Day 232 – The Hollywood writer mentality

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“I’m a Hollywood Writer, So I Put on My Sports Jacket and Take Off My Brain”: Deconstructing Ben Hecht’s Ultimate Industry Satire

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“I’m a Hollywood writer, so I put on my sports jacket and take off my brain.”

If you’ve ever spent more than forty-eight hours in a writers’ room, felt the soul-crushing despair of a studio note that asks you to “make the protagonist more likable while also making them entirely unhinged,” or watched a masterpiece get sliced into digital confetti by a focus group, that quote hits you right in the solar plexus.

It is sharp, cynical, hilarious, and dripping with the kind of world-weary exhaustion that only a true veteran of the studio system could muster.

The man behind the quip? Ben Hecht.

Often called the “Shakespeare of Hollywood,” Hecht was a legendary screenwriter, playwright, and journalist who helped shape the Golden Age of cinema. He won the very first Academy Award for Best Original Story (for 1927’s Underworld), wrote or co-wrote stone-cold classics like His Girl Friday, Scarface, and Notorious, and quietly doctored dozens of scripts without credit (including polishing Gone with the Wind).

Yet, despite his immense success and undeniable genius, Hecht maintained a notoriously love-hate relationship with the motion picture industry. His famous sports jacket quote is more than just a snappy punchline; it is a profound commentary on the commodification of art, the absurdity of the studio system, and the psychological armour required to survive as a creative in Tinseltown.

Let’s unpack what Hecht meant, why it still resonates today, and what modern writers can learn from his cynical wisdom.

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The Uniform of Compromise: What the Sports Jacket Represents

To understand Hecht’s joke, you have to look at the visual language of Hollywood.

In Hecht’s era—and largely still today—the film industry was a place of stark contrasts. On one side stood the suits: the studio moguls, the producers, and the executives who viewed movies not as high art, but as an assembly-line manufacturing process. On the other side stood the artists: the directors, actors, and writers who often viewed themselves as tortured visionaries.

By joking that he puts on a “sports jacket”—traditionally a casual, slightly corporate, uniform-of-convenience piece of menswear—to “take off his brain,” Hecht is performing a brilliant piece of psychological self-defense.

He is acknowledging the transactional nature of his work. A sports jacket says, “I’m professional enough to take your money, but I’m detached enough not to break my heart when you ruin my scene.”

Putting on the jacket is the physical ritual of putting on the work persona. It is the moment the artist steps out of the realm of pure imagination and enters the boardroom, where imagination is often treated as a liability rather than an asset.

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Why Hollywood Demands You “Take Off Your Brain”

Why would a Pulitzer-winning, brilliantly gifted wordsmith feel the need to check his brain at the studio gate?

Because commercial filmmaking—at its worst—is hostile to genuine intellect and originality. Hecht understood a fundamental truth of the studio system: executives rarely want a thinker; they want an obedient problem-solver.

When Hecht implies he takes off his brain, he’s pointing out several classic industry traps:

1. The Homogenization of Art: Studio notes have a way of filing down the sharp edges of a story until it fits neatly into a demographic-friendly box. If you keep your brain fully engaged, you’ll fight for every nuanced character beat. If you take your brain off, you just nod, smile, and change the third act so the dog doesn’t die.
2. The Illusion of Effort: In Hollywood, there is often an inverse relationship between how hard you think and how happy the studio is. If you overcomplicate a plot with deep thematic resonance, the executives get confused. And confused executives give terrible notes.
3. Self-Preservation: Caring too much in Hollywood is a fast track to an ulcer. Hecht was prolific because he treated screenwriting with a certain professional detachment. He knew that pouring your entire soul into a 120-page document only to have a 24-year-old development executive say, “Can we add a talking animal?” is a recipe for madness.

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Ben Hecht: The Ultimate Hollywood Mercenary

To truly appreciate the quote, you have to look at Hecht’s paradoxical career.

Hecht was no hack. He was a literary titan. Before moving to Hollywood, he was a star reporter for the Chicago Daily News and a novelist whose books were banned for being too racy. He co-wrote The Front Page, one of the greatest stage comedies about journalism ever produced.

Yet, Hecht had no romantic illusions about the movies. He once famously said of Hollywood: “It’s a place where people die of nostalgia for a place they never were.”

