Day 112 – What if the book you’re writing has a similar plot and characters to another book

…

The “Accidental Copycat”: What to Do When Your Story Feels Too Familiar

We’ve all been there. You’re halfway through your manuscript, the plot is finally clicking, and then—thud. You’re scrolling through a bookstore shelf or browsing Goodreads, and you see it. A book that was published two years ago that features a protagonist agonisingly similar to yours, a plot twist you thought was genius, and a setting that feels like a carbon copy of your own world.

Panic sets in. Am I a thief? Is my book unoriginal? Should I delete the file and start over?

Take a deep breath. Before you hit “delete,” let’s unpack why this happens and why it’s usually not the catastrophe you think it is.

---

1. The “Great Ideas” Phenomenon

There is an old adage in the writing world: “There are no new stories, only new ways to tell them.”

Human storytelling is built on archetypes. Whether it’s the Hero’s Journey, the “Enemies to Lovers” trope, or the “Small Town Secret,” we are all drawing from the same well of universal themes. If your book feels similar to another, it’s likely because those themes resonate with the collective human experience.

If you didn’t consciously sit down with that other book open on your desk to copy it, you aren’t stealing. You are simply participating in a genre.

2. The Difference Between Trope and Theft

There is a massive difference between plot points and execution.

• The Trope: Two characters get stuck in an elevator and fall in love.
• The Theft: You copy the specific dialogue, the unique way one character clears their throat, the specific backstory about their dying goldfish, and the exact sequence of events down to the minute.

If you are using the same general framework as another author, you are writing in a genre. If you are using their specific, unique creative choices (their “voice,” their specific, non-trope-based world-building quirks, or their specific phrasing), that’s where the ethical line blurs.

3. Your Perspective is Your “Secret Sauce”

Even if you and another author started with the same “what if” prompt, your story will end up completely different. Why? Because you are not that author.

• Your Life Experience: The way you describe grief, love, or a sunrise is colored by your own unique traumas, joys, and perspective.
• Your Character Voice: Characters are the sum of their choices. If your protagonist makes a choice different from the “original” character, the entire ripple effect of the story changes.
• Your Pacing and Tone: One author might write your shared plot as a dark, gritty noir; another might write it as a bubbly, fast-paced comedy.

4. How to Conduct a “Sanity Check”

If the similarities still bother you, perform these three steps to gain clarity:

1. Read the “Other” Book: It sounds counterintuitive, but if you haven’t read it, you might be scaring yourself over nothing. Read it to see if the “similarities” are actually just superficial tropes.
2. Identify the “Soul” of Your Story: Ask yourself, “What is the one thing I am trying to say that no one else can say exactly like me?” If you can answer that, lean harder into that element.
3. Twist the Narrative: If you feel like your plot beat is too derivative, change it. Give your character a different motivation. Put the story in a different setting. Introduce an antagonist that complicates the “cliché.”

The Bottom Line

Originality isn’t about being the first person to come up with an idea; it’s about being the most authentic person to express it.

Don’t let the fear of “stealing” paralyse your creativity. If you are writing from a place of genuine passion, your voice will shine through, regardless of how many other books explore similar territory. Keep writing. The world hasn’t read your version yet—and that version is the only one that truly matters.

Day 112 – What if the book you’re writing has a similar plot and characters to another book

…

The “Accidental Copycat”: What to Do When Your Story Feels Too Familiar

We’ve all been there. You’re halfway through your manuscript, the plot is finally clicking, and then—thud. You’re scrolling through a bookstore shelf or browsing Goodreads, and you see it. A book that was published two years ago that features a protagonist agonisingly similar to yours, a plot twist you thought was genius, and a setting that feels like a carbon copy of your own world.

Panic sets in. Am I a thief? Is my book unoriginal? Should I delete the file and start over?

Take a deep breath. Before you hit “delete,” let’s unpack why this happens and why it’s usually not the catastrophe you think it is.

---

1. The “Great Ideas” Phenomenon

There is an old adage in the writing world: “There are no new stories, only new ways to tell them.”

Human storytelling is built on archetypes. Whether it’s the Hero’s Journey, the “Enemies to Lovers” trope, or the “Small Town Secret,” we are all drawing from the same well of universal themes. If your book feels similar to another, it’s likely because those themes resonate with the collective human experience.

If you didn’t consciously sit down with that other book open on your desk to copy it, you aren’t stealing. You are simply participating in a genre.

2. The Difference Between Trope and Theft

There is a massive difference between plot points and execution.

• The Trope: Two characters get stuck in an elevator and fall in love.
• The Theft: You copy the specific dialogue, the unique way one character clears their throat, the specific backstory about their dying goldfish, and the exact sequence of events down to the minute.

If you are using the same general framework as another author, you are writing in a genre. If you are using their specific, unique creative choices (their “voice,” their specific, non-trope-based world-building quirks, or their specific phrasing), that’s where the ethical line blurs.

3. Your Perspective is Your “Secret Sauce”

Even if you and another author started with the same “what if” prompt, your story will end up completely different. Why? Because you are not that author.

