We are all born with an imagination. It’s simply a matter of whether we choose to use it or not.
Some people have every reason to want to disappear into an imaginary world of their creation because life is too hard or impossible in reality.
I was there for two reasons.
The first, because I loved reading books, especially stories about brave people and children who had holidays by the sea, who got together to have adventures.
Of course, if you were like me, it was Enid Blyton, the Famous Five and the Secret Seven. I must have read and reread those stories over and over.
As I got older and the stories got more sophisticated, right out of the school library, my desire for adventure only grew.
Yes, we went on holiday, but there was never anything like what happened in those books.
Until…
We were allowed to stay at my grandmother’s house, who lived in the country. It was by a highway, it was at the end of a lane, it was only a very large block of land, and it was a huge house, lots of rooms, and a place where an imagination could run wild.
My grandmother lived alone. She was a hoarder. She had lots of old musty books and stories that were much different from those I read.
She had a wing of bedrooms, one for my mother, her sister and her brother and a spare, rooms filled with stuff, which, while she went off to bowls and left us on our own, we used to explore.
Those rooms have files of magazines, old documents from the garage her husband, long deceased, had run. History.
Then there was the outside, now in disrepair. Two garages and old cars rotting away. A workshop that had all manner of tools, an overgrown garden of the sort one usually found in towns. There was an outhouse adjoining the laundry, very scary to go to at night, and almost as much during the day.
It was like stepping back in time, long before we had all the modern conveniences we have today.
Hers used to have a large fountain, a rose garden, a croquet lawn, a fernery, and a greenhouse. We recovered some of it, particularly the fountain, and it was incredible. Those gardens would have been magnificent.
Inside the house, there were tables, luxurious lounge chairs, 1930s furniture, cupboards, a wooden stove, and an ice box, an almost perfect reminder of what it had been like long before we were born.
My brother didn’t see it, but then he never really had an imagination.
The second, because of the horrible things that happened to us, if I hadn’t been able to escape, I don’t think I would have made it to adulthood.
A vastly different world was needed, one I could almost walk through a portal into, a place where I could escape.
A child in a boarding school in the English countryside, a pilot in a Sopwith Camel flying over the trenches of WWI, a seaman on a destroyer in action against the Germans in a great sea battle, and an Explorer in the middle of the jungle in Africa, going down the Nile, or the Zambesi.
You have heard this story a million times, but not quite.
…
It was a mad dash from the office to the airport, and like most times when it came to personal travel, I just made it, or I was five minutes too late.
Of course, this time, I had a legitimate reason. Because I had to clear the vacation days, I needed to go home and be with my mother whose health had taken a turn for the worse, and it meant visiting HR.
And in HR was Adeline, the woman I had met at a staff function the week before and had spent a rather interesting evening. I had a strict policy on not dating work colleagues, but for some reason, she seemed different.
It was not a date, and we had parted without any commitment to continue, though something inside me told me it might be worth pursuing.
I had to sign the vacation form, and she was the dury officer on the desk. In the end, I had to run, but she had asked to exchange phone numbers. I had no idea how long i would be gone, a few days or much longer, given my mother’s doctors wasn’t sure himself.
All I knew was that her time was almost up. Stage four cancer was as unpredictable as it was relentless. The only positive is that it had given me the time to get home and spend those last few weeks with her.
My brother and sister were on the other side of the world and wouldn’t be able to make it, though they were trying to get home. The thing was, our mother was not all that keen for them to return. It was an odd response and one I couldn’t understand.
Perhaps I would find out when I got there.
On a trip that involved two planes, one made at least a dozen times over the past two years without a glitch, was expected, given the circumstances, to be equally as easy.
Wrong.
It was like the universe was trying to tell me something. A surplus bag left behind stopped my outward-bound first flight, delaying it to the point it was scrubbed and everyone had to return the next day.
That killed the connecting flight, so that when I was finally on the ground, the second flight wasn’t leaving for another eleven hours.
I finally got home two days after I started out. I was glad she was not at death’s door, or I would have missed seeing her alive and have those last few meaningless words we say to people who are dying.
It was a given that I would automatically ask how she was, knowing she was never going to feel well again. And yet there was no stopping us because we had been indoctrinated a long time ago with such human concern.
