Day 267 – Not being able to write

…

Buried Alive: Why Writing Isn’t Just a Passion—It’s Oxygen

“For me, not being allowed to write is tantamount to being buried alive.” — Mikhail Bulgakov

Imagine the heavy, suffocating weight of earth pressing down on your chest. Imagine the absolute silence, the inability to move, the slow, agonizing realisation that your voice has been completely muffled from the world.

To most people, writing is a hobby, a professional skill, or perhaps a therapeutic outlet. But to the true writer, Mikhail Bulgakov’s haunting words are not hyperbole. They are a statement of biological and spiritual reality. For certain souls, the prohibition of the written word is not a restriction; it is an execution.

Why is it that the compulsion to write runs so deep? And what happens when a writer is forced into silence? Let’s explore the profound weight of Bulgakov’s words and what they reveal about the fierce, untameable nature of the creative spirit.

---

The Prison of the Unwritten: Who Was Mikhail Bulgakov?

To truly understand this sentiment, we have to look at the man who uttered it. Mikhail Bulgakov was a Russian novelist and playwright best known for his masterpiece, The Master and Margarita. Living and writing under the oppressive regime of the Soviet Union in the 1920s and 30s, Bulgakov experienced censorship and blacklisting firsthand.

His books were banned, his plays were pulled from stages, and his livelihood was systematically dismantled by the state. He was effectively silenced—not because he had nothing to say, but because what he had to say terrified those in power.

When a government or circumstance forbids an artist from creating, it attempts to sever their connection to humanity. For Bulgakov, living in Soviet Russia without the right to write meant his thoughts had nowhere to go. They stagnated, poisoned him from the inside, and turned his daily life into a tomb. When he wrote that famous plea to Joseph Stalin—asking either to be permitted to work or to be exiled abroad because “a Russian writer cannot live without his homeland”—he was fighting for his life.

---

Writing as an Existential Necessity

Why does the denial of writing feel like entombment?

1. The Mind as a Pressure Cooker: Writers don’t just decide to write; they are driven by a ceaseless internal engine. Characters speak in their heads; plots unfold while washing dishes; observations of the world demand to be translated into metaphor. When this creative pressure has no outlet, it builds up. Without the release valve of the blank page, the mind becomes a claustrophobic chamber.
2. The Urge to Exist . For many writers, writing is proof of existence. René Descartes said, “I think, therefore I am.” The writer adds, “I write, therefore I am understood.” To write is to take the chaotic, fleeting experience of being human and anchor it into something permanent. If you cannot write, your experiences vanish into the ether, leaving you feeling invisible—as if you have already faded away.
3. Connection Across the Void: Art is a bridge. When writers put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard), they are reaching out across the dark abyss of isolation to say, “Are you here too? Did you feel this?” To ban a writer from writing is to cut the ropes of that bridge, leaving them stranded on an island of their own unspoken thoughts.

---

The Modern “Buried Alive”

You don’t have to live under a totalitarian regime to know what it feels like to be buried alive creatively.

In our modern lives, we often bury ourselves. We take on demanding corporate jobs that drain our cognitive battery. We prioritise productivity over expression. We tell ourselves, “I’ll write that novel, start that blog, or finish that poem when things settle down.”

Days turn into months. Months turn into years.

Suddenly, you wake up and realize you haven’t created anything authentic in ages. You feel restless, irritable, and strangely hollow—even if your life looks successful on paper. That is the feeling of suffocation. That is the slow creep of being buried alive by the mundane demands of daily survival.

Bulgakov’s words serve as a stark wake-up call: Neglecting your creative calling is a form of self-burial.

---

How to Unearth Yourself

If you are reading this and feeling the dirt piling up over your own creative ambitions, how do you dig your way out? How do you claw your way back to the surface?

• Steal the Moments: You don’t need a cabin in the woods or a year-long sabbatical to write. Bulgakov wrote even when his works were banned, hiding manuscripts in drawers (famously leading to the phrase “manuscripts don’t burn”). Write in the margins of your day—fifteen minutes on your lunch break, thirty minutes before the world wakes up.
• Release the Need for Perfection: Often, the fear of writing badly keeps us from writing at all. But a messy, breathing draft is infinitely better than the sterile perfection of a blank page locked inside your head.
• Treat It Like Oxygen: Stop viewing writing as a reward you give yourself if you finish your chores. Treat it like water and air. Carve out non-negotiable space for it in your routine.

---

Final Thoughts: Let the Voice Out

Mikhail Bulgakov reminds us that the human spirit cannot be indefinitely suppressed without consequence. Words are meant to be let out into the light, not left to rot in the dark catacombs of the mind.

If you have a story burning a hole in your chest, an essay waiting to be born, or a poem struggling to break free, do not keep it buried. Pick up the pen. Hit the keys. Breathe.

Because on the other side of that blank page isn’t just a finished piece of work—it’s your freedom.

---

What does writing mean to you? Have you ever felt the suffocating weight of creative silence? Let’s talk about it in the comments below.

…

Day 267 – Not being able to write

…

Buried Alive: Why Writing Isn’t Just a Passion—It’s Oxygen

“For me, not being allowed to write is tantamount to being buried alive.” — Mikhail Bulgakov

Imagine the heavy, suffocating weight of earth pressing down on your chest. Imagine the absolute silence, the inability to move, the slow, agonizing realisation that your voice has been completely muffled from the world.

To most people, writing is a hobby, a professional skill, or perhaps a therapeutic outlet. But to the true writer, Mikhail Bulgakov’s haunting words are not hyperbole. They are a statement of biological and spiritual reality. For certain souls, the prohibition of the written word is not a restriction; it is an execution.

Why is it that the compulsion to write runs so deep? And what happens when a writer is forced into silence? Let’s explore the profound weight of Bulgakov’s words and what they reveal about the fierce, untameable nature of the creative spirit.

---

The Prison of the Unwritten: Who Was Mikhail Bulgakov?

To truly understand this sentiment, we have to look at the man who uttered it. Mikhail Bulgakov was a Russian novelist and playwright best known for his masterpiece, The Master and Margarita. Living and writing under the oppressive regime of the Soviet Union in the 1920s and 30s, Bulgakov experienced censorship and blacklisting firsthand.

His books were banned, his plays were pulled from stages, and his livelihood was systematically dismantled by the state. He was effectively silenced—not because he had nothing to say, but because what he had to say terrified those in power.

