Days 143 and 144 – Writing Exercise

…

The worst thing about arriving in a foreign country without a passport is that you can’t leave by the usual exits.

What is worse than that, if it could be said, it could get worse, is to be on the run from the local authorities for something you didn’t do, but because of your status, they’re never going to believe you.

So, the big question is, how did I get into this precarious state?

…

Richard Danvers was not a man who could be trusted.  His affability and charm were mesmerising at best, condescending as usual and untruthful at worst.  But he always managed to wheedle and cajole you into doing his bidding.

He tried to win me over with a hundred-year-old bottle of scotch.  And when that failed, he added a week’s stay at his Island paradise in the Caribbean.

I was a sucker for a hard sell.

Added to the fact I might get to see his step sister Olga, from the Russian wife his father married after Richards mother was murdered.

I had a small role in finding the person who committed the crime, and instead of maintaining anonymity, Richard found me and said he owed me.

I should have walked away.

“So, Will, still drinking that rather cheap swill you call scotch?”

Two things: Will wasn’t my real name, but the one I used for that operation.  If he thought I had another name, he never told me. The other, cheap swill to him was four hundred dollars a bottle of scotch that had been declared the best five years ago.

“To each his own, Richard.”

He shrugged, pulled a bottle out of the bottom drawer of his desk, and put it on the desk with a slight bump, just to impress.

“What do you want?”  It was the usual prelude for him wanting something. 

Somehow he assumed I was a gun for hire.

I was not.

That was the other thing about Richard: being his acquaintance came with certain obligations.  Not him doing anything for you, but you doing something for him.  When he realised what it was I did, he tried very hard to make me his fix-it man.

I told him I already had a job.  I didn’t need another.

“Nothing.  We’re going down to the island this weekend.   Sun and fun, good food, good wine, good company.  Olga said she would definitely try to come; she needs a break, and I know she likes you.”

Like?  Yes.  But he knew how to twist my arm.  Olga, with him, was my Achilles heel.

“When exactly?”  I sighed.  I guess I could suffer a week on a Caribbean island over cold, wet and miserable London while I waited for my next assignment.

I was, in fact, wondering if it was my association with him that was holding back my employability.

…

I arrived at the personal airport attached to the Elizabethan mansion that Richard had inherited from his father, and down through the generations, the land was a gift from Queen Elizabeth I.

It had a terminal, an air bridge, and could accept any aircraft up to a Boeing 737.  His fleet of two currently consisted of a Challenger and a Citation.  We were taking the Challenger.  The fact that the Citation was in told me Olga had arrived.

She would be in the Cafe.  Yes, his terminal building had a cafe.  With everything you could imagine.

She was sitting at a table overlooking the runway.  Currently, it was raining so hard that you could barely see the other side of the runway.

I pulled up a chair and sat down.  She turned and smiled.  She never got less beautiful.

“Will.”  She leaned over, and we briefly kissed.

We were not lovers, just friends, as much as I wanted more, I decided if she didn’t pursue it, I wouldn’t.  It was an unlikely match, and I doubted Richard, as the current Duke, would condone it.

She was just one more thing he could manage in his inimitable way, and she seemed content to let him.

“Olga?”

“Did he use me to get you to come?”

“What do you think?”

“Richard can be a pain.  He went on ahead yesterday, and it’s just you and me, several staff and a business associate, Nigel something or other.  You won’t have to talk to any of them. I’ll be the pilot, so you can sit up front with me.”

“Who else is going to be there?”

“That’s it.  Richard promised he’d talk business with Nigel, and said a weekend away would make a deal more likely.”

“Business and pleasure, I hope he doesn’t call in that bevy of girls like the last time.  He seriously needs to wake up.”

“You know men.  Always overcompensating.”

‘True.  His jet is bigger than yours.”

…

We were waiting on the businessman Nigel something-or-other.  Her advice was that he would be alone, but when he arrived an hour after the appointed time, putting back our departure by two hours, Olga was not happy.

Not necessarily because he was late, but because he had brought along his mistress.  Olga had met her before, and the hostility was very noticeable.

She was bossy, loud, and, as Olga muttered under her breath, mutton dressed as lamb.  Thirty-five going on fifty, going on twenty-five.

