Tag: words

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Asuncion

For a road less travelled, explore some of Asunción’s hidden gems and unique local experiences beyond the main tourist routes:

Nature & Wildlife Experiences

  • Go birding or take a river boat tour: Instead of just strolling the Costanera, take a Paraguay River Nature and Wildlife Boat Tour from Asunción. This allows you to explore wetlands and riverbanks and spot abundant bird species and capuchin monkeys in the nearby Botanical Garden’s forest remnant.
  • Hike to Salto Cristal (Crystal Waterfall): Venture on a day trip to Salto Cristal, a lesser-known, nearly untouched waterfall with natural pools for swimming. It involves a scenic journey and a descent through the jungle, offering a serene nature experience away from the city. 

Unique Cultural Immersion

  • Explore the Cementerio de la Recoleta: Known for its elaborate mausoleums and beautifully designed tombs, this cemetery offers a fascinating glimpse into the city’s history and the wealth of its elite, providing a unique architectural and cultural experience.
  • Visit a local town like Areguá or Luque: Take a short trip to nearby towns like Areguá (known as the “City of Strawberries and Art”) to see artisan markets and pottery workshops, or Luque (the “Capital of Filigree”) to watch local craftspeople work. These trips provide a genuine taste of local life outside the capital’s centre.
  • Attend a local football match: Experience the passion of Paraguayan culture firsthand by attending a match at one of Asunción’s stadiums, such as Estadio Defensores del Chaco. The lively atmosphere and local traditions (like enjoying chipa and a drink) offer a non-touristy immersion into local life. 

What I learned about writing – The Timeless Lessons of Mrs. Dalloway

Virginia Woolf in the Literary Landscape – and the Timeless Lessons of Mrs. Dalloway

Introduction: A Voice That Still Echoes

When you hear the name Virginia Woolf, the first images that usually surface are the tranquil gardens of Bloomsbury, a quiet house on the banks of the River Ouse, and a pen that turned everyday moments into lyrical reveries. Yet Woolf is far more than a historical figure; she is a literary compass that continues to steer writers, scholars, and readers toward new ways of seeing the world.

In this post we’ll map out where Woolf sits in the broader literary map—modernism, feminism, narrative experimentation—and then dive deep into the lessons that her masterpiece Mrs Dalloway offers to anyone navigating the complexities of 21st‑century life.

1. Virginia Woolf’s Position in the Literary Landscape

Literary TraditionWhat Woolf ContributedWhy It Matters
ModernismPioneered stream‑of‑consciousness and interior monologue; shattered linear time.Opened the door for writers to explore subjective reality rather than external plot.
Feminist ThoughtWrote essays like A Room of One’s Own; gave voice to women’s interior lives.Laid the groundwork for contemporary gender studies and the demand for women’s spaces—both literal and metaphorical.
Narrative FormBlended past and present, memory and perception (e.g., To the Lighthouse, Mrs Dalloway).Demonstrated that narrative can be a psychological map rather than a chronological itinerary.
Literary CriticismChampioned impressionistic reading over moralistic or didactic approaches.Influenced how we teach literature today—favoring close reading, tone, and mood over plot summarisation.
Social CommentaryCaptured post‑WWI disillusionment, class stratification, and mental health stigma.Provides a historical lens that still resonates with today’s conversations around trauma and inequality.

The Modernist Hub

Woolf’s work belongs to the core of high modernism, a movement that includes James Joyce, T.S. Eliot, and Marcel Proust. What makes Woolf distinct within that circle is her feminine sensibility—she did not merely adopt the avant‑garde techniques, she re‑oriented them toward women’s interiority. While Joyce’s Ulysses maps the streets of Dublin, Woolf maps the rooms of the mind; while Eliot’s The Waste Land fragments Western civilisation, Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway fragments a single day in London to reveal an entire civilisation of feeling.

A Bridge to Contemporary Voices

Fast‑forward to today: authors like Zadie Smith, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, and Rachel C. Vogels honour Woolf’s legacy by blending narrative experimentation with social critique. In creative nonfiction, the “Woolfian” approach—melding memoir, essay, and fiction—has become a staple for writers exploring trauma, identity, and queerness. Woolf’s influence reaches beyond the novel: her essays have been adapted into podcasts, her notebooks inspire visual artists, and her ideas about the “room” echo in discussions about digital safe‑spaces.

2. Mrs. Dalloway: A Day, A Life, A Lesson

Mrs. Dalloway (1925) may seem like a simple account of a high‑society woman preparing a party, yet the novel is a microcosm of modern existence. By following Clarissa Dalloway’s thoughts as they intertwine with those of Septimus Warren Smith—a war‑scarred veteran—Woolf forces us to confront several enduring lessons.

Lesson 1: Time Is Fluid, Not Fixed

“Mrs. Dalloway said she would go to the party.”

Woolf plays with “psychological time”. The narrative leaps between present moments, childhood memories, and future anticipations, all within a single day. The lesson? Our perception of time shapes our experience of life. In an era of instant messaging and binge‑watching, we often feel time is either accelerating or standing still. Woolf reminds us that moments are layered—past informs present, and present reframes past—encouraging a more mindful engagement with each passing hour.

Takeaway for Readers

  • Practice “temporal breathing.” When you notice a thought drift to a memory, pause and observe how it colours what you’re doing now.
  • Write a “time collage.” List a day’s events alongside the memories they trigger; watch the pattern emerge.

Lesson 2: The Invisible Ties That Bind Us

Clarissa’s party is a social hub, but the novel reveals the silent bonds—between mother and daughter, lover and friend, citizen and state. Although the characters rarely converse directly about their deeper fears, Woola’s omniscient yet intimate narration pulls these undercurrents to the surface.

What we learn: Human connections are often invisible, yet they shape our identities. In modern life, the rise of remote work and digital communication can make us feel isolated. Woolf’s portrait shows that even when we are physically apart, our lives echo each other’s rhythms.

Takeaway for Readers

  • Map your invisible networks. Sketch (or list) the people whose lives intersect with yours, even if you rarely speak to them. Recognise the subtle influence they hold.
  • Cultivate “listening spaces.” Like Woolf’s quiet passages, create moments where you simply absorb another’s presence without the pressure to respond.