He went to Hollywood explicitly for the money. He famously knocked out scripts with terrifying speed, paid off his debts, bought a luxurious lifestyle, and funded his political activism (including working tirelessly behind the scenes to rescue European Jews during the Holocaust).

Hecht’s sports jacket quote encapsulates his mercenary philosophy. He viewed screenwriting as a trade—a very lucrative, highly entertaining trade, but a trade nonetheless. He kept his “real” brain—his literary soul—reserved for his novels, plays, and journalism, while happily taking studio checks to punch up gangster flicks and screwball comedies.

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The Modern Relevance: Does the Sports Jacket Still Fit?

Nearly a century after Hecht’s heyday, his cynical wisdom is more relevant than ever.

Today’s writers face an even more algorithm-driven landscape. Writers’ rooms are increasingly corporatised, IP (Intellectual Property) is king, and “brand synergy” often trumps narrative logic.

If you talk to working writers in streaming or franchise-heavy feature films today, they will tell you that Hecht’s ritual is alive and well. It might not be a literal sports jacket—today, it might be slipping on a pair of noise-cancelling headphones before a Zoom call with twenty executives, or adopting a cheerful tone of voice while secretly plotting how to subtly sneak your thematic message past the censors.

Wearing the metaphorical sports jacket today means learning how to separate your identity from your output. It means realising that a corporate note telling you to “add more action to the first ten minutes” isn’t a personal indictment of your artistic integrity; it’s just the weather in Los Angeles.

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How to Wear the Jacket Without Losing Your Mind

Is Hecht’s quote a counsel of despair? Not necessarily. In fact, for modern creatives, it can be deeply liberating.

Here is how you can channel the spirit of Ben Hecht without selling out completely:

• Protect Your “Real” Brain: Like Hecht, keep a creative sanctuary for yourself. Write the indie script, pen the personal essay, paint the canvas, or build the passion project where no studio notes can reach you.
• Treat It Like a Job (Because It Is): When you put on your professional hat, remember that commercial writing is a collaborative, service-oriented art form. Sometimes, you just need to write the car chase, collect the check, and go home.
• Cultivate Professional Detachment: Don’t fall in love with your first draft—or your fifth. Be willing to kill your darlings before an executive does it for you with a chainsaw.
• Keep Your Sense of Humour: Hollywood is inherently ridiculous. If you can’t laugh at the absurdity of a notes meeting where three people debate the emotional arc of a CGI raccoon, you won’t survive the town.

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Final Thoughts

Ben Hecht’s quip about the sports jacket and the brain is ultimately a survival manual disguised as a punchline. It reminds us that navigating the commercial art world requires a delicate balance: enough professional savvy to play the game, and enough self-awareness not to let the game consume your soul.

So, the next time you log on to a painfully corporate notes call, or stare blankly at a feedback document that asks you to “change the genre from thriller to romantic comedy by tomorrow morning,” just smile, zip up your metaphorical sports jacket, and remember the words of the great Ben Hecht.

Just keep your real brain safe where they can’t touch it.

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What’s the most absurd studio note or feedback you’ve ever received? How do you protect your creative soul while working in commercial media? Let’s talk about it in the comments below!

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Day 231 – Writing in the first person

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The Power of “I”: Unlocking the Advantages of the First-Person Novel

When you crack open a novel and the very first word you read is “I,” an unspoken social contract is formed between you and the narrator. You aren’t just an observer looking down from a cloud; you are strapped directly into the passenger seat of someone else’s mind.

First-person point of view (POV) is one of the most intimate and enduring tools in a writer’s arsenal. From classic masterpieces like The Catcher in the Rye and Jane Eyre to modern psychological thrillers like Gone Girl, the “I” narrator has the power to grip readers and refuse to let go.

If you’re an aspiring author trying to decide which POV to use, or a passionate reader wondering why certain books feel so visceral, understanding the advantages of the first-person novel is essential.

Let’s dive deep into the unique strengths of the first-person perspective and why it continues to dominate bestseller lists.

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1. Unmatched Intimacy and Emotional Resonance

The single greatest advantage of the first-person novel is proximity. In first-person, there is no filter between the character’s internal emotional landscape and the reader.