Long fake blonde hair, fake bosom, far too much make-up, smelling like she had bathed in perfume, and clothes a twenty-year-old wouldn’t be seen dead in.  The skirt was so short, well, it left nothing for the imagination.

My first contact with her, she asked:  “Who are you?”  There was no hello or name.

“I’m commonly regarded as something the cat dragged in,” was my sardonic reply, totally unappreciated.

Olga looked at her, then at me, then back to her.  “He’s the co-pilot, so let’s hope he knows what he’s doing.”

I smiled at her and wandered off.  Nigel came over to rescue his girlfriend.

Olga had a brief word with the steward who was joining us on the flight, said a few words and then headed towards the embarkation door.

I joined her, she flashed her key card, and the doors opened.  Before us was the airbridge down to the plane.

“She’s not very nice, is she?” Olga said as the doors closed behind us.”

“She is a woman of a certain sort.  It just surprises me Nigel would be the sort of man who would indulge in what clearly is trouble.”

I’d seen a lot of women like her, all over the world, though some were a lot more attractive, attached to older men as escorts or being seen.

“Nigel’s filthy rich.  She’s entitled and not of our ilk.  What did you expect?”

Not a lot.

..

It took five and a half hours, including the slight delay getting onto the island, a flight that wasn’t marred by what could have been a small problem.

Jocelyn, Nigel’s girlfriend, started hard on the champagne and then spiralled.  She could drink, but the altitude had an effect, and she got very drunk very quickly.

Private planes didn’t have the same restrictions as commercial planes, and of course, no one was going to stop her from making a fool of herself.

The island medical staff had to take her off the plane.  Nigel apologised, but Richard, who met us at the terminal, almost an extension of his house, seemed totally unperturbed by her behaviour.

It had happened before.  Olga and I watched it unfold from the cockpit.  There was no point going out and laying down the law; that was done by the steward, who was, I discovered, a man who booked no nonsense.

He was also one of Richard’s security staff, which surprised me.  There were more such officers on the island, and it made me wonder whether there was something I had missed when dealing with Richard, or I had just overlooked it because of the relationship we had developed.

I didn’t want to think my vigilance had been blinded by my desire and affection for Olga.  Walking off the plane, Olga stayed in the cockpit to finish the paperwork. The words of one of the instructors at the training farm echoed in my head: A distraction.

And my arrival on the island was not the result of a random invitation; Richard wanted or needed me to be here.

So all I had to do, now, was to find out why.

…

The others on the plane had disembarked and headed towards the main resort, each getting their room assignment and welcome folder.

I was last off and headed towards the check-in counter.  It was quite a large arrivals lounge, a hint back to when the resort was first built, and when it failed financially, Richard snapped it up at a bargain basement price as his personal Shangri-La.

The woman at the counter was dressed in the former Island resort uniform, as most of the staff did.  Behind her was a security guard, a man most people would want to meet in daylight, let alone on a dark night.

There wasn’t any real reason why there should be.

Unless Richard was expecting trouble.  Which might explain why he asked me here.

The woman, with the name Sharon on a badge, had taken a few surreptitious glances in my direction as I moved towards her.  To anyone else, it would appear her attention was buried in the computer screen.

The island had 140 rooms and huts, the latter built alongside the piers and on stilts over the water.  I was hoping for a hut.

I stood leaning on the desk for about a minute, resisting the urge to press the bell for attention.

She looked up.  “William Burbridge?”

I found it amusing that she would have to ask when I was the last non-staff member off the plane, and it was clear my name was the only one not crossed off the list.

“Yes.”

She put a folder and a key on the counter.  “Have a nice stay.”

“Thank you.”

I recognised the key number.  It was in the east wing, not far from the Dining Room.  Last time I visited, I went over the whole resort and memorised where everything was, especially the exits.

There was a welcome dinner at 7 pm. So I had a few hours to refresh that plan in my head.

Stepping out of the arrival terminal, there was a bridge that crossed the road and stretched for about five hundred yards to the upper entrance to the resort foyer.  Below was the road entrance with steps up to the foyer.

The foyer had aquariums on either side and above the centre one of two atriums, stretching upwards, acting as filtered lighting during the day.  The second was in the dining room. 

It was something to look forward to.

…

Unpacked, I had an hour to spare and did the outer resort circuit that doubled for the jogging track for the exercise freaks.