She was propped up in a comfortable chair by the fire, reading a book when I got there, fighting off the beginnings of a snowstorm, and driving an unfamiliar car.
At best, I was expecting to be snowed in. My mother’s last conversation over the phone while I was waiting for the second plane was upbeat, though I could hear the pain in her voice. She was on regulated morphine shots to manage that same pain.
I dumped my bag at the foot of the stairs and went into the large living space. In winter, it could get very cold, but it was the views in spring and summer that more than made up for the other two seasons.
“How could you read a book when the falling snow is so breathtaking?”
In more ways than one. The intense cold outside could make breathing difficult. It used to affect me when I was younger.
“Richie, at last.”
I went over and gave her a hug.
Mrs Davis, her carer, came in carrying a tray with tea and coffee. My mother had never acquired the taste for coffee, perhaps because of her family origins back in England.
She was, she always said, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, that she should have been a princess, and only the thought of all that pomp and ceremony that came with the title had put her off, running away to America and a different sort of life.
And when we asked her what she meant, she would always say, ‘That’s for me to know and for you to find out’. But it never escaped me that Dad always used to call her his ‘Princess’ with one of his enigmatic smiles, along with their story on how she came second in the Prom Queen stakes, and therefore would always be his Princess.
I never understood what he meant, and the others just thought he was simply crazy in love with her.
It was the sort of love I wanted to find, but so far, I had not.
Mrs Davis poured the tea and left us. I sat in the seat beside her, where Dad always sat. It was strange that he always called the living room ‘the throne room’.
“You were lucky. The airport just closed. The snow is going to set in for a few days.”
God’s will, perhaps.
“Any word from the others?” I could see the inadequate beside her, a sure sign she had been video conferencing with my brother and sister.
“I told them it’s not urgent. They have obligations and children to consider. Unlike you, free as a bird.”
It was a blessing and, ironically, a curse. She had hoped that she would have at least one grandchild from each of her children, and I had disappointed her.
There had been several candidates over the years, but i was not what they were looking for, and in the end, I decided not to try. If it was meant to happen, it would.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’d rather she were perfect for you than second best.”
“You were, according to Dad, and that’s all I ask for.”
“You’re not a second-best sort of person, Richie. She’s out there. You just haven’t met her yet.”
It was the same every time I came home. It saddened me that this would be the last time and that it was going to be hard to remain upbeat.
Several weeks passed, and it was very hard to watch her slowly decline. Her bed was set up in the living room, making it easier for her to get from the bed to the seat
A steady stream of visitors showed how much the townsfolk adored her, everyone coming to pat their respects while she had the strength.
Now it was deserting her, so she remained in bed and held court from there. A different colour dressing gown for each day of the week.
Our conversations were of childhood memories, hers and mine, though there were hard any of my mine that she wasn’t aware of, and a whole swathe of hers I had no idea about. I don’t think any of us did, Dad included
And, then, when I thought she had drifted off into a morphine induced dream state, she said, with conviction, “You have heard this story a million times, but not quite.”
At first, I thought she was actually talking in her sleep, but she was not. She had opened her eyes and was looking straight at me.
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
You have heard this story a million times, but not quite.
It was a mad dash from the office to the airport, and like most times when it came to personal travel, I just made it, or I was five minutes too late.
Of course, this time, I had a legitimate reason. Because I had to clear the vacation days, I needed to go home and be with my mother whose health had taken a turn for the worse, and it meant visiting HR.
And in HR was Adeline, the woman I had met at a staff function the week before and had spent a rather interesting evening. I had a strict policy on not dating work colleagues, but for some reason, she seemed different.
It was not a date, and we had parted without any commitment to continue, though something inside me told me it might be worth pursuing.
I had to sign the vacation form, and she was the dury officer on the desk. In the end, I had to run, but she had asked to exchange phone numbers. I had no idea how long i would be gone, a few days or much longer, given my mother’s doctors wasn’t sure himself.
All I knew was that her time was almost up. Stage four cancer was as unpredictable as it was relentless. The only positive is that it had given me the time to get home and spend those last few weeks with her.
My brother and sister were on the other side of the world and wouldn’t be able to make it, though they were trying to get home. The thing was, our mother was not all that keen for them to return. It was an odd response and one I couldn’t understand.
Perhaps I would find out when I got there.
