Tag: Thoughts

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the type of clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’ but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

The was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him was not the concierge, and instead brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position and then made a clunk when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the life lobby, only in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over the the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

© Charles Heath – 2018-2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 239

Day 239

Patronage, good or bad

…

Three Jobs for One Dream: Is Patronage a Blessing or a Breaking Point?

Ah, the writer’s life. It’s often romanticized, conjuring images of solitary genius, ink-stained fingers, and profound insights emerging from quiet contemplation. But behind many of those published tomes and celebrated screenplays, there’s a less glamorous, often unspoken reality: the support system. Specifically, the partner who shoulders the financial burden, allowing the artist to pursue their muse.

This brings us to a crucial question that buzzes in the ears of many aspiring writers and their long-suffering loved ones: Is patronage for writers, particularly from a spouse, a noble sacrifice or a ticking time bomb?

The Romantic Ideal vs. The Hard Realities

Let’s start with the ideal. The notion that a spouse should work three jobs – the early morning shift, the afternoon grind, and the late-night gig – all to allow their other half to finally tackle that novel, screenplay, or poetry collection they’ve always dreamed of writing. On the surface, it speaks of deep love, unwavering belief, and a shared vision for a future where one partner’s creative potential is fully realized. It’s an echo of historical patronage, albeit a deeply personal and intimate one.

And sometimes, it works. Sometimes, that sacrifice leads to a breakthrough, a published work, and a shared sense of accomplishment that strengthens the bond. The story of the supportive partner becomes part of the legend, a testament to true love and artistic dedication.

But let’s be honest, those success stories are often the exception, not the rule. More frequently, this intense level of spousal patronage breeds a complex cocktail of emotions that can corrode the very foundation of a relationship.

The Weight of Expectation and the Erosion of Self

Imagine the partner working those three jobs. Their days are a blur of labor, their nights are for crashing, not connecting. Their own dreams, hobbies, and personal growth are shelved indefinitely. They’re not just bringing home the bacon; they’re the entire farm.

On the other side, the writer, theoretically freed to create, often carries a crushing weight of expectation. Every blank page feels like a failure. Every hour not spent writing feels like a betrayal of the sacrifice being made for them. The pressure to “make it” becomes immense, turning the creative process, which should be joyful, into a source of debilitating anxiety.

This imbalance isn’t just financial. It’s emotional, physical, and psychological.

  • For the working partner: Resentment begins to brew. Why are their dreams less important? Why is their exhaustion not acknowledged? Loneliness can set in, as the shared life they once had slowly morphs into one person supporting another’s isolated pursuit.
  • For the writer: Guilt gnaws. The fear of failure paralyzes. Self-doubt magnifies. The creative well, instead of being nurtured, can dry up under the immense pressure to justify the cost.

At What Point Does It Become a Breaking Point?

This is the critical question. When does a loving dedication transform into an unsustainable burden? It’s rarely a sudden explosion; it’s more often a slow, insidious erosion, like water carving a canyon.

The breaking point isn’t just about financial strain, though that’s a huge part of it. It’s when:

  1. Communication ceases: Conversations become solely about bills, children, or the writer’s progress, with no room for personal connection, shared joys, or the working partner’s struggles.
  2. Resentment openly festers: Passive-aggressive comments, silent treatments, or outright arguments become commonplace, revealing the deep-seated anger and frustration.
  3. Physical and mental health deteriorates: The working partner is constantly exhausted, stressed, or depressed. The writer is crippled by anxiety, guilt, or isolation.
  4. The “dream” becomes an excuse: When the creative project repeatedly fails to materialize, or shows no significant progress despite years of sacrifice, the partner may start to see it not as a dream, but as an endless deferment of a shared future.
  5. A lack of reciprocity: The working partner realizes their sacrifice is not being met with gratitude, practical help (where possible), or a concrete plan for future balance, but rather an expectation of continued, uncritical support.
  6. Loss of shared identity: The couple stops being a partnership and becomes a patron-artist dynamic, with clear roles but little give-and-take.

Finding a Sustainable Path Forward

So, is spousal patronage inherently bad? Not necessarily. But the extreme scenario of one partner working three jobs for years on end is almost certainly unsustainable and, frankly, unfair.

Instead of an all-or-nothing approach, consider a more balanced, communicative, and realistic path:

  • Open and Honest Communication: Regularly discuss finances, progress, expectations, and most importantly, how both partners are feeling.
  • Set Clear Timelines and Goals: “I’ll focus on writing for X months/years, and if it hasn’t generated income/interest by then, we’ll re-evaluate.” This provides a roadmap and reduces open-ended sacrifice.
  • Shared Responsibility: Can the writer contribute in other ways? Part-time work, freelancing, managing the household, picking up childcare? Even a small income can alleviate significant pressure.
  • Define Success Beyond Publication: Success can also mean completing a draft, getting positive feedback, or simply the joy of the creative process.
  • Prioritize the Relationship: Remember why you’re together. Your shared life, well-being, and happiness should take precedence over any single project.

The journey of a writer is often long and arduous. Support is invaluable. But that support should never come at the cost of the supporter’s well-being, nor should it become an endless burden that ultimately breaks the very relationship it sought to nurture. True partnership means nurturing both the individual dreams and the collective future.

What are your thoughts? Have you experienced or witnessed similar situations? Share your perspective in the comments below.

Writing a book in 365 days – 238

Day 238

Writing exercise

…

She believed every one of his lies, the gaudier and more divorced from any semblance of possibility, the better.

….

Listening to her subject, John Terrance Wilkins Jamieson, the third, if you will, a name that in any other situation would have been one held in utter reverence, Amy quickly remembered the instructions of her handler.

‘Make him feel like you have his complete confidence, flatter him, feed the ego, draw the story out of him, it will come in layers, the first few, like topsoil, to be dug out and put aside, the next, the hard cover, the clay if you will. This will be hard to extract and require prompting, but not too much, and then, well, we shall see what we shall see.’

