Dear Reader,

For the past few years, I’ve been quietly building something that has changed not only how I teach creative writing but how I understand the learning and the craft itself.

Once a month, I volunteer at my local library, running a creative writing group for teenagers. It started simply: a small room, a handful of young people, and a shared curiosity about stories. No pressure, no grades just space to write. What I didn’t expect was how much those sessions would shape me.

Teaching forces you to slow down, organise your thoughts, and explain ideas in a way that actually makes sense which is where real understanding happens. The more I share what I know, the more clearly I see it myself, turning knowledge into something lived rather than just learned.

Over two years, I had the privilege of working with some incredible teenagers. They entered competitions, developed their voices, and grew in confidence in ways that were genuinely inspiring to witness. And then, as often happens, they moved on to university, to new chapters of their lives.

It felt like the end of something but also the beginning of something else. Because stepping back forced me to reflect on what we had built, what had worked, and more importantly, what was missing.

One thing became very clear: there were no meaningful, local opportunities for young people to showcase their writing. No sense that their words mattered within their own community. That didn’t sit right with me. So, I started to rethink everything.

I created plan to recreate what was just a space for young people just to write, to become an initiative where young people could have creative writing workshops once a month, have access to the libraries authors and book events and have local opportunities for their work to be published and exhibited. I took the idea to the library, and to my relief, they immediately saw the potential. They didn’t just support it, they got behind it.

Together, we started building something more ambitious. We began forming connections with local partners. Now, that vision is becoming real. This year, we’ll have our first exhibition, showcasing young people’s writing in a public, community space. Something tangible. Something they can point to and say: that’s mine.

What We’re Actually Teaching (and Why It Matters)

As the programme evolved, I became much more intentional about what we were offering, not just as sessions, but as a structured learning experience. At its core, the programme is about helping young people understand how writing works and where they fit within it.

We focus on things like:

• Craft: character, voice, structure, atmosphere

• Confidence: helping young people see themselves as writers

• Reflection: learning to give and receive feedback

• Real-world pathways: understanding how writing exists beyond school

Crucially, it’s not just about writing in isolation. It’s about connecting that writing to the world outside the workshop. And yes a lot of the learning has been influenced by my Creative Writing Master’s course.

Why I Share My Learning for Free

Alongside this, I’ve been sharing what I learn through my Substack, through resources, and through the programme itself. And people often ask why not package it? Why not monetise it?

The truth is simple. Because teaching it is how I learn it.

Every time I explain a writing concept, design a workshop, or break something down for others, I understand it more deeply myself. Running sessions forces clarity. It embeds the learning in a way that passive consumption never could. When you’re working with young writers (who can instantly tell if something feels vague or insincere) you’re pushed to make your thinking sharper, simpler, and more real. I swear my latest assignment is better because of how I had to explain voice and POV to them in our last session.

In a world that is scarily global right now it brings a sense of grounding to be focusing on right now and what I can have an impact on. There is an amazing phrase that is said in the film the film ‘The Constant Gardener’ where one of the characters says to the other “You can’t rescue every child!”

And that character responds “I know that. But I can save this one child.”

Now, I’m not doing anything heroic like in the film (I won’t spoil it, just in case you watch it). But we can forget how much impact our actions have. As any good storyteller will tell you, when we each invest in our own corner, those small actions don’t stay small for long.

What are you doing locally to make your space better? I’d love to know… even if it is only to nick a few ideas.

Speak soon,

Jessica

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Now that I am about a third of the way through my Creative Writing Masters, I’ve found myself returning to old familiar books not for