Lesson 3: Mental Health Is Not a Private Secret

Septimus Warren Smith is the novel’s tragic counterpoint: a World‑I veteran haunted by shell‑shock (what we would now call PTSD). Woolf portrays his mental disintegration with stark empathy, refusing to treat his condition as a mere plot device. The result is an early, powerful protest against the stigma of mental illness.

What we learn: Our societies still marginalise those who struggle with inner demons. Woolf invites us to see Septimus not as “other,” but as a mirror reflecting the fragile line between sanity and madness that every person walks.

Takeaway for Readers

  • Practice “vigilant compassion.” When you hear a friend speak of anxiety or depression, resist the urge to rationalise; simply sit with them.
  • Advocate for systemic change. Woolf’s critique of early 20th‑century psychiatric institutions echoes today’s calls for more humane mental‑health policies.

Lesson 4: The Power of the Ordinary

If you strip away the lavish party, Mrs. Dalloway is a meditation on the beauty of the mundane: a flower in a garden, the sound of a carriage, the rhythm of a heartbeat. Woolf asks us to recognise that every day contains the potential for revelation—if we only attend to it.

What we learn: In an age saturated with spectacle, the ordinary can be radical. By pausing to notice, we foster gratitude and creativity.

Takeaway for Readers

  • Start a “daily wonder” journal. Write one sensory detail each day that caught your attention.
  • Slow down the scroll. Allocate a “no‑screen” hour each week to observe your surroundings without distraction.

3. Bringing Woolf Into the 21st Century Classroom (and Beyond)

If you’re a teacher, book club leader, or avid reader, here are three quick ways to make Woolf’s insights actionable:

ActivityGoalHow It Works
“Stream‑of‑Consciousness Remix”Experience Woolf’s narrative technique firsthand.Ask participants to write a 5‑minute “thought‑flow” about a mundane task (e.g., making coffee).
“Dalloway Dialogue”Explore the novel’s social critique.Pair students as Clarissa and Septimus; have them write a short conversation that reveals their inner conflicts.
“Temporal Collage”Visualise Woolf’s fluid time.Create a digital collage using photos, old letters, and music clips that represent a single day’s emotional timeline.

These exercises not only deepen appreciation for Woollian craft but also cultivate empathy, reflection, and narrative awareness—skills that are increasingly valuable in a world that prizes rapid production over thoughtful consumption.

4. The Bottom Line: Why Virginia Woolf Still Matters

Virginia Woolf sits at a crossroads of artistic daring and social conscience. She taught us that:

  1. Narrative can be a mirror of consciousness, not just a vehicle for plot.
  2. Women’s interior lives deserve the same literary gravitas accorded to male heroes.
  3. Literature can be an act of quiet rebellion—against war, against oppressive mental‑health regimes, against rigid temporal structures.

Mrs. Dalloway remains an infinite well—each reading yields fresh insights about time, connection, mental health, and the sanctity of the everyday. In a period when attention is fragmented, Woolf’s invitation to linger, to listen to our own thoughts, and to recognise the interwoven humanity around us is more urgent than ever.

Final Thought: A Modern Prompt

Write a paragraph about a single ordinary moment in your day, then let your mind wander—what memory, future hope, or hidden fear surfaces?

If you’ve ever felt the weight of a day slipping away, you’ve already taken a step into Woolf’s world. Keep stepping, and you’ll discover that the line between fiction and life is thinner—and richer—than you ever imagined.

Feel free to share your reflections in the comments below, or tag us on social media with #WoolfToday. Let’s keep the conversation alive, just as Clarissa kept her parties buzzing, and Septimus kept his thoughts reverberating.

References & Further Reading

  • Woolf, V. (1925). Mrs. Dalloway. Hogarth Press.
  • Woolf, V. (1929). A Room of One’s Own. Harcourt Brace.
  • Richards, A. (2004). Virginia Woolf and the Modernist Novel. Cambridge University Press.
  • Bell, A. (2020). “The Stream of Consciousness in Contemporary Fiction.” Journal of Narrative Theory, 50(2).

Happy reading!

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Montevideo

For a road less travelled, explore some of Montevideo’s hidden gems and unique local experiences beyond the main tourist routes:

Unique Local Exploration

  • Experience Candombe in Palermo or Barrio Sur: Instead of a formal show, witness the authentic candombe music and dance that originates from the descendants of liberated African slaves, recognised by UNESCO as intangible cultural heritage. This is often performed in the streets of the Palermo and Barrio Sur neighbourhoods on Sunday evenings.
  • Winery Day Trip in Canelones: Venture outside the city to the surrounding Canelones region, known for its wineries and vineyards. Explore local, family-owned bodegas like Bodega Spinoglio or Pizzorno Family Estates for a tour and tasting of the local Tannat wine, offering a more intimate experience than city-centre wine bars.
  • Discover the Castillo Pittamiglio: Explore this unique architectural landmark, also known as the “Alchemist’s Castle”, a building with an eclectic mix of styles (Gothic, Art Nouveau, etc.) built by an eccentric architect. It offers guided tours and a fascinating, slightly mysterious history, distinct from the city’s neoclassical buildings.
  • Browse the Feria de Tristán Narvaja: Skip the standard souvenir shops and visit this large, vibrant street market on Sunday mornings in the Cordón neighbourhood. You can find everything from antiques and second-hand books to local crafts, fresh produce, and unique oddities, providing a genuine slice of local life.
  • Visit the Jardín Botánico: For a peaceful natural escape, the Montevideo Botanical Garden in the Prado neighbourhood is a serene urban oasis. It features diverse plant species, walking trails, and a Japanese garden, and is a great spot to enjoy a quiet picnic or read a book, largely frequented by locals. 

Writing a book in 365 days – 365

Day 365

The influence of a writer’s memory

…

The Hidden Muse: How a Writer’s Memories Shape Their Stories

Have you ever wondered where a writer’s ideas come from? While imagination often takes centre stage, the quiet, unsung hero of storytelling is memory. A writer’s recollections—of joy, heartbreak, childhood summers, or quiet moments—act as a wellspring of authenticity, emotion, and cultural depth. Whether conscious or unconscious, memories weave themselves into narratives, transforming personal history into universal art. Let’s explore how memories influence the craft of storytelling and why they’re indispensable to a writer’s voice.