It hadn’t been that difficult. She knew the type, knew the levers to pull and the buttons to push, ever so gently. He was a man with a story, and he would tell it in his time, not hers, but it would come. It was not her job to sort the wheat from the chaff, just to be the one to dig.

They had been sitting in that room for an hour, she asking questions and he dodging them, making her the focus of the interview, and her bringing it back on track. Then it was time for a metaphorical yank…

“So, the people I represent are willing to pay, and pay a lot, for your story. But, and let me stress this one important point, they will pay only if I believe you have told me the truth. You’re probably thinking, I could tell this silly girl anything, and if I put just the right amount of emphasis and heart into it, I can make her believe anything. You probably could, if you wanted to, but you have to wonder, does she know anything about this? Is there more than one source? Does she know enough from all the peripheral information that is out there, truth and fiction?”

A little hardening of the tone, a little wariness creeping into his eyes. “Do you?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out. After all, you did ask for me, and I assume you believe that I have the credibility from previous stories that will give your story credence, set the narrative, as it were. You need me more than I need you, Mr Jamieson.”

He regarded her now with a degree of respect. “Call me John, please.”

“Wait an hour, and if I think you deserve it, I will.”

…


Jackson Jamieson, estranged father, said in an earlier interview when she was seeking background on the only son, one whom his father had hoped would take over the family business, not burn it to the ground. Shortly after that, his son had disappeared a few years back, but he still believed he was out there, somewhere. He did not recognise the man in the photo Amy had shown him, even though he had the same name. He didn’t have the scar running along the hairline on the left side of the forehead.

That was because it was not his son. Only a week before, the police had discovered that Jackson’s real son had died in a boating accident when John had been on holiday, and his remains, recently discovered and stored unidentified in a box in a lab, had a DNA test run on them, quite by accident. They had tested the wrong set of remains in another cold case. They were holding details of the remains’ identity until the fake Jackson was in custody.

As a result, the fake Jackson had been arrested, but only on the charge of impersonating a dead person, and by a quirk of fate, had been released from jail, and he had then disappeared. An APB went out, came across Amy’s desk, and she recognised Jackson as a man working as a barista at her usual coffee haunt.

She had gone to the police, but instead of arresting him, the devised a plan that would use her to get his story, and after a week, there were now in a special room, which she had described as an interview room for the media outlet she worked for, and she was going to record his story, just to make sure she didn’t get anything wrong.

And for the lead Detective on the case to step in in things got problematic.

They didn’t.

He simply wove a very believable story, woven into the fabric of the truth, what he believed to be the truth, and a set of lies, particularly well woven, from the moment he had gone overboard, hit his head, lost his memory, finally remembered who he was, and the everything that had happened from that point on was not his fault. He just happened to be in the same place at the same time, and there was nothing he could have done differently.

He took no responsibility, cursed his father as an angry, greedy, law-breaking monster who had perpetrated everything and dumped the blame on him. The only evidence the police had was his lies, and it was all circumstantial.

She believed him. She had one of those faces. And the training over the course of her career to make a subject feel at home, and safe, to tell their story in their own words, in their own time.

The story: complete and utter fairytale stuff, but she had to admit he was one of the best liars she had ever met. But as the saying goes, liars need to have good memories. It was clear that he and the real Jackson had spoken at length over the dealings with the father, and the feelings of inadequacy and inferiority forced upon him by the father; to an extent, it was almost like talking to the real Jackson.

But it was what he didn’t know about the real Jackson. The details his father and mother knew, the sort of detail the real Jackson would never have shared with anyone.

They reached the end of the interview, and Amy closed her notebook. She had been making notes and had a list of details and questions in her own particular brand of shorthand listed in it. She had seen him trying to read it, without looking like he could.

He was, nevertheless, quite confident he had won her over.

The door opened, and a man came into the room. John was immediately wary. “What are you?”

“The publisher’s Chief Editor. Just for the record, it everything you just told us the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

“Of course, why would I lie?”

“To save yourself from life imprisonment for murder. We found the real John’s body, and he was definitely murdered. Since you were the only two in the boat, which you claim he fell out of, we can assume you were there at the time of his death. A confession, Richard. That’s your real name, Richard Watkins. I am arresting you on the suspicion of murdering John Jamieson….”

Amy got her story, just not the one Richard hoped it would be.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 238

Day 238

Writing exercise

…

She believed every one of his lies, the gaudier and more divorced from any semblance of possibility, the better.

….

Listening to her subject, John Terrance Wilkins Jamieson, the third, if you will, a name that in any other situation would have been one held in utter reverence, Amy quickly remembered the instructions of her handler.

‘Make him feel like you have his complete confidence, flatter him, feed the ego, draw the story out of him, it will come in layers, the first few, like topsoil, to be dug out and put aside, the next, the hard cover, the clay if you will. This will be hard to extract and require prompting, but not too much, and then, well, we shall see what we shall see.’

It hadn’t been that difficult. She knew the type, knew the levers to pull and the buttons to push, ever so gently. He was a man with a story, and he would tell it in his time, not hers, but it would come. It was not her job to sort the wheat from the chaff, just to be the one to dig.

They had been sitting in that room for an hour, she asking questions and he dodging them, making her the focus of the interview, and her bringing it back on track. Then it was time for a metaphorical yank…

“So, the people I represent are willing to pay, and pay a lot, for your story. But, and let me stress this one important point, they will pay only if I believe you have told me the truth. You’re probably thinking, I could tell this silly girl anything, and if I put just the right amount of emphasis and heart into it, I can make her believe anything. You probably could, if you wanted to, but you have to wonder, does she know anything about this? Is there more than one source? Does she know enough from all the peripheral information that is out there, truth and fiction?”