I’d done more than a few laps with both Richard and Olga in the past.  I don’t think it was going to be part of this stay.  I was here to relax, not exercise.

Nothing had changed outwardly, and I would have missed it had I not seen two men appearing out of the ground.  That was the illusion.  A close inspection revealed a staircase leading down to somewhere that would make for an interesting question, should we have a discussion about it?  Or keep to myself for a while.

Maybe the only other change that was discernible was the satellite dish about 500 yards from the main building.  I wondered briefly just what his bandwidth was.  It could not be as bad as that in my building.

I wandered slowly towards the end of the pier, and as I approached, I thought I could see the outline of another person.  Just at the point where the light was beginning to disappear, it could be difficult to see anything other than the sun settling, which I remembered was an unforgettable memory for any guests staying.

Then, about ten yards away from the end, a figure came out from behind the boats he’d and stood still, staring out to sea.  A woman. 

I didn’t break stride stepping up to her as she turned.

“Will.”

I stopped, three paces between us, trying not to look surprised.

“Harriet.”  Harriet had been my partner in the last three missions and had been reassigned after the last.  I took that to mean I was out of favour and she had moved on.  “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you?”

“Why?”

“You are consorting with the wrong sort of people.”

“Richard is an eccentric billionaire.  But harmless.”

“Perhaps I should be more worried about your attachment to Olga.”

She meant Harrigan’s worries about my friends and attachments.  I’d checked Richard on that first meeting, as had the department’s investigators.  But that was over a year ago, and I guess eccentric billionaires could get more eccentric over time.

“It’s more an acquaintance than a relationship.  I’m not of their ilk, you know.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Richard asked me to spend the week.  I was at a loose end.”

“And Olga was free?”

“Not to begin with.”  And then a thought occurred to me.  “Does anyone know you’re here?”

“Harrigan.  He’s having kittens.  Both the Danvers are on watch lists, which is why they have private planes.  It was a task trying to find out where you were taken. They filed three separate destinations.  We only found out after the plane departed.”

“Then how the hell …”

“Did I get here?   Need to know.  But since you’re here, your new mission starts now.  There’s a document that is being discussed tomorrow, labelled ‘Operation Skybeam’.”

“There’s more people coming?”

“We assume so.  I’m part of the staff, so if you see me, you don’t see me.  Don’t let us down, and keep your wits about you.  Now, back to the resort and eyes ahead.”

Spying on Richard.  That was going to be interesting.

…

Or so I thought.

Had I spent any time considering just how precarious my position was, I would not have got on the plane.  Then, if I thought a little longer on how it was my presence on that island was known, and there were agents already in place, I might have thought it somewhat of a coincidence.

That I did not, that I had got my next assignment, had clouded my rational thought processes.

But instead of weighing up all those factors, I simply went back to the main building, had dinner with Richard and Olga, and the others, and retired for the night, together, ready for what was to happen the next day.

The thing is, by the time I reached the room was suddenly very tired.  After all, it had been a long day.  A good dinner, one too many drinks in convivial company, not seeing anyone out of place, or Harriet, made it odd but not surprising.

After all, Harriet was the master of disguise.

My last thought, as my head hit the pillow, everything would sort itself out tomorrow.

…

I woke, and something was wrong.

Firstly, I didn’t wake refreshed, which was my expectation, being on the island and the fresh air pushed by a gentle breeze through the open windows.

Secondly, I didn’t open the windows before I went to sleep, so who had?

Thirdly, I had a slight headache, but the thumping sound I could hear or feel was not in my head.  Someone was knocking on my door.

I moved and groaned.  It felt like I’d been run over by a truck.  I reached down to massage the ache, and my hand ran over something wet.  I looked at my hand and saw it was bloody.

Or at least red.

I tried to sit up, just as I heard the door crash open, and a second later I had six heavily armoured police surrounding me with guns pointed at my head.

In that same instant, I saw a body next to me.  Basil’s wife, and my guess was she was quite dead, a gunshot to the head, and the gun was on the bed between us.

A voice from one of the armoured men said, in French, “Get the medics in here.”  One of the six left the room.  He looked at me. “You have a lot of explaining to do, Mr William Burbridge.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Days 143 and 144 – Writing Exercise

…

The worst thing about arriving in a foreign country without a passport is that you can’t leave by the usual exits.