• Your Life Experience: The way you describe grief, love, or a sunrise is colored by your own unique traumas, joys, and perspective.
• Your Character Voice: Characters are the sum of their choices. If your protagonist makes a choice different from the “original” character, the entire ripple effect of the story changes.
• Your Pacing and Tone: One author might write your shared plot as a dark, gritty noir; another might write it as a bubbly, fast-paced comedy.

4. How to Conduct a “Sanity Check”

If the similarities still bother you, perform these three steps to gain clarity:

1. Read the “Other” Book: It sounds counterintuitive, but if you haven’t read it, you might be scaring yourself over nothing. Read it to see if the “similarities” are actually just superficial tropes.
2. Identify the “Soul” of Your Story: Ask yourself, “What is the one thing I am trying to say that no one else can say exactly like me?” If you can answer that, lean harder into that element.
3. Twist the Narrative: If you feel like your plot beat is too derivative, change it. Give your character a different motivation. Put the story in a different setting. Introduce an antagonist that complicates the “cliché.”

The Bottom Line

Originality isn’t about being the first person to come up with an idea; it’s about being the most authentic person to express it.

Don’t let the fear of “stealing” paralyse your creativity. If you are writing from a place of genuine passion, your voice will shine through, regardless of how many other books explore similar territory. Keep writing. The world hasn’t read your version yet—and that version is the only one that truly matters.

Day 111 – Writing Exercise

…

The space port, one of three on Mars, loomed on the horizon as the shuttle sped towards it.

Milo had just finished a two-year rotation at the mine, a lucrative opportunity given to him by his brother.

He had not done it out of the kindness of his heart; he had used the opportunity to send his brother away, to keep him out of trouble.

Milo had grudgingly accepted it because of the money.  And to get away from his wife, who had cheated on him during his previous rotation on Moonbase 5. 

He had come home early and found Leila with another man, the friend he’d asked to look after her while he was gone.  He had taken his remit too far.

He was unlucky in that sense, his love of offworld work keeping him away from home, and a wife who wanted her feet firmly planted on Earth.  They had no children, another of his grievances because she didn’t want them.

Perhaps it was fated to end this way.

20 minutes later, the shuttle had gone through the docking procedures and was ready to offload its human cargo.

The pilot, of course, was the latest robot technology, more human than human, the promotion material had said, less likely to make mistakes.

It didn’t say a lot for the confidence the company had in its real human employees.  Still, they hadn’t sacked any humans yet and replaced them with robots.

Yet.

The airlocks hissed, and the first door opened, and 10 passengers went in.  The door closed, and the cabin filled with steam.  Cleansing any bugs that may have hitched a ride.  The steam was sucked out, and the outer door opened.

He was among the first along the gangway and into the main hall.  At one end was the domestic spaceport.  At the other end, the interstellar spaceport, where tomorrow he would get the ship back home.

Not that he could call it home, after everything that had happened.  It was the last place he wanted to be, but he didn’t have a choice.

He would happily stay right here if he were given the opportunity.  They were always looking for workers out in the new cities and the space docks.

Life here wasn’t so bad.  In between the two were everything else, the hotels, bars, restaurants, accommodation towers and shopping mall.  There was also a cinema, sports arena, playing fields, and parkland.  All were built under a series of connected domes.  More like the old earth than the new.

He was heading for a hotel.  Check in, dinner and a few drinks at the Bar, a few hours in the casino, then rest.  There would be time to sleep on the ship.

He walked slowly, savouring those last moments.  Through the windows, he could see the stark landscape, how much of Earth was becoming. Soon, they would have to find a new planet or planets to move to.

But not in his lifetime.

…

Most people wanted to get back to Earth.  Milo was one of the few who didn’t..

He’d checked into the hotel, and the hotel had taken care of his travel arrangements.  The mining company owned the hotel, which made it easy to coordinate everything.

Dinner was provided, along with a reasonable number of drinks afterwards, and given his seniority, a sizable tab at the casino.

He’d learned long ago that he and casinos didn’t mix; he was just going for the free watered-down drinks and watching the high rollers.  And like the last time, go see a show and stay out of trouble.

He had dinner, sat at the bar, had a few bottles of beer and talked to random people: mine workers on weekend leave, mining executives lamenting being stuck on Mars, and people who had more money than sense, wanting to stay on Mars for a holiday, people who didn’t care about spending a month or so in stasis either way.

Then, a wander around the gaming floor, the bright lights, the endless noise, the people who all looked as though they didn’t have a care in the world.

Maybe they didn’t.

He was watching a woman, eye-catching mostly because of her dress, or lack of, which in a way was a diversion.  She had attracted a large group of onlookers.  The roulette wheel was spinning, the ball was dropping, and landing on her number.

Eight.

Once, eight times a second.

The croupier, a middle-aged man with white hair and a mottled beard, had a peculiar flick when sending the ball on its way. 

The first one was, clockwise, number eight.

Ten thousand at thirty-seven to one, three hundred and seventy thousand.

It was sitting on the table.

A waitress arrived with a single drink, champagne in a crystal flute with a hollow stem, the good stuff, not the rubbish they served the punters like Milo.

We waited.  If there were no other sound, a pin drop would be like a bomb going off.