When a government or circumstance forbids an artist from creating, it attempts to sever their connection to humanity. For Bulgakov, living in Soviet Russia without the right to write meant his thoughts had nowhere to go. They stagnated, poisoned him from the inside, and turned his daily life into a tomb. When he wrote that famous plea to Joseph Stalin—asking either to be permitted to work or to be exiled abroad because “a Russian writer cannot live without his homeland”—he was fighting for his life.

---

Writing as an Existential Necessity

Why does the denial of writing feel like entombment?

1. The Mind as a Pressure Cooker: Writers don’t just decide to write; they are driven by a ceaseless internal engine. Characters speak in their heads; plots unfold while washing dishes; observations of the world demand to be translated into metaphor. When this creative pressure has no outlet, it builds up. Without the release valve of the blank page, the mind becomes a claustrophobic chamber.
2. The Urge to Exist For many writers, writing is proof of existence. René Descartes said, “I think, therefore I am.” The writer adds, “I write, therefore I am understood.” To write is to take the chaotic, fleeting experience of being human and anchor it into something permanent. If you cannot write, your experiences vanish into the ether, leaving you feeling invisible—as if you have already faded away.
3. Connection Across the Void Art is a bridge. When writers put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard), they are reaching out across the dark abyss of isolation to say, “Are you here too? Did you feel this?” To ban a writer from writing is to cut the ropes of that bridge, leaving them stranded on an island of their own unspoken thoughts.

---

The Modern “Buried Alive”

You don’t have to live under a totalitarian regime to know what it feels like to be buried alive creatively.

In our modern lives, we often bury ourselves. We take on demanding corporate jobs that drain our cognitive battery. We prioritize productivity over expression. We tell ourselves, “I’ll write that novel, start that blog, or finish that poem when things settle down.”

Days turn into months. Months turn into years.

Suddenly, you wake up and realize you haven’t created anything authentic in ages. You feel restless, irritable, and strangely hollow—even if your life looks successful on paper. That is the feeling of suffocation. That is the slow creep of being buried alive by the mundane demands of daily survival.

Bulgakov’s words serve as a stark wake-up call: Neglecting your creative calling is a form of self-burial.

---

How to Unearth Yourself

If you are reading this and feeling the dirt piling up over your own creative ambitions, how do you dig your way out? How do you claw your way back to the surface?

• Steal the Moments: You don’t need a cabin in the woods or a year-long sabbatical to write. Bulgakov wrote even when his works were banned, hiding manuscripts in drawers (famously leading to the phrase “manuscripts don’t burn”). Write in the margins of your day—fifteen minutes on your lunch break, thirty minutes before the world wakes up.
• Release the Need for Perfection: Often, the fear of writing badly keeps us from writing at all. But a messy, breathing draft is infinitely better than the sterile perfection of a blank page locked inside your head.
• Treat It Like Oxygen: Stop viewing writing as a reward you give yourself if you finish your chores. Treat it like water and air. Carve out non-negotiable space for it in your routine.

---

Final Thoughts: Let the Voice Out

Mikhail Bulgakov reminds us that the human spirit cannot be indefinitely suppressed without consequence. Words are meant to be let out into the light, not left to rot in the dark catacombs of the mind.

If you have a story burning a hole in your chest, an essay waiting to be born, or a poem struggling to break free, do not keep it buried. Pick up the pen. Hit the keys. Breathe.

Because on the other side of that blank page isn’t just a finished piece of work—it’s your freedom.

---

What does writing mean to you? Have you ever felt the suffocating weight of creative silence? Let’s talk about it in the comments below.

…

Day 266 – Letting go

…

The Art of the Pivot: Why Walking Away from Your Manuscript Might Be the Best Thing You Can Do

Every writer knows the romanticized image of the craft: staring blankly at a glowing screen, wrestling with a stubborn sentence at 2:00 AM, fueled by caffeine and sheer willpower. We are told that real writers push through. We are fed mantras about discipline, grit, and hitting our daily word counts no matter what.

But what happens when grit turns into a grind, and the grind turns into a dead end?

If you’ve been staring at the same chapter for weeks, feeling like you’re trying to squeeze blood from a stone, I have a controversial prescription for you: Stop.

Letting go can be the hardest part of writing. But if you are having trouble finishing a manuscript, forcing yourself to stay in the chair out of sheer frustration is usually a recipe for burnout, not a finished book. Instead of staring at a blank page and producing nothing, maybe you should walk away and write something else.

Here is why stepping away is a strategic superpower, and how to overcome the hidden psychological hurdles that keep us chained to failing projects.

---

The Trap of the Sunk Cost Fallacy

Why is it so hard to abandon a manuscript, even temporarily? Blame human psychology.

The sunk cost fallacy is our tendency to continue investing in something because we’ve already sunk time, emotional energy, and identity into it. You’ve written 40,000 words. You’ve built a complex magic system. You’ve lived with these characters for a year. Throwing it away—or even setting it aside—feels like an admission of failure.

Reframing the narrative: Walking away is not quitting; it’s pivoting.

Writers are like sculptors. Sometimes, you spend hours carving a piece of marble, only to realize the stone has a structural flaw. You don’t keep hammering away until the whole thing shatters. You set it on a shelf, pick up a fresh block, and apply the techniques you just learned to something new.

When you pivot to a new project instead of facing daily writer’s block, you keep your creative muscles moving. You maintain your writing habit without the soul-crushing frustration of a blocked manuscript. And often, while your subconscious is busy drafting a short story or a quirky essay, it solves the plotting hole in your novel behind the scenes.

---

Beyond the Block: 4 Other Manuscript-Killing Problems to Overcome

While writer’s block gets all the press, a stalled manuscript is usually the symptom of deeper storytelling or psychological issues. If you want to eventually cross the finish line—whether with this project or the next—you need to recognize these four common roadblocks:

1. The “Middle-of-the-Book” Slump

Every writer knows the honeymoon phase: the exhilarating beginning where anything is possible. Then comes the messy middle, where the initial adrenaline wears off, the plot gets tangled, and the ending is still too far away to see.

• The Fix: This is the classic signal to take a break. If you force your way through the middle without a compass, you’ll end up with a meandering narrative that requires a massive, painful rewrite later. Write a short story, outline a different novel, or journal for a week. Give your brain distance to regain perspective on the macro-story.

2. Loss of Emotional Connection

If writing feels like doing your taxes, your readers are going to feel that boredom too. Sometimes, we outline a plot years in advance, but by the time we actually write it, we’ve outgrown the premise. Your tastes have changed; your worldview has shifted; the characters no longer resonate.