1. Personal Experiences: The Raw Material of Stories

Every life is a tapestry of moments, and for writers, these experiences become raw material. A hike through a forest, a tense argument, or the scent of rain on old pavement can evolve into a pivotal scene or atmosphere in a story. For instance, J.K. Rowling’s childhood fascination with folklore and her own struggles with depression subtly seep into the emotional landscapes of her Harry Potter characters.

Memories act as a “treasure chest” of sensory details—textures, sounds, and smells—that bring fictional worlds to life. A writer might rework a family vacation into a fantastical quest or recast a schoolyard rivalry as a fictional feud. The result? Stories grounded in realism, even when the plot is pure fiction.

Exercise for Writers: Keep a memory journal. Note fleeting recollections, no matter how small. Years later, you’ll discover how these fragments can be reshaped into compelling narrative fuel.

2. Emotional Authenticity: Memory as a Resonance Chamber

Memories are steeped in emotion, and emotions are the lifeblood of storytelling. When a writer draws from their past, their words gain a visceral truth that readers can’t help but feel. A breakup you lived through will carry nuances—lingering anger, bittersweet nostalgia—that you can’t fully invent without personal experience.

Maya Angelou once said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” By channelling their memories, writers give voice to their innermost truths, creating characters and conflicts that resonate on a deeply human level. Think of a mother’s recollection of a child’s first steps becoming the poignant backstory of a character’s protective instincts or a survivor’s trauma morphing into a symbol of resilience.

3. Cultural and Familial Narratives: The Stories We Inherit

Our memories aren’t just individual; they’re shaped by the stories we inherit. Family legends, cultural traditions, and historical contexts form a collective memory that writers often mine for themes. A grandmother’s tales of immigration, a holiday ritual, or a national tragedy becomes part of a writer’s lens, enriching their work with cultural specificity and depth.

For example, Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude is steeped in the myths and history of his Colombian upbringing, while Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Americanah explores the duality of identity through her own experiences as a Nigerian in the West. These stories don’t just entertain—they preserve heritage and spark cross-cultural understanding.

4. Transforming Pain into Art: The Alchemy of Memory

Not all memories are easy to confront, but they often yield the most powerful stories. Writers frequently rework pain—grief, injustice, or personal failure—into fiction, offering both catharsis and connection. Consider how Colson Whitehead reimagined his family’s history of slavery in The Nickel Boys, or how Sylvia Plath’s confessional poetry transformed private anguish into poetry that speaks to millions.

This process isn’t about reliving trauma but about distilling it into something universal. By fictionalising painful memories, writers can explore complex emotions with nuance, giving readers a safe space to reflect on their own struggles.

5. The Creative Process: Mining Memory for Detail

Memory is a writer’s secret tool in the creative process. When crafting dialogue, setting, or character motivations, recollections provide a blueprint. A childhood friend’s lisp, a grandparent’s philosophical musings, or the ache of a long-gone summer home can become the DNA of a fictional character or location.

But memory isn’t just about fact—it’s about mood. A forgotten alleyway lit by sunset or the taste of your first love’s coffee might never happen in real life again, but in a story, they become immortal.

Conclusion: Your Memories Are Your Superpower

Next time you pick up a pen—or a laptop—remind yourself that your past is a universe waiting to be explored. Memories are not just relics of the past; they’re the tools that make stories real. They allow writers to breathe life into characters, build worlds with texture, and speak truths that transcend time.

So, ask yourself: What hidden gems lie in your own memories? What stories are begging to be reborn? The next great novel, poem, or script might be hiding in the quiet corners of your past.

Final Challenge: Pull out an old photo, a birthday card, or a childhood diary entry. Let the memories spark a scene, a character, or a theme. You never know where it might lead.

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I never wanted to be an eyewitness – 4

Four

It was like a Hollywood script.

It was a friend of a friend of a friend, more an acquaintance really, that came up with a plan.  A plan that, if I’d been given a million years to think up, still wouldn’t

But in an odd way, I’d seen it all before.

I was dressed in a prison guard’s uniform, in a room with two others similarly dressed, and a woman who looked definitely in charge.  It was a detail, part of a plan to remove Latanzio from his prison cell at the police station where he was being held for the duration of the arraignment.

My disappearance, and that of Amy, the leader of my security detail, had sent the police into a frenzy particularly when after sifting through the human wreckage of the hotel, they found five dead police officers, and nine unnamed gunmen, all without any identification.

The police were not naming names, but the media were.  A blatant act of attempting to silence a witness and the most positive indication yet that Latanzio was guilty.

But the problem was, there was no evidence the witness was dead, and this being the case, the trial was put on hold until the witness was found, dead or alive.  The only lead they had was a man and a woman matching our description who had been seen landing in and leaving a helicopter in a carpark in lower Manhattan.  No one knew where they went after that.

It was now a day and a half after the event, and rumours were rife as to where the witness was, and who was to blame for the attack on the hotel.  Latanzio’s brother was quick to blame a rival family with whom they were locked in a territorial battle.  The rival family blamed the [name] family, and neither was backing down.

But for the innocent bystanders, there were two takes on these events, the first, a smiling [name] being escorted out of the court, and when a voice cries out ‘did you have the witness killed?’ he replied, ‘What witness?’.  The other, because of the seriousness of the situation, the police decided to move him from his current holding facility to a more fortified jail on fears that members of his organization, or their rivals, might stage a similar shootout attempting to break him out.

They were, of course, right, but it wasn’t going to be his organization or any other for that matter, nor was it going to be a break-in.

We just got the call to say that the real transfer crew was going to be delayed and that the call had not reached the police station but was intercepted by another friend of a friend.

Our mission was a go.

We walked out of the room and into a large warehouse where there were four motorcycle police and a van, the van an exact replica of that to be sent to transfer the prisoner from the police station to a real jail.  Everything looked very, very real.  We had all studied actual tapes of prisoner transfers, enough to know precisely how to act, remarkable given the time we’d been given.