“Bets, please?”  The man was slightly hoarse.  The next spin could be make or break for him.

She removed twenty-seven thousand and left ten.

On number eight.

“No more bets.”

Yes, the croupier had beads of sweat on his brow.

The ball went counterclockwise, round and round, and when it hit the first number and jumped, everyone sucked their breath until it landed.

On number eight.

The croupier called for chips.

A grey coat had been nearby, and they were joined by a blue coat and then a black coat.

A huddle, a whispered conversation, and the croupier was replaced.  A hard-faced woman, mid-thirties, with a ‘don’t make wisecracks to me’ expression took over.

“Just like the house.  Kill the winning streak by replacing the croupier.”

I turned.

The owner of the voice was a girl, on the threshold of being something more, in an elegant ball gown, looking like she had escaped a torture chamber.

“It has been known to happen.”  As many times as I’d seen it happen, she was right.

“You work for the house?”

“I’m a casual observer.  No more, no less.”  My glass was empty.

A waitress went past and exchanged empty glasses with full ones.  She took one. It was not the good stuff.

“Six hundred grand.  Not a bad night’s work.”

“She won’t quit.”  I knew the type.  It was a superstition, leave it all, don’t break the stack.

“Would you?”  She took a sip and made a face.  It hadn’t improved on the first glass.

“Oddly yes.  But I’m neither that brave or reckless.”  I would not have doubled down after the first bet.

She smiled, did a quick scan of the floor then her eyes came back to me.

“You’re not the adventurous sort?”  It was said with scepticism.  I was surprised.

Who was she and what did she want with me.  The way she was acting i suspected she was part of the floor surveillance, perhaps looking to see how the lady was possibly cheating.

“Used to be, in another life.”  Back in the day as they called it, when I tried my hand at being a policeman.  I was young and idealistic then.

“Well, I’ll give you a chance, one chance, to seek adventure.  I need a dancing partner, and you look to me you are a dancing man.  Am I right?”

She was.  Before I finally married, a girlfriend had been my partner in ballroom dancing contests, and we were very good.  Very, very good.  Until she decided another dancing partner would be more interesting.  It might have been a career, but it ended that night she left.

How could she know that I was a dancer?

“I’ve taken the requisite Arthur Murray lessons.”

“Including the Waltz?”

“It’s there somewhere in the back of my mind.  No doubt it will come back to me.”

…

Up a hallway, wide enough to be almost an avenue, and off to one side was a ballroom, with about five hundred people suitably dressed to the nines.

I looked out of place, even though my suit was being worn for the third time.  I didn’t have the white shirt, stiff collar and white bow tie.

It didn’t matter.

I had a feeling this girl was a maverick.

People created space on the floor for us.  I should have been worried, but it was not until we took the starting position i noticed we were the only pair in the circle.

The music started, and she was almost about to move when I took the lead, if it could be called that.

I loved the Waltz.  It gave you a chance to be close and apart, the ebbs and flows of the music, and the Strauss music. 

Others joined us until we had a full circle.

I concentrated on not stuffing up.

She had definitely done this before.

After switching partners, briefly, I got the redhead with the glowering eyes.  She said, in a very low voice, “You know who you’re dancing with, don’t you?”

I didn’t, and wondered if I should say so.  “No.”  I was curious.

“Literally, the boss’s daughter.”

Boss of what or whom?

She was gone before I could ask.

The dance ended, and the orchestra leaned into a cha cha cha.  I was not an exponent of the Latin dances, and she was equally willing to leave it alone.

In a quiet corner, we had drinks brought overnight almost unbidden, and I missed the secret sign she made to the staff.

“I’m told you’re the boss’s daughter.  Should I be worried?”

“I am a daughter. By definition, you’re a son.”

“But not of a boss.   My father was just a worker.”

“And you were too?”

I shrugged.  “Briefly.”

“You shrug off seven years so flippantly.”

So, she did know who I was.  That might be a problem when I remembered the spaceport mayor had a daughter, and was in trouble.  I was in the territories; her domain was this city, and the likelihood of meeting was supposedly zero.

“You’ve read words on paper.  Someone’s subjective words.  It was a long time ago.”

“We need a detective.”

“You have a police force, a sheriff, I believe.”

“People who work for the company.  People who have vested interests.  People are not interested in digging.”

“Their own grave?” 

It was an interesting conundrum.  The company that ran the mines was also responsible for maintaining the city and services, except for the small council, who were in charge.  The charter made sure that control of everything was not left in the hands of the companies, just the bills.

But they did get to recruit the staff, not the bosses.  It was a peculiarity, one that sometimes caused friction.  There had been a rash of assaults across all the cities, something the miners labelled as the result of privation and exuberance.

They had promised to fix the problem.  Perhaps they had, perhaps they hadn’t.

“We can’t fill the City Investigator role.”

Or the last one poked his nose into the wrong place and had it chopped off, along with his head.  Figuratively, that is, his death had been reported as from natural causes.

I think I now knew they was a different explanation.

“And I’m your choice?”

“You were overheard saying that you didn’t want to go home.  Here’s your chance to stay.”

“My rotations are done.  Rules are rules.”