• Direct Access to Thoughts: We don’t just see characters cry; we hear the frantic, self-deprecating, or hopeful loops playing in their heads as they wipe away the tears.
• Instant Empathy: Even if a narrator makes terrible choices, experiencing their motivations, fears, and heartbreaks firsthand makes them deeply human. We understand why they do what they do, even if we don’t agree with it.

This level of intimacy creates a profound bond. Readers often finish a great first-person novel feeling like they have just said goodbye to a real-life friend.

2. A Distinct, Unforgettable Voice

In a crowded literary marketplace, voice is everything. First-person narrative allows authors to showcase a character’s unique personality not just through their actions, but through how they speak and think.

Think of Holden Caulfield’s cynical, slang-heavy cadence in The Catcher in the Rye, or Humbert Humbert’s hyper-articulate, manipulative prose in Lolita. The narrator’s voice becomes the music of the book.

• Rhythm and Diction: A weary detective, a sarcastic teenager, and a medieval peasant will all describe a rainy Tuesday differently. First-person forces the writing to be utterly specific to that character’s worldview, elevating the prose and making the storytelling infinitely more textured.

3. The Power of the Unreliable Narrator

One of the most thrilling narrative devices available in fiction is the unreliable narrator—and it only truly works in the first person.

Because we are locked inside one character’s perspective, we are vulnerable to their biases, blind spots, delusions, or outright lies.

• Building Suspense: When a narrator is convinced of something that the reader slowly realises is false, the tension skyrockets.
• The “Aha!” Moment: Twists hit harder in first-person because the reader has been actively complicit in believing the narrator’s deception. Think of Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl, where Nick and Amy Dunne’s conflicting first-person accounts keep readers guessing until the very end.

4. Heightened Suspense and Stakes

When the protagonist is the one telling the story, a very specific rule applies: They survived long enough to tell the tale.

While this might seem like a spoiler (we know the protagonist doesn’t die in chapter three), it actually heightens suspense in clever ways.

• The “How” Over the “If”: Instead of wondering if the character will survive, the reader wonders how they possibly escaped the nightmare they are currently describing.
• Subjective Danger: Because we only know what the narrator knows, we are ambushed by plot twists right alongside them. If they can’t see the killer sneaking up behind them in the dark, neither can we.

5. Built-In Focus and Streamlined Pacing

Third-person multi-POV novels can sometimes suffer from narrative bloat as authors jump between five different subplots across different continents. First-person acts as a natural anchor.

• Laser-Focused Narrative: Everything in a first-person novel filters through the protagonist’s experiences. If they aren’t there to witness it, it doesn’t happen (unless they hear about it secondhand). This keeps the plot tight, fast-paced, and intensely focused on the core conflict.
• Character-Driven Plots: First-person naturally prioritises internal growth and psychological transformation over sprawling world-building, making it the go-to choice for character-driven stories.

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Potential Pitfalls to Keep in Mind

While the advantages are powerful, writing in the first person comes with unique challenges:

• The “Head-Hopping” Restriction: You cannot show scenes where the protagonist is absent.
• The “I-Ego” Problem: If your narrator is too passive, whiny, or unlikable without being fascinating, readers will drop the book fast.
• Information Limits: It can be difficult to naturally reveal things the narrator wouldn’t reasonably know.

However, in the hands of a skilled writer, these limitations often force creative solutions that make the story even stronger.

---

Conclusion: Is First-Person Right for Your Next Read—or Your Next Book?

The first-person novel is more than just a stylistic choice; it is an immersive experience. It transforms reading from a passive activity into a deeply empathetic, psychological journey. Whether you are looking to get lost in a complex character study, unravel a twisty mystery, or feel the raw electricity of a unique literary voice, the “I” narrator delivers like no other POV can.

Are you a writer planning your next project, or a reader with a favourite first-person novel? Let us know your thoughts in the comments below!

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Day 231 – Writing in the first person

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The Power of “I”: Unlocking the Advantages of the First-Person Novel

When you crack open a novel and the very first word you read is “I,” an unspoken social contract is formed between you and the narrator. You aren’t just an observer looking down from a cloud; you are strapped directly into the passenger seat of someone else’s mind.