It was a tense moment, there in the warehouse.  Then Amy said, “Mount up.  Time to go.  I’ll see you back here soon.”

There were more rooms, several set up for what was to come.  We had several guests, waiting in other rooms, waiting to be reunited with [name] knowing only that he was being rescued and they would be leaving for a non-extradition country.  It had been easy.  The arrogance had been staggering.

I was on autopilot, having snapped into a mode where at times I felt like I was looking down at myself.  I think it was the same for the others, having studied those tapes so many times, we became them.

The transfer went smoothly, no one suspecting we were not the real crew.

It was curious to observe [name] close up and feel the confidence, the arrogance of the man.  He was in no way intimidated by the fact he was being transferred, in fact, if I was not mistaken, he looked as though he knew he was being broken out.

And for a moment when he looked me directly in the face, I thought he might recognize me, but he didn’t.

The station police escorted him to the back of the van, we escorted him into the van, chained him up, and the doors closed, just as I heard, “He’s your problem now.” 

They would have to be relieved that he was no longer on their premises, and they would not have to fend off any attack.  But from the expression on the officer in charge, I got the distinct impression we would not make our destination, at least, not with the prisoner.

However, that had been accounted for in the master plan.

It was why the warehouse we were going to use as the ‘studio’ was not far away.

I was surprised that they had found a place that was part of a rabbit warren of interconnected buildings at the basement level and that it had two entrances, one at the front, and one at the back so it would appear the prison van was taking a shortcut.

The plan was to stop, briefly in the building, offload the prisoner, and then drive on, heading for the jail.  In that part of the city, there was no easy place to attack the van, that would, if it happened, come several miles from the building.

There were tracking devices on the van so anyone tracking would note the minor change to the route, and think it was an avoidance tactic.

Now, all we had to do was execute the plan, and hope anyone tracking us wouldn’t notice the subterfuge.

…

© Charles Heath 2024

Writing a book in 365 days – 364

Day 364

Writing exercise

His loneliness bothered him less than the reasons for it.

…

“It happened when I was very young.  I wasn’t brought up this way; that was forced on me by people I thought I could trust.”

The psychiatrist had been working for weeks now, trying to get to the nub of the matter, and perhaps if I had decided not to play a game with them, she might have got there.

But when did I ever make anything easy for them?

“So, you have trust issues?”  She scribbled a few notes on a page near the end of the book.  It was the sum total of my life, according to her.

And the material she would use to write her assessment.

Looking back, that one moment when I finally lost, that one moment of rage that sent me off the metaphorical reservation, there would be consequences.

For her, my last statement could be construed as a major breakthrough, passing through the gate and onto where the grass is greener.

Of course, in reality, it was nothing like that.  I simply had another argument with my parents and left, their strict and stifling rules about how we should behave, and live our lives finally too much.

They could have compromised, as they had for my brother, but they didn’t.

I could see that self-satisfied half smile and understood what it meant.  The longer this had gone, the quicker she had started disappearing down a rabbit hole.

She worked for the department.  She had analysed and buried good people over small mistakes, with what I had told the ivory tower dwellers was a lack of experience or understanding of the nature of our work.

For her, snapping as we sometimes did, was a form of release from doing what no one else would, work that is vital and necessary.  It’s just when there’s collateral damage, the bosses are antsy.

Civilians always seemed to find themselves getting in the way, accidentally, and for that, I blamed the mobile phone culture.  Take phones off people, and they wouldn’t become zombies, they’d be aware of what’s going on around them, and then I wouldn’t be in this chair in front of a one-person execution squad.

That was the truth of the matter.

She simply said I was shifting blame.

Finished scribbling, she looked up.  “Tell me more.”

Pen was poised, expression expectant.

I hesitated for a moment longer before I spoke, an indication of whether she was smart enough to interpret as me taking a moment to work out which lie she would buy.

“My parents simply up and left one night, leaving me alone in the house.  Gone, not a word, not an indication, nothing.  Just simply gone.”

“And before that, how were they?”

“Normal.  Like I said, no indication anything had changed.”

“How old were you?”

“Seven.”

“And what happened next?”

As if she didn’t know what would happen to an abandoned seven-year-old with no other relatives, or none that they looked for, because the child welfare officer at the time was taking children and selling them to the highest bidder.

It had been my second job for the department.

Nasty people came in all shapes and sizes and backgrounds, but this person was a chameleon, someone no one would suspect, which is how she got away with it for so long.

“I was put in the system.  You know how that works, and you can guess what happened to me.  Not what is on the reports, but I’m not going to spell it out for you.  Those memories are buried.”

The nod was acceptance, because my story was the same as many others that came before her.  Candidates who came from broken homes, abandoned, or simply maltreated to a point where they had to be removed.

And sent to Joe’s Diner, to have all that hate and rage twisted into an effective tool against those who had harmed them.  Tapping into that basic raw instinct of killing, maiming and destroying anything or anyone that put them there.

My story was slightly different.  I ended up in jail, framed for something I didn’t do, by a small-town sheriff protecting his son, the real perpetrator.  I was minding my own business, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I was rescued from one form of torture only to finish up in another, but the end result was the same.

It eventually broke us and brought us here.

…

I knew the mention of buried memories was, for her, manna from heaven.  A bone she was going to pick at, because in her teaching and subsequent experience, that’s where the key to our problems lay.  In the past.

We had to confront our demons head-on, make the connection ourselves, and start the gradual healing process, somewhere far away and isolated, and preferably to never see another weapon or bad guy again.

I jokingly told the director the only way that would happen was to be put in a pine box six feet under.  That’s when the memories would truly be buried.

It was hard to tell if he thought I was joking or not, but it must have weighed on him, the number of cases like mine.  Just reading the executive summary of the cases before the briefing began made people physically ill, and those were just words on paper.

“Of course, you know that isn’t going to cut it.  You have to be forthcoming in all aspects of this investigation, and it would help your case to remember that.”

Threats no less.  Perhaps the director had told her that I was going to be the one she wasn’t going to crack.  Just as he was wont to tell anyone who would listen that I was his best agent.