A little hardening of the tone, a little wariness creeping into his eyes. “Do you?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out. After all, you did ask for me, and I assume you believe that I have the credibility from previous stories that will give your story credence, set the narrative, as it were. You need me more than I need you, Mr Jamieson.”

He regarded her now with a degree of respect. “Call me John, please.”

“Wait an hour, and if I think you deserve it, I will.”

…


Jackson Jamieson, estranged father, said in an earlier interview when she was seeking background on the only son, one whom his father had hoped would take over the family business, not burn it to the ground. Shortly after that, his son had disappeared a few years back, but he still believed he was out there, somewhere. He did not recognise the man in the photo Amy had shown him, even though he had the same name. He didn’t have the scar running along the hairline on the left side of the forehead.

That was because it was not his son. Only a week before, the police had discovered that Jackson’s real son had died in a boating accident when John had been on holiday, and his remains, recently discovered and stored unidentified in a box in a lab, had a DNA test run on them, quite by accident. They had tested the wrong set of remains in another cold case. They were holding details of the remains’ identity until the fake Jackson was in custody.

As a result, the fake Jackson had been arrested, but only on the charge of impersonating a dead person, and by a quirk of fate, had been released from jail, and he had then disappeared. An APB went out, came across Amy’s desk, and she recognised Jackson as a man working as a barista at her usual coffee haunt.

She had gone to the police, but instead of arresting him, the devised a plan that would use her to get his story, and after a week, there were now in a special room, which she had described as an interview room for the media outlet she worked for, and she was going to record his story, just to make sure she didn’t get anything wrong.

And for the lead Detective on the case to step in in things got problematic.

They didn’t.

He simply wove a very believable story, woven into the fabric of the truth, what he believed to be the truth, and a set of lies, particularly well woven, from the moment he had gone overboard, hit his head, lost his memory, finally remembered who he was, and the everything that had happened from that point on was not his fault. He just happened to be in the same place at the same time, and there was nothing he could have done differently.

He took no responsibility, cursed his father as an angry, greedy, law-breaking monster who had perpetrated everything and dumped the blame on him. The only evidence the police had was his lies, and it was all circumstantial.

She believed him. She had one of those faces. And the training over the course of her career to make a subject feel at home, and safe, to tell their story in their own words, in their own time.

The story: complete and utter fairytale stuff, but she had to admit he was one of the best liars she had ever met. But as the saying goes, liars need to have good memories. It was clear that he and the real Jackson had spoken at length over the dealings with the father, and the feelings of inadequacy and inferiority forced upon him by the father; to an extent, it was almost like talking to the real Jackson.

But it was what he didn’t know about the real Jackson. The details his father and mother knew, the sort of detail the real Jackson would never have shared with anyone.

They reached the end of the interview, and Amy closed her notebook. She had been making notes and had a list of details and questions in her own particular brand of shorthand listed in it. She had seen him trying to read it, without looking like he could.

He was, nevertheless, quite confident he had won her over.

The door opened, and a man came into the room. John was immediately wary. “What are you?”

“The publisher’s Chief Editor. Just for the record, it everything you just told us the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

“Of course, why would I lie?”

“To save yourself from life imprisonment for murder. We found the real John’s body, and he was definitely murdered. Since you were the only two in the boat, which you claim he fell out of, we can assume you were there at the time of his death. A confession, Richard. That’s your real name, Richard Watkins. I am arresting you on the suspicion of murdering John Jamieson….”

Amy got her story, just not the one Richard hoped it would be.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 237

Day 237

Working on what pays, not necessarily what you would like to be working on

…

The Writer’s Dilemma: Why the Money-Paying Tale Often Takes Center Stage (and What It Means for Your Craft)

Every writer knows this internal monologue. It’s late, the house is quiet, and the cursor blinks expectantly. Before you, on one screen, is the outline for that sprawling, genre-bending novel that called you to writing in the first place – your magnum opus, your heart project. On another tab, emails from a client remind you of the looming deadline for that article on “The Top 10 Uses for Biodegradable Sponges” or that ghostwritten piece on “Modern Pet Grooming Techniques.”

And if you’re like many authors, the biodegradable sponges often win.

It’s a source of quiet guilt for some, a pragmatic acceptance for others, but the question remains: Why is it often postulated that it’s better to work on the money-paying tales, rather than the serious writing that sparked your passion, or that beloved pet project? Let’s peel back the layers of this very real writer’s dilemma.

1. The Unsexy Truth: Bills Don’t Pay Themselves

This is, overwhelmingly, the primary driver. Writing, for most, isn’t a guaranteed goldmine, especially when you’re starting out or delving into niche literary fiction. While the dream is to live off your art, the reality is that rent, groceries, internet bills, and – let’s be honest – that ever-growing coffee habit, require immediate, tangible income.

Money-paying tales – be it freelance articles, copywriting gigs, ghostwriting assignments, or even genre fiction with a reliable market – offer a more predictable cash flow. They keep the lights on, the laptop charged, and food on the table. Without this foundational stability, the mental and emotional space required for deeply serious, often financially unrewarding, creative work becomes almost impossible to cultivate.

2. Sharpening the Axe: Professionalism and Practice

Think of money-paying projects not as a distraction, but as a different kind of training. Even if the subject matter isn’t your passion, these gigs offer invaluable professional development:

  • Meeting Deadlines: A crucial skill for any published author, even in the literary world.
  • Adhering to Briefs/Guidelines: Learning to work within constraints hones your precision and adaptability.
  • Understanding Your Audience: Every paying gig requires you to write for a specific reader, which is a transferable skill for any type of writing.
  • Honing Craft: Whether it’s crafting compelling sentences, structuring arguments, or developing clear prose, every word you write is practice. Even “mundane” writing can teach you about flow, conciseness, and impact.
  • Building a Reputation: Delivering quality work consistently, even on commercial projects, establishes you as a reliable and professional writer. This professional goodwill can open doors later.