• The Fix: Don’t force enthusiasm. Authenticity bleeds onto the page. If the passion is gone, acknowledge it gracefully. Shelving a manuscript because you’ve evolved as a writer isn’t a failure—it’s proof of growth.

3. Perfectionism and Premature Editing

Many manuscripts die by a thousand paper cuts because the author tries to edit Chapter 1 while struggling to write Chapter 10. You cannot polish a draft that doesn’t exist yet. Perfectionism is just fear in a Sunday best suit—fear of being judged, fear of not being good enough.

• The Fix: Lower the bar. Give yourself permission to write badly. As legendary author Shannon Hale put it: “I’m writing a first draft and reminding myself that I’m simply shoveling sand into a box so that later I can build castles.”

4. Lack of a Structural Blueprint

Sometimes the manuscript is stuck simply because you’ve written yourself into a corner. You didn’t plant the necessary seeds in Act I to harvest the climax in Act III, and now the plot logic has collapsed.

• The Fix: This requires structural triage, not brute-force writing. If you’re a “pantser” (someone who writes by the seat of their pants), this might be the moment you need to pause, step back, and map out a basic outline to find where the tracks derailed.

---

How to Let Go (Without Giving Up)

Walking away from a manuscript requires emotional maturity. It means untangling your self-worth from your daily word count. Here is a practical roadmap for hitting pause without losing momentum:

1. Stage a Formal “Pause”: Don’t just ghost your manuscript out of guilt. Leave a detailed note in your document about where you got stuck and what ideas you were toying with. This makes returning to it later much easier.
2. Redirect the Energy: Take the exact same writing time you dedicated to the novel and channel it into something entirely different—poetry, flash fiction, blogging, or even free-writing. The goal is to keep the pipeline flowing without the pressure of the “Big Book.”
3. Trust the Subconscious: The human brain is a master problem-solver, but it can’t work on solutions while you are actively panicking over a blinking cursor. When you step away, you give your mind the freedom to connect disparate dots in the background.

The Bottom Line

Writing a book is a marathon of endurance, but it’s also a dance of intuition. If you are constantly dragging your manuscript across the finish line like a reluctant corpse, pause and ask yourself why.

Drop the guilt. Give yourself permission to walk away, clear your palate, and write something else for a while. You might just find that when you finally return to your manuscript, the fog has lifted, the path is clear, and the words are waiting for you again.

---

Have you ever abandoned a manuscript only to return to it later with fresh eyes? How did you break through the wall? Let’s talk about the messy reality of writing in the comments below!

…

Day 266 – Letting go

…

The Art of the Pivot: Why Walking Away from Your Manuscript Might Be the Best Thing You Can Do

Every writer knows the romanticized image of the craft: staring blankly at a glowing screen, wrestling with a stubborn sentence at 2:00 AM, fueled by caffeine and sheer willpower. We are told that real writers push through. We are fed mantras about discipline, grit, and hitting our daily word counts no matter what.

But what happens when grit turns into a grind, and the grind turns into a dead end?

If you’ve been staring at the same chapter for weeks, feeling like you’re trying to squeeze blood from a stone, I have a controversial prescription for you: Stop.

Letting go can be the hardest part of writing. But if you are having trouble finishing a manuscript, forcing yourself to stay in the chair out of sheer frustration is usually a recipe for burnout, not a finished book. Instead of staring at a blank page and producing nothing, maybe you should walk away and write something else.

Here is why stepping away is a strategic superpower, and how to overcome the hidden psychological hurdles that keep us chained to failing projects.

---

The Trap of the Sunk Cost Fallacy

Why is it so hard to abandon a manuscript, even temporarily? Blame human psychology.

The sunk cost fallacy is our tendency to continue investing in something because we’ve already sunk time, emotional energy, and identity into it. You’ve written 40,000 words. You’ve built a complex magic system. You’ve lived with these characters for a year. Throwing it away—or even setting it aside—feels like an admission of failure.

Reframing the narrative: Walking away is not quitting; it’s pivoting.

Writers are like sculptors. Sometimes, you spend hours carving a piece of marble, only to realize the stone has a structural flaw. You don’t keep hammering away until the whole thing shatters. You set it on a shelf, pick up a fresh block, and apply the techniques you just learned to something new.

When you pivot to a new project instead of facing daily writer’s block, you keep your creative muscles moving. You maintain your writing habit without the soul-crushing frustration of a blocked manuscript. And often, while your subconscious is busy drafting a short story or a quirky essay, it solves the plotting hole in your novel behind the scenes.

---

Beyond the Block: 4 Other Manuscript-Killing Problems to Overcome

While writer’s block gets all the press, a stalled manuscript is usually the symptom of deeper storytelling or psychological issues. If you want to eventually cross the finish line—whether with this project or the next—you need to recognize these four common roadblocks:

1. The “Middle-of-the-Book” Slump

Every writer knows the honeymoon phase: the exhilarating beginning where anything is possible. Then comes the messy middle, where the initial adrenaline wears off, the plot gets tangled, and the ending is still too far away to see.

• The Fix: This is the classic signal to take a break. If you force your way through the middle without a compass, you’ll end up with a meandering narrative that requires a massive, painful rewrite later. Write a short story, outline a different novel, or journal for a week. Give your brain distance to regain perspective on the macro-story.

2. Loss of Emotional Connection

If writing feels like doing your taxes, your readers are going to feel that boredom too. Sometimes, we outline a plot years in advance, but by the time we actually write it, we’ve outgrown the premise. Your tastes have changed; your worldview has shifted; the characters no longer resonate.

• The Fix: Don’t force enthusiasm. Authenticity bleeds onto the page. If the passion is gone, acknowledge it gracefully. Shelving a manuscript because you’ve evolved as a writer isn’t a failure—it’s proof of growth.

3. Perfectionism and Premature Editing

Many manuscripts die by a thousand paper cuts because the author tries to edit Chapter 1 while struggling to write Chapter 10. You cannot polish a draft that doesn’t exist yet. Perfectionism is just fear in a Sunday best suit—fear of being judged, fear of not being good enough.

• The Fix: Lower the bar. Give yourself permission to write badly. As legendary author Shannon Hale put it: “I’m writing a first draft and reminding myself that I’m simply shoveling sand into a box so that later I can build castles.”

