Day 153

Writing exercise – a dream perhaps

…

Tiredness and bad days were never a good mix, and I’d had the worst day.  I had been planning to read the latest draft of a novel I’d been handed for assessment, and maybe the job of editing it.

At worst, I’d probably end up having to fact-check the parts that needed it because so many first-time writers seemed to think writing in the past didn’t mean that they had to know about it.

And why did I end up with the manuscript?

I liked trains and was a bit of a fan of trains of the past.  I also had a thing about the British aristocracy, and this had it in spades.

However, since nothing ever worked out the way I wanted, I ended up getting home late and having promised I’d get a first impression together for the meeting the following morning, it meant reading it in bed.

If it were boring, I’d be asleep in a few minutes.

As it turned out, it wasn’t.  Oh, the writing style was non-existent and the English awful, but the story was … interesting.

Two ends of the aristocracy, the boy, the son of a gentleman, the girl, the daughter of a Lord in a castle, in the 1920s had somehow found themselves in an unlikely romance, to the point where the boy was off the meet her parents.  She was first class, he was all about being sensible with money, so it probably wasn’t going to work.

Then, just as I got to the part about getting into the car at the station to drive to her house, I fell asleep.

…

Matilda and I were going to her parents’ residence in Scotland, and I’d promised to take the train with her.

It took another moment for the feeling that everyone was dressed rather oddly, and then remembered why I was taking this weekend away.

I’d been working long hours with little respite, and it was wearing me down.  Matilda’s answer, come with her and enjoy the fresh air.

And meet her family, not for the first time, but back home in a less stressful situation.

Less stressful for whom?

Normally, I would not travel first class by choice, but since it was Matilda, I didn’t hesitate.  Marriage to her, if I could get the approval of everyone, would mean making changes.

Not for her, but me.

The first, travelling in the Night Scotsman. She had suggested leaving in the morning on the Flying Scotsman, but I couldn’t get away.

This was better, we could have a leisurely dinner and then retire to a double sleeper, separate beds, of course.

I shrugged, just as a few drops of rain started to fall, and I heard a clock chime half past nine.  I was on time, which was something else that would have to change.  I was perpetually late for everything.

I showed the railway staff my ticket several times as I was guided to the correct Carriage, and then boarded.  It was a longish walk because our carriage wasn’t far from the front of the train and not far from the restaurant car.

I found the cabin, not quite as lavish as I might have expected, but no Matilda.  If I knew her, she would be exploring.  Her case was in her bed, so I put mine on the other.  a surprise discovery, or two perhaps, she travelled light and had an insatiable curiosity, well beyond that of a normal girl of her station.

There was no sign of her personal maid, but she would not be far away; Matilda never went anywhere without her, being both her chaperone and protector.  It had been disconcerting at first, and it took a while to realise Matilda could do very much whatever she wanted to.

Within reason.

She would be in a nearby cabin.

I looked out the windows, on one side, the platform with people walking further along to their carriages.  On the other hand, another train heading somewhere else.

I had got a brief glimpse of the locomotive under the bright lights, a huge beast of a machine almost lost in shrouds of steam.  One other thing I noticed, the carriages were highly polished and gleaming in the harsh lights in the station proper.

“There you are?”  Matilda had returned and looked radiant, as always.  She had one of those dispositions that would brighten even the dullest room and the most boring of parties.

I smiled in return.  “I was doing my best not to succumb to the child  in me who wanted to see the locomotive close up.”

“It’s just a train, James.”

“It’s not just any train.”  We hugged, and I held on for a little longer than I should.

I was never quite sure if she loved me as much as I loved her, but I guessed that would sort itself out in time.

I had spoken to my mother about it, and she simply said if it was meant to be, all will be well.  She never did explain what to do if it was not meant to be, and I didn’t press it.

“You made it, that’s the important thing.  I’ve reserved a table for dinner, and I’ll table you through the dreaded relations list.  l’m afraid Mummy has invited a few more than I expected, but you know what prospective in-laws are like.”

I didn’t, because it was all new for me.  Matilda had been through the betrothal process, having been matched with a particular young man, who, had he survived the war, they would be married now.

She had taken a few years to recover from that and had not been looking for a new man until, as she described it, I popped up out of nowhere.

Nowhere was simply a matter of bumping into her when I was hurrying to get back to the office late yet again from lunch with a friend.