Sometimes, the very act of writing anything takes the pressure off. Your “serious” work can feel monumental, intimidating. A paying gig, while perhaps less creatively fulfilling, can be a welcome change of pace, a chance to simply put words on a page without the intense emotional investment.

3. Building the Foundation (and the Platform)

For many, the “money tales” are a strategic investment in their larger writing career.

  • Financial Runway: Earning money now means you might save up enough to take dedicated time off later to really immerse yourself in your passion project without immediate financial pressure.
  • Publishing Credits: Even if it’s not the type of writing you ultimately want to be famous for, any published work builds a portfolio. It shows you’re a working writer, capable of producing content.
  • Networking: Commercial projects often connect you with editors, publishers, and other industry professionals. These connections can be invaluable when you eventually pitch your more serious work.
  • Market Intelligence: Working on commercially viable projects gives you a direct line to understanding what sells, what the market demands, and how publishing houses operate. This insight, while not dictating your art, can be useful for strategizing the release of your passion project.

4. The Creative Tug-of-War: Balancing Act, Not Betrayal

It’s natural to feel a pang of guilt or a sense of creative betrayal when you prioritize a paying gig over your deep-seated artistic ambitions. However, many authors view this not as an either/or, but as a strategic balancing act.

  • Allocate Time: Dedicate specific hours or days to your passion project, even if it’s just 30 minutes a day. Consistency is key.
  • Refuel Your Muse: Sometimes, the “light” work of a commercial gig can be less creatively draining than wrestling with your masterpiece, leaving you with more energy for your passion project when you do turn to it.
  • Remember Your “Why”: Keep a tangible reminder of your larger goal – a sticky note, a vision board, a printed outline. This helps combat the feeling of drift.

In essence, for many, working on money-paying tales isn’t a surrender of artistic integrity, but a practical, often necessary, step on the path to sustaining a writing life. It’s about building a solid foundation, sharpening the tools of the trade, and sometimes, simply ensuring you have the time and resources to eventually tell the stories that truly matter most to your heart.

It’s a marathon, not a sprint, and sometimes the best way to keep running is to earn a little cash along the way.

What’s your take on this writer’s dilemma? How do you balance the demands of paying work with your passion projects? Share your strategies and insights in the comments below!

“The Things we do for Love”, the story behind the story

This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 71 this year.

Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.

Why, you might ask.

Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne

At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.

I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.

Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them

Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.

I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.

Damn!

So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years

I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.

It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey.  Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.

Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.

So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.

Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.

It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there.  She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.

And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions.  Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.

Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.

But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.

As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life

If only I’d come from such a background!

And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.

I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.

One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.

Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.

It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife.  Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.

Writing a book in 365 days – 237

Day 237

Working on what pays, not necessarily what you would like to be working on

…

The Writer’s Dilemma: Why the Money-Paying Tale Often Takes Center Stage (and What It Means for Your Craft)

Every writer knows this internal monologue. It’s late, the house is quiet, and the cursor blinks expectantly. Before you, on one screen, is the outline for that sprawling, genre-bending novel that called you to writing in the first place – your magnum opus, your heart project. On another tab, emails from a client remind you of the looming deadline for that article on “The Top 10 Uses for Biodegradable Sponges” or that ghostwritten piece on “Modern Pet Grooming Techniques.”

And if you’re like many authors, the biodegradable sponges often win.

It’s a source of quiet guilt for some, a pragmatic acceptance for others, but the question remains: Why is it often postulated that it’s better to work on the money-paying tales, rather than the serious writing that sparked your passion, or that beloved pet project? Let’s peel back the layers of this very real writer’s dilemma.

1. The Unsexy Truth: Bills Don’t Pay Themselves

This is, overwhelmingly, the primary driver. Writing, for most, isn’t a guaranteed goldmine, especially when you’re starting out or delving into niche literary fiction. While the dream is to live off your art, the reality is that rent, groceries, internet bills, and – let’s be honest – that ever-growing coffee habit, require immediate, tangible income.

Money-paying tales – be it freelance articles, copywriting gigs, ghostwriting assignments, or even genre fiction with a reliable market – offer a more predictable cash flow. They keep the lights on, the laptop charged, and food on the table. Without this foundational stability, the mental and emotional space required for deeply serious, often financially unrewarding, creative work becomes almost impossible to cultivate.

2. Sharpening the Axe: Professionalism and Practice

Think of money-paying projects not as a distraction, but as a different kind of training. Even if the subject matter isn’t your passion, these gigs offer invaluable professional development:

  • Meeting Deadlines: A crucial skill for any published author, even in the literary world.
  • Adhering to Briefs/Guidelines: Learning to work within constraints hones your precision and adaptability.
  • Understanding Your Audience: Every paying gig requires you to write for a specific reader, which is a transferable skill for any type of writing.
  • Honing Craft: Whether it’s crafting compelling sentences, structuring arguments, or developing clear prose, every word you write is practice. Even “mundane” writing can teach you about flow, conciseness, and impact.
  • Building a Reputation: Delivering quality work consistently, even on commercial projects, establishes you as a reliable and professional writer. This professional goodwill can open doors later.

Sometimes, the very act of writing anything takes the pressure off. Your “serious” work can feel monumental, intimidating. A paying gig, while perhaps less creatively fulfilling, can be a welcome change of pace, a chance to simply put words on a page without the intense emotional investment.

3. Building the Foundation (and the Platform)

For many, the “money tales” are a strategic investment in their larger writing career.

  • Financial Runway: Earning money now means you might save up enough to take dedicated time off later to really immerse yourself in your passion project without immediate financial pressure.
  • Publishing Credits: Even if it’s not the type of writing you ultimately want to be famous for, any published work builds a portfolio. It shows you’re a working writer, capable of producing content.
  • Networking: Commercial projects often connect you with editors, publishers, and other industry professionals. These connections can be invaluable when you eventually pitch your more serious work.
  • Market Intelligence: Working on commercially viable projects gives you a direct line to understanding what sells, what the market demands, and how publishing houses operate. This insight, while not dictating your art, can be useful for strategizing the release of your passion project.