4. Lack of a Structural Blueprint

Sometimes the manuscript is stuck simply because you’ve written yourself into a corner. You didn’t plant the necessary seeds in Act I to harvest the climax in Act III, and now the plot logic has collapsed.

• The Fix: This requires structural triage, not brute-force writing. If you’re a “pantser” (someone who writes by the seat of their pants), this might be the moment you need to pause, step back, and map out a basic outline to find where the tracks derailed.

---

How to Let Go (Without Giving Up)

Walking away from a manuscript requires emotional maturity. It means untangling your self-worth from your daily word count. Here is a practical roadmap for hitting pause without losing momentum:

1. Stage a Formal “Pause”: Don’t just ghost your manuscript out of guilt. Leave a detailed note in your document about where you got stuck and what ideas you were toying with. This makes returning to it later much easier.
2. Redirect the Energy: Take the exact same writing time you dedicated to the novel and channel it into something entirely different—poetry, flash fiction, blogging, or even free-writing. The goal is to keep the pipeline flowing without the pressure of the “Big Book.”
3. Trust the Subconscious: The human brain is a master problem-solver, but it can’t work on solutions while you are actively panicking over a blinking cursor. When you step away, you give your mind the freedom to connect disparate dots in the background.

The Bottom Line

Writing a book is a marathon of endurance, but it’s also a dance of intuition. If you are constantly dragging your manuscript across the finish line like a reluctant corpse, pause and ask yourself why.

Drop the guilt. Give yourself permission to walk away, clear your palate, and write something else for a while. You might just find that when you finally return to your manuscript, the fog has lifted, the path is clear, and the words are waiting for you again.

---

Have you ever abandoned a manuscript only to return to it later with fresh eyes? How did you break through the wall? Let’s talk about the messy reality of writing in the comments below!

…

Day 265 – Writing Exercise

…

I was in the middle of a dream, or at least I think I was, because my imagination had turned me into a knight in shining armour, just about to save the damsel in distress, when there was a strange sound.

I’m sure they did not have cell phones back in the Middle Ages.

I opened my eyes and turned to look at the clock.  8 AM.  Then I saw the cell phone, screen lit up and vibrating. Normally I turned it off.

I picked it up.

Gran.  My grandmother, the nice one whose bright and cheery manner never quite made it to my mother, was calling.

“Gran, what’s up?”

“Sam.  You sound like you’re still asleep.”

“I am.  What’s up?  What’s my mother done now?”

Gran only called me when one of two things happened.  Her daughter had disappointed her again, or she needed my help.  I did say she could call me at any time.

“I’ve had a slight accident, and they took me to the hospital.  It’s just for a few days, then I must go home.  I called your mother, but she’s too busy.  As usual.  Can you…”

“Of course.  Let me square things away with the Uni, and I’ll be on the next plane out.”

“I don’t want to drag you away from your studies.”

“You won’t be dragging me, or if you are, it’s because I want to be.  The going is getting tough, but I don’t think I’m tough enough to get going, or whatever the saying is.  It’s not a problem.  I’ve been thinking of tossing it in; this will give me some thinking time.  I’ll call you when I get to Idaho.  OK”

“Very good.  Thank you, Sam.”

“Not a problem.  If I had chucked it in, I was going to come out anyway.  I doubt whether I’d be welcome back home.”

“Probably not.”  I heard voices in the background.  Then, “Got to go, the doctors are here.”

I put the phone back on the table.

There was movement on the other side of the bed. “Who dares call you at this hour?”

Erica.  The girl of my dreams, the damsel in distress.

Then I remembered.  The scene in the bar.  Trading punches, then being thrown out onto the street by two very big security staff members.

I didn’t start it, but Roger, a fellow student who had more money than sense, was treating his girlfriend, as it happens the very same girl I would like to have as a girlfriend, very badly.

And I got the impression she needed to be saved.

Silly me.

Except, a few minutes later the same security men threw her out too, though with slightly less vigour.  By that time, I had managed to sit up.

In the gutter.

Not exactly where I could make a good impression, but the fact I had defended her when no one else did earned me a few brownie points.

Then reality hit. She stayed.

“My grandmother.  She’s just been taken to hospital, and … oh, shit.”

I just managed to spark up a relationship with the girl of my dreams, and now, when I should be consolidating my good fortune, I was going to have to leave her.

By the time I got back, she would have forgotten me.

“You have to go.  I’m guessing her daughter, your mother, is too busy to look after her.  Or any of her other children.  You’re the last port of call?”

“I am.  But…”

“You want to stay here with me.  First night, and all that.  I can see your grandmother means a great deal to you.”

“So do you.”

“I can see that too, now.”  She took my hand in hers.  “Maybe I can come with you.  I’m sure they’ll let me take some time off.  My parents are too busy making my brother the focal point of our family to care what I do.  And you won’t be there forever.  Or maybe you will.  So, we can both go.  It’ll give Roger a chance to get over what he’s just lost and give me a chance to see who you really are.”

“Are you sure?  It’s Idaho, nothing like Philly.  Everyone knows everyone else and their business.”

“You can take me horse riding.”

That was an odd thing to say.

“If you want to.  Not exactly what I envisioned as a second date.”

“Then I won’t tell you just yet what I have in mind for the third.”

….

When I finally got to look back, as one does when they get old enough to reflect on what most people called ‘the good old days’, I would get to say that morning was when I fell completely and utterly in love with Erica.

Not that I hadn’t before that, but up till that moment it was, I thought, unrequited.

It took another hour before we got out of bed, then another two to get tickets on the first plane out, and pack.  We called at her lodging, where it took her 10 minutes to throw what she needed in a case.

By the time we got to the airport, we both had switched from on-campus to off-campus

At the airport, we discovered there were no direct flights from Philadelphia to Boise, and we had to go via Denver, where we would have a three-hour stopover.  It meant we wouldn’t get to Boise before 6 pm.  Interestingly, she would not let me pay for her ticket.

I had always assumed she came from the Philadelphia area, and it was a shock to be told, right after the airplane levelled out, that she came from Denver.  The very airport we would be at for the layover.

Or fortuitous.  She had called her family while in the boarding lounge and tried to arrange a meeting, telling them she was travelling for business and had about an hour or so to meet up.

Judging by her expression at the end of the call, it wasn’t very successful.

Over coffee, she gave me the family story.  She came from a large family; they had a farm, and it had been in the family for six generations, with the original family coming from England.  It had been handed down to the eldest son, all of whom were given the same name, and the families in turn all had between eight and twelve children, and over time spread over the country, and some returning to England and others to Australia.