I wasn’t.  Not by a long chalk.  That was Andreas.  Even I was scared of him.  He was the best, the best of the best.

Until he wasn’t.

He let his guard down for a fraction of a second.  Less than a fraction of a second.  An eternity in terms of vulnerability.

Another case of shattered trust.

…

Perhaps somewhere in all of the narrative she had put together over the last six weeks was the truth. 

In training, we were told that when interrogated, everyone grounds their stories with elements of truth because when asked over and over and over, it’s too hard to remember all of the lies, particularly after a long and painful torture session.

This was the more subtle form of torture.  She was looking for inconsistencies, lies, half-truths, and stories worthy of the best thriller writers.

Our whole life was a collection of stories, our cover identities with back stories to suit the person.  Butcher, baker, candlestick maker.

Gambler, billionaire, financier, mercenary, average Joe. 

When you wake up in the morning, it takes a moment to remember who you are today, and it’s not Harry Wells, the name I was given the day I was born.  He died a long time ago.

Now it was Joshua Bergen.  Yes, Joshua.

“Let’s start again, shall we?  From the top.  Why did you think you’re here?”

Yep, here we go again.

“I believe we’ve covered this ten times, perhaps more, before.  If there are inconsistencies, just ask specific questions.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Asking the same thing over and over and expecting a different result is the definition of madness.  You do know that?”

Perhaps she didn’t, at least not in this context.  Her expression had changed to one of annoyance.  She liked to be the one running the session.

“Again.”  Short, sharp.

“No.  Like Chinese whispers, we both know stories change each time they’re related, otherwise if it was exactly the same, you’d think that it was rehearsed.”

“What I think is irrelevant.”

“It isn’t, though.  He needs to know what happened because, like me, there was more going on than he was led to believe; that he was a pawn in someone else’s game.”

“A setup?”

“Someone else is looking for a scapegoat.  Either him or me, it doesn’t matter.  Just another breach of trust, being told one thing and it turns out to be something else entirely.”

Like that last assignment, a total botch, or so it seemed.

Collateral damage happens, but this time it extended to the wife of a Cabinet minister who was believed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Only I knew the true story, that she was there to hand over her husband’s secrets.

I was there to talk to a high-level public servant who had asked Rawlins for clandestine assistance in a delicate matter.  It was not to meet up with the woman; she arrived unexpectedly and in a highly agitated state.

It was clear to me who she was and what was going on between them.  Except before a word was exchanged, he shot her, turned the gun on me, and I shot him.

The woman was barely alive when I reached her, but with enough time to say just above a whisper, “he is a Russian spy, and I’m not the only one he is blackmailing.”  There was more, but she was out of time and life.

Ten seconds later, the SAS kicked the door in, and I had six guns pointed at me.  Given their first impression of the scene before them, I was lucky to still be alive. 

“What was your mission?”

“To assist the public servant.  Favours owed.  Whatever he needed.”

“Did you shoot the woman?”

“No.  Ballistics will prove it.”

She shook her head.  “No.  They won’t.  Both shots, man and woman, came from your weapon.”

That was impossible.  I only fired one shot.  Except as everyone in the department knew, the boffins could manufacture evidence to suit any narrative.  Write me out of the script, or in.

“So, as you say, a setup.  Someone wants to take Rawlins down.”

“Or you, if you don’t tell me the truth.  Why was she there?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“It can’t be that simple.”

“Well, that’s the problem.  It is that simple.  I know Rawlins doesn’t believe in coincidences, neither do I, for that matter, but there’s a first time for everything.”

“Why did you shoot the target?”

“He shot the woman before she went to speak, then turned the gun on me.  Reflex action.  I can’t tell you why he took that action, but it stopped her from doing or saying anything.  I did not shoot the woman; I had no reason to.  She just burst into the room, indicating she’d met him before, and expected him to be there.”

There was a knock on the door, and without waiting to be asked, Rawlins came in.  A nod in the woman’s direction, she closed the notebook, picked up her bag and left, closing the door behind her.

I knew Rawlins had been watching, and I suspected she had an earpiece where he was suggesting what to ask.

He would also be observing and analysing.

He didn’t sit.

“She said something to you, in those last few seconds.”

Why didn’t it surprise me that the target’s room was under surveillance?  Rawlins obviously suspected the target had an agenda.  That he had waited so long for me to volunteer to tell him was the interesting part.

“Why would you think it would be significant?”

“We suspected she was having an affair.  Her husband did and told his head of security.  He told us.  They weren’t having an affair, were they?”

“From what I saw, it was very definitely an affair.”

“He shot her, without a moment’s thought.”

“Hence, we will never know.  If he hadn’t aimed the gun at me, we might have got to find out,  but I think now, seeing you here, this whole episode was staged to get rid of two problems, a double agent and a treasonous wife, without having to bear the dirty linen in public.”

Rawlins sat in the recently vacated seat.

“A satisfactory result for an unsatisfactory problem.  Two birds with one stone.”

“The minister?”

“Heartbroken, but his personal assistant is helping him get over the crisis.”

“Life goes on?”

“As indeed it always will.  I hate feeding you to the dogs, but you know what it’s like in the new age intelligence landscape.  Transparency.  Access to psychological help to avoid trauma, stress leave, so there’s less room for errors.  A week’s leave, I’m afraid.  Talk to Mandy, she’ll set it up.  So, just what did Melanie say in that last dying breath?”

“Told me to remind her husband to feed Chester, their new cat.  I think she thought more of that cat than her husband.”

