectly.  We’ll talk later, but I have to get back to work.  Wickham scheduled a meeting just before I stepped out, the reason I’m late.  You two carry on without me.  I wouldn’t make very good company at the moment.”

With a wan smile and a nod to Joey, I turned and left. I doubted I would see or hear from either of them again.

…

Then take a five-minute break.

Second, repeat the process up to 3 times.

At the end of each increase the rest time to 15 or more minutes.

Feel happy about what’s been written.

…

Well, here’s the rub, lately I’ve been writing and it hasn’t impressed me, and for the last few days, I’ve been rewriting, and reinventing.

I am my own harshest critic.

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 28

Today we have another writing exercise, that comes under the banner of “She was never happier than the day she realised she could never truly be happy”.

Interesting.

Does this imply that no one could ever be happy?

What is being happy all about? Have enough money, a big or small house you own, no bills, credit cards not maxed out, 2.4 perfect uncomplaining and undemanding kids?

Hell, put like that, no one could possibly ever be happy.

But, let’s give it a go…

…

It was quite something to wake up, stare at the ceiling once it came into focus, look at the bedside clock and note she woke five minutes before the alarm went off, as she did every morning workday or not, and think where did the last twenty years go?

A better question, and one posed by Elsie the previous evening, was whether or not she was happy. The four women, all friends since high school, all now in their forties, met once a month and usually it was about children and work, but last night it was about happiness.

What the hell exactly did Elsie mean, are you happy with your life?

The point she was trying to make, despite the fact she was very drunk, which was usual, in fact for some odd reason they all were, was that she needed a definition of what happiness was because she was feeling decidedly unhappy.

That got her thinking, ergo the reason why she was staring at the ceiling trying to think of one good reason to say she was happy with her life.

Because until last night, she was. Now, in the col,d hard light of dawn, she was not so sure.

Marriage had gone from the wonderful happy-go-lucky let the chips fall where they may bliss, to drudge the moment she got pregnant. From there, it had been a running battle to convince Jake that she could work and look after a family, one that eventually grew to three children, and at times, with the pressures of work, it was almost impossible to find a work-life balance.

And while she battled to get the kids up, give them breakfast, make sure they had all their school stuff, take them to school, bring them home and have food on the table at a specific time, and cope with the ever-increasing demands of work.

All while Jake sailed on with his charmed life of doing nothing but mow the lawns, pull a few weeds, and puddle in his work shed. When he was not playing golf, drinking with his friends, or off on yet another work conference.

Yes, it was all Elsie’s fault. If she had not said anything…

…

The advantage of having children early in life, Jake being the sort who never wanted to go away for a vacation, was the last of them had just moved out, off to college and hopefully bigger and better things, and to be honest she was glad to see him go.

Jake said he would be home in time to see him off, but typical Jake, there was always something else more important. A last-minute invitation to a conference on the other side of the country. By the time she got home, the bag was packed and he was going out the door.

So much for going to the airport together as they did in the early days, along with the offer to join him one day, the one day that never materialised.

She glanced at the clock and sighed. Then she remembered it was Saturday, and there was no work. No husband, and no children. The first day of bliss.

The phone rang, and she had to get out of bed to fetch it from the table on the other side of the room, placed there deliberately so often she didn;t answer it.

This time she did.

Jake, and his usual platitudes and beef about how it was a hard life and someone had to do it. She was surprised he still called while he was away.

“Had a night out with the girls last night. We all got very drunk and disorderly and I had to call a neighbour to come and bail us out. Not feeling too well this morning.”

Yes, that went down very well, he didn’t even acknowledge it before adding he would be staying another two days.

“That’s good, Jake. Now, I can tell Elsie we can go to the male strippers tonight.”

She could hear rustling in the background and smiled to herself. Winny from sales, the girl all the men wanted to seduce, Jake had been telling her about it. She’d known about their little fling for a month when one of the women at his workplace called her and suggested something was going on. Of course, it would be. Jake had turned 40 a few years back, but the menopause hadn’t hit. Then it did. She knew the signs, her father had gone through it.

She heard him suck his breath in.

“Do you think that would be a good idea? You never know who might be there.”

Yes, there it is. About his image, not hers. About the effect it might have on him, not her.

“You won’t be. Say hello to Winny for me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out. See you in a couple of days. or not.” She hung up the phone, walked back to the bed and flopped on it.

The phone rang again, but she was not going to answer it. Let Jake think what he wants.

Her eyes went back to the ceiling, and this time, it didn’t show a life of drudge. It was a life of many possibilities.

It wasn’t the fact Jake was having an affair; he had never been the sort to be monogamous and she knew that before marrying him. It was, her mother said, a matter of what you were prepared to compromise. As long as he was discreet, she didn’t care. He knew the consequences if he wasn’t.

It also had nothing to do with her responsibilities to the children. They were grown up and didn’t need her anymore. They’d said as much, in their usual throwaway manner, that, she admitted, hurt a little, but it was the way of things.

No, it was about time she lived her life, the life she had always wanted, but sacrificed.

What did Elsie say, almost unintelligible as she out her in a taxi to go home, you’re never truly happy until you realise you can never be truly happy.

Or words to that effect.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 28

Today we have another writing exercise, that comes under the banner of “She was never happier than the day she realised she could never truly be happy”.

Interesting.

Does this imply that no one could ever be happy?

What is being happy all about? Have enough money, a big or small house you own, no bills, credit cards not maxed out, 2.4 perfect uncomplaining and undemanding kids?