“Rules are made to be broken.  We can use a special clause if you want to stay.”

“And die?”

“You’re fast on your feet.  A smart man knows when to change direction, retreat, regroup, and live to fight another day.  You’ve spent time with the workers, you know who, and what they were and are.  Not afraid to stick up for yourself either.  Pays good, benefits…” she smiled.

Trouble.

“Can I think about it?”

“What’s there to think about?”

A lot.  “I should go home.”

“You won’t make it home.”

It was an interesting statement, and normally it would be frightening.  It simply confirmed what I suspected.  The parting speech on earth before I came in this last rotation from my brother was ominous.

He said coming home might be detrimental to my health.

“Still want to think about it.”

She shrugged.  “I’ll be at the interstellar lounge tomorrow morning.  Don’t disappoint me.  Again.”

…

There are times when you honestly believe you’ve reached a point in your life where everything makes sense.  A point where you’ve made peace with your choices, and there’s nothing more to be done about it.

It was inevitable that Milo instinctively knew he was going to end up single again, once he realised he preferred running away from responsibility.  His brother had always said his marriage wouldn’t last, that his obsession with being off-world was going to take precedence over everything else

It did.  It just bugged him that his brother was right.

He also told him beating the guy who slept with his wife was a poor choice, and that was right too.  That was why he got Milo the gig as far away from home as possible

His brother also told him the guy’s family had a great deal of reach, and one day the tentacles of their influence would catch up with him.

It seemed like it had.

The question was which side of the fence she was on.  He cursed himself for not asking for a name, and then guessed that she would probably not give anything but an alias. 

Or maybe he had too overactive an imagination.

He hadn’t slept.  He’d kept thinking of that one Waltz, in the arms of a woman who was everything that Margery wasn’t, to the point where he had to wonder how he finished up with her.

And how impossible it was that this woman would bother to give him a second glance.  He was, when looked at in the cold, hard light of day, a miner, as rough and ready as they come.

He was everything she was not.

But for three minutes plus a few seconds, he felt every bit her equal and that they were seamless in the dance.  He may have looked out of place, but he didn’t feel out of place.

Except there was no room for him in her world.

It seemed there was no room for him in anyone’s world.

He knew what was coming.  Better to face it, or he would always be looking over his shoulder.

…

He arrived at the interstellar spaceport a half hour early.  There was a large number of earthbound travellers already there, in various stages of excitement.

It was always a thrill to get on the spaceship and experience the first few hours of the flight before the stasis phase, and then waking up about a day and a half out.  Coming into moon orbit, then docking, was one of the amazing moments, especially when getting the first sight of Earth.

He tendered his ticket at the counter, had it stamped, and was given a boarding pass.  It was like getting a plane back home.

He went to the cafe and ordered a coffee, then selected a table that gave him a view of the whole room.  He kept his back to the wall.  If anyone was coming for him, he would see them.

Halfway through the coffee, what appeared to be another passenger sat opposite.  He didn’t ask if the seat was free.

Milo glared at him.

“I’m guessing you’re Milo.”

“I’m guessing you should be minding your own business.  Would it matter if I said that the seat is taken?”

He seemed surprised.  “I didn’t think you had any friends.”

I noticed behind him a scuffle at a table near the door where two men were dragged out of their chairs and hauled away by men bigger than they were.  A similar event happened at a table by the other door.

Two exits covered.

If I tried to leave, I wouldn’t.

Then the mysterious young lady came in and sauntered across the floor.  My new friend finally realised something was going on, maybe Milo staring past him, not at him, gave it away.

He turned, and the slight shoulder slump said it all.

She had a uniform of sorts on.  Not quite the same impact as the previous evening.

The man made no attempt to move.  He looked up at her.  “Cassandra.”

“Joe.  What can I do for you?”

“There are two gentlemen over by the exit waiting to have a chat.  Don’t disappoint me by doing something silly.”

“You know me better than that.”

She gave him a face that said otherwise.  He looked like he was assessing his options for escape. They were not good.

One of her associates came over and put a hand on his shoulder.  “This way, sir.”

Not many of the others in the cafe were paying much attention.

He stood and looked down at me.  “This isn’t over.”

Milo shrugged.  “I wasn’t aware it had started, whatever it is.”

He looked at Cassandra.  “What’s the charge?”

“Interfering in a covert operation.”

“He doesn’t work for you.”

She smiled.  “Keep up, Joe.  You are usually not this sloppy.  Unless, of course, you no longer have a spy in my department.” 

A minute change in expression.

She nodded to the other officer, and he escorted Joe away.  Cassandra sat in the recently executive seat.

“Thank you, Milo.”

“For what?”

“We’ve been trying to pin something on him, but he’s very slippery.  It’s what happens with rush jobs.  I have to thank you for your help.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You verified we caught the mile on the department, and acted as a decoy so we could arrest him.  You want that job, it’s yours.”

Did he.  If that was the case, Milo wouldn’t have to go home, and he could see trouble coming.  Well, she would.

“Who exactly are you?”

“Cassandra.”

Milo gave her one of his looks, the one that said don’t dance with him.