What is worse than that, if it could be said, it could get worse, is to be on the run from the local authorities for something you didn’t do, but because of your status, they’re never going to believe you.

So, the big question is, how did I get into this precarious state?

…

Richard Danvers was not a man who could be trusted.  His affability and charm were mesmerising at best, condescending as usual and untruthful at worst.  But he always managed to wheedle and cajole you into doing his bidding.

He tried to win me over with a hundred-year-old bottle of scotch.  And when that failed, he added a week’s stay at his Island paradise in the Caribbean.

I was a sucker for a hard sell.

Added to the fact I might get to see his step sister Olga, from the Russian wife his father married after Richards mother was murdered.

I had a small role in finding the person who committed the crime, and instead of maintaining anonymity, Richard found me and said he owed me.

I should have walked away.

“So, Will, still drinking that rather cheap swill you call scotch?”

Two things: Will wasn’t my real name, but the one I used for that operation.  If he thought I had another name, he never told me. The other, cheap swill to him was four hundred dollars a bottle of scotch that had been declared the best five years ago.

“To each his own, Richard.”

He shrugged, pulled a bottle out of the bottom drawer of his desk, and put it on the desk with a slight bump, just to impress.

“What do you want?”  It was the usual prelude for him wanting something. 

Somehow he assumed I was a gun for hire.

I was not.

That was the other thing about Richard: being his acquaintance came with certain obligations.  Not him doing anything for you, but you doing something for him.  When he realised what it was I did, he tried very hard to make me his fix-it man.

I told him I already had a job.  I didn’t need another.

“Nothing.  We’re going down to the island this weekend.   Sun and fun, good food, good wine, good company.  Olga said she would definitely try to come; she needs a break, and I know she likes you.”

Like?  Yes.  But he knew how to twist my arm.  Olga, with him, was my Achilles heel.

“When exactly?”  I sighed.  I guess I could suffer a week on a Caribbean island over cold, wet and miserable London while I waited for my next assignment.

I was, in fact, wondering if it was my association with him that was holding back my employability.

…

I arrived at the personal airport attached to the Elizabethan mansion that Richard had inherited from his father, and down through the generations, the land was a gift from Queen Elizabeth I.

It had a terminal, an air bridge, and could accept any aircraft up to a Boeing 737.  His fleet of two currently consisted of a Challenger and a Citation.  We were taking the Challenger.  The fact that the Citation was in told me Olga had arrived.

She would be in the Cafe.  Yes, his terminal building had a cafe.  With everything you could imagine.

She was sitting at a table overlooking the runway.  Currently, it was raining so hard that you could barely see the other side of the runway.

I pulled up a chair and sat down.  She turned and smiled.  She never got less beautiful.

“Will.”  She leaned over, and we briefly kissed.

We were not lovers, just friends, as much as I wanted more, I decided if she didn’t pursue it, I wouldn’t.  It was an unlikely match, and I doubted Richard, as the current Duke, would condone it.

She was just one more thing he could manage in his inimitable way, and she seemed content to let him.

“Olga?”

“Did he use me to get you to come?”

“What do you think?”

“Richard can be a pain.  He went on ahead yesterday, and it’s just you and me, several staff and a business associate, Nigel something or other.  You won’t have to talk to any of them. I’ll be the pilot, so you can sit up front with me.”

“Who else is going to be there?”

“That’s it.  Richard promised he’d talk business with Nigel, and said a weekend away would make a deal more likely.”

“Business and pleasure, I hope he doesn’t call in that bevy of girls like the last time.  He seriously needs to wake up.”

“You know men.  Always overcompensating.”

‘True.  His jet is bigger than yours.”

…

We were waiting on the businessman Nigel something-or-other.  Her advice was that he would be alone, but when he arrived an hour after the appointed time, putting back our departure by two hours, Olga was not happy.

Not necessarily because he was late, but because he had brought along his mistress.  Olga had met her before, and the hostility was very noticeable.

She was bossy, loud, and, as Olga muttered under her breath, mutton dressed as lamb.  Thirty-five going on fifty, going on twenty-five.

Long fake blonde hair, fake bosom, far too much make-up, smelling like she had bathed in perfume, and clothes a twenty-year-old wouldn’t be seen dead in.  The skirt was so short, well, it left nothing for the imagination.