She had four older brothers and three older sisters.  She was the baby.  Jake was the eldest, and he was the one everyone fussed over.  She had left home in disgust when they refused to buy her a car as they had for the other seven.  She had secretly applied for a place at Penn and got it.  They didn’t even seem to care when she walked out the front door with her suitcase, nor did they offer to take her to the railway station.

And there was a whole lot more to the story.

By the time we reached Denver, I hated her family as much as she did, and it surprised me that she had asked them to come and see her at the airport.

…

Harbouring fears that they would lose our luggage, and lamenting the fact that I should have just put what I needed in a carry-on, we went into the terminal and headed for a place to eat.  The food on the plane was ordinary.

Halfway through what was supposed to be chicken and something in a sandwich, a voice behind us yelled out, “Erica?”

Half the terminal heard her, and when we turned, we were getting the same looks of disapproval she was getting from what was obviously her sister.  They looked almost like twins.

“Rachael.”

She stood just in time to catch a very exuberant sister in a hug.  A hug that told me she was missed by at least one person in her family.

“Where are the others?”

“Jake won a trophy for something, and there’s a celebration at home.  A hundred freeloaders looking for free beer and lunch.”

“Of course, anything else is more important.”

When she let her sister go, she noticed me.  I was trying to blend into the background.  It didn’t work.

“Who’s this?”

“My boyfriend.”

“I thought that was some rich guy, Robery, or Jonus or something.”

“Yesterday’s news, Rachael.”

She looked at me.  “I’m Rachael, Erica’s big sister.  Cause her trouble, you will become my enemy, and you don’t want me as an enemy.”

Erica whacked her on the arm.  “Shut up, Rachael.  I don’t need you to fight my battles.  Apologise.”

She just looked sullen.  Then changed the subject.  “You should have come home.”

“That isn’t home.  Not anymore.  I walked out that door, and no one, not even you, came after me.”

“They regretted it.”

“No.  They regret having me.  Or anyone else other than Jake the Magnificent.  Bastard.”

She went back to her chicken sandwich, virtually snubbing her sister.  Rachael came over to the chair next to me and sat.

“She hates us.” She said to no one in particular.

“After what she told me about the family, I’m not surprised.”

“What do you do?”

“Learn.  I’m at the university where your sister studies.”

“You go to university?”

Erica looked at her.  “I told you and them a dozen times, and no one listened.”

“Because you’re supposed to do the right thing.  Mom had a nice boy picked out, and you would have been great together.”

“Richard?  He was as dumb as dogshit, Rachael.”

“Can’t be that dumb if he inherited the Camford farm, and just about everything else in town.”

Erica just shook her head.  “He told me if I went away to go to the university, we were done.  I’m not going to be one of those dumb wives who dote on their husband, have kids, and wither away into oblivion.  Look at Margaret.  She’s an alcoholic, bored out of her brain.  She can’t even look after one child, left alone with six.  It’s just madness.”

“It’s not like that.”

Erica shrugged.  “It is, and nothing will change.  Who has Mom saddled you with?”

“No one yet.  Maybe I’ll leave too and come and join you in Philadelphia.”

“Maybe you should.”

…

From there, the conversation veered into family territory, stuff I knew nothing about, and they only remembered I was there when the announcement was made for our connecting flight to Boise.

Rachael asked why she was going there, but Erica ignored her.  She simply said to say ‘hi’ to the others and that they might make a better effort to come and see her on the way back.

Then, after a hug and a wave, we were heading to the plane.

The second leg was mostly in silence.  I was not sure if it was the disappointment of only her sister coming to see her, or the fact that her brother had stolen all the limelight, or if she thought it was a mistake to even ask them to come.

I knew families were the biggest problems anyone had, because they just didn’t go away, and you couldn’t really escape them.  Work, bad boyfriends, and just about anything else could be managed, one way or another.  Mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters couldn’t.

I did say that maybe there would be a change of heart when she returned, but I doubt she wanted or needed to hear that.

…

Given the time difference between Philly and Idaho, we arrived in Boise after the sun had gone down, what little of it there was, and looking out the window of the plane, it looked bitter and miserable outside.  Maybe snow was coming.  We got our bags, collected the rental, a large SUV, and headed straight to the hospital.

We would see my grandmother first, then get to the hotel.  The nurse on the floor gave us a short rundown: she had seen the doctor, got the diagnosis, a dislocation rather than a broken bone, and been patched up.  It amused me when the nurse said she was feisty for an eighty-year-old, which told me she had a lot of fight left in her.

Last time my mother mentioned her, she had told me she was practically at death’s door, old and feeble, and should be in an old folks’ home.  I knew what my grandmother’s views on that happening.  None.

When we quietly entered the room, she looked as though she was asleep.  The nurse had brought in another chair, and we sat.  I took her hand in mine and gave it a gentle squeeze.  “I’m here, Gran.”

She opened her eyes and smiled.  “With a friend, I see.”

She never missed anything, eyes and ears as sharp as ever.

Erica came over.

“Gran, this is Erica.  She decided she wanted to see Idaho; why, I’ll never know, but I’m glad she came.”

“Mrs Macreadie.  Sam has told me a great deal about you.”

“Hopefully all good.  The bad, I’m sorry to say, landed in his mother, but let’s not dwell on that.  You are very welcome.”

“Thank you.”

“How long is the prison sentence?” I asked her.

Gran had this way of categorising her hospital visits as prison sentences because it was almost like being locked up.

“They’re sending me home tomorrow.  Bad sprain.  Got to be more careful getting down the stairs.”

“I have an idea about that.  We’ll talk about it later.  I’m so pleased that you are not at death’s door; otherwise, I would have to contend with my mother.”

“You might have to, yet.  She’s threatening to come and sort out my affairs.  Apparently I can’t do anything myself.  I rang to tell her not to worry, but I think that’s rallied her to the siblings’ cause, that I should not be on my own.  I told her you were coming to look after me after I asked her to do just that, and she said she was too busy.  What does that woman do all day that she is that busy?”

“Marshalling the neighbours, running her morning teas and lunches, and being the busybody in chief.  And moulding my sisters in her image.”  I shook my head. 

“Well, hopefully she won’t come, and I won’t have to find your grandfather’s blunderbuss.”

That was a surprise.  It would have to be an antique.

“Does he have one?”