First-person point of view (POV) is one of the most intimate and enduring tools in a writer’s arsenal. From classic masterpieces like The Catcher in the Rye and Jane Eyre to modern psychological thrillers like Gone Girl, the “I” narrator has the power to grip readers and refuse to let go.

If you’re an aspiring author trying to decide which POV to use, or a passionate reader wondering why certain books feel so visceral, understanding the advantages of the first-person novel is essential.

Let’s dive deep into the unique strengths of the first-person perspective and why it continues to dominate bestseller lists.

---

1. Unmatched Intimacy and Emotional Resonance

The single greatest advantage of the first-person novel is proximity. In first-person, there is no filter between the character’s internal emotional landscape and the reader.

• Direct Access to Thoughts: We don’t just see characters cry; we hear the frantic, self-deprecating, or hopeful loops playing in their heads as they wipe away the tears.
• Instant Empathy: Even if a narrator makes terrible choices, experiencing their motivations, fears, and heartbreaks firsthand makes them deeply human. We understand why they do what they do, even if we don’t agree with it.

This level of intimacy creates a profound bond. Readers often finish a great first-person novel feeling like they have just said goodbye to a real-life friend.

2. A Distinct, Unforgettable Voice

In a crowded literary marketplace, voice is everything. First-person narrative allows authors to showcase a character’s unique personality not just through their actions, but through how they speak and think.

Think of Holden Caulfield’s cynical, slang-heavy cadence in The Catcher in the Rye, or Humbert Humbert’s hyper-articulate, manipulative prose in Lolita. The narrator’s voice becomes the music of the book.

• Rhythm and Diction: A weary detective, a sarcastic teenager, and a medieval peasant will all describe a rainy Tuesday differently. First-person forces the writing to be utterly specific to that character’s worldview, elevating the prose and making the storytelling infinitely more textured.

3. The Power of the Unreliable Narrator

One of the most thrilling narrative devices available in fiction is the unreliable narrator—and it only truly works in the first person.

Because we are locked inside one character’s perspective, we are vulnerable to their biases, blind spots, delusions, or outright lies.

• Building Suspense: When a narrator is convinced of something that the reader slowly realises is false, the tension skyrockets.
• The “Aha!” Moment: Twists hit harder in first-person because the reader has been actively complicit in believing the narrator’s deception. Think of Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl, where Nick and Amy Dunne’s conflicting first-person accounts keep readers guessing until the very end.

4. Heightened Suspense and Stakes

When the protagonist is the one telling the story, a very specific rule applies: They survived long enough to tell the tale.

While this might seem like a spoiler (we know the protagonist doesn’t die in chapter three), it actually heightens suspense in clever ways.

• The “How” Over the “If”: Instead of wondering if the character will survive, the reader wonders how they possibly escaped the nightmare they are currently describing.
• Subjective Danger: Because we only know what the narrator knows, we are ambushed by plot twists right alongside them. If they can’t see the killer sneaking up behind them in the dark, neither can we.

5. Built-In Focus and Streamlined Pacing

Third-person multi-POV novels can sometimes suffer from narrative bloat as authors jump between five different subplots across different continents. First-person acts as a natural anchor.

• Laser-Focused Narrative: Everything in a first-person novel filters through the protagonist’s experiences. If they aren’t there to witness it, it doesn’t happen (unless they hear about it secondhand). This keeps the plot tight, fast-paced, and intensely focused on the core conflict.
• Character-Driven Plots: First-person naturally prioritises internal growth and psychological transformation over sprawling world-building, making it the go-to choice for character-driven stories.

---

Potential Pitfalls to Keep in Mind

While the advantages are powerful, writing in the first person comes with unique challenges:

• The “Head-Hopping” Restriction: You cannot show scenes where the protagonist is absent.
• The “I-Ego” Problem: If your narrator is too passive, whiny, or unlikable without being fascinating, readers will drop the book fast.
• Information Limits: It can be difficult to naturally reveal things the narrator wouldn’t reasonably know.

However, in the hands of a skilled writer, these limitations often force creative solutions that make the story even stronger.

---

Conclusion: Is First-Person Right for Your Next Read—or Your Next Book?

The first-person novel is more than just a stylistic choice; it is an immersive experience. It transforms reading from a passive activity into a deeply empathetic, psychological journey. Whether you are looking to get lost in a complex character study, unravel a twisty mystery, or feel the raw electricity of a unique literary voice, the “I” narrator delivers like no other POV can.