“Acting Chief Superintendent, Detectives.  Your job.  Five years.  Staff of twenty.  Nice apartment, with stellar views of the Red Planet.”

“Are you one of the twenty?”

“XO, 21C.  I want to learn from the best.”

Milo stood and held out his hand.

She stood and took it in hers.

They shook hands.

“Welcome aboard.  Now, let’s go and interrogate some suspects.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 111 – Writing Exercise

…

The space port, one of three on Mars, loomed on the horizon as the shuttle sped towards it.

Milo had just finished a two-year rotation at the mine, a lucrative opportunity given to him by his brother.

He had not done it out of the kindness of his heart; he had used the opportunity to send his brother away, to keep him out of trouble.

Milo had grudgingly accepted it because of the money.  And to get away from his wife, who had cheated on him during his previous rotation on Moonbase 5. 

He had come home early and found Leila with another man, the friend he’d asked to look after her while he was gone.  He had taken his remit too far.

He was unlucky in that sense, his love of offworld work keeping him away from home, and a wife who wanted her feet firmly planted on Earth.  They had no children, another of his grievances because she didn’t want them.

Perhaps it was fated to end this way.

20 minutes later, the shuttle had gone through the docking procedures and was ready to offload its human cargo.

The pilot, of course, was the latest robot technology, more human than human, the promotion material had said, less likely to make mistakes.

It didn’t say a lot for the confidence the company had in its real human employees.  Still, they hadn’t sacked any humans yet and replaced them with robots.

Yet.

The airlocks hissed, and the first door opened, and 10 passengers went in.  The door closed, and the cabin filled with steam.  Cleansing any bugs that may have hitched a ride.  The steam was sucked out, and the outer door opened.

He was among the first along the gangway and into the main hall.  At one end was the domestic spaceport.  At the other end, the interstellar spaceport, where tomorrow he would get the ship back home.

Not that he could call it home, after everything that had happened.  It was the last place he wanted to be, but he didn’t have a choice.

He would happily stay right here if he were given the opportunity.  They were always looking for workers out in the new cities and the space docks.

Life here wasn’t so bad.  In between the two were everything else, the hotels, bars, restaurants, accommodation towers and shopping mall.  There was also a cinema, sports arena, playing fields, and parkland.  All were built under a series of connected domes.  More like the old earth than the new.

He was heading for a hotel.  Check in, dinner and a few drinks at the Bar, a few hours in the casino, then rest.  There would be time to sleep on the ship.

He walked slowly, savouring those last moments.  Through the windows, he could see the stark landscape, how much of Earth was becoming. Soon, they would have to find a new planet or planets to move to.

But not in his lifetime.

…

Most people wanted to get back to Earth.  Milo was one of the few who didn’t..

He’d checked into the hotel, and the hotel had taken care of his travel arrangements.  The mining company owned the hotel, which made it easy to coordinate everything.

Dinner was provided, along with a reasonable number of drinks afterwards, and given his seniority, a sizable tab at the casino.

He’d learned long ago that he and casinos didn’t mix; he was just going for the free watered-down drinks and watching the high rollers.  And like the last time, go see a show and stay out of trouble.

He had dinner, sat at the bar, had a few bottles of beer and talked to random people: mine workers on weekend leave, mining executives lamenting being stuck on Mars, and people who had more money than sense, wanting to stay on Mars for a holiday, people who didn’t care about spending a month or so in stasis either way.

Then, a wander around the gaming floor, the bright lights, the endless noise, the people who all looked as though they didn’t have a care in the world.

Maybe they didn’t.

He was watching a woman, eye-catching mostly because of her dress, or lack of, which in a way was a diversion.  She had attracted a large group of onlookers.  The roulette wheel was spinning, the ball was dropping, and landing on her number.

Eight.

Once, eight times a second.

The croupier, a middle-aged man with white hair and a mottled beard, had a peculiar flick when sending the ball on its way. 

The first one was, clockwise, number eight.

Ten thousand at thirty-seven to one, three hundred and seventy thousand.

It was sitting on the table.

A waitress arrived with a single drink, champagne in a crystal flute with a hollow stem, the good stuff, not the rubbish they served the punters like Milo.

We waited.  If there were no other sound, a pin drop would be like a bomb going off.

“Bets, please?”  The man was slightly hoarse.  The next spin could be make or break for him.

She removed twenty-seven thousand and left ten.

On number eight.

“No more bets.”

Yes, the croupier had beads of sweat on his brow.

The ball went counterclockwise, round and round, and when it hit the first number and jumped, everyone sucked their breath until it landed.

On number eight.

The croupier called for chips.

A grey coat had been nearby, and they were joined by a blue coat and then a black coat.

A huddle, a whispered conversation, and the croupier was replaced.  A hard-faced woman, mid-thirties, with a ‘don’t make wisecracks to me’ expression took over.

“Just like the house.  Kill the winning streak by replacing the croupier.”

I turned.

The owner of the voice was a girl, on the threshold of being something more, in an elegant ball gown, looking like she had escaped a torture chamber.

“It has been known to happen.”  As many times as I’d seen it happen, she was right.

“You work for the house?”