4. The Creative Tug-of-War: Balancing Act, Not Betrayal

It’s natural to feel a pang of guilt or a sense of creative betrayal when you prioritize a paying gig over your deep-seated artistic ambitions. However, many authors view this not as an either/or, but as a strategic balancing act.

  • Allocate Time: Dedicate specific hours or days to your passion project, even if it’s just 30 minutes a day. Consistency is key.
  • Refuel Your Muse: Sometimes, the “light” work of a commercial gig can be less creatively draining than wrestling with your masterpiece, leaving you with more energy for your passion project when you do turn to it.
  • Remember Your “Why”: Keep a tangible reminder of your larger goal – a sticky note, a vision board, a printed outline. This helps combat the feeling of drift.

In essence, for many, working on money-paying tales isn’t a surrender of artistic integrity, but a practical, often necessary, step on the path to sustaining a writing life. It’s about building a solid foundation, sharpening the tools of the trade, and sometimes, simply ensuring you have the time and resources to eventually tell the stories that truly matter most to your heart.

It’s a marathon, not a sprint, and sometimes the best way to keep running is to earn a little cash along the way.

What’s your take on this writer’s dilemma? How do you balance the demands of paying work with your passion projects? Share your strategies and insights in the comments below!

Writing a book in 365 days – 235/236

Day 235 and Day 236

Imagine a story about an affair that disrupts the life of a married couple.

…

I put the phone down and leaned back in the chair.

It was not what I expected, and then it was.  I just didn’t think I’d get to hear about it.

And it was nothing I did that precipitated the call.  That came from someone else, a person I was not pleased with.  Saying they would do something after I said I didn’t care showed poor judgment.

I could understand why they did, and in other circumstances, I would probably not feel as bad, but their actions had forced my hand.

“Sir?”

James, the butler who had served my father, then me, the very soul of discretion, looked over from the sideboard.

The question, in not so many words, was whether I wanted a drink, not whether I needed one.  The truth was, I needed one.

A nod in his direction, he put ice in a crystal glass and poured a small quantity of Scotch into it.  He placed it on a tray and brought it over.

“Thank you, James.  That will be all.”

“Yes, sir.  Good night, sir.”

Silence reigned after the door closed for a few minutes before my cell phone, sitting on the armrest of the chair, buzzed.

I looked at the screen.  “Cecily.”

My sister was calling.  Why?  Our business was concluded the week before, and she had promised not to call me unless it was absolutely necessary.  She wanted to run the company her way, and I was happy for her to do so.

I shrugged and answered it.

“Yes, Cecily?”

“I just had a strange call from Jack Burroughs.”

Jack Burroughs was the Chief Financial Officer.  He moved in strange, or what I called strange, circles.  He was also just a little strange himself, but work-related, he was a genius.

“He is strange, Cecily.”

“He told me he saw Margaret in a …” and then didn’t, or couldn’t bring herself to use the words.

I didn’t think she knew that Burroughs was gay simply because he didn’t identify as one. 

“He saw her at Moreno’s.”  Moreno’s was an obscure bar that celebrities sometimes went to so they would not make the media headlines. When I didn’t answer immediately, she took a deep breath, then said, “You know?”

“I got a call from someone else.”

“What is she doing there?”

“What do you think she is doing there?”

Silence as she grappled with the ramifications.

“So, you knew that she was…?”

“I suspected.  She told me before we married that she had been in a relationship with a girl, and it wasn’t who she thought she was.  Seems it’s not the case, and they’re back together.”

“What are you going to do?”

“It’s done.  I’m no longer part of the company or anything.  There’s the prenuptial you insisted on, so no one is walking away from this with anything.  It hasn’t been much of a relationship for nearly six months now, so I’m going to break the news that there’s no more money and we’re moving to the log cabin, courtesy of your generosity.”

“Oh.  Make me the bad guy.”

“You’ll make such a good one.  Don’t worry yourself.  I’m disappointed, but it’s not unexpected.  And I’ll get over it.  I am going to the log cabin, by the way, in the next few days.”

“OK.  Call me if you need anything.”

She took it better than I thought she would.

…

I waited.

I thought about watching a movie or reading a book, but in the end, I decided to do some reading of a different sort.  I had been sent a prospectus and background paper on a new concept car, one that wasn’t going to destroy the world.

By the time I got through to the end, three hundred pages of technical details that I would have to pass to the research department, I heard the front door open and close.

Frances had returned.

I looked at the clock, and it was 3:13 in the morning.

I heard her take that first step up the staircase to the room, then stopped.  Perhaps she had seen the light under the door in the sitting room.

A moment later, she appeared in the doorway.  She still had that ability to make my heart miss a beat every time I saw her.

I wondered then I’d she ever really loved me.

“You’re up late.”

“Reading, lost track of time.”

“Oh.”  She came in and sat opposite me, slightly askew on the chair.  She never really sat properly in the chair or any chair.

“Did you have a good night?”

She had said she was going out with some of her old friends from school days, and technically, she was not lying.

“I did.”  She gave me a curious look.  “Eloise was there.”

Eloise was the previous girlfriend.  I had our legal department check up on her, and she was one of those people whose private life was private.  She wasn’t married, had male friends, but was financially independent.

I never understood why she had picked Margaret as her lover, but I  freely admit I didn’t know much about love.

“You did say they were your old friends.  Was she happy to see you?”

Again, another curious look, though this time, is more wary.

She sighed.  “How long have you known?” 

“Long enough.  And before you say anything, I’m not surprised.  I haven’t really been there for you of late.  I’m sorry.”

“Who told you?”

“Would you believe me?”

“Eloise.”