I was hardly pleasant about it because she was drifting aimlessly on the footpath, and I told her so very forcefully.  Of course, I failed to realise I’d dropped my work folder and then had her turn up at my office.

That’s when I learned she was a distant relative of my father’s business partner, one Lady Matilda, thank you very much and mind your manners, young man.

After that bollicking, I hated her more.

Which made our second meeting very awkward, after I reluctantly turned up at a party for a friend of a friend, and someone my father told me would be useful to make the acquaintance of.

When she saw me, she decided to be condescendingly sweet, which only made me more incensed at her trading on her station.

I simply shrugged and left.  I didn’t want to be there, and it was a good excuse to leave.

Which I would have made a silent getaway except she was waiting outside, leaning against the getaway car, the chauffeur looking menacing.

I had two choices: to be forever shunned in society, or have dinner with her.  Being shunned didn’t bother me.  Having dinner did.  It meant I had to try and get over my shyness around girls, something I’d assiduously avoided up until now.

Rather foolishly, I chose the dinner, an awkward drive to the Savoy and to dine in the restaurant.  She used her father’s permanent table, further proving her desire to trade on her name and station.

Champagne was served after we sat and were both handed menus.  It seemed odd to me that the restaurant was full.

After a few minutes, she said, “You don’t like me, do you?”

“I’m sure you have the ability to grow on people.”

“Just not you?”

“No.”

“I cannot help the family I was born into, or the fact that they have wealth, and since they do have it, why can’t I use it?”

…

That moment Chester, the wretched cat who I was sure loved tormenting me, plumped himself down at the top of my head on the pillow and woke me.

At a most interesting part…

I had to check where I was, because the dream had been so real, I felt as though I’d been there.  In 1928, that was when the Flying Scotsman started the Night Scotsman service.

Or perhaps it was the other train… There were two nightly trains from London to Edinburgh.

And Matilda, she had taken on the persona of someone in my subconscious, though I couldn’t tell, then, who.

I growled at Chester for waking me, and climbed out, fetched the manuscript, and was going to have to read it again.  I needed more information if I was going to try and go back.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Days 151 and 152

My story so far…

..

The notion that I would be writing a book throughout this writing calendar seems at odds with the way I have approached writing books in the past.

About eight years ago, I started working on the writing of books using the NaNoWriMo method. That method, of course, does not demand that you write a book in the 30 days that make up November. What it asks you to do is try to write 50,000 words, which would make a reasonable-sized book.

To ‘win’ the prize, which is simply a certificate, all you have to do is write an average 1,667 words a day.

Not all that hard really.

Or is it more difficult than it seems?

When you are put under pressure, and have to find a plot, characters, twists and turns, and write that many words, it can finish up turning you into a mental wreck. What happens if you get ill, are called away for work, or experience some other calamity?

Despite what might or might not happen, over the past 12 years, I have managed to write 8 books, of between 50,500 words and 65,000 words. Since I’m one of those who fly by the seat of their pants, it suits me. For planners and prognosticators, you would need a couple of months before November to plan.

Writing this story, now with the working title of “A score to settle”, I’m taking the long road, thinking more about what I write, and not necessarily writing every day.

As with most of my novels, they start as a short story, which turns into a long short story, and then a novel, if the ideas keep coming.

This one, the protagonist, Alan, has been through a version of hell and comes out the other side in a hot tugid room in a seaside resort town in a pseudo-dictatorship country, run by an ever-cheerful president who is the face of the so-called benevolent ruling elite.

Behind the smiles and platitudes is the real leader, a general who runs the military and the secret police. It is a country where human rights abuses are suspected, but as with any propped-up government, people who matter tend to look the other way.

Introduce into this, the parameters for the story –

• A human rights conference, which is at odds with the perception of the country’s objectives

• A population that is beginning to stir, not openly revolt, but it is a work in progress

• A missing face of the last coup d’état, who disappeared shortly after the military took over

• The imminent return of the son of the missing leader to become the face of the next coup

• Circumstances that will work against the ruling elite making a coup possible

It’s not our protagonist’s problem; he is just there to ensure that the keynote speaker is protected, supposedly without them knowing he is there.

On a normal, routine-of-the-mill operation, it would be at best a five-day holiday in paradise.

And that’s where the fun starts…

It’s one of those situations, that time of life, after being at the edge, on the edge, and over the edge, that our protagonist wakes up and realises that his life is no life, that he had achieved nothing but fuel nightmares with the faces of those who had died, both friend and enemy over the years.