“And an armoury down in the basement.  You might what to have a poke around this visit.  There are all sorts of stuff down there, and you might be able to start writing that family history you keep promising me.”

“I might just do that.  Since you seem to be OK, I can stop panicking, and we can go to the hotel, get a bite to eat, and then come back.  If that’s OK.”

“I’m just glad there’s one person in the family who thinks I’m important.  That’s fine.  Bring your friend back, and we’ll talk.”

…

By the time we got to the room and noticed we had an excellent view of a car park, I felt exhausted.  Except for airport fast food and a sandwich on the plane, we hadn’t eaten much.

The hotel restaurant wasn’t accepting new diners, so the concierge sent us to a small Italian trattoria where he said to mention his name, and that the food was to die for.

It was.

But aside from the food, it was more about Erica, who had slowly morphed into someone completely different and made the whole experience, given the circumstances, beyond anything I could have expected or even hoped for.  Her melancholy on the flight from Denver to Boise had gone the instant she saw my grandmother.

And over dinner, the conversation flowed, with the help of some very nice red wine.

We dodged the relationship question, or the instant decision to come with a total stranger to see an equally strange grandmother.  In my mind I wondered if she had considered if I might be an axe murderer, because she had put a lot of trust in me having a good character.

I asked earlier if she wanted a separate room, but she reminded me there was no point being coy anymore.  Last night and this morning were proof enough to her that I was, so far, trustworthy.

Over the three courses, she explained more about her family life, how she was the forgotten child, how her brother sucked all the energy out of every room he walked into, how he was going to save the world.  It was a similar story, a bit like my own, only it was about following tradition, and I didn’t; therefore, I became the black sheep.

Time passed like an invisible enemy in the night, and it seemed everything was taking twice as long.  Checking in, sorting out a problem with the room, finding somewhere to eat, and then the slow service at the restaurant.  Any other time it wouldn’t matter, but today, it was difficult.  It was just before the end of visiting hours when I got back, and they let me in only because I was family.

She was reading a book when we came in and put it down.

“I hope you got something to eat.”

“We did.  Exquisite Italian.  Not that I would know, after the family didn’t take me to Italy with them.”

Erica was surprised.  There was a lot more that was shocking, but I wasn’t going to cast doubts in her mind over dodgy parents.

“They left you behind,” she asked.

“Have done so since I was thirteen.  I always stay with Gran.”

“We make bets about what places they are going to post on Instagram.  You’re better off not going to all the expensive and crowded tourist spots.  You can do it later, and I’ll tell you where to go. Bob, your grandfather and I used to take a villa overlooking the Mediterranean for the summer and spoil our children.  None of them appreciated anything.” She looked at Erica.  “Does your family go on holidays?”

“Never left America, and rarely outside the state.  I’m one of the few that had ventured further afield.  We have a Christmas reunion, and Thanksgiving when everyone comes, all forty or so.  It’s horrible.  I’d love to travel, one day.”

“How long have you known this rascal?”

Erica looked at me, and I gave a little shrug, meant to convey, answer truthfully.  Gran could see through the disingenuousness.

“Together like this, a day, but in wistful thinking time, about a year.  He has always fascinated me.”

“How?”  It was out before I could stop it.  “Sorry, I don’t know where that came from.  You don’t have to tell me or anyone anything.”

“I know, but I will anyway.  You seem to put everyone else first before yourself, trying to help.  One day it might get you hurt.”

“Roger was being a prat.”

“You didn’t have to try and punch his lights out.”

“I did.”

“Promise me you’ll think twice before you do it again.”

“Sorry, in defending your honour, I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

Erica sighed.  “Of course you would.”  She looked at Gran.  “Is he always like this?”

“He will protect the people he cares about, an admirable quality he inherited from his grandfather.  The only one of all the grandchildren I might add.”

My cell phone, sitting on the bedside table, started vibrating, and when I looked at it, the name “Mom” was displayed.

Gran saw it too.

“You’d better answer it.  She’ll just keep ringing.”

I picked up, answered and put her on speaker so we could all hear.

“Hello, Mom.  Isn’t it past your bedtime?”  She never answered her phone when I rang after six, and she rarely called me at all, unless it was for something, though not so much since I moved to Philadelphia for University.

“Have you seen your grandmother yet?”

I hadn’t told her I was going, but she probably guessed Gran would call me.

“What makes you think I would be?”

“Sam, don’t be obtuse.”

“Hello, Gwendoline,” Gran said.  “I thought you were too busy to be bothered about me.”

“That’s not what I said.  I said I had a situation to deal with that could not be postponed.  How are you?”

“Nothing but a sprain.  I promised the doctors I’ll be more careful.”

“You should not be rattling around in that huge mausoleum on your own.  Jack and I have been discussing what we think will be best for you.  This accident had only reinforced what we were talking about a couple of months back.”

“Packing me off to an old folk’s home to die?  Not going to happen.”

“Joan and William both agree.”

“They just want money to finance their extravagances, Gwen.  You not so much, but I know your business is not faring well now.  Don’t for a moment think I don’t know what your ulterior motives are.”

“We are very concerned.”

“Don’t be.  Sam is here, and we are interviewing for a live-in nurse and housekeeper, and Sam and I are going to move my bedroom downstairs.  I’ve been meaning to do it for a while.  You do not need to worry about me.”

“Just the same, I’m coming out to stay for a few days, and we can talk about it.”

“You don’t have to, Mom; I’ve got everything under control.”

“You?  You couldn’t organise getting yourself to high school.  No.  I’ll be there the day after tomorrow.  What are you doing there? Aren’t you supposed to be at university?”

“Unlike you, some things are more important than others.  And since you’re not paying the bill, it’s none of your business what I do.  Now, it’s time for Gran to get her rest.  We have a long drive tomorrow.  Goodnight.”

I hung up.

“There’s something else,” Gran said.  “Gwen would never waste her time coming out here just to have me thrown into palliative care.”

“You know?”

“I have a good idea, but you’re right.  I need my rest.  I’ll see both of you tomorrow; it will, as you say, be a long drive.”

…

I do not know why, but perhaps it was the driving, and the necessity to concentrate on the road, but my mind was not quite monitoring everything else.  I knew in the back, both Erica and Gran were having a grand old time talking about anything and everything.

Perhaps if I had been more attentive, I would have listened in and learned a great deal about a girl I really didn’t know much about at all.  Apart from her maybe thinking I was an axe murderer, perhaps she was one.