“I’m a casual observer.  No more, no less.”  My glass was empty.

A waitress went past and exchanged empty glasses with full ones.  She took one. It was not the good stuff.

“Six hundred grand.  Not a bad night’s work.”

“She won’t quit.”  I knew the type.  It was a superstition, leave it all, don’t break the stack.

“Would you?”  She took a sip and made a face.  It hadn’t improved on the first glass.

“Oddly yes.  But I’m neither that brave or reckless.”  I would not have doubled down after the first bet.

She smiled, did a quick scan of the floor then her eyes came back to me.

“You’re not the adventurous sort?”  It was said with scepticism.  I was surprised.

Who was she and what did she want with me.  The way she was acting i suspected she was part of the floor surveillance, perhaps looking to see how the lady was possibly cheating.

“Used to be, in another life.”  Back in the day as they called it, when I tried my hand at being a policeman.  I was young and idealistic then.

“Well, I’ll give you a chance, one chance, to seek adventure.  I need a dancing partner, and you look to me you are a dancing man.  Am I right?”

She was.  Before I finally married, a girlfriend had been my partner in ballroom dancing contests, and we were very good.  Very, very good.  Until she decided another dancing partner would be more interesting.  It might have been a career, but it ended that night she left.

How could she know that I was a dancer?

“I’ve taken the requisite Arthur Murray lessons.”

“Including the Waltz?”

“It’s there somewhere in the back of my mind.  No doubt it will come back to me.”

…

Up a hallway, wide enough to be almost an avenue, and off to one side was a ballroom, with about five hundred people suitably dressed to the nines.

I looked out of place, even though my suit was being worn for the third time.  I didn’t have the white shirt, stiff collar and white bow tie.

It didn’t matter.

I had a feeling this girl was a maverick.

People created space on the floor for us.  I should have been worried, but it was not until we took the starting position i noticed we were the only pair in the circle.

The music started, and she was almost about to move when I took the lead, if it could be called that.

I loved the Waltz.  It gave you a chance to be close and apart, the ebbs and flows of the music, and the Strauss music. 

Others joined us until we had a full circle.

I concentrated on not stuffing up.

She had definitely done this before.

After switching partners, briefly, I got the redhead with the glowering eyes.  She said, in a very low voice, “You know who you’re dancing with, don’t you?”

I didn’t, and wondered if I should say so.  “No.”  I was curious.

“Literally, the boss’s daughter.”

Boss of what or whom?

She was gone before I could ask.

The dance ended, and the orchestra leaned into a cha cha cha.  I was not an exponent of the Latin dances, and she was equally willing to leave it alone.

In a quiet corner, we had drinks brought overnight almost unbidden, and I missed the secret sign she made to the staff.

“I’m told you’re the boss’s daughter.  Should I be worried?”

“I am a daughter. By definition, you’re a son.”

“But not of a boss.   My father was just a worker.”

“And you were too?”

I shrugged.  “Briefly.”

“You shrug off seven years so flippantly.”

So, she did know who I was.  That might be a problem when I remembered the spaceport mayor had a daughter, and was in trouble.  I was in the territories; her domain was this city, and the likelihood of meeting was supposedly zero.

“You’ve read words on paper.  Someone’s subjective words.  It was a long time ago.”

“We need a detective.”

“You have a police force, a sheriff, I believe.”

“People who work for the company.  People who have vested interests.  People are not interested in digging.”

“Their own grave?” 

It was an interesting conundrum.  The company that ran the mines was also responsible for maintaining the city and services, except for the small council, who were in charge.  The charter made sure that control of everything was not left in the hands of the companies, just the bills.

But they did get to recruit the staff, not the bosses.  It was a peculiarity, one that sometimes caused friction.  There had been a rash of assaults across all the cities, something the miners labelled as the result of privation and exuberance.

They had promised to fix the problem.  Perhaps they had, perhaps they hadn’t.

“We can’t fill the City Investigator role.”

Or the last one poked his nose into the wrong place and had it chopped off, along with his head.  Figuratively, that is, his death had been reported as from natural causes.

I think I now knew they was a different explanation.

“And I’m your choice?”

“You were overheard saying that you didn’t want to go home.  Here’s your chance to stay.”

“My rotations are done.  Rules are rules.”

“Rules are made to be broken.  We can use a special clause if you want to stay.”

“And die?”

“You’re fast on your feet.  A smart man knows when to change direction, retreat, regroup, and live to fight another day.  You’ve spent time with the workers, you know who, and what they were and are.  Not afraid to stick up for yourself either.  Pays good, benefits…” she smiled.

Trouble.

“Can I think about it?”

“What’s there to think about?”

A lot.  “I should go home.”

“You won’t make it home.”

It was an interesting statement, and normally it would be frightening.  It simply confirmed what I suspected.  The parting speech on earth before I came in this last rotation from my brother was ominous.

He said coming home might be detrimental to my health.

“Still want to think about it.”

She shrugged.  “I’ll be at the interstellar lounge tomorrow morning.  Don’t disappoint me.  Again.”

…

There are times when you honestly believe you’ve reached a point in your life where everything makes sense.  A point where you’ve made peace with your choices, and there’s nothing more to be done about it.