My first contact with her, she asked:  “Who are you?”  There was no hello or name.

“I’m commonly regarded as something the cat dragged in,” was my sardonic reply, totally unappreciated.

Olga looked at her, then at me, then back to her.  “He’s the co-pilot, so let’s hope he knows what he’s doing.”

I smiled at her and wandered off.  Nigel came over to rescue his girlfriend.

Olga had a brief word with the steward who was joining us on the flight, said a few words and then headed towards the embarkation door.

I joined her, she flashed her key card, and the doors opened.  Before us was the airbridge down to the plane.

“She’s not very nice, is she?” Olga said as the doors closed behind us.”

“She is a woman of a certain sort.  It just surprises me Nigel would be the sort of man who would indulge in what clearly is trouble.”

I’d seen a lot of women like her, all over the world, though some were a lot more attractive, attached to older men as escorts or being seen.

“Nigel’s filthy rich.  She’s entitled and not of our ilk.  What did you expect?”

Not a lot.

..

It took five and a half hours, including the slight delay getting onto the island, a flight that wasn’t marred by what could have been a small problem.

Jocelyn, Nigel’s girlfriend, started hard on the champagne and then spiralled.  She could drink, but the altitude had an effect, and she got very drunk very quickly.

Private planes didn’t have the same restrictions as commercial planes, and of course, no one was going to stop her from making a fool of herself.

The island medical staff had to take her off the plane.  Nigel apologised, but Richard, who met us at the terminal, almost an extension of his house, seemed totally unperturbed by her behaviour.

It had happened before.  Olga and I watched it unfold from the cockpit.  There was no point going out and laying down the law; that was done by the steward, who was, I discovered, a man who booked no nonsense.

He was also one of Richard’s security staff, which surprised me.  There were more such officers on the island, and it made me wonder whether there was something I had missed when dealing with Richard, or I had just overlooked it because of the relationship we had developed.

I didn’t want to think my vigilance had been blinded by my desire and affection for Olga.  Walking off the plane, Olga stayed in the cockpit to finish the paperwork. The words of one of the instructors at the training farm echoed in my head: A distraction.

And my arrival on the island was not the result of a random invitation; Richard wanted or needed me to be here.

So all I had to do, now, was to find out why.

…

The others on the plane had disembarked and headed towards the main resort, each getting their room assignment and welcome folder.

I was last off and headed towards the check-in counter.  It was quite a large arrivals lounge, a hint back to when the resort was first built, and when it failed financially, Richard snapped it up at a bargain basement price as his personal Shangri-La.

The woman at the counter was dressed in the former Island resort uniform, as most of the staff did.  Behind her was a security guard, a man most people would want to meet in daylight, let alone on a dark night.

There wasn’t any real reason why there should be.

Unless Richard was expecting trouble.  Which might explain why he asked me here.

The woman, with the name Sharon on a badge, had taken a few surreptitious glances in my direction as I moved towards her.  To anyone else, it would appear her attention was buried in the computer screen.

The island had 140 rooms and huts, the latter built alongside the piers and on stilts over the water.  I was hoping for a hut.

I stood leaning on the desk for about a minute, resisting the urge to press the bell for attention.

She looked up.  “William Burbridge?”

I found it amusing that she would have to ask when I was the last non-staff member off the plane, and it was clear my name was the only one not crossed off the list.

“Yes.”

She put a folder and a key on the counter.  “Have a nice stay.”

“Thank you.”

I recognised the key number.  It was in the east wing, not far from the Dining Room.  Last time I visited, I went over the whole resort and memorised where everything was, especially the exits.

There was a welcome dinner at 7 pm. So I had a few hours to refresh that plan in my head.

Stepping out of the arrival terminal, there was a bridge that crossed the road and stretched for about five hundred yards to the upper entrance to the resort foyer.  Below was the road entrance with steps up to the foyer.

The foyer had aquariums on either side and above the centre one of two atriums, stretching upwards, acting as filtered lighting during the day.  The second was in the dining room. 

It was something to look forward to.

…

Unpacked, I had an hour to spare and did the outer resort circuit that doubled for the jogging track for the exercise freaks.

I’d done more than a few laps with both Richard and Olga in the past.  I don’t think it was going to be part of this stay.  I was here to relax, not exercise.