Are you a writer planning your next project, or a reader with a favourite first-person novel? Let us know your thoughts in the comments below!

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Day 230 – Writing Exercise

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The thing about a quiet neighbourhood – houses not built on top of each other, people next door near but far enough away not to be annoying; if they tended to be annoying, is that you could hear the silence.

We had lived there for nearly ten years, the last family to move into the estate that had about twenty families scattered over acreage.  It was one of those miracle moments, a house popping up in my search browser when I put in the parameters.

One house.  This house.  We came, we saw, we met the neighbours.  We bought.  It was like we were meant to live there.

…

Ten years on, our anniversary neighbourhood party had wrapped up at precisely 10 pm as all parties did, and the participants had dispersed, the last straggler just disappearing around the corner, a few hundred yards from home.

I was on the front verandah looking up at the sky filled with stars, some brighter than others, and then, one that appeared to be moving.

My eyes watered, straining to see it. I blinked several times to squeeze the moisture out, opened them again and whatever it was had gone.  Or blended in, so it was just another star.

I had a telescope out back and would go have another look before I turned in.

Edie poked her head out the door.  “You’re probably breaking some community regulation standing out there after 10pm. What are you doing?”

“Testing them.”

It was a running joke.  The neighbourhood had some rather quirky rules, but nothing that caused us concern.  The lady in charge of community watch, as she called it, was due to retire this year, and everyone was waiting for the new guard.

And new rules.  More lenient rules.

“Come in.  It’s cold out there.”

It had got cold, especially in the last few minutes.  I shivered, took a last look out at the sky, then went in.  The auto light switched off.  All was well again.

“What were you doing out there?”

She was closing the shutters on the front windows, and the moonlight that had been seeping through the open blinds disappeared.  Except for the passage light, the house was in darkness.

We had streetlights, but they were so low that the light didn’t reach the ground.  Normal street lights put out a lot of light, enough to see the road, but these were deliberately subdued.

Another quirk produced by our fearless Community Watch leader, who seemed to hold such sway with city hall.

“I’m just going out back to check on a shooting star.  I’ll make a wish.”

“I need a new vehicle “

A quick kiss, a touch of hands, she headed towards the bedroom.  I would be back before she got into bed.

The auto lighting lit the way along the passage floor to the back door.  I went out onto the back patio and saw Jake, youngest son and the family astronomer, had left the telescope pointing in the direction of Mars.

He was obsessed with the belief that Martians were coming to Earth, and was adamant he had seen a ship land nearby last year, just before it switched on its cloud of invisibility.

Jake had an excellent imagination.

He was in the middle of writing his first Sci-Fi novel and had asked me to read some of it.  It was quite good but technical.  I hadn’t the heart to tell him it was so boring it put me to sleep.

I peered into the lens up at the sky and focused on the last position.  It was a bright star among many. And something else.  It seemed to be flashing, or a whole lot of stars were passing it, which made it seem like it was flashing.

Or maybe not.  Nothing was happening.

Just before I went in, I looked up, in time to see a shooting star, or what looked like one, light a path across the sky.

I made a wish, and went to bed.

…

I usually slept like a log.  It had been said that a bomb could go off next door and I’d sleep through it.  While no bombs had exploded, there were a number of events I had missed.

Tonight?  There was no reason why I should be awake, and yet I dozed off the moment my head hit the pillow.  I remember seeing the time on the digital clock beside the bed.  11:03.

I looked now, and it said 1:07.  What felt like five minutes later, it said 1:16.  I did not feel sleepy in the slightest.

Edie was sound asleep, her breathing regular.  It always surprised me how easy it was for her to get to sleep.  Perhaps it was because of the early years with the children and the constant care they needed; she had taught mt herself to get what rest she could, no matter how short it was.

It had never been that easy for me.

It wasn’t the first time I had lain awake for hours, searching for that elusive moment.  I tried counting sheep, green sheep at that; I tried emptying my mind, but that was impossible.

1:38.

I slipped out into the cool night air and padded quietly across the room.  The door made a slight squeak as I opened it a fraction, the noise sounding very loud in that silence that came with the middle of the night.