It was inevitable that Milo instinctively knew he was going to end up single again, once he realised he preferred running away from responsibility.  His brother had always said his marriage wouldn’t last, that his obsession with being off-world was going to take precedence over everything else

It did.  It just bugged him that his brother was right.

He also told him beating the guy who slept with his wife was a poor choice, and that was right too.  That was why he got Milo the gig as far away from home as possible

His brother also told him the guy’s family had a great deal of reach, and one day the tentacles of their influence would catch up with him.

It seemed like it had.

The question was which side of the fence she was on.  He cursed himself for not asking for a name, and then guessed that she would probably not give anything but an alias. 

Or maybe he had too overactive an imagination.

He hadn’t slept.  He’d kept thinking of that one Waltz, in the arms of a woman who was everything that Margery wasn’t, to the point where he had to wonder how he finished up with her.

And how impossible it was that this woman would bother to give him a second glance.  He was, when looked at in the cold, hard light of day, a miner, as rough and ready as they come.

He was everything she was not.

But for three minutes plus a few seconds, he felt every bit her equal and that they were seamless in the dance.  He may have looked out of place, but he didn’t feel out of place.

Except there was no room for him in her world.

It seemed there was no room for him in anyone’s world.

He knew what was coming.  Better to face it, or he would always be looking over his shoulder.

…

He arrived at the interstellar spaceport a half hour early.  There was a large number of earthbound travellers already there, in various stages of excitement.

It was always a thrill to get on the spaceship and experience the first few hours of the flight before the stasis phase, and then waking up about a day and a half out.  Coming into moon orbit, then docking, was one of the amazing moments, especially when getting the first sight of Earth.

He tendered his ticket at the counter, had it stamped, and was given a boarding pass.  It was like getting a plane back home.

He went to the cafe and ordered a coffee, then selected a table that gave him a view of the whole room.  He kept his back to the wall.  If anyone was coming for him, he would see them.

Halfway through the coffee, what appeared to be another passenger sat opposite.  He didn’t ask if the seat was free.

Milo glared at him.

“I’m guessing you’re Milo.”

“I’m guessing you should be minding your own business.  Would it matter if I said that the seat is taken?”

He seemed surprised.  “I didn’t think you had any friends.”

I noticed behind him a scuffle at a table near the door where two men were dragged out of their chairs and hauled away by men bigger than they were.  A similar event happened at a table by the other door.

Two exits covered.

If I tried to leave, I wouldn’t.

Then the mysterious young lady came in and sauntered across the floor.  My new friend finally realised something was going on, maybe Milo staring past him, not at him, gave it away.

He turned, and the slight shoulder slump said it all.

She had a uniform of sorts on.  Not quite the same impact as the previous evening.

The man made no attempt to move.  He looked up at her.  “Cassandra.”

“Joe.  What can I do for you?”

“There are two gentlemen over by the exit waiting to have a chat.  Don’t disappoint me by doing something silly.”

“You know me better than that.”

She gave him a face that said otherwise.  He looked like he was assessing his options for escape. They were not good.

One of her associates came over and put a hand on his shoulder.  “This way, sir.”

Not many of the others in the cafe were paying much attention.

He stood and looked down at me.  “This isn’t over.”

Milo shrugged.  “I wasn’t aware it had started, whatever it is.”

He looked at Cassandra.  “What’s the charge?”

“Interfering in a covert operation.”

“He doesn’t work for you.”

She smiled.  “Keep up, Joe.  You are usually not this sloppy.  Unless, of course, you no longer have a spy in my department.” 

A minute change in expression.

She nodded to the other officer, and he escorted Joe away.  Cassandra sat in the recently executive seat.

“Thank you, Milo.”

“For what?”

“We’ve been trying to pin something on him, but he’s very slippery.  It’s what happens with rush jobs.  I have to thank you for your help.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You verified we caught the mile on the department, and acted as a decoy so we could arrest him.  You want that job, it’s yours.”

Did he.  If that was the case, Milo wouldn’t have to go home, and he could see trouble coming.  Well, she would.

“Who exactly are you?”

“Cassandra.”

Milo gave her one of his looks, the one that said don’t dance with him.

“Acting Chief Superintendent, Detectives.  Your job.  Five years.  Staff of twenty.  Nice apartment, with stellar views of the Red Planet.”

“Are you one of the twenty?”

“XO, 21C.  I want to learn from the best.”

Milo stood and held out his hand.

She stood and took it in hers.

They shook hands.

“Welcome aboard.  Now, let’s go and interrogate some suspects.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

…

Day 110 – To write is to sit in judgement on oneself

…

The Mirror on the Page: Why Writing is the Ultimate Act of Self-Judgment

“To write is to sit in judgment on oneself.” — Henrik Ibsen

We often romanticise the act of writing. We talk about the “flow state,” the “muse,” and the catharsis of putting pen to paper. We view writing as an act of creation—a way to birth new worlds, build arguments, or express the deepest chambers of our souls.

But Henrik Ibsen, the master of the modern realistic drama, offers a colder, more clinical take. For Ibsen, writing isn’t just an act of creation; it is an act of interrogation. To write, he suggests, is to sit in judgment on oneself.