Nothing had changed outwardly, and I would have missed it had I not seen two men appearing out of the ground.  That was the illusion.  A close inspection revealed a staircase leading down to somewhere that would make for an interesting question, should we have a discussion about it?  Or keep to myself for a while.

Maybe the only other change that was discernible was the satellite dish about 500 yards from the main building.  I wondered briefly just what his bandwidth was.  It could not be as bad as that in my building.

I wandered slowly towards the end of the pier, and as I approached, I thought I could see the outline of another person.  Just at the point where the light was beginning to disappear, it could be difficult to see anything other than the sun settling, which I remembered was an unforgettable memory for any guests staying.

Then, about ten yards away from the end, a figure came out from behind the boats he’d and stood still, staring out to sea.  A woman. 

I didn’t break stride stepping up to her as she turned.

“Will.”

I stopped, three paces between us, trying not to look surprised.

“Harriet.”  Harriet had been my partner in the last three missions and had been reassigned after the last.  I took that to mean I was out of favour and she had moved on.  “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you?”

“Why?”

“You are consorting with the wrong sort of people.”

“Richard is an eccentric billionaire.  But harmless.”

“Perhaps I should be more worried about your attachment to Olga.”

She meant Harrigan’s worries about my friends and attachments.  I’d checked Richard on that first meeting, as had the department’s investigators.  But that was over a year ago, and I guess eccentric billionaires could get more eccentric over time.

“It’s more an acquaintance than a relationship.  I’m not of their ilk, you know.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Richard asked me to spend the week.  I was at a loose end.”

“And Olga was free?”

“Not to begin with.”  And then a thought occurred to me.  “Does anyone know you’re here?”

“Harrigan.  He’s having kittens.  Both the Danvers are on watch lists, which is why they have private planes.  It was a task trying to find out where you were taken. They filed three separate destinations.  We only found out after the plane departed.”

“Then how the hell …”

“Did I get here?   Need to know.  But since you’re here, your new mission starts now.  There’s a document that is being discussed tomorrow, labelled ‘Operation Skybeam’.”

“There’s more people coming?”

“We assume so.  I’m part of the staff, so if you see me, you don’t see me.  Don’t let us down, and keep your wits about you.  Now, back to the resort and eyes ahead.”

Spying on Richard.  That was going to be interesting.

…

Or so I thought.

Had I spent any time considering just how precarious my position was, I would not have got on the plane.  Then, if I thought a little longer on how it was my presence on that island was known, and there were agents already in place, I might have thought it somewhat of a coincidence.

That I did not, that I had got my next assignment, had clouded my rational thought processes.

But instead of weighing up all those factors, I simply went back to the main building, had dinner with Richard and Olga, and the others, and retired for the night, together, ready for what was to happen the next day.

The thing is, by the time I reached the room was suddenly very tired.  After all, it had been a long day.  A good dinner, one too many drinks in convivial company, not seeing anyone out of place, or Harriet, made it odd but not surprising.

After all, Harriet was the master of disguise.

My last thought, as my head hit the pillow, everything would sort itself out tomorrow.

…

I woke, and something was wrong.

Firstly, I didn’t wake refreshed, which was my expectation, being on the island and the fresh air pushed by a gentle breeze through the open windows.

Secondly, I didn’t open the windows before I went to sleep, so who had?

Thirdly, I had a slight headache, but the thumping sound I could hear or feel was not in my head.  Someone was knocking on my door.

I moved and groaned.  It felt like I’d been run over by a truck.  I reached down to massage the ache, and my hand ran over something wet.  I looked at my hand and saw it was bloody.

Or at least red.

I tried to sit up, just as I heard the door crash open, and a second later I had six heavily armoured police surrounding me with guns pointed at my head.

In that same instant, I saw a body next to me.  Basil’s wife, and my guess was she was quite dead, a gunshot to the head, and the gun was on the bed between us.

A voice from one of the armoured men said, in French, “Get the medics in here.”  One of the six left the room.  He looked at me. “You have a lot of explaining to do, Mr William Burbridge.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 142 – Writing is many contradictions

…

The Art of the Split Consciousness: Why Every Writer Must Be Two People

Writing is a profession built on paradox. We sit in silence to communicate with the world; we spend hours in solitude to understand the collective human experience; and, perhaps most curiously, we must be both the creator and the critic at the exact same moment.