On a trip that involved two planes, one made at least a dozen times over the past two years without a glitch, was expected, given the circumstances, to be equally as easy.
Wrong.
It was like the universe was trying to tell me something. A surplus bag left behind stopped my outward-bound first flight, delaying it to the point it was scrubbed and everyone had to return the next day.
That killed the connecting flight, so that when I was finally on the ground, the second flight wasn’t leaving for another eleven hours.
I finally got home two days after I started out. I was glad she was not at death’s door, or I would have missed seeing her alive and have those last few meaningless words we say to people who are dying.
It was a given that I would automatically ask how she was, knowing she was never going to feel well again. And yet there was no stopping us because we had been indoctrinated a long time ago with such human concern.
She was propped up in a comfortable chair by the fire, reading a book when I got there, fighting off the beginnings of a snowstorm, and driving an unfamiliar car.
At best, I was expecting to be snowed in. My mother’s last conversation over the phone while I was waiting for the second plane was upbeat, though I could hear the pain in her voice. She was on regulated morphine shots to manage that same pain.
I dumped my bag at the foot of the stairs and went into the large living space. In winter, it could get very cold, but it was the views in spring and summer that more than made up for the other two seasons.
“How could you read a book when the falling snow is so breathtaking?”
In more ways than one. The intense cold outside could make breathing difficult. It used to affect me when I was younger.
“Richie, at last.”
I went over and gave her a hug.
Mrs Davis, her carer, came in carrying a tray with tea and coffee. My mother had never acquired the taste for coffee, perhaps because of her family origins back in England.
She was, she always said, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, that she should have been a princess, and only the thought of all that pomp and ceremony that came with the title had put her off, running away to America and a different sort of life.
And when we asked her what she meant, she would always say, ‘That’s for me to know and for you to find out’. But it never escaped me that Dad always used to call her his ‘Princess’ with one of his enigmatic smiles, along with their story on how she came second in the Prom Queen stakes, and therefore would always be his Princess.
I never understood what he meant, and the others just thought he was simply crazy in love with her.
It was the sort of love I wanted to find, but so far, I had not.
Mrs Davis poured the tea and left us. I sat in the seat beside her, where Dad always sat. It was strange that he always called the living room ‘the throne room’.
“You were lucky. The airport just closed. The snow is going to set in for a few days.”
God’s will, perhaps.
“Any word from the others?” I could see the inadequate beside her, a sure sign she had been video conferencing with my brother and sister.
“I told them it’s not urgent. They have obligations and children to consider. Unlike you, free as a bird.”
It was a blessing and, ironically, a curse. She had hoped that she would have at least one grandchild from each of her children, and I had disappointed her.
There had been several candidates over the years, but i was not what they were looking for, and in the end, I decided not to try. If it was meant to happen, it would.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’d rather she were perfect for you than second best.”
“You were, according to Dad, and that’s all I ask for.”
“You’re not a second-best sort of person, Richie. She’s out there. You just haven’t met her yet.”
It was the same every time I came home. It saddened me that this would be the last time and that it was going to be hard to remain upbeat.
Several weeks passed, and it was very hard to watch her slowly decline. Her bed was set up in the living room, making it easier for her to get from the bed to the seat
A steady stream of visitors showed how much the townsfolk adored her, everyone coming to pat their respects while she had the strength.
Now it was deserting her, so she remained in bed and held court from there. A different colour dressing gown for each day of the week.
Our conversations were of childhood memories, hers and mine, though there were hard any of my mine that she wasn’t aware of, and a whole swathe of hers I had no idea about. I don’t think any of us did, Dad included
And, then, when I thought she had drifted off into a morphine induced dream state, she said, with conviction, “You have heard this story a million times, but not quite.”
At first, I thought she was actually talking in her sleep, but she was not. She had opened her eyes and was looking straight at me.
I’ve always liked that expression, ‘I’ve painted myself into a corner’. I did it once, not literally painting but laying tiles. It was a weird sensation to discover I could do such a thing.
And yet, I’ve done it a few times when writing stories. I get so far, and there doesn’t seem to be anywhere to go. More than once, I have had to delete several chapters and start again.
In fact, at the moment, I have one such story, where we go through the crisis and on our way, and there’s another. The fact that we’re in outer space makes it just a little more interesting.
This is one of the perils of panthers, you know, the writers who fly by the seat of their pants, as much in the dark as the reader moving forward.
