Day 237

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Sharpening the Axe: Professionalism and Practice

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

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

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

3. Building the Foundation (and the Platform)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

Day 237

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Sharpening the Axe: Professionalism and Practice

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

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

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

3. Building the Foundation (and the Platform)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

Day 235 and Day 236

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

…

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

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

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

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

“Sir?”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.  Good night, sir.”

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

I looked at the screen.  “Cecily.”

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

I shrugged and answered it.

“Yes, Cecily?”

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

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

“He is strange, Cecily.”

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

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

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

“I got a call from someone else.”

“What is she doing there?”

“What do you think she is doing there?”

Silence as she grappled with the ramifications.

“So, you knew that she was…?”

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

“What are you going to do?”

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

“Oh.  Make me the bad guy.”

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

“OK.  Call me if you need anything.”

She took it better than I thought she would.

…

I waited.

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

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

Frances had returned.

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

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

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

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

“You’re up late.”

“Reading, lost track of time.”

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

“Did you have a good night?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She sighed.  “How long have you known?” 

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

“Who told you?”

“Would you believe me?”

“Eloise.”

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

“She asked me to come back.”

“And?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When?”

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

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

“I’m sorry.  Why didn’t you tell me?”

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

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

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

“But what about you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.  I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It has always been so

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

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

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

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

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

Eloise swivelled on Frances.  “Is this true?”

“Why does it matter?”

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

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

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

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

“I thought…” Eloise began.

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

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

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

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

We both watched her leave.

…

©  Charles Heath 2025

Day 235 and Day 236

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

…

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

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

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

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

“Sir?”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.  Good night, sir.”

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

I looked at the screen.  “Cecily.”

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

I shrugged and answered it.

“Yes, Cecily?”

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

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

“He is strange, Cecily.”

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

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

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

“I got a call from someone else.”

“What is she doing there?”

“What do you think she is doing there?”

Silence as she grappled with the ramifications.

“So, you knew that she was…?”

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

“What are you going to do?”

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

“Oh.  Make me the bad guy.”

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

“OK.  Call me if you need anything.”

She took it better than I thought she would.

…

I waited.

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

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

Frances had returned.

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

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

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

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

“You’re up late.”

“Reading, lost track of time.”

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

“Did you have a good night?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She sighed.  “How long have you known?” 

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

“Who told you?”

“Would you believe me?”

“Eloise.”

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

“She asked me to come back.”

“And?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When?”

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

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

“I’m sorry.  Why didn’t you tell me?”

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

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

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

“But what about you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.  I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It has always been so

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

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

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

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

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

Eloise swivelled on Frances.  “Is this true?”

“Why does it matter?”

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

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

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

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

“I thought…” Eloise began.

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

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

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

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

We both watched her leave.

…

©  Charles Heath 2025

More about my story

IT’s time to put together a suitable blurb – or summary

…

El Qatar: Beyond the Golden Sands – A Destination with Secrets?

Sun-drenched shores, opulent hotels, and a world-class convention scene. Welcome to El Qatar, the glittering jewel of the desert, where luxury knows no bounds and every desire can be met. Or so it seems.

The Gilded Cage: An Invitation to Indulgence

Imagine stepping off the plane into the cool, air-conditioned embrace of San Madre, El Qatar’s vibrant capital and bustling port. You’re whisked away to a six-star resort, where endless amenities await. El Qatar prides itself on being a peaceful, world-class destination, perfect for international conferences, business elite, and those seeking unparalleled indulgence. From gourmet dining to exhilarating desert safaris, every experience is meticulously crafted to ensure your stay is nothing short of spectacular. Here, the phrase “satisfy any appetite” takes on a new, liberating meaning, catering to every whim with discreet efficiency and a touch of local charm. It is, by all accounts, a flawless facade of luxury and freedom, an oasis of calm in a turbulent world.

Whispers in the Desert Wind: A Glimpse Behind the Veil

Yet, beneath the polished marble and towering glass facades, El Qatar is an ancient land – arid, hot, and often dusty. Its history is as deep as the desert wadis, and its governance, while providing stability, operates with a certain… unspoken understanding. The peaceful exterior is a carefully maintained veneer, one that requires the right connections and, naturally, the right reciprocations. For those who look closely, the occasional flicker in the eyes of a local, a hushed conversation in a back alley of San Madre, or a sudden, unexplained absence might hint at a different reality, one far removed from the pristine resort brochures. This is a country where power is absolute, and dissent is a dangerous whisper.