Albert Camus, a titan of literature and philosophy, famously captured this internal friction when he noted that a writer “must be two persons.”

But what does it mean to split one’s consciousness in the service of the craft? And why is this internal duality the secret to truly connecting with an audience?

The Creator and the Stranger

Camus argued that a writer must possess a dual identity to effectively “translate what one feels into what one wants others to feel.”

If you only write from the perspective of the Creator, you are essentially journaling. You are purging your own emotions, fueled by the raw, unrefined intensity of your personal experience. This is necessary for the spark of an idea, but it is rarely enough to sustain a reader. The Creator knows exactly what you mean; the Creator feels the weight of the memories behind every word.

But the reader? The reader arrives at your page as a stranger. They don’t know your context, your history, or the specific ache in your chest that birthed the sentence.

This is where the second person—the Stranger—must step in.

The Power of Detachment

The “Stranger” is the part of the writer that treats the manuscript like an alien artifact. It is the cold, analytical eye that looks at a paragraph and asks, “Does this make sense if I have never lived this moment?”

To write well is to master the art of detachment. You must be able to step outside of your own ego and look at your prose as if you were picking it up in a library, written by an author you’ve never met. When you read as a stranger, you start to notice where the logic gaps are, where the prose becomes self-indulgent, and where the emotional core is buried under too many adjectives.

Bridging the Gap: Why Writers Need Readers

Ultimately, the goal of this internal division is connection. We don’t write solely to process our thoughts; we write to bridge the gap between two minds.

Camus knew that writing is a form of translation. You are taking the abstract, messy, and deeply personal language of your internal life and converting it into a language that others can consume, understand, and feel. Without that “Stranger” perspective, we are merely shouting into a void. We are writing for the person who already knows what we’re saying: ourselves.

Embracing the Duality

If you find yourself struggling to edit your own work, or feeling like your writing doesn’t quite “land” with your audience, you might be leaning too heavily on one side of your personality.

You need the Creator to dream up the vision, to bleed onto the page, and to find the truth. But you need the Stranger to finish the job. You need the Stranger to be the audience-in-residence—the one who holds the pen steady and asks, “Is this true for them, too?”

Writing is a contradiction because it requires you to be both deeply vulnerable and completely objective. It’s a difficult balance to strike, but it’s the only way to ensure that what we feel, someone else will feel, too.

So, the next time you sit down to write, don’t just ask yourself what you want to say. Ask yourself if the stranger reading your work will understand why it matters.

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Day 142 – Writing is many contradictions

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The Art of the Split Consciousness: Why Every Writer Must Be Two People

Writing is a profession built on paradox. We sit in silence to communicate with the world; we spend hours in solitude to understand the collective human experience; and, perhaps most curiously, we must be both the creator and the critic at the exact same moment.

Albert Camus, a titan of literature and philosophy, famously captured this internal friction when he noted that a writer “must be two persons.”

But what does it mean to split one’s consciousness in the service of the craft? And why is this internal duality the secret to truly connecting with an audience?

The Creator and the Stranger

Camus argued that a writer must possess a dual identity to effectively “translate what one feels into what one wants others to feel.”

If you only write from the perspective of the Creator, you are essentially journaling. You are purging your own emotions, fueled by the raw, unrefined intensity of your personal experience. This is necessary for the spark of an idea, but it is rarely enough to sustain a reader. The Creator knows exactly what you mean; the Creator feels the weight of the memories behind every word.

But the reader? The reader arrives at your page as a stranger. They don’t know your context, your history, or the specific ache in your chest that birthed the sentence.

This is where the second person—the Stranger—must step in.

The Power of Detachment

The “Stranger” is the part of the writer that treats the manuscript like an alien artifact. It is the cold, analytical eye that looks at a paragraph and asks, “Does this make sense if I have never lived this moment?”

To write well is to master the art of detachment. You must be able to step outside of your own ego and look at your prose as if you were picking it up in a library, written by an author you’ve never met. When you read as a stranger, you start to notice where the logic gaps are, where the prose becomes self-indulgent, and where the emotional core is buried under too many adjectives.