“She said you were unhappy when you ran into each other.  It just grew from there.  She said she had never stopped loving you.  I can see why.”

“She asked me to come back.”

“And?”

“I am married to you.  You are my husband, and people have expectations.  You might have expectations.”

I shrugged.  “Maybe once upon a time, but now?  I’m no longer working for the company or any part of it.  Everything I had, the company owned.  If you so desire, you can leave without regret.  There’s nothing more for you to do.”

“You’ll still be that many about town.”

“No.  You’ll find that once people discover you have nothing, no job, no wealth, no status, they simply stop calling and stop inviting.  Cecily had offered me the use of a log cabin my father used to go to when he needed a few days away.  Montana or Wyoming or some such place.”

“Are you alright?  I mean, the company and everything.  It’s your life.”

“Not any more.  It’s Cecily’s now.  Everything.”

“When?”

“About two months ago.  When I realised that whatever we had was over.  Like I said, I don’t blame you.  I did to you what my father did to my mother.  Things are a little different in my case.  You found someone else to fill that void.  My mother simply killed herself.”

It had been preventable, and I had blamed my father for it.  It culminated in the argument that killed him.  Yelling at me, he had a heart attack and dropped dead in front of me.  I hadn’t recovered from that, but bounced into this relationship, then married, and some could say it was doomed from the start.

“I’m sorry.  Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know.  I was trying to get past it, but instead of sharing, I just threw myself into the job.  There was no need to burden yourself with my problems.”

She shook her head.  “That was silly.  I made the commitment and would have helped in any way I could.  It might have brought us closer together.”

“Or pushed you away.  You can not change who you are, Frances.  It will always be there, and if you have to fight it, it will eventually be a fight you will lose.  I don’t want that for you.”

“But what about you?”

“I’m fine. I’ll get to read the classic, sit by a light fire, catch and eat food that is fresh, not supermarket fresh.  The fresh mountain air, well, that might kill me or cure me.”

She sat, the conversation seemingly over, adjusting her dress and then readjusting it as if something was not quite right.  I knew she preferred tank tops, short skirts, and jeans to the expensive clothes she believed she had to wear.

“I can stay, if you like.  Go up to the cabin, wherever it is.  Are there bears and snakes?”

“Probably.  You don’t have to, but you can’t stay here.  You can take what’s yours, though, but it will have to be before the end of the week.”

She gave me a steely look.  “Then it’s over, we’re over?”

“Yes.  You should have told me, Frances.  I deserved at least that much.”

“I know.  I’m sorry.”

There was another knock on the door.  For the hour of the morning, it was quite busy.

James came out to open it, then ushered the visitor in.  Eloise.

I saw Frances glance at her and mouth the words, “Why are you here?”

“I’ve come to take Frances home.”  She said it in a tone that suggested she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

I looked at her.  “I have no objection if that’s what you think.  Frances has always been free to decide what she wants to do.  I only asked if she was intending to get into trouble, that she be discreet.”

“It has always been so

“Until you went to Moreno’s, which was a calculated move on your part.  Whatever your reasons, it was wasted effort.  I have nothing, I own nothing, nor does Frances.”

“It was not about the money,” Frances said, looking at Eloise, and her expression was priceless.  “Was it?”

Eloise looked at me.  “You’re in the top one hundred richest men in the country.  You can’t tell me that just disappeared overnight.”

“No, you’re right, it didn’t.  That happened last week when I signed the final documents to give it all to my sister Cecily.  I had reached the end of my association, and the company rules state that I could only be in charge for five years, at the end of which I have to walk away.  I didn’t have to forgo my personal wealth during the process, but having it all wasn’t the same as having everything.  Frances, according to her agreement, will be equally as penniless the moment she walks out of this apartment.  She now owns as much as I do.  Nothing. I truly hope you were not asking her to come back because she was about to become a billionaire.”

Judging by the expression on Eloise’s face, I think that was exactly what she believed.

Eloise swivelled on Frances.  “Is this true?”

“Why does it matter?”

“You are entitled to half of everything he had, prenuptial or not.  Even your lawyers would…”

And there she stopped, perhaps realising what she had said and done, because Frances was greatly surprised, and her expression, to me, didn’t augur well for their relationship lasting.

Her tone was soft, and there was a slight tremor in her voice. Perhaps now the full realisation of Eloise’s intent was clear,  “Even if I didn’t divorce him, there was never any money.  There never was because I never needed it.  I had nice things, but they were never mine, and I have no claim on them, nor would I want to.  I told you a while back that I’ve had enough of the high life.  Now I think I would prefer to embrace the country air in Wyoming.”

Perhaps Eloise, too, was beginning to see what the reality of the situation was.  I got the impression Frances had tried to tell her, and she wouldn’t listen. 

“I thought…” Eloise began.

“She was about to become mega-rich?” I finished the sentence for her.  “No.”

I could see the expression on Frances’ face change from surprise, to shock, to something bordering on anger, if not rage.  And come to the same conclusion about the same time I did. 

“You didn’t just run into me, did you?”  Frances said, so quietly I almost missed it.

“You’re a silly girl who will never have anything.  Not unless you stand up for yourself.  I’ll show myself out.”

We both watched her leave.

…

©  Charles Heath 2025

Another excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – A sequel to ‘What Sets Us Apart’

…

It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone.  It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air.  In summer, it was the best time of the day.  When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.

On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’.  This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.

She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable.  The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day.  So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.

It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her.  It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

I sat in my usual corner.  Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner.  There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around.  I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria.  All she did was serve coffee and cake.

When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?”  She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.

“I am this morning.  I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating.  I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise.  I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”

“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me.  I have had a lot worse.  I think she is simply jealous.”

It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be.  “Why?”

“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”

It made sense, even if it was not true.  “Perhaps if I explained…”

Maria shook her head.  “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole.  My grandfather had many expressions, David.  If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her.  Before she goes home.”