The Inescapable Reflection

When you stare at a blank page, you are not merely filling space. You are deciding what matters, what is true, and what is worth preserving.

Every word we commit to the page is a micro-decision. We choose our adjectives, our syntax, and our silences. In doing so, we inevitably reveal our biases, our insecurities, our logic, and our moral compass. You cannot hide from a finished manuscript. When you read back what you have written, you are reading the architecture of your own mind.

If you write with honesty, you are forced to confront the gaps between who you think you are and what you are actually capable of articulating. It is a mirror that doesn’t just show your face; it shows your thoughts in their raw, unvarnished state.

The Courtroom of the Conscience

Why did Ibsen view this as a form of “judgment”?

Because writing forces a separation between the thinker and the thought. When a thought is just floating in the ether of your brain, it feels fluid and safe. Once you write it down, it becomes an object—a specimen on a slide.

In that moment of scrutiny, the internal judge wakes up:

• Is this thought coherent, or am I deceiving myself?
• Is this argument kind, or is it defensive?
• Does this character reflect my own failings, or am I trying to look like a hero?

Writing is the process of putting our own consciousness on trial. We act as both the prosecutor, hunting for inconsistencies and falsehoods, and the judge, deciding whether these ideas hold up to the light of day.

The Burden (and Gift) of Clarity

This is why so many people find writing painful. It is an unnerving experience to realise that your “deep insights” might actually be clichés, or that your “logical stance” is rooted in fear.

But this judgment is also the greatest gift a writer can receive.

If we never write—if we never force ourselves to sit in judgment of our own ideas—we remain trapped in the echo chambers of our own internal narratives. We keep repeating the same habits, holding the same prejudices, and floating in the same murky waters of half-formed intentions.

By writing, we force ourselves to stand before the bench. We demand evidence. We call our own bluff.

Final Thoughts

Next time you find yourself struggling to find the right word, remember Ibsen. You aren’t just battling with vocabulary; you are engaged in a high-stakes trial. You are evaluating your own worldview.

Writing is not for the faint of heart because it requires the courage to judge oneself—and the even greater courage to accept the verdict, learn from it, and write the next sentence anyway.

So, what is your writing telling you about yourself today? Are you ready to hear the verdict?

…

Day 110 – To write is to sit in judgement on oneself

…

The Mirror on the Page: Why Writing is the Ultimate Act of Self-Judgment

“To write is to sit in judgment on oneself.” — Henrik Ibsen

We often romanticise the act of writing. We talk about the “flow state,” the “muse,” and the catharsis of putting pen to paper. We view writing as an act of creation—a way to birth new worlds, build arguments, or express the deepest chambers of our souls.

But Henrik Ibsen, the master of the modern realistic drama, offers a colder, more clinical take. For Ibsen, writing isn’t just an act of creation; it is an act of interrogation. To write, he suggests, is to sit in judgment on oneself.

The Inescapable Reflection

When you stare at a blank page, you are not merely filling space. You are deciding what matters, what is true, and what is worth preserving.

Every word we commit to the page is a micro-decision. We choose our adjectives, our syntax, and our silences. In doing so, we inevitably reveal our biases, our insecurities, our logic, and our moral compass. You cannot hide from a finished manuscript. When you read back what you have written, you are reading the architecture of your own mind.

If you write with honesty, you are forced to confront the gaps between who you think you are and what you are actually capable of articulating. It is a mirror that doesn’t just show your face; it shows your thoughts in their raw, unvarnished state.

The Courtroom of the Conscience

Why did Ibsen view this as a form of “judgment”?

Because writing forces a separation between the thinker and the thought. When a thought is just floating in the ether of your brain, it feels fluid and safe. Once you write it down, it becomes an object—a specimen on a slide.

In that moment of scrutiny, the internal judge wakes up:

• Is this thought coherent, or am I deceiving myself?
• Is this argument kind, or is it defensive?
• Does this character reflect my own failings, or am I trying to look like a hero?

Writing is the process of putting our own consciousness on trial. We act as both the prosecutor, hunting for inconsistencies and falsehoods, and the judge, deciding whether these ideas hold up to the light of day.

The Burden (and Gift) of Clarity

This is why so many people find writing painful. It is an unnerving experience to realise that your “deep insights” might actually be clichés, or that your “logical stance” is rooted in fear.

But this judgment is also the greatest gift a writer can receive.

If we never write—if we never force ourselves to sit in judgment of our own ideas—we remain trapped in the echo chambers of our own internal narratives. We keep repeating the same habits, holding the same prejudices, and floating in the same murky waters of half-formed intentions.

By writing, we force ourselves to stand before the bench. We demand evidence. We call our own bluff.

Final Thoughts

Next time you find yourself struggling to find the right word, remember Ibsen. You aren’t just battling with vocabulary; you are engaged in a high-stakes trial. You are evaluating your own worldview.

Writing is not for the faint of heart because it requires the courage to judge oneself—and the even greater courage to accept the verdict, learn from it, and write the next sentence anyway.

So, what is your writing telling you about yourself today? Are you ready to hear the verdict?