Rawlins laughed.  “Of course, she didn’t say that.  We will talk about this again.  When you get back.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Montevideo

For a road less travelled, explore some of Montevideo’s hidden gems and unique local experiences beyond the main tourist routes:

Unique Local Exploration

  • Experience Candombe in Palermo or Barrio Sur: Instead of a formal show, witness the authentic candombe music and dance that originates from the descendants of liberated African slaves, recognised by UNESCO as intangible cultural heritage. This is often performed in the streets of the Palermo and Barrio Sur neighbourhoods on Sunday evenings.
  • Winery Day Trip in Canelones: Venture outside the city to the surrounding Canelones region, known for its wineries and vineyards. Explore local, family-owned bodegas like Bodega Spinoglio or Pizzorno Family Estates for a tour and tasting of the local Tannat wine, offering a more intimate experience than city-centre wine bars.
  • Discover the Castillo Pittamiglio: Explore this unique architectural landmark, also known as the “Alchemist’s Castle”, a building with an eclectic mix of styles (Gothic, Art Nouveau, etc.) built by an eccentric architect. It offers guided tours and a fascinating, slightly mysterious history, distinct from the city’s neoclassical buildings.
  • Browse the Feria de Tristán Narvaja: Skip the standard souvenir shops and visit this large, vibrant street market on Sunday mornings in the Cordón neighbourhood. You can find everything from antiques and second-hand books to local crafts, fresh produce, and unique oddities, providing a genuine slice of local life.
  • Visit the Jardín Botánico: For a peaceful natural escape, the Montevideo Botanical Garden in the Prado neighbourhood is a serene urban oasis. It features diverse plant species, walking trails, and a Japanese garden, and is a great spot to enjoy a quiet picnic or read a book, largely frequented by locals. 

What I learned about writing – The never say die attitude

Writing Isn’t a Bowl of Cherries – It’s a Marathon, Not a Sprint

If anyone ever told you that a writing career is a “walk in the park,” they were selling a fantasy. The truth is a little messier, a little harder, and a whole lot more rewarding when you finally get it right.

“We accept that writing is not going to be that proverbial bowl of cherries and that it involves stamina, dedication, and commitment.”

In this post we’ll unpack what that really means, why the “never‑say‑die” mindset matters, and how to keep the momentum going even when the world seems indifferent to your manuscript.

1. The Reality Check: Writing Demands Grit, Not Glamour

MythReality
“If you love writing, it will flow effortlessly.”Even the most passionate writers hit blank pages, endless revisions, and moments of doubt.
“One great story will launch you overnight.”Most books (and articles, scripts, blogs) crawl to a modest readership before they ever find their niche.
“Rejection is a sign you’re not good enough.”Rejection is a data point. It tells you what didn’t work, not who you are.

Stamina. – Think of your writing practice as a long‑distance run. You won’t win the race by sprinting for ten minutes and then stopping. You need a sustainable pace: a daily word count, a weekly revision schedule, or a set number of writing sessions per month.

Dedication. – This is the promise you make to yourself that you’ll show up, even when the coffee is cold, the Wi‑Fi is spotty, or life throws another curveball. Dedication is the habit that pulls you out of the “I don’t feel like writing today” mindset.

Commitment. – Commitment is the broader contract with your craft. It’s the decision to finish the manuscript you started, to edit the drafts you hate, and to polish the final product until it shines—no matter how many rounds it takes.

2. Embracing Rejection: The “Never‑Say‑Die” Attitude

“Even when done, and the rejection slips mount up, it will require a never say die attitude.”

Rejection letters are the writer’s version of a gym’s “you missed a rep” notification. They hurt, but they also build muscle. Here’s how to turn each “no” into a stepping stone:

  1. Collect, Don’t Internalise
    Keep a simple spreadsheet:
    • Title/ProjectDate SentAgency/Publisher/AgentReason (if given)What you learned
    Seeing the numbers on a sheet makes the process a business operation rather than a personal affront.
  2. Extract the Gold
    Every editorial note contains a nugget of feedback. Strip away the polite fluff and ask: What can I improve? Use it as a concrete action item for your next draft.
  3. Batch Your Submissions
    Don’t submit one manuscript at a time and wait three months for a response before moving on. Send several query letters or article pitches in parallel; the odds of a “yes” increase dramatically.
  4. Celebrate Small Wins
    A polite “thank you for your submission” is still a win—it means your work reached a professional inbox. Treat each acknowledgment as a milestone.

3. Publication Is Not the Finish Line

“And even when the manuscript is accepted and published and doesn’t become an overnight sensation, you cannot give up.”

Getting the green light is a huge victory, but it’s only the beginning of a longer journey:

a. Post‑Launch Promotion

  • Micro‑marketing: Share a single paragraph, a character sketch, or a behind‑the‑scenes anecdote on social media each day.
  • Email List: Offer readers a free short story or a bonus chapter in exchange for their email. A loyal list can boost sales for future projects.
  • Community Engagement: Join genre‑specific forums, Reddit threads, or Discord servers. Answer questions, give feedback, and let people know you’re an active member of the community.

b. Iterate, Not Stagnate

Your first book may not be a bestseller, but it gives you data:

  • Which chapters were most downloaded?
  • Which keywords drove traffic?
  • What reviews highlighted strengths and weaknesses?

Use that intelligence to fine‑tune your next manuscript, marketing copy, and even cover design.

c. Diversify Your Portfolio

Don’t put all your creative eggs in one basket. Write articles, short stories, or serialized content alongside your novel. Each piece builds credibility, expands your audience, and provides additional revenue streams.

4. Practical Toolbox for Staying the Course

HabitHow to ImplementTime Investment
Morning Pages (Free‑write 10 mins)Keep a notebook by your bed; write whatever comes to mind.10 mins
Scheduled Word CountSet a daily goal (e.g., 800 words) and use a timer.30–45 mins
Weekly ReviewEvery Sunday, glance at your rejection spreadsheet and progress chart.15 mins
Reading SprintRead 1–2 chapters of a book in your genre for inspiration.30 mins
Physical Movement5‑minute stretch or walk before each writing session to reset brain.5 mins

Consistency beats intensity. It’s better to write 500 words a day for a year than to crank out 5,000 words once and then go silent for months.

5. A Real‑World Example: From Rejection to Resilience

The author of “The Quiet Harbour” (a fictional but relatable case study) received 27 rejection letters before a small independent press took a chance. The manuscript didn’t skyrocket to the bestseller list; sales were modest, but the author:

  • Leveraged the press’s newsletter to build a 2,500‑subscriber email list.
  • Released a free prequel novella that attracted 1,200 new readers.
  • Used the feedback from the first edition to rewrite the ending, which earned a 4‑star review on a major retailer site.