There’s always a good argument for planning, but my problem is that I get an idea, I get it down and run with it until it’s exhausted. Or I am.
Sometimes, there’s more to the initial story, and ideas come to write more, and, again, I will run with it. If not, and there are further ideas, I jot them down and come back later.
It was how a short story I wrote for A-to-Z month two years ago turned into the November NaNoWriMo novel that same year. I got down the story, but then the next part was fresh, then the next, and over the next three months, the whole story, all 52,000 odd words came tumbling out.
Oddly, the same thing happened the following year: an A-to-Z story just wouldn’t stop until the 50,000 words had been written.
But…
Like every writer, I have stories that I started and never ended, though in my case, I quite often have too many other projects on the go to finish them, rather than a lack of ideas.
Still, the reason why I didn’t go back? Subconsciously, I must have thought they were not very good to begin with.
Perhaps this might prompt an article. Writers can be the worst hoarders!
I’ve always liked that expression, ‘I’ve painted myself into a corner’. I did it once, not literally painting but laying tiles. It was a weird sensation to discover I could do such a thing.
And yet, I’ve done it a few times when writing stories. I get so far, and there doesn’t seem to be anywhere to go. More than once, I have had to delete several chapters and start again.
In fact, at the moment, I have one such story, where we go through the crisis and on our way, and there’s another. The fact that we’re in outer space makes it just a little more interesting.
This is one of the perils of panthers, you know, the writers who fly by the seat of their pants, as much in the dark as the reader moving forward.
There’s always a good argument for planning, but my problem is that I get an idea, I get it down and run with it until it’s exhausted. Or I am.
Sometimes, there’s more to the initial story, and ideas come to write more, and, again, I will run with it. If not, and there are further ideas, I jot them down and come back later.
It was how a short story I wrote for A-to-Z month two years ago turned into the November NaNoWriMo novel that same year. I got down the story, but then the next part was fresh, then the next, and over the next three months, the whole story, all 52,000 odd words came tumbling out.
Oddly, the same thing happened the following year: an A-to-Z story just wouldn’t stop until the 50,000 words had been written.
But…
Like every writer, I have stories that I started and never ended, though in my case, I quite often have too many other projects on the go to finish them, rather than a lack of ideas.
Still, the reason why I didn’t go back? Subconsciously, I must have thought they were not very good to begin with.
Perhaps this might prompt an article. Writers can be the worst hoarders!
Love strikes you when you least expect it, and quite often, not the person you thought it would be.
The thing is, I wasn’t looking and had made up my mind that studies came first, then a good job, save some money, and be prepared for anything.
But saying you’re not interested, and what seems to be the woman of your dreams appearing out of left field, you have to wonder if fate has something else in store.
I thought it did for me.
It came in the form of one Maria Cagnoni, year two of a four-year engineering degree, diversifying into Space, and the second day of the first semester at the university, the astrophysics lecture.
She was late and made an entrance.
Professor Moriarty, yes, right out of a Sherlock Holmes detective story, was not amused. A normal student would just sneak on and blend into the back of the room.
Not Maria.
She was like a stick of dynamite with a burning fuse. Bright red skimpy dress, long flowing artificial curly blonde hair, and a supermodel manner. My first impression is a Marilyn Monroe lookalike.
Not a word was exchanged, but we all knew what the Professor was thinking, and as for Maria, I would have said she was oblivious to what was going on around her, except she knew and by the supercilious smirk on her face, all too well the effect she’d created.
Brenda Bailey, the girl whom I’d been duelling for best student every year since the start of grade school, just groaned. It was going to be very interesting to get her take on Maria’s arrival.
Maria was a new student, transferred from one of those Ivy League universities, one I would have liked to go to, and had been accepted into, but then my mother got sick. I seriously doubted Maria was here to do astrophysics, but I was quickly reminded not to judge a book by its cover.
Brenda had missed out, or so she told me, but being every bit as clever as I was, I didn’t question the story, I just had reservations. I might have considered at first that because I wasn’t going she wasn’t, but after she picked another boy to go the the prom, I knew that whatever I thought we had, it didn’t go both ways.
It had taken a year to get past that, and it still rankled, though I kept it to myself. But it did teach me one valuable lesson: don’t get tangled up with any girls. They were all tarred with the same brush.