The Looming Storm: A Paradoxical Conference

As the world prepares for a paradoxical Human Rights Conference to be hosted in El Qatar – an event that has raised more than a few eyebrows globally – there’s a palpable shift in the desert air. Whispers of discontent, once suppressed, have grown into a undeniable murmur among the citizens. Old stories of a democratic past are being retold with renewed fervor, and there’s talk of a prodigal son, the heir of a previous, more open government, poised to return and reclaim a legacy, stirring hopes and fears among the populace. The rebel factions, once relegated to the shadows, are growing bolder, sensing an opportunity to ignite a revolution that could redefine El Qatar’s future. The stage is set for an upheaval, disguised as an international gathering, with the very fabric of the nation about to be tested.

---

Discover the Untold Story: A Thriller Unveiled

It is into this crucible of luxury and rebellion that you are drawn. An unsuspecting visitor, or perhaps, a vital piece in a game you never knew you were playing. With the world’s eyes on El Qatar, and the very foundations of its power about to crack, alliances are fragile, loyalties are tested, and betrayal lurks in the shadows.

Into this powder keg steps our protagonist, tasked with protecting a woman whose safety could unravel everything. In San Madre, amid the gilded cages and the simmering revolution, their mission is not just about survival, but about holding the threads of a nation’s destiny. Will they simply be pawns in this desert game, or the catalysts for a new dawn? Discover the untold story of El Qatar, where the line between peace and revolution is as thin as the desert air, and every secret has a price.

More about my story

IT’s time to put together a suitable blurb – or summary

…

El Qatar: Beyond the Golden Sands – A Destination with Secrets?

Sun-drenched shores, opulent hotels, and a world-class convention scene. Welcome to El Qatar, the glittering jewel of the desert, where luxury knows no bounds and every desire can be met. Or so it seems.

The Gilded Cage: An Invitation to Indulgence

Imagine stepping off the plane into the cool, air-conditioned embrace of San Madre, El Qatar’s vibrant capital and bustling port. You’re whisked away to a six-star resort, where endless amenities await. El Qatar prides itself on being a peaceful, world-class destination, perfect for international conferences, business elite, and those seeking unparalleled indulgence. From gourmet dining to exhilarating desert safaris, every experience is meticulously crafted to ensure your stay is nothing short of spectacular. Here, the phrase “satisfy any appetite” takes on a new, liberating meaning, catering to every whim with discreet efficiency and a touch of local charm. It is, by all accounts, a flawless facade of luxury and freedom, an oasis of calm in a turbulent world.

Whispers in the Desert Wind: A Glimpse Behind the Veil

Yet, beneath the polished marble and towering glass facades, El Qatar is an ancient land – arid, hot, and often dusty. Its history is as deep as the desert wadis, and its governance, while providing stability, operates with a certain… unspoken understanding. The peaceful exterior is a carefully maintained veneer, one that requires the right connections and, naturally, the right reciprocations. For those who look closely, the occasional flicker in the eyes of a local, a hushed conversation in a back alley of San Madre, or a sudden, unexplained absence might hint at a different reality, one far removed from the pristine resort brochures. This is a country where power is absolute, and dissent is a dangerous whisper.

The Looming Storm: A Paradoxical Conference

As the world prepares for a paradoxical Human Rights Conference to be hosted in El Qatar – an event that has raised more than a few eyebrows globally – there’s a palpable shift in the desert air. Whispers of discontent, once suppressed, have grown into a undeniable murmur among the citizens. Old stories of a democratic past are being retold with renewed fervor, and there’s talk of a prodigal son, the heir of a previous, more open government, poised to return and reclaim a legacy, stirring hopes and fears among the populace. The rebel factions, once relegated to the shadows, are growing bolder, sensing an opportunity to ignite a revolution that could redefine El Qatar’s future. The stage is set for an upheaval, disguised as an international gathering, with the very fabric of the nation about to be tested.

---

Discover the Untold Story: A Thriller Unveiled

It is into this crucible of luxury and rebellion that you are drawn. An unsuspecting visitor, or perhaps, a vital piece in a game you never knew you were playing. With the world’s eyes on El Qatar, and the very foundations of its power about to crack, alliances are fragile, loyalties are tested, and betrayal lurks in the shadows.

Into this powder keg steps our protagonist, tasked with protecting a woman whose safety could unravel everything. In San Madre, amid the gilded cages and the simmering revolution, their mission is not just about survival, but about holding the threads of a nation’s destiny. Will they simply be pawns in this desert game, or the catalysts for a new dawn? Discover the untold story of El Qatar, where the line between peace and revolution is as thin as the desert air, and every secret has a price.

Day 234

First lines have to make an impact

…

The Art of the Opening Line: Impact, Promise, and the Perfect Sentence

In the sprawling landscape of literature, where countless stories vie for attention and untold universes beckon, there’s a single, vital pivot point: the first line. It’s more than just a gentle nudge; it’s a carefully constructed piece of prose, a declaration, a whisper, or a shout that sets everything in motion. And if you’re a writer, or simply a discerning reader, you know this truth deep in your bones: the first line has to make an impact.