But not knowing was supposed to be one of those things that slowly unwound itself over the coming years as your love for each other grew.  I like surprises as much as anyone, but there were some that were best left in the box.

Which is why I had to wonder why my thoughts at that moment focused on Gran’s sister, and as it happens, her identical twin.  There was that story, known to all but never repeated, that both girls were working night shift at their local diner when a movie talent scout came in for coffee.

When Gran came out, she served him, and after a while he started asking questions.  It seemed he thought she could become an actress, a star.  I’d seen pictures of the two of them from back then, and they were both incredibly beautiful.

Gran said she would be interested.  He went away, and she heard no more about it.  She told her sister, and she thought it odd.  They were not the sort of girl talent scouts usually looked for.  Of course she would know, because she bought every movie magazine there was, and went to the movies every week.

As much as would have it, the talent scout returned, but this time it was Guinevere, Gran’s twin on service, and because he couldn’t tell the difference, offered her the chance.  Guinevere told no one, packed her bag and left the next day

Gran never forgave her.  Or at least I believed she never had, because she never mentioned her, and we never saw our great aunt.

Not unless it was in the headlines, the social pages or in a B-grade movie.  She just didn’t quite have the talent to match the beauty, but she had done very well out of it.  Daughter of a car salesman makes good. 

Gran, of course, met the son of the car salesman who was also a car salesman, one who had a very large company with car yards all over three states.  Until my uncle Ben took over.  The less said about that, the better.

But it must have been how the sunlight shone on Gran’s profile that in that instant made her look just like her sister, and how they both had looked in their younger days.  It was a subject I dared not ask about, but I was intensely interested in the cars, the people, and life, particularly during and just after the war.

But then there was Guinevere.  Why did my mind switch to her?  I had met her once, at my grandfather’s funeral.  She had come in what she thought was a disguise, but I could see through it in an instant.  She was skulking in the distance, watching on, afraid to be seen.  It was where I learned about the ongoing feud between the sisters, and the reason why no one ever mentioned her.

It was not the fact that she had taken the opportunity; Gran was the sensible one who would not have seen the purpose or practicality of it.  She would have discovered just how hit-and-miss acting could be, and how hard it would have been.

Gran was practical, another trait that didn’t reach her children, and if anything, all of them were more like their great aunt.

And as much as I hated to admit it, I liked her.

It was a fleeting moment, a fond memory, and it took another half hour off the two-hour drive to Fairfield, and eventually, the mausoleum my mother couldn’t wait to escape.

…

About five minutes away from finally getting home, Gran shivered.  I could see her expression change, and it was like something medical had happened.

Erica saw it.  “Are you alright?”

She sighed, then gave a wan smile.  “Yes.  It was one of those moments, like you walk over someone’s grave.  I had it once before, when my twin sister was brutally attacked, many, many years ago.  Since I haven’t seen her for so long, I could not imagine anything happening to her.  She should have died, but just came back, bigger and better.  As she always did.”

There was no malice in her tone, which was surprising.  Some things could never be laid to rest, not even after all these years.

I couldn’t explain the expression on Erica’s face, but I suspect learning Gran had a twin was just another revelation on top of a hundred others.  Perhaps she was starting to wonder what she had got herself in for.

Then, just before turning into the property, we all saw it—a 1935 Rolls-Royce 20/25 Grand Tourer.

Gran said it first.  “No wonder I’m shuddering.  It’s Guinevere.  That’s the car our father bought her as a wedding present.”

“Guinevere?  Why would she come here, of all places?  Last I read, she was languishing in a celebrity home for old actors, or something like that,” I said.

“Guinevere never languishes, Sam.  She commands.  Damn her.”

I stopped beside the Rolls Royce and switched off the engine.  After a long and tiring drive, I took a moment before getting out, envisioning the spectacle we were about to be afforded.

By the time we reached the front door, the sight that met us was as if a mirror had been placed there.  Identical twins, right down to the hairstyle and expression.  There were a hundred questions, or statements, I would have delivered before the one Gran delivered.

“So that bad feeling I just got wasn’t you dying a quick and simple death?”

“Nice to see you, sis.  No, it was me that had the bad feeling yesterday, and it scared the living hell out of me.  Thank God it was only a small sprain.”

“Why are you here?”

“This thing we have has gone on long enough.  I had apologised a thousand times; you would not have taken the opportunity. I did and made the mess of my life you would have it if you’d gone.”

“I would not have accepted.”

“You don’t know that.  Walter Benson had embarrassed you, and as I recall, you wanted to be anywhere but home.  You would not have survived.”

“And you could?”

“You know just how mean and ornery I could be, and it felt good punching Walter”

I knew I got that from somewhere.  My Great Aunt.  From what I read, Walter was not the first person she hit.  And it was somewhat surreal seeing the two of them toe to toe, one inside, one outside, each with the same heated expression.

“You done telling me what to do?”

“I was first, you know, therefore your elder.  It’s my job.  That and protect you.”

“I don’t need protection, especially from you.”

“You do.  Your Gwendoline will be here tomorrow, and you need to be ready for her.”

They stared at each other across the threshold, seemingly oblivious to Erica or me.

“I can handle her.”

“No, not this time.  I made a mistake.  I gave an interview, having been flattered by a well-known but scheming journalist.  I didn’t tell her, but she knew about the trust.”

A complete change of expression and manner.  “How?”

“I thought I’d been careful.  Apparently not careful enough.  Anyone with a little knowledge could have uncovered it, but it would take extra knowledge to link it to us.  Apparently, Gwen was only too happy to oblige.  It’s called chequebook journalism.”

Gran sighed.  “Alright, stop blocking the door, and let me get settled.  Then you can tell me how you screwed up.  Again.”

…

In my experience, secrets never remain secret for very long.  My sister was a case in point.  She swore on a stack of Bibles she could keep a secret.  I trusted her, and then she blabbed.  After that, I never trusted anyone fully again. 

Our house had a plethora of secrets: the affairs my father had, the girls my older brother got pregnant, the relationship my sister had with her teacher, and don’t get me started on my mother.  I made a promise to myself on my thirteenth birthday that I would never tell anyone anything I learned or was trusted with as a secret.

It didn’t earn me any respect, and it certainly made me an outcast in my own family.  It was why I escaped to go to the university in Pennsylvania.  It was just far enough away from my parents that they wouldn’t land on my doorstep, and I need not worry about my siblings; they care only about themselves.