I was having coffee at the nearby cafe minding my own business when Maria appeared in the doorway and quickly scanned the room.
Looking for someone? She saw me, the only face she recognised, and came over.
“I know you.”
“I beg to differ.” I gave her the trademark ‘go away’ look, which didn’t work. She pulled up a chair and sat down.
“I heard you’re the resident genius.”
I glared at her. Radkin was taking the mickey again. She was definitely his sort.
“You heard wrong. That would be Brenda.”
“Your ex?”
Yep, she’d been definitely talking to Radkin. He sussed the tension first year and figured we had broken up badly.
“There is nothing between us but air. I asked her to the prom, she turned me down, it took me by surprise, I stayed a month in Tuscany with my aunt and got over it. Go annoy her.”
“You always this prickly?”
“This is a good day. Try annoying me on a bad day. What the hell do you want anyway?”
Perhaps my brusque tone would get her to leave.
“What is your problem?”
OK, I finally got the response I was looking for. “What do you and Astrophysics have in common?”
“I would be here if I didn’t have the grades.”
She didn’t say it, but the intimation was loud and clear.
“Then I should be seeking you out as the resident genius. When I have a problem, I’ll come and see you.”
She shook her head. I don’t think the conversation went quite the way she had imagined it would. And if she were clever, the Professor would find some way of tormenting me. He had a reputation for creating groups of students and using them to create solutions to near-unsolvable problems.
Love strikes you when you least expect it, and quite often, not the person you thought it would be.
The thing is, I wasn’t looking and had made up my mind that studies came first, then a good job, save some money, and be prepared for anything.
But saying you’re not interested, and what seems to be the woman of your dreams appearing out of left field, you have to wonder if fate has something else in store.
I thought it did for me.
It came in the form of one Maria Cagnoni, year two of a four-year engineering degree, diversifying into Space, and the second day of the first semester at the university, the astrophysics lecture.
She was late and made an entrance.
Professor Moriarty, yes, right out of a Sherlock Holmes detective story, was not amused. A normal student would just sneak on and blend into the back of the room.
Not Maria.
She was like a stick of dynamite with a burning fuse. Bright red skimpy dress, long flowing artificial curly blonde hair, and a supermodel manner. My first impression is a Marilyn Monroe lookalike.
Not a word was exchanged, but we all knew what the Professor was thinking, and as for Maria, I would have said she was oblivious to what was going on around her, except she knew and by the supercilious smirk on her face, all too well the effect she’d created.
Brenda Bailey, the girl whom I’d been duelling for best student every year since the start of grade school, just groaned. It was going to be very interesting to get her take on Maria’s arrival.
Maria was a new student, transferred from one of those Ivy League universities, one I would have liked to go to, and had been accepted into, but then my mother got sick. I seriously doubted Maria was here to do astrophysics, but I was quickly reminded not to judge a book by its cover.
Brenda had missed out, or so she told me, but being every bit as clever as I was, I didn’t question the story, I just had reservations. I might have considered at first that because I wasn’t going she wasn’t, but after she picked another boy to go the the prom, I knew that whatever I thought we had, it didn’t go both ways.
It had taken a year to get past that, and it still rankled, though I kept it to myself. But it did teach me one valuable lesson: don’t get tangled up with any girls. They were all tarred with the same brush.
I was having coffee at the nearby cafe minding my own business when Maria appeared in the doorway and quickly scanned the room.
Looking for someone? She saw me, the only face she recognised, and came over.
“I know you.”
“I beg to differ.” I gave her the trademark ‘go away’ look, which didn’t work. She pulled up a chair and sat down.
“I heard you’re the resident genius.”
I glared at her. Radkin was taking the mickey again. She was definitely his sort.
“You heard wrong. That would be Brenda.”
“Your ex?”
Yep, she’d been definitely talking to Radkin. He sussed the tension first year and figured we had broken up badly.
“There is nothing between us but air. I asked her to the prom, she turned me down, it took me by surprise, I stayed a month in Tuscany with my aunt and got over it. Go annoy her.”
“You always this prickly?”
“This is a good day. Try annoying me on a bad day. What the hell do you want anyway?”
Perhaps my brusque tone would get her to leave.
“What is your problem?”
OK, I finally got the response I was looking for. “What do you and Astrophysics have in common?”