The immediate, undeniable truth is this: a first line must make an impact. In a world saturated with content, where endless scrolls and countless tabs compete for precious moments, your opening sentence is your do-or-die moment. It isn’t merely about grabbing attention; it’s about demanding it. It might shock, mystify, intrigue, or present a profound truth that resonates instantly. Think of “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” or “Call me Ishmael.” These aren’t just words; they’re literary thunderclaps, perfectly thrown darts hitting the bullseye of the reader’s curiosity. They don’t just invite you in; they pull you in, often before you even realize you’ve been hooked.

But impact alone, while crucial, is only half the story. While the subsequent chapters unfurl the full tapestry of your narrative, why wait? Why not offer a tantalizing glimpse, a foundational understanding of what awaits, right from the start? A well-crafted first line or paragraph subtly hints at the genre, the tone, the central conflict, or even the protagonist’s core dilemma. It’s a non-verbal contract with your reader, a promise of the journey to come. It says, “This is what you’re in for. This is the kind of world you’re about to enter.” It might promise wonder, dread, humor, or profound introspection. Even if the full qualification of these hints comes much later, the initial setup creates an expectation, a framework that encourages the reader to lean in and commit.

Which brings us to the bedrock of all this: the art of the sentence itself. The first line isn’t just a container for ideas; it is an idea, perfectly formed. It’s about meticulous word choice, the rhythm and cadence, the conciseness that packs a punch, and the elegance that makes it linger in the mind. Every word must earn its place, every punctuation mark serve a purpose. This isn’t just about conveying information; it’s about crafting an experience. When we talk about the “art of the first line,” we are, in essence, talking about the art of the sentence – its power to evoke, to define, to resonate, and to stand as a miniature masterpiece in its own right. It elevates prose from mere communication to an experience.

So, when you sit down to craft your opening, whether you’re a seasoned novelist or a budding blogger, remember it’s not just a starting point; it’s a destination in itself. It’s the initial impact that makes a reader pause, the subtle promise that makes them stay, and the sheer artistry of the sentence that makes them marvel. Invest in your first line. Polish it, perfect it, and let it sing. For in that one perfect sentence lies the entire universe of your story, waiting to unfold.

Day 234

First lines have to make an impact

…

The Art of the Opening Line: Impact, Promise, and the Perfect Sentence

In the sprawling landscape of literature, where countless stories vie for attention and untold universes beckon, there’s a single, vital pivot point: the first line. It’s more than just a gentle nudge; it’s a carefully constructed piece of prose, a declaration, a whisper, or a shout that sets everything in motion. And if you’re a writer, or simply a discerning reader, you know this truth deep in your bones: the first line has to make an impact.

The immediate, undeniable truth is this: a first line must make an impact. In a world saturated with content, where endless scrolls and countless tabs compete for precious moments, your opening sentence is your do-or-die moment. It isn’t merely about grabbing attention; it’s about demanding it. It might shock, mystify, intrigue, or present a profound truth that resonates instantly. Think of “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” or “Call me Ishmael.” These aren’t just words; they’re literary thunderclaps, perfectly thrown darts hitting the bullseye of the reader’s curiosity. They don’t just invite you in; they pull you in, often before you even realize you’ve been hooked.

But impact alone, while crucial, is only half the story. While the subsequent chapters unfurl the full tapestry of your narrative, why wait? Why not offer a tantalizing glimpse, a foundational understanding of what awaits, right from the start? A well-crafted first line or paragraph subtly hints at the genre, the tone, the central conflict, or even the protagonist’s core dilemma. It’s a non-verbal contract with your reader, a promise of the journey to come. It says, “This is what you’re in for. This is the kind of world you’re about to enter.” It might promise wonder, dread, humor, or profound introspection. Even if the full qualification of these hints comes much later, the initial setup creates an expectation, a framework that encourages the reader to lean in and commit.

Which brings us to the bedrock of all this: the art of the sentence itself. The first line isn’t just a container for ideas; it is an idea, perfectly formed. It’s about meticulous word choice, the rhythm and cadence, the conciseness that packs a punch, and the elegance that makes it linger in the mind. Every word must earn its place, every punctuation mark serve a purpose. This isn’t just about conveying information; it’s about crafting an experience. When we talk about the “art of the first line,” we are, in essence, talking about the art of the sentence – its power to evoke, to define, to resonate, and to stand as a miniature masterpiece in its own right. It elevates prose from mere communication to an experience.

So, when you sit down to craft your opening, whether you’re a seasoned novelist or a budding blogger, remember it’s not just a starting point; it’s a destination in itself. It’s the initial impact that makes a reader pause, the subtle promise that makes them stay, and the sheer artistry of the sentence that makes them marvel. Invest in your first line. Polish it, perfect it, and let it sing. For in that one perfect sentence lies the entire universe of your story, waiting to unfold.