Not a time to start speculating on what might have been when he is about to step into the breech.

Then, of course, everything changes. An assistant arrives because he believes his boss had lost faith in him, the target changes from a man to a woman, one he had to mind five years before, in a mission that went sideways. He had to contend with a police chief who suddenly takes more than a passing interest in him, and discovers the whole country is a powder keg about to blow up in his face.

And that’s just after he accidentally meets a free spirit, the ubiquitous woman in white who, in a few short questions, can see into his very soul and question everything about himself.

Perhaps the near-death experience had primed him for such an event.

The worst thing about it, where he should have enjoyed that introspective time with her, his suspicious mind treats her, and everyone around him with suspicion and alarm, as he had been trained, and it’s perhaps the most soul-destroying truth.

He can never have a relationship or friendship, or anything, while he is doing his job.

And it’s day one of the operation.

But first things first … running in the background is another plot, fuelled by the anger of one man, hell bent on destroying the organisation he works for, and particularly its leader.

Not only will the perceived enemy of his target be looking for him too, but quite literally, his own people will be trying to assassinate him for the second time.

I have to say – this is a fun story to write.

Days 151 and 152

My story so far…

..

The notion that I would be writing a book throughout this writing calendar seems at odds with the way I have approached writing books in the past.

About eight years ago, I started working on the writing of books using the NaNoWriMo method. That method, of course, does not demand that you write a book in the 30 days that make up November. What it asks you to do is try to write 50,000 words, which would make a reasonable-sized book.

To ‘win’ the prize, which is simply a certificate, all you have to do is write an average 1,667 words a day.

Not all that hard really.

Or is it more difficult than it seems?

When you are put under pressure, and have to find a plot, characters, twists and turns, and write that many words, it can finish up turning you into a mental wreck. What happens if you get ill, are called away for work, or experience some other calamity?

Despite what might or might not happen, over the past 12 years, I have managed to write 8 books, of between 50,500 words and 65,000 words. Since I’m one of those who fly by the seat of their pants, it suits me. For planners and prognosticators, you would need a couple of months before November to plan.

Writing this story, now with the working title of “A score to settle”, I’m taking the long road, thinking more about what I write, and not necessarily writing every day.

As with most of my novels, they start as a short story, which turns into a long short story, and then a novel, if the ideas keep coming.

This one, the protagonist, Alan, has been through a version of hell and comes out the other side in a hot tugid room in a seaside resort town in a pseudo-dictatorship country, run by an ever-cheerful president who is the face of the so-called benevolent ruling elite.

Behind the smiles and platitudes is the real leader, a general who runs the military and the secret police. It is a country where human rights abuses are suspected, but as with any propped-up government, people who matter tend to look the other way.

Introduce into this, the parameters for the story –

• A human rights conference, which is at odds with the perception of the country’s objectives

• A population that is beginning to stir, not openly revolt, but it is a work in progress

• A missing face of the last coup d’état, who disappeared shortly after the military took over

• The imminent return of the son of the missing leader to become the face of the next coup

• Circumstances that will work against the ruling elite making a coup possible

It’s not our protagonist’s problem; he is just there to ensure that the keynote speaker is protected, supposedly without them knowing he is there.

On a normal, routine-of-the-mill operation, it would be at best a five-day holiday in paradise.

And that’s where the fun starts…

It’s one of those situations, that time of life, after being at the edge, on the edge, and over the edge, that our protagonist wakes up and realises that his life is no life, that he had achieved nothing but fuel nightmares with the faces of those who had died, both friend and enemy over the years.

Not a time to start speculating on what might have been when he is about to step into the breech.

Then, of course, everything changes. An assistant arrives because he believes his boss had lost faith in him, the target changes from a man to a woman, one he had to mind five years before, in a mission that went sideways. He had to contend with a police chief who suddenly takes more than a passing interest in him, and discovers the whole country is a powder keg about to blow up in his face.

And that’s just after he accidentally meets a free spirit, the ubiquitous woman in white who, in a few short questions, can see into his very soul and question everything about himself.

Perhaps the near-death experience had primed him for such an event.

The worst thing about it, where he should have enjoyed that introspective time with her, his suspicious mind treats her, and everyone around him with suspicion and alarm, as he had been trained, and it’s perhaps the most soul-destroying truth.

He can never have a relationship or friendship, or anything, while he is doing his job.

And it’s day one of the operation.