Interesting advice.  Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma.  What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?

“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.

“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much.  Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone.  It was an intense conversation.  I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell.  It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”

“It is indeed.  And you’re right.  She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one.  She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office.  Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”

And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful.  She had liked Maria the moment she saw her.  We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived.  I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.

She sighed.  “I am glad I am just a waitress.  Your usual coffee and cake?”

“Yes, please.”

Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.

I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one.  What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.

There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it.  We were still married, just not living together.

This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her.  She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.

It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.

There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd.  She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right.  It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.

But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings.  But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.

Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart.  I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit.  The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.

I knew I was not a priority.  Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.

And finally, there was Alisha.  Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around.  It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties. 

At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata.  Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.

Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.

When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan.  She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores.  We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated.  It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.

It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard.  I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.

She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top.  She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.

Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak.  I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.

Neither spoke nor looked at each other.  I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”

Maria nodded and left.

“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests.  I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence?  All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”

My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.

“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us.  There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”

“Why come at all.  A phone call would have sufficed.”

“I had to see you, talk to you.  At least we have had a chance to do that.  I’m sorry about yesterday.  I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her.  I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”

An apology was the last thing I expected.

“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington.  I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction.  We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”

“You’re not coming with me?”  She sounded disappointed.

“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress.  You are so much better doing your job without me.  I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband.  Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less.  You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it.  I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”

It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement.  Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points.  I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever.  The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.

Then, her expression changed.  “Is that what you want?”

“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways.  But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”

“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”

That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud.  “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan.  You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy.  While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”

“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance.  I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother.  She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right.  Why do you think I gave you such a hard time?  You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously.  But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”

“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”

“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”

“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”

I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead.  Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers.  Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen.  Gianna didn’t like Susan either.

Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her.  She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.

She stood.  “Last chance.”

“Forever?”

She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face.  “Of course not.  I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship.  I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”

I had been trying.  “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan.  I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”

She frowned at me.  “As you wish.”  She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table.  “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home.  Please make it sooner rather than later.  Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”

That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car.  I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.

No kiss, no touch, no looking back. 

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2025

strangerscover9

Writing a book in 365 days – 235/236

Day 235 and Day 236

Imagine a story about an affair that disrupts the life of a married couple.

…

I put the phone down and leaned back in the chair.

It was not what I expected, and then it was.  I just didn’t think I’d get to hear about it.

And it was nothing I did that precipitated the call.  That came from someone else, a person I was not pleased with.  Saying they would do something after I said I didn’t care showed poor judgment.

I could understand why they did, and in other circumstances, I would probably not feel as bad, but their actions had forced my hand.

“Sir?”

James, the butler who had served my father, then me, the very soul of discretion, looked over from the sideboard.

The question, in not so many words, was whether I wanted a drink, not whether I needed one.  The truth was, I needed one.

A nod in his direction, he put ice in a crystal glass and poured a small quantity of Scotch into it.  He placed it on a tray and brought it over.

“Thank you, James.  That will be all.”

“Yes, sir.  Good night, sir.”

Silence reigned after the door closed for a few minutes before my cell phone, sitting on the armrest of the chair, buzzed.

I looked at the screen.  “Cecily.”

My sister was calling.  Why?  Our business was concluded the week before, and she had promised not to call me unless it was absolutely necessary.  She wanted to run the company her way, and I was happy for her to do so.

I shrugged and answered it.

“Yes, Cecily?”

“I just had a strange call from Jack Burroughs.”

Jack Burroughs was the Chief Financial Officer.  He moved in strange, or what I called strange, circles.  He was also just a little strange himself, but work-related, he was a genius.

“He is strange, Cecily.”

“He told me he saw Margaret in a …” and then didn’t, or couldn’t bring herself to use the words.

I didn’t think she knew that Burroughs was gay simply because he didn’t identify as one. 

“He saw her at Moreno’s.”  Moreno’s was an obscure bar that celebrities sometimes went to so they would not make the media headlines. When I didn’t answer immediately, she took a deep breath, then said, “You know?”

“I got a call from someone else.”

“What is she doing there?”

“What do you think she is doing there?”

Silence as she grappled with the ramifications.

“So, you knew that she was…?”

“I suspected.  She told me before we married that she had been in a relationship with a girl, and it wasn’t who she thought she was.  Seems it’s not the case, and they’re back together.”

“What are you going to do?”

“It’s done.  I’m no longer part of the company or anything.  There’s the prenuptial you insisted on, so no one is walking away from this with anything.  It hasn’t been much of a relationship for nearly six months now, so I’m going to break the news that there’s no more money and we’re moving to the log cabin, courtesy of your generosity.”

“Oh.  Make me the bad guy.”

“You’ll make such a good one.  Don’t worry yourself.  I’m disappointed, but it’s not unexpected.  And I’ll get over it.  I am going to the log cabin, by the way, in the next few days.”

“OK.  Call me if you need anything.”

She took it better than I thought she would.

…

I waited.

I thought about watching a movie or reading a book, but in the end, I decided to do some reading of a different sort.  I had been sent a prospectus and background paper on a new concept car, one that wasn’t going to destroy the world.

By the time I got through to the end, three hundred pages of technical details that I would have to pass to the research department, I heard the front door open and close.

Frances had returned.

I looked at the clock, and it was 3:13 in the morning.

I heard her take that first step up the staircase to the room, then stopped.  Perhaps she had seen the light under the door in the sitting room.

A moment later, she appeared in the doorway.  She still had that ability to make my heart miss a beat every time I saw her.

I wondered then I’d she ever really loved me.

“You’re up late.”

“Reading, lost track of time.”

“Oh.”  She came in and sat opposite me, slightly askew on the chair.  She never really sat properly in the chair or any chair.

“Did you have a good night?”

She had said she was going out with some of her old friends from school days, and technically, she was not lying.