Six months later, the author secured a contract for a sequel, and the combined sales of both books exceeded the original expectations. The key? Never giving up after the first publication.

Bottom Line: Keep Writing, Keep Trying, Keep Growing

Writing is a marathon of stamina, dedication, and commitment. Rejection letters are inevitable, but they’re not verdicts. Publication is a milestone, not a finish line. As long as you maintain a never‑say‑die attitude, you’ll keep forging ahead—turning each setback into a stepping stone and each modest launch into the foundation for your next breakthrough.

Your next paragraph is waiting. Put pen to paper, hit “send” on that query, and remember: the bowl of cherries may be far away, but the trail you’re blazing today will eventually lead you there.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Quito

Quito, the capital of Ecuador, is located in the northern Andes Mountains, nestled in a valley on the slopes of the Pichincha volcano, about 25 miles south of the equator, making it one of the world’s highest capital cities at roughly 9,350 feet in elevation. 

  • Region: Sierra (Highlands) of Ecuador, part of the Andes mountain range.
  • Key Landmark: Situated on the Pichincha volcano‘s eastern slopes.
  • Equator: Very close to the Equator, with a monument marking the line just outside the city. 

Beyond Quito’s major landmarks, there are many unique, local experiences and attractions to explore. These include visiting bohemian neighbourhoods, a renowned pre-Columbian art museum, and local food markets. 

Alternative Cultural Experiences

  • Explore La Floresta: This bohemian neighbourhood is known for its vibrant street art, independent galleries, and hip cafes and restaurants. A popular spot is the indie cinema, Ocho y Medio, which screens avant-garde and foreign films.
  • Wander through La Ronda: This charming, narrow cobblestone street in the historic centre truly comes alive at sunset with local art galleries, artisan workshops (like coppersmiths and traditional hat makers), cafes, and live music.
  • Visit Museo Casa del Alabado: Located in the Old Town, this private museum houses an impressive and well-curated collection of pre-Columbian art and archaeological pieces, providing deep insight into Ecuador’s ancestral heritage.
  • Check out the street art: The La Floresta and La Mariscal neighbourhoods feature an evolving outdoor gallery of murals and graffiti that reflect contemporary social and political themes.
  • Experience local markets: For an authentic slice of daily life, visit the Mercado Central or Mercado Artesanal La Mariscal. The Central Market offers inexpensive, traditional Ecuadorian food (try the locro de papa or horno) and fresh juices, while the Artisan Market is perfect for shopping for handicrafts, textiles, and jewellery. 

Writing a book in 365 days – 364

Day 364

Writing exercise

His loneliness bothered him less than the reasons for it.

…

“It happened when I was very young.  I wasn’t brought up this way; that was forced on me by people I thought I could trust.”

The psychiatrist had been working for weeks now, trying to get to the nub of the matter, and perhaps if I had decided not to play a game with them, she might have got there.

But when did I ever make anything easy for them?

“So, you have trust issues?”  She scribbled a few notes on a page near the end of the book.  It was the sum total of my life, according to her.

And the material she would use to write her assessment.

Looking back, that one moment when I finally lost, that one moment of rage that sent me off the metaphorical reservation, there would be consequences.

For her, my last statement could be construed as a major breakthrough, passing through the gate and onto where the grass is greener.

Of course, in reality, it was nothing like that.  I simply had another argument with my parents and left, their strict and stifling rules about how we should behave, and live our lives finally too much.

They could have compromised, as they had for my brother, but they didn’t.

I could see that self-satisfied half smile and understood what it meant.  The longer this had gone, the quicker she had started disappearing down a rabbit hole.

She worked for the department.  She had analysed and buried good people over small mistakes, with what I had told the ivory tower dwellers was a lack of experience or understanding of the nature of our work.

For her, snapping as we sometimes did, was a form of release from doing what no one else would, work that is vital and necessary.  It’s just when there’s collateral damage, the bosses are antsy.

Civilians always seemed to find themselves getting in the way, accidentally, and for that, I blamed the mobile phone culture.  Take phones off people, and they wouldn’t become zombies, they’d be aware of what’s going on around them, and then I wouldn’t be in this chair in front of a one-person execution squad.

That was the truth of the matter.

She simply said I was shifting blame.

Finished scribbling, she looked up.  “Tell me more.”

Pen was poised, expression expectant.

I hesitated for a moment longer before I spoke, an indication of whether she was smart enough to interpret as me taking a moment to work out which lie she would buy.

“My parents simply up and left one night, leaving me alone in the house.  Gone, not a word, not an indication, nothing.  Just simply gone.”

“And before that, how were they?”

“Normal.  Like I said, no indication anything had changed.”

“How old were you?”

“Seven.”

“And what happened next?”

As if she didn’t know what would happen to an abandoned seven-year-old with no other relatives, or none that they looked for, because the child welfare officer at the time was taking children and selling them to the highest bidder.

It had been my second job for the department.

Nasty people came in all shapes and sizes and backgrounds, but this person was a chameleon, someone no one would suspect, which is how she got away with it for so long.

“I was put in the system.  You know how that works, and you can guess what happened to me.  Not what is on the reports, but I’m not going to spell it out for you.  Those memories are buried.”

The nod was acceptance, because my story was the same as many others that came before her.  Candidates who came from broken homes, abandoned, or simply maltreated to a point where they had to be removed.

And sent to Joe’s Diner, to have all that hate and rage twisted into an effective tool against those who had harmed them.  Tapping into that basic raw instinct of killing, maiming and destroying anything or anyone that put them there.

My story was slightly different.  I ended up in jail, framed for something I didn’t do, by a small-town sheriff protecting his son, the real perpetrator.  I was minding my own business, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I was rescued from one form of torture only to finish up in another, but the end result was the same.

It eventually broke us and brought us here.

…

I knew the mention of buried memories was, for her, manna from heaven.  A bone she was going to pick at, because in her teaching and subsequent experience, that’s where the key to our problems lay.  In the past.

We had to confront our demons head-on, make the connection ourselves, and start the gradual healing process, somewhere far away and isolated, and preferably to never see another weapon or bad guy again.