But first things first … running in the background is another plot, fuelled by the anger of one man, hell bent on destroying the organisation he works for, and particularly its leader.

Not only will the perceived enemy of his target be looking for him too, but quite literally, his own people will be trying to assassinate him for the second time.

I have to say – this is a fun story to write.

More about my story

…

Could it be more of an epic romance than a sizzling spy story?

…

There is the woman in white

The mysterious, enigmatic woman who wanders into his life, fascinated by a man who does not act upon the signals she is sending.

What man could resist her allure?

He had to be up to one good.

Of course, in time, we learn that she is more than just a free spirit, that she has connections to several of the main players in ways that are surprising yet not.

She is one of the reasons why our main protagonist realises it’s time to take a step back and decide what is more important, working a job that is becoming more of a chore than a joy, or having a life.

And whether he really wants to exact the retribution that might or might not give him closure.

There is Amanda, the woman who derailed his career when he got too close.

It was like Icarus flying too close to the sun, and when it ended, it ended very badly, leaving visible scars and an impairment to his soul.

He discovered love and loss and had never recovered.

Now she was back, and on top of nursing a near-death experience, crossing her path was just one omen too many.

Can he exercise this demon or will it, quite literally, be the death of him?

There is a spy sent to spy on a spy.

Teresa, just as broken as our protagonists, with a whole different set of demons to contend with.

A woman who had been described by many as the devil incarnate.

A woman who could tempt the devil into doing her bidding, sent to the one person who saw her only as an impediment to doing his job and as a punishment from his boss.

She was ostensibly there to act in any capacity he requires, and after a difficult beginning, it works.

Sort of.

Unfortunately, their demons have other ideas…

More about my story

…

Could it be more of an epic romance than a sizzling spy story?

…

There is the woman in white

The mysterious, enigmatic woman who wanders into his life, fascinated by a man who does not act upon the signals she is sending.

What man could resist her allure?

He had to be up to one good.

Of course, in time, we learn that she is more than just a free spirit, that she has connections to several of the main players in ways that are surprising yet not.

She is one of the reasons why our main protagonist realises it’s time to take a step back and decide what is more important, working a job that is becoming more of a chore than a joy, or having a life.

And whether he really wants to exact the retribution that might or might not give him closure.

There is Amanda, the woman who derailed his career when he got too close.

It was like Icarus flying too close to the sun, and when it ended, it ended very badly, leaving visible scars and an impairment to his soul.

He discovered love and loss and had never recovered.

Now she was back, and on top of nursing a near-death experience, crossing her path was just one omen too many.

Can he exercise this demon or will it, quite literally, be the death of him?

There is a spy sent to spy on a spy.

Teresa, just as broken as our protagonists, with a whole different set of demons to contend with.

A woman who had been described by many as the devil incarnate.

A woman who could tempt the devil into doing her bidding, sent to the one person who saw her only as an impediment to doing his job and as a punishment from his boss.

She was ostensibly there to act in any capacity he requires, and after a difficult beginning, it works.

Sort of.

Unfortunately, their demons have other ideas…

Day 150

Cliches

…

So, standard practice tells us that as writers we must avoid cliches at all costs.

It’s a great idea. Because you are writing to potentially a great many people, the notion that most of them will have no idea what you are talking about, or understand the relevance, it’s best not to leave them perplexed when they read something they don’t understand.

A great example of this was many years ago when I worked with a chap who was a recent immigrant from Russia. His English was reasonable, that is, he could speak in a manner I could understand, but there were times when he stopped, searching for the English equivalent.

I would have called it a quaint accent. Others would be less accommodating.

But…

I found that I tended to speak with a lot of English idioms and cliches, some of which he did not understand, and so I spent a lot of time translating them. He was not at all ashamed of not knowing them, but wanted to.

Thus, for a few months, I became an ESL teacher and found it quite amusing, especially when he told me what the Russian equivalents were. And, yes, Russians do have their own cliches, and we westerners cop a few really interesting ones.

And, yes, I use cliches in stories, or at least until the third draft when I realise that they don’t belong, and even when they last a little longer, the editor’s blue pencil gets them every time.

But, and there’s always a but…

What if your protagonist speaks in cliches?

Day 150

Cliches

…

So, standard practice tells us that as writers we must avoid cliches at all costs.

It’s a great idea. Because you are writing to potentially a great many people, the notion that most of them will have no idea what you are talking about, or understand the relevance, it’s best not to leave them perplexed when they read something they don’t understand.