“I did.”  She gave me a curious look.  “Eloise was there.”

Eloise was the previous girlfriend.  I had our legal department check up on her, and she was one of those people whose private life was private.  She wasn’t married, had male friends, but was financially independent.

I never understood why she had picked Margaret as her lover, but I  freely admit I didn’t know much about love.

“You did say they were your old friends.  Was she happy to see you?”

Again, another curious look, though this time, is more wary.

She sighed.  “How long have you known?” 

“Long enough.  And before you say anything, I’m not surprised.  I haven’t really been there for you of late.  I’m sorry.”

“Who told you?”

“Would you believe me?”

“Eloise.”

“She said you were unhappy when you ran into each other.  It just grew from there.  She said she had never stopped loving you.  I can see why.”

“She asked me to come back.”

“And?”

“I am married to you.  You are my husband, and people have expectations.  You might have expectations.”

I shrugged.  “Maybe once upon a time, but now?  I’m no longer working for the company or any part of it.  Everything I had, the company owned.  If you so desire, you can leave without regret.  There’s nothing more for you to do.”

“You’ll still be that many about town.”

“No.  You’ll find that once people discover you have nothing, no job, no wealth, no status, they simply stop calling and stop inviting.  Cecily had offered me the use of a log cabin my father used to go to when he needed a few days away.  Montana or Wyoming or some such place.”

“Are you alright?  I mean, the company and everything.  It’s your life.”

“Not any more.  It’s Cecily’s now.  Everything.”

“When?”

“About two months ago.  When I realised that whatever we had was over.  Like I said, I don’t blame you.  I did to you what my father did to my mother.  Things are a little different in my case.  You found someone else to fill that void.  My mother simply killed herself.”

It had been preventable, and I had blamed my father for it.  It culminated in the argument that killed him.  Yelling at me, he had a heart attack and dropped dead in front of me.  I hadn’t recovered from that, but bounced into this relationship, then married, and some could say it was doomed from the start.

“I’m sorry.  Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know.  I was trying to get past it, but instead of sharing, I just threw myself into the job.  There was no need to burden yourself with my problems.”

She shook her head.  “That was silly.  I made the commitment and would have helped in any way I could.  It might have brought us closer together.”

“Or pushed you away.  You can not change who you are, Frances.  It will always be there, and if you have to fight it, it will eventually be a fight you will lose.  I don’t want that for you.”

“But what about you?”

“I’m fine. I’ll get to read the classic, sit by a light fire, catch and eat food that is fresh, not supermarket fresh.  The fresh mountain air, well, that might kill me or cure me.”

She sat, the conversation seemingly over, adjusting her dress and then readjusting it as if something was not quite right.  I knew she preferred tank tops, short skirts, and jeans to the expensive clothes she believed she had to wear.

“I can stay, if you like.  Go up to the cabin, wherever it is.  Are there bears and snakes?”

“Probably.  You don’t have to, but you can’t stay here.  You can take what’s yours, though, but it will have to be before the end of the week.”

She gave me a steely look.  “Then it’s over, we’re over?”

“Yes.  You should have told me, Frances.  I deserved at least that much.”

“I know.  I’m sorry.”

There was another knock on the door.  For the hour of the morning, it was quite busy.

James came out to open it, then ushered the visitor in.  Eloise.

I saw Frances glance at her and mouth the words, “Why are you here?”

“I’ve come to take Frances home.”  She said it in a tone that suggested she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

I looked at her.  “I have no objection if that’s what you think.  Frances has always been free to decide what she wants to do.  I only asked if she was intending to get into trouble, that she be discreet.”

“It has always been so

“Until you went to Moreno’s, which was a calculated move on your part.  Whatever your reasons, it was wasted effort.  I have nothing, I own nothing, nor does Frances.”

“It was not about the money,” Frances said, looking at Eloise, and her expression was priceless.  “Was it?”

Eloise looked at me.  “You’re in the top one hundred richest men in the country.  You can’t tell me that just disappeared overnight.”

“No, you’re right, it didn’t.  That happened last week when I signed the final documents to give it all to my sister Cecily.  I had reached the end of my association, and the company rules state that I could only be in charge for five years, at the end of which I have to walk away.  I didn’t have to forgo my personal wealth during the process, but having it all wasn’t the same as having everything.  Frances, according to her agreement, will be equally as penniless the moment she walks out of this apartment.  She now owns as much as I do.  Nothing. I truly hope you were not asking her to come back because she was about to become a billionaire.”

Judging by the expression on Eloise’s face, I think that was exactly what she believed.

Eloise swivelled on Frances.  “Is this true?”

“Why does it matter?”

“You are entitled to half of everything he had, prenuptial or not.  Even your lawyers would…”

And there she stopped, perhaps realising what she had said and done, because Frances was greatly surprised, and her expression, to me, didn’t augur well for their relationship lasting.

Her tone was soft, and there was a slight tremor in her voice. Perhaps now the full realisation of Eloise’s intent was clear,  “Even if I didn’t divorce him, there was never any money.  There never was because I never needed it.  I had nice things, but they were never mine, and I have no claim on them, nor would I want to.  I told you a while back that I’ve had enough of the high life.  Now I think I would prefer to embrace the country air in Wyoming.”

Perhaps Eloise, too, was beginning to see what the reality of the situation was.  I got the impression Frances had tried to tell her, and she wouldn’t listen. 

“I thought…” Eloise began.

“She was about to become mega-rich?” I finished the sentence for her.  “No.”

I could see the expression on Frances’ face change from surprise, to shock, to something bordering on anger, if not rage.  And come to the same conclusion about the same time I did. 

“You didn’t just run into me, did you?”  Frances said, so quietly I almost missed it.

“You’re a silly girl who will never have anything.  Not unless you stand up for yourself.  I’ll show myself out.”

We both watched her leave.

…

©  Charles Heath 2025