Hell, put like that, no one could possibly ever be happy.

But, let’s give it a go…

…

It was quite something to wake up, stare at the ceiling once it came into focus, look at the bedside clock and note she woke five minutes before the alarm went off, as she did every morning workday or not, and think where did the last twenty years go?

A better question, and one posed by Elsie the previous evening, was whether or not she was happy. The four women, all friends since high school, all now in their forties, met once a month and usually it was about children and work, but last night it was about happiness.

What the hell exactly did Elsie mean, are you happy with your life?

The point she was trying to make, despite the fact she was very drunk, which was usual, in fact for some odd reason they all were, was that she needed a definition of what happiness was because she was feeling decidedly unhappy.

That got her thinking, ergo the reason why she was staring at the ceiling trying to think of one good reason to say she was happy with her life.

Because until last night, she was. Now, in the col,d hard light of dawn, she was not so sure.

Marriage had gone from the wonderful happy-go-lucky let the chips fall where they may bliss, to drudge the moment she got pregnant. From there, it had been a running battle to convince Jake that she could work and look after a family, one that eventually grew to three children, and at times, with the pressures of work, it was almost impossible to find a work-life balance.

And while she battled to get the kids up, give them breakfast, make sure they had all their school stuff, take them to school, bring them home and have food on the table at a specific time, and cope with the ever-increasing demands of work.

All while Jake sailed on with his charmed life of doing nothing but mow the lawns, pull a few weeds, and puddle in his work shed. When he was not playing golf, drinking with his friends, or off on yet another work conference.

Yes, it was all Elsie’s fault. If she had not said anything…

…

The advantage of having children early in life, Jake being the sort who never wanted to go away for a vacation, was the last of them had just moved out, off to college and hopefully bigger and better things, and to be honest she was glad to see him go.

Jake said he would be home in time to see him off, but typical Jake, there was always something else more important. A last-minute invitation to a conference on the other side of the country. By the time she got home, the bag was packed and he was going out the door.

So much for going to the airport together as they did in the early days, along with the offer to join him one day, the one day that never materialised.

She glanced at the clock and sighed. Then she remembered it was Saturday, and there was no work. No husband, and no children. The first day of bliss.

The phone rang, and she had to get out of bed to fetch it from the table on the other side of the room, placed there deliberately so often she didn;t answer it.

This time she did.

Jake, and his usual platitudes and beef about how it was a hard life and someone had to do it. She was surprised he still called while he was away.

“Had a night out with the girls last night. We all got very drunk and disorderly and I had to call a neighbour to come and bail us out. Not feeling too well this morning.”

Yes, that went down very well, he didn’t even acknowledge it before adding he would be staying another two days.

“That’s good, Jake. Now, I can tell Elsie we can go to the male strippers tonight.”

She could hear rustling in the background and smiled to herself. Winny from sales, the girl all the men wanted to seduce, Jake had been telling her about it. She’d known about their little fling for a month when one of the women at his workplace called her and suggested something was going on. Of course, it would be. Jake had turned 40 a few years back, but the menopause hadn’t hit. Then it did. She knew the signs, her father had gone through it.

She heard him suck his breath in.

“Do you think that would be a good idea? You never know who might be there.”

Yes, there it is. About his image, not hers. About the effect it might have on him, not her.

“You won’t be. Say hello to Winny for me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out. See you in a couple of days. or not.” She hung up the phone, walked back to the bed and flopped on it.

The phone rang again, but she was not going to answer it. Let Jake think what he wants.

Her eyes went back to the ceiling, and this time, it didn’t show a life of drudge. It was a life of many possibilities.

It wasn’t the fact Jake was having an affair; he had never been the sort to be monogamous and she knew that before marrying him. It was, her mother said, a matter of what you were prepared to compromise. As long as he was discreet, she didn’t care. He knew the consequences if he wasn’t.

It also had nothing to do with her responsibilities to the children. They were grown up and didn’t need her anymore. They’d said as much, in their usual throwaway manner, that, she admitted, hurt a little, but it was the way of things.

No, it was about time she lived her life, the life she had always wanted, but sacrificed.

What did Elsie say, almost unintelligible as she out her in a taxi to go home, you’re never truly happy until you realise you can never be truly happy.

Or words to that effect.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 27

Today it’s about writing English, the perfect words, the sentences, the paragraphs, the use and abuse of punctuation.

What is that we are supposed to start learning seriously in Grade 3 or 4 when we are 8 or 9 years old, and there are more interesting things to learn about.

Oh, and you start to write in ink, not those terrible biros that used to leak everywhere and smudge on the page, but a real pen, nib, and ink, with ink wells that an ink monitor would fill every Monday morning, and discover what the rodent children stuffed in them.

(Usually blotting paper).

I remember my first attempt was a disaster and the teacher sent me back to writing in pencil.

Then there were the words, adjectives, adverbs, nouns, verbs, subjects, predicates, etc.

That was four words too many.

Then there were commas, full stops, semicolons, colons, exclamation marks, question marks and other things that I think I have forgotten about.

Then there are all those words that are so confusing, they are spelt the same, spelt differently, but when pronounced are exactly the same to the ear. Blue, blew, so, sow, you get the idea.

I’m with Truman Capote, I do not practise what I preach!

That’s called writing style, and yes, I spell the words correctly, I review and correct any grammar errors, and then have an editor tell me it all runs like a well-oiled machine.