A great example of this was many years ago when I worked with a chap who was a recent immigrant from Russia. His English was reasonable, that is, he could speak in a manner I could understand, but there were times when he stopped, searching for the English equivalent.

I would have called it a quaint accent. Others would be less accommodating.

But…

I found that I tended to speak with a lot of English idioms and cliches, some of which he did not understand, and so I spent a lot of time translating them. He was not at all ashamed of not knowing them, but wanted to.

Thus, for a few months, I became an ESL teacher and found it quite amusing, especially when he told me what the Russian equivalents were. And, yes, Russians do have their own cliches, and we westerners cop a few really interesting ones.

And, yes, I use cliches in stories, or at least until the third draft when I realise that they don’t belong, and even when they last a little longer, the editor’s blue pencil gets them every time.

But, and there’s always a but…

What if your protagonist speaks in cliches?

Day 149

Why does someone pick up a book?

…

It’s an interesting question, and I’m guessing that when you start writing, it’s not the first question that pops into your mind.

Why does a person go into a bookshop to buy a book?

Do they like the idea of the tactile feel of the book in their hands? Do they like the idea of buying the hard-bound version with the hard covers, and the colourful jacket, or a full-size paperback or just the cheap small version for a lesser price, the read and then toss away?

Do they buy books, read them, put them on the bookshelf, and admire what they have read as an accomplishment?

Are they looking for entertainment, something to take their mind of the hum drum days of going to work, going home, going to work, going home, over and over?

Are they wanting to read about the life they would like to have rather than the life they actually have? Like seeing them single-handedly save the world from utter destruction, after or course, car chases, jumping out of helicopters, surviving a plane crash, and rescuing damsels by the half dozen?

Do they want to read about the romance that’s missing in their lives, to have that particular man or woman that just magically appears, and you can live happily ever after, after a few ups and downs of course.

Or are they simply looking for a reference book on cooking, space, do-it-yourself, or computers?

It’s how I worked out what readers want to read, because while I’m looking for books, I observe my fellow readers, sometimes even speak to them, and what they say is very illuminating. It’s fascinating to discover every reader is different.

My visits to the bookshop and firstly to seek out the bargains. Then I look for my favourite authors, and by association, my favourite genres. Then I look for books in my favourite genres, but I’m always open to anything else that might take my fancy. Hardbound books are a first preference, and full-size paperbacks are second.

Then, when I have read them, they go on the shelves, one of seven bookcases, in the library, which also doubles as my writing room.

Yes, it’s time to take a few moments away from your self-imposed exile in that dusty, draughty attic, and go meet some of those readers.

And prepare to be greatly surprised.

Day 149

Why does someone pick up a book?

…

It’s an interesting question, and I’m guessing that when you start writing, it’s not the first question that pops into your mind.

Why does a person go into a bookshop to buy a book?

Do they like the idea of the tactile feel of the book in their hands? Do they like the idea of buying the hard-bound version with the hard covers, and the colourful jacket, or a full-size paperback or just the cheap small version for a lesser price, the read and then toss away?

Do they buy books, read them, put them on the bookshelf, and admire what they have read as an accomplishment?

Are they looking for entertainment, something to take their mind of the hum drum days of going to work, going home, going to work, going home, over and over?

Are they wanting to read about the life they would like to have rather than the life they actually have? Like seeing them single-handedly save the world from utter destruction, after or course, car chases, jumping out of helicopters, surviving a plane crash, and rescuing damsels by the half dozen?

Do they want to read about the romance that’s missing in their lives, to have that particular man or woman that just magically appears, and you can live happily ever after, after a few ups and downs of course.

Or are they simply looking for a reference book on cooking, space, do-it-yourself, or computers?

It’s how I worked out what readers want to read, because while I’m looking for books, I observe my fellow readers, sometimes even speak to them, and what they say is very illuminating. It’s fascinating to discover every reader is different.

My visits to the bookshop and firstly to seek out the bargains. Then I look for my favourite authors, and by association, my favourite genres. Then I look for books in my favourite genres, but I’m always open to anything else that might take my fancy. Hardbound books are a first preference, and full-size paperbacks are second.

Then, when I have read them, they go on the shelves, one of seven bookcases, in the library, which also doubles as my writing room.

Yes, it’s time to take a few moments away from your self-imposed exile in that dusty, draughty attic, and go meet some of those readers.

And prepare to be greatly surprised.