Bridging the Gap: Why Writers Need Readers

Ultimately, the goal of this internal division is connection. We don’t write solely to process our thoughts; we write to bridge the gap between two minds.

Camus knew that writing is a form of translation. You are taking the abstract, messy, and deeply personal language of your internal life and converting it into a language that others can consume, understand, and feel. Without that “Stranger” perspective, we are merely shouting into a void. We are writing for the person who already knows what we’re saying: ourselves.

Embracing the Duality

If you find yourself struggling to edit your own work, or feeling like your writing doesn’t quite “land” with your audience, you might be leaning too heavily on one side of your personality.

You need the Creator to dream up the vision, to bleed onto the page, and to find the truth. But you need the Stranger to finish the job. You need the Stranger to be the audience-in-residence—the one who holds the pen steady and asks, “Is this true for them, too?”

Writing is a contradiction because it requires you to be both deeply vulnerable and completely objective. It’s a difficult balance to strike, but it’s the only way to ensure that what we feel, someone else will feel, too.

So, the next time you sit down to write, don’t just ask yourself what you want to say. Ask yourself if the stranger reading your work will understand why it matters.

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Day 141 – Writer’s block

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The Blank Page Blues: Understanding the Real Effects of Writer’s Block (And How to Beat It)

Every writer, whether they are penning a Pulitzer-winning novel, a corporate newsletter, or a simple blog post, has been there. You sit down, open your laptop, crack your knuckles, and… nothing. The cursor blinks at you, rhythmically mocking your lack of progress.

Writer’s block is the universal enemy of creativity. But what actually happens when we hit that wall, and how can we climb over it? Let’s break down the mechanics of the “block” and, more importantly, how to get your momentum back.

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The Hidden Effects: More Than Just “Stuck”

We often think of writer’s block as a simple pause in production. However, the effects are usually deeper and more taxing than just an empty page.

1. The Erosion of Confidence The longer you stare at a blank screen, the more your inner critic takes the wheel. You start to doubt your premise, your vocabulary, and eventually, your aptitude as a writer. This “imposter syndrome” can linger long after the initial block has passed.

2. The “Avoidance Cycle” When writing becomes associated with the frustration of being stuck, you naturally start to avoid it. You find “productive” distractions—doing the dishes, organising your email, or doom-scrolling—which only increases the anxiety you feel when you finally do return to the desk.

3. Creative Atrophy Writing is a muscle. When you stop writing for extended periods, the “creative flow”—that effortless state of articulation—becomes harder to tap into. The longer the blockage persists, the more you have to fight your own brain to regain that rhythm.

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How to Break the Cycle

The good news? Writer’s block is not a permanent state; it’s a temporary neurological bottleneck. Here is how to unclog it:

1. Lower the Stakes

Often, we get blocked because we are trying to write something “perfect” on the first pass. Give yourself permission to write “garbage.” Write the worst draft imaginable. Once the words are on the page, you can edit them. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can always fix a bad paragraph.

2. The “Pomodoro” Trick

If the task feels gargantuan, break it down. Set a timer for 15 minutes. Tell yourself you only have to write for that long. Often, the hardest part of writing is the starting—once the gears are turning, continuing becomes much easier.

3. Change Your Environment

If your brain associates your desk with anxiety, move to a coffee shop, a library, or even your kitchen table. Sometimes a change of scenery, ambient noise, or a different chair is enough to signal to your brain that it’s time for a new mode of thinking.

4. Switch Mediums

If the laptop screen feels stifling, go analog. Grab a legal pad and a pen. The physical act of handwriting taps into different creative pathways in the brain and removes the temptation to delete, backspace, and over-edit as you go.

5. Use Prompts to Prime the Pump

If you don’t know where to start, stop trying to write the “masterpiece” and just write five sentences about anything. Describe the room you’re in. Describe your breakfast. Once you break the silence of the page, the transition to your actual project will be much smoother.

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The Bottom Line

Writer’s block isn’t a sign that you’ve lost your talent; it’s a sign that your brain needs a different strategy. Don’t try to force your way through it with sheer willpower alone. Sometimes, the best way to move forward is to step back, change the environment, and lower your expectations until the words begin to flow again.

Remember: You are a writer because you write, not because you never get stuck.

So, close this tab, take a breath, and write one sentence. Just one. That’s how the block ends.

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