I jokingly told the director the only way that would happen was to be put in a pine box six feet under.  That’s when the memories would truly be buried.

It was hard to tell if he thought I was joking or not, but it must have weighed on him, the number of cases like mine.  Just reading the executive summary of the cases before the briefing began made people physically ill, and those were just words on paper.

“Of course, you know that isn’t going to cut it.  You have to be forthcoming in all aspects of this investigation, and it would help your case to remember that.”

Threats no less.  Perhaps the director had told her that I was going to be the one she wasn’t going to crack.  Just as he was wont to tell anyone who would listen that I was his best agent.

I wasn’t.  Not by a long chalk.  That was Andreas.  Even I was scared of him.  He was the best, the best of the best.

Until he wasn’t.

He let his guard down for a fraction of a second.  Less than a fraction of a second.  An eternity in terms of vulnerability.

Another case of shattered trust.

…

Perhaps somewhere in all of the narrative she had put together over the last six weeks was the truth. 

In training, we were told that when interrogated, everyone grounds their stories with elements of truth because when asked over and over and over, it’s too hard to remember all of the lies, particularly after a long and painful torture session.

This was the more subtle form of torture.  She was looking for inconsistencies, lies, half-truths, and stories worthy of the best thriller writers.

Our whole life was a collection of stories, our cover identities with back stories to suit the person.  Butcher, baker, candlestick maker.

Gambler, billionaire, financier, mercenary, average Joe. 

When you wake up in the morning, it takes a moment to remember who you are today, and it’s not Harry Wells, the name I was given the day I was born.  He died a long time ago.

Now it was Joshua Bergen.  Yes, Joshua.

“Let’s start again, shall we?  From the top.  Why did you think you’re here?”

Yep, here we go again.

“I believe we’ve covered this ten times, perhaps more, before.  If there are inconsistencies, just ask specific questions.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Asking the same thing over and over and expecting a different result is the definition of madness.  You do know that?”

Perhaps she didn’t, at least not in this context.  Her expression had changed to one of annoyance.  She liked to be the one running the session.

“Again.”  Short, sharp.

“No.  Like Chinese whispers, we both know stories change each time they’re related, otherwise if it was exactly the same, you’d think that it was rehearsed.”

“What I think is irrelevant.”

“It isn’t, though.  He needs to know what happened because, like me, there was more going on than he was led to believe; that he was a pawn in someone else’s game.”

“A setup?”

“Someone else is looking for a scapegoat.  Either him or me, it doesn’t matter.  Just another breach of trust, being told one thing and it turns out to be something else entirely.”

Like that last assignment, a total botch, or so it seemed.

Collateral damage happens, but this time it extended to the wife of a Cabinet minister who was believed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Only I knew the true story, that she was there to hand over her husband’s secrets.

I was there to talk to a high-level public servant who had asked Rawlins for clandestine assistance in a delicate matter.  It was not to meet up with the woman; she arrived unexpectedly and in a highly agitated state.

It was clear to me who she was and what was going on between them.  Except before a word was exchanged, he shot her, turned the gun on me, and I shot him.

The woman was barely alive when I reached her, but with enough time to say just above a whisper, “he is a Russian spy, and I’m not the only one he is blackmailing.”  There was more, but she was out of time and life.

Ten seconds later, the SAS kicked the door in, and I had six guns pointed at me.  Given their first impression of the scene before them, I was lucky to still be alive. 

“What was your mission?”

“To assist the public servant.  Favours owed.  Whatever he needed.”

“Did you shoot the woman?”

“No.  Ballistics will prove it.”

She shook her head.  “No.  They won’t.  Both shots, man and woman, came from your weapon.”

That was impossible.  I only fired one shot.  Except as everyone in the department knew, the boffins could manufacture evidence to suit any narrative.  Write me out of the script, or in.

“So, as you say, a setup.  Someone wants to take Rawlins down.”

“Or you, if you don’t tell me the truth.  Why was she there?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“It can’t be that simple.”

“Well, that’s the problem.  It is that simple.  I know Rawlins doesn’t believe in coincidences, neither do I, for that matter, but there’s a first time for everything.”

“Why did you shoot the target?”

“He shot the woman before she went to speak, then turned the gun on me.  Reflex action.  I can’t tell you why he took that action, but it stopped her from doing or saying anything.  I did not shoot the woman; I had no reason to.  She just burst into the room, indicating she’d met him before, and expected him to be there.”

There was a knock on the door, and without waiting to be asked, Rawlins came in.  A nod in the woman’s direction, she closed the notebook, picked up her bag and left, closing the door behind her.

I knew Rawlins had been watching, and I suspected she had an earpiece where he was suggesting what to ask.

He would also be observing and analysing.

He didn’t sit.

“She said something to you, in those last few seconds.”

Why didn’t it surprise me that the target’s room was under surveillance?  Rawlins obviously suspected the target had an agenda.  That he had waited so long for me to volunteer to tell him was the interesting part.

“Why would you think it would be significant?”

“We suspected she was having an affair.  Her husband did and told his head of security.  He told us.  They weren’t having an affair, were they?”

“From what I saw, it was very definitely an affair.”

“He shot her, without a moment’s thought.”

“Hence, we will never know.  If he hadn’t aimed the gun at me, we might have got to find out,  but I think now, seeing you here, this whole episode was staged to get rid of two problems, a double agent and a treasonous wife, without having to bear the dirty linen in public.”

Rawlins sat in the recently vacated seat.

“A satisfactory result for an unsatisfactory problem.  Two birds with one stone.”

“The minister?”

“Heartbroken, but his personal assistant is helping him get over the crisis.”

“Life goes on?”

“As indeed it always will.  I hate feeding you to the dogs, but you know what it’s like in the new age intelligence landscape.  Transparency.  Access to psychological help to avoid trauma, stress leave, so there’s less room for errors.  A week’s leave, I’m afraid.  Talk to Mandy, she’ll set it up.  So, just what did Melanie say in that last dying breath?”

“Told me to remind her husband to feed Chester, their new cat.  I think she thought more of that cat than her husband.”

Rawlins laughed.  “Of course, she didn’t say that.  We will talk about this again.  When you get back.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025