I stepped into the passage, and the first of the footlights came on to guide the way.  I headed down towards the kitchen, where what I assumed was moonlight came through the open slats of the kitchen windows, filling that room with a pale whitish light.

On the tight hand side, the kitchen being on the left, was the dining room, with floor-to-ceiling windows that opened out onto the veranda that wrapped around the back of the house.

Outside the dining room was where the BBQ sat.

On that side, sitting on the veranda, the view stretched across a number the neighbours back yards that stretched down the the stream that divided pur properties from those on the other side, mostly ranches running either cattle or sheep.

Sometimes you could hear them at night, but mostly during the day.  When they were down in the lower pastures.  At the moment, they were higher up in the hills. 

Come Christmas, the vista from the back verandah would look like a Christmas card scene, one I could never get tired of.

Suddenly the dining room was filled with a very bright light, and it was almost as bright as day.  It lasted a few seconds before it just snapped off like someone had flicked a switch.

I had been almost blinded and couldn’t see anything for at least a few minutes before the inky blackness transformed into blurry shapes.

I crossed to the room and looked out the windows to see what I thought was some sort of vehicle, only it couldn’t be one because it was hovering above the ground.

My eyes were sore from the bright light before, and I think I must be hallucinating.  Under the craft were five figures, not human, and yet human-like, and walking towards them were the five members of the Richards, our next-door neighbours.

I just watched in utter fascination.

They stepped into the pool of very subdued light coming from under the floating vehicle, one by one, touched the hands of the newly arrived people and exchanged shapes.

Then the Richards went back to their house; the other creatures, human or otherwise, held hands and then disappeared.

Seconds later, the searing light reappeared and then was gone.  A second dose of light on my poor eyes looked a few minutes longer, and by the time my sight had returned, it was as if nothing had happened.

What had I just seen?

…

I woke up, and it was light.  Edie was already up and about, and it was just another day.

It didn’t feel like I had been awake for an hour or so, and in my head it felt like something had happened, only I couldn’t remember what.

I wasn’t tired, not like I had been awake half the night because I knew what that was like.

Something had happened.  Something significant, but it was just there, on the fringe of my memory, lurking, or waiting for me to find the right key and unlock that door.

“You going to stay in bed all day?”

Edie put her head in the door, on her way from the front door where she had collected the newspaper, to the kitchen where breakfast would be well underway.

It was just another normal day.

“Coming,,” I muttered.

“You snore.  I never realised it until last night.  You woke me.  Normally I can sleep through anything.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You do.  And talk in your sleep.”

I sat up and faced her.  That was frightening if it was true.  I often dreamed I was having strange conversations with people who were basically strangers, but only once.

“What did I say?”

“Something about old man Richards.  Not surprising you think he’s daft.  He hasn’t been the same since the accident.  Don’t hang about.  We have that appointment at the bank this morning.”

Then she was gone.

Richards.  There was that thing in my mind again, that memory that refused to come out of the vault.  Did it have something to do with Richards?

I shrugged.  It would return when it wanted to.  In the meantime, places to go and people to see.

…

Surprises were good, when they were surprises.  We had decided that after Elizabeth, the eldest daughter, got married, we would buy them a house.

With one thing and another, their six-month jaunt through Europe turned into a five-year work-and-play plan; they only decided to return when she fell pregnant.  Twins and a bot later, the place they were living in was too small, hence the house.

Everything was on track until Elizabeth saw us talking to the bank manager; she just happened to be in the neighbourhood and feared the worst: we had to downsize, or worse.

I was never very good at lying. Edie thought she had it under control, but what mother does with that first daughter.  The secret was barely intact.

Then we ran into the Richards, Bill and Betty.  It wasn’t a usual thing, and I couldn’t remember the last time.  Coming after the Elizabeth thing, I was a little shaken.

That nagging thing in the back of my mind got a bit of a shake.  Both the Richards seemed a little distracted, and Bill didn’t seem to recognise me.  Not at first, and I could see he was trying to cover it like people did when they have forgotten your name.

Betty was chatty, which was a change from her usual surly self; the reason she gave me many years ago was that Bill had dragged her out to this godforsaken place as punishment, though she never said what it was for.