“I would be here if I didn’t have the grades.”
She didn’t say it, but the intimation was loud and clear.
“Then I should be seeking you out as the resident genius. When I have a problem, I’ll come and see you.”
She shook her head. I don’t think the conversation went quite the way she had imagined it would. And if she were clever, the Professor would find some way of tormenting me. He had a reputation for creating groups of students and using them to create solutions to near-unsolvable problems.
When I was writing the original story, there was no Natasha.
The thing is, there was going to be retribution, but it was going to be the usual revenge: sneak up on the person responsible, and shoot him.
Blunt, but quick and satisfying.
But the thing is, revenge is never that simple; there are always multiple layers, events, and people that bring this revenge to life.
It helps to know who the revenge is against and why.
First, Willoughby’s head of department, O’Connell’s the man who can’t lie straight in bed. To him, a double cross is like a grist to the mill. He’s not the instigator, just the agent of doom. McConnell has no time for people like Whitelaw or Fitzherbert.
Second, Whitelaw, the man who perceived the unjust treatment of his request to head the new department. He’s the yes man that every minister needs, except his minister decides to give it to McConnell. What more reason for a man like Whitelaw, who doesn’t suffer rebuff very well, is needed to try and bring McConnell down?
Pity those caught in the crossfire? Absolutely.
Third, Fitzherbert, the relevant minister, and a problem. He doesn’t understand the spy business But what minister does unless he was a spy or ran a covert intelligence agency?
Pity then the man who has oversight is barely able to spell intelligence, let alone handle oversight. That’s the bailiwick of the permanent head (sadly, our disgruntled Whitelaw)
You can see where this is going.
Four, Archibald, the Prime Minister, who wasn’t when Natasha first arrived, but her handlers knew the potential, and she got in on the ground floor as his mistress, among others.
Five, Natasha herself, was recruited with her sister from an orphanage and trained to be a sleeper agent until activated. Spies.
The question is whether Archibald knew who and what she was, because he’s the one who recalls her from retirement to do what had turned out to be a very messy internecine war that had crippled their intelligence operations.
And for Natasha, she was already invested because of Willoughby being the final victim in that war. She was already in the country monitoring Willoughby’s progress, and it was only a matter of time before she unravelled the situation.
And pissing off Natasha was the last thing any of them wanted to do because retribution in her hands meant only one outcome.
When I was writing the original story, there was no Natasha.
The thing is, there was going to be retribution, but it was going to be the usual revenge: sneak up on the person responsible, and shoot him.
Blunt, but quick and satisfying.
But the thing is, revenge is never that simple; there are always multiple layers, events, and people that bring this revenge to life.
It helps to know who the revenge is against and why.
First, Willoughby’s head of department, O’Connell’s the man who can’t lie straight in bed. To him, a double cross is like a grist to the mill. He’s not the instigator, just the agent of doom. McConnell has no time for people like Whitelaw or Fitzherbert.
Second, Whitelaw, the man who perceived the unjust treatment of his request to head the new department. He’s the yes man that every minister needs, except his minister decides to give it to McConnell. What more reason for a man like Whitelaw, who doesn’t suffer rebuff very well, is needed to try and bring McConnell down?
Pity those caught in the crossfire? Absolutely.
Third, Fitzherbert, the relevant minister, and a problem. He doesn’t understand the spy business But what minister does unless he was a spy or ran a covert intelligence agency?
Pity then the man who has oversight is barely able to spell intelligence, let alone handle oversight. That’s the bailiwick of the permanent head (sadly, our disgruntled Whitelaw)
You can see where this is going.
Four, Archibald, the Prime Minister, who wasn’t when Natasha first arrived, but her handlers knew the potential, and she got in on the ground floor as his mistress, among others.
Five, Natasha herself, was recruited with her sister from an orphanage and trained to be a sleeper agent until activated. Spies.
The question is whether Archibald knew who and what she was, because he’s the one who recalls her from retirement to do what had turned out to be a very messy internecine war that had crippled their intelligence operations.
And for Natasha, she was already invested because of Willoughby being the final victim in that war. She was already in the country monitoring Willoughby’s progress, and it was only a matter of time before she unravelled the situation.
And pissing off Natasha was the last thing any of them wanted to do because retribution in her hands meant only one outcome.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 