As for Erica, this whole trip was unwinding like a bad family movie that had everything, with more twists and turns than a best-selling novel.  All we needed was a murder to turn it into fodder for a Hallmark Mystery.

“Your family is far more interesting than mine.  Just having a living, breathing B-grade Hollywood actress who went through the golden years is just mind-blowing.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t all sex, drugs, and alcohol.  She did have to perform.”  And then, after saying it, realised what could be misconstrued.

That story came after a few revelations that I didn’t know about, and which Gran had hidden very well from everyone.  She was not the lonely, tired, old lady one step from a retirement home.  She was very wealthy, if not reclusive, and an active philanthropist.  Or, if her sister was telling the truth, they both were custodians of a trust set up by their father to look after his legacy.  It was not about spending his fortune frivolously but keeping up the good work he started and finding the next generation to keep it going.  That, apparently, wasn’t going to be Gran’s children, or Guinevere’s children.  They were alternately branded as parasites and pathetic excuses for human beings.

It pained me to hear the demolition of my parents and their children, thankfully excluding me, and the children, all ten of them, and her ex-husbands.

And the jewel in the crown of everything they owned, houses, apartments, shopping malls, was the motor vehicle museum in Pasadena, with about a hundred vintage vehicles dating from 1924, built up by grandfather and his father before him.  Cars that were rented for special events, cars that were used in historical movies.  They even had the car, or one exactly like it, that Bogart used in The Maltese Falcon.

My mother knew about some investments.  She knew Gran could not live the way she did in the house that had been in the family for a long, long time.  She did not know about the rest until the publication of the article last week.

But that was the least of the revelations.  The biggest:  that my mother had been calling Guinevere and tried to make use of the funds by asking Guinevere for a loan, a loan she said would be repaid ten times over.  When Guinevere asked her why she hadn’t asked her mother, she simply said all her mother had was the house, and she had apparently had it appraised, and it wasn’t worth much.  She said she was putting up a few million towards a sure thing Jasper had learned about from his friend at school.  He was a computer whiz and had created an app that played the stock market, and the testing had been fantastic.  Returns in two weeks, double in two months, and over time, a small fortune.

It was a bestseller.  They went to market to a large Fortune 500 company but wanted to buy it outright for peanuts, so they decided to market it themselves.  They just needed the seed money.  This was a year ago.  Ten million.  Chump change, Jasper called it.

Guinevere said she would go fifty-fifty; Mom had to put in five.  I knew they didn’t have it, and so did Guinevere.  She had risked a second mortgage on the family home.  Times were tough; sales were slow. The app made money, but nothing like the returns that were promised, and now the company was filing for Chapter 11, and the sure thing was no longer a sure thing.

Had they asked me, I would have said no.  I’m sure Dad would have too.  Now it made sense why she was coming home to see Gran.  In any other circumstances, my mother would never visit other than for Christmas and Thanksgiving.

“Money changes people, Erica,” I said.  “My parents have always traded on appearances, which is why I don’t fit the mould.”

“And yet here we are.  Are you sure you didn’t know any of this?”

“As I sit here, and if you get me a bible, I’ll swear on it.  You said you knew me.  I am that person.  I tell the truth.  Gran would punish me if I didn’t.  The last thing I want is their money, because it makes you responsible for something, and it adds all the worry of looking after it.  I figure if you have nothing, then no one can take it away from you.”

‘We’ve never had money.  I worked long and hard, earning enough to get me to university, and still worked to get by.  I figure if I get a good job, I might be able to travel for a year or so and then worry about the rest of my life.”

“Boyfriends?”

She smiled.  “I have one now.”  She took my hand.  “I don’t regret coming, and I certainly don’t regret being with you.  I’ve been treated better in the last two days than all the time I was with Roger.  He had money, a lot of it, and it changed him.  I can see now he thought he was better than everyone else, an attitude handed to him by his parents.”

“Well, when you see mine tomorrow, you might change your mind.”

“We’ll worry about that tomorrow.  Why did Guinevere put us in separate rooms?”

That was a question I didn’t have an answer for, but perhaps it was not so strange that they were interconnecting rooms.

…

When I woke up two mornings ago and answered the phone, there was no way I could have known that my whole life was about to undergo a radical change.  Not that I knew it two days later when, for the third morning in a row, I woke up next to the most amazing woman, the one.

The moment I woke up that morning, I knew. 

I didn’t know exactly how she felt, but the fact she had not packed her bag and left told me there was room for hope.

That morning was given over to a leisurely breakfast/lunch where everything was on the table for conversation, where stories were told, some true, some not so true, but it didn’t matter; what did was the fractured relationship between two sisters who clearly loved each other more than anything but had not the courage to be the first to let go of a silly feud.

They were as one.  They finished each other’s sentences; they had the same taste in food and clothes, but not men.  Only their father could tell them apart, and they used to torment their mother mercilessly.

Listening to it all, I believed I had found the reason for my discontentment at university.  I was not cut out to be an accountant, a dreary CPA like my father and brothers.  I wanted to be a journalist, a writer, someone who wrote down or wrote about the travails of my great-aunt’s life.  It was a mesmerising story, and as the time neared for my mother’s arrival, Guinevere asked, “You should be doing a course in literature, journalism, or writing, because I can see you’d make a great writer.  In fact, how would you like to write my biography?  Just think about it.  We’ll talk more before I go.”

Then the transformation began, and Guinevere became Gran, and when my mother knocked on the door, it was like watching a Hollywood movie, starting at the door, and ending when my mother walked into the lounge room and saw Gran sitting in her chair. 

It was, as Guinevere said it would be, a fait accompli.

…

Two years later, we were all at the launch of “Larger than Life”, a biography of Guinevere Macreadie.  It had just been released, and it was an instant best seller. 

I was not surprised.  I wrote it, with a lot of help. Guinevere was right.  I was a writer, and as it happened, a good one.  Or so the editor said, and who was I to argue?

My wife was standing beside me in the most amazing gown, something Guinevere had an old friend, a Hollywood dressmaker from the golden years, ‘run up’.  She had just been given the news; we were having twins.  Girls.  No problems with the names; they would inherit their great-grandmother and her twin sister’s names.

Of course, true to our family ‘tradition ’, no event could ever run quite to script. 

Erica’s brother Jasper staggered into the room, drunk, and told everyone that his sister was ruining his wedding.  It was the first time she had heard about it.

I just heard her mutter, “Family!”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026