Betty confused me with one of the other neighbours who looked a little like me, which I thought odd, but it wasn’t a thing.  Edie thought they were just the same as usual, vague and borderline rude.

Driving home, my head had got as far as deciding whatever was trying to get out had something to do with the Richards.

…

Once again I spent some time out with the telescope, studying the moon surface, and wondering if I’d live long enough to go there.  Every now and then a billionaire comes up with this idea of a weekend on the moon in a lunar hotel, and I dare to believe it might be possible in my lifetime.

The other day it had moved to Mars.  I’m sure the Martians wouldn’t mind, though I had no idea why I would think that.  It was like the day someone asked me what the Martians looked like, and I said, like us, only with synthetic bodies, so they could live in the atmosphere there.

It got me some very strange looks.

The sky was less crowded with stars, and there were clouds drifting by blocking the view.  It was a full moon, and I had a momentary thought of werewolves.  Not that they existed, but they were a part of folklore.

Then when the cloud cover was too thick, and the first spits of rain came, I went inside, made coffee and went to stand over by the patio windows.

A shard of lightning lit up the back yards of a number of the neighbours’ yards, as bright as day before darkness returned.

The rain became torrential.  The lightning was sporadic, and each time it lit up a different part of the countryside. 

There was a huge rumble just about overhead, followed by a bolt of lightning which, in the fraction of a second as it lit up the scene in front of me, I saw it land on Bill Richards, who had been standing out in his yard.

Another bolt hit our house, and there was a huge explosion.

That was all I remembered.

…

I was lying down in a brightly lit room; on one side, a man in a white coat was looking down at me.  On the other side, Edie was looking concerned.

“He’s been forgetting things, and talking in his sleep.  He hasn’t done that before.”

“It might be the settling process.  Sometimes it takes a few days.  The last upgrade was a little bigger than usual.”

“It worked for me.”

“You’re a 6AZ model.  More sophisticated algorithms because you are female.”

“You’re saying the male units are not as smart.”

What were they talking about?  Models, smart, sophistication.  I was just another person who was suffering from lack of sleep and hallucinations.

At least I think that was what I was there for.  This was a hospital?

Edie glanced at me.  “Oh, you’re awake?”

“That might be a matter of opinion.  I think I just woke in the middle of a nightmare.”

She smiled.  It didn’t fill me with confidence.

“You can’t go around telling people you saw aliens, Sam.  People get antsy when you say stuff like that.”

“I never said I saw aliens. When did I see aliens?”

“You said the Martians had landed next door and took the Richards away.  I mean, Sam, we saw them just a few hours ago.”

I was confused.  I could see in my head the spacecraft that was hovering next door and the body exchange of the Richards family.  I could remember meeting the Richards at the cafe, and how disoriented they had been.

The transfer process had still not been perfected.

Then I realised the truth.

“There it is,” the doctor said.  “It just needed a tweak.”

The doctor stepped away from the console, and I could see the twin flat lines running across the screen.  Memories and reality aligned.

I closed my eyes; everything went dark, and then opened them again.

Edie was looking concerned but relieved.  “How do you feel?”

“About sixty-four, give or take a week.  Getting old is not what it’s cracked up to be.”  I could feel something had happened, but couldn’t quite remember what it was.  “Another fall?”

“You need to remember to use your cane, Sam.  You are not as spry as you used to be.”

“No.  I guess not.”  I slowly got off the bed and stood.  I felt steady.

“Doc?”

“You’ll get there, Sam.  We all do in the end.  Just take care out there.”

“I will.”

Edie took my hand.  “Come on.  Places to go; people to see.”

Funny.  I was thinking that myself.  It was like I was reading her mind.

She opened the door and glared at me as I went past her.

“Don’t,” she said, not in words but in her thoughts.  “I don’t want to go home, so stop being difficult.  Earth is so much better than Mars.”

I looked at her as she followed me out and closed the door.

That doctor was our supervisor and had been assessing me.  The Richards had cracked the week before, and he had them replaced.  We’d be next if I didn’t appear ‘fixed’.

She was right.  Back home we’d be in a factory, chained to a production line.

“Understood.”

“Good.”  Then out loud, for the benefit of those around us.  “I need you because we have a housewarming to plan.  The bank just approved the house purchase.  Elizabeth is going to be so surprised.”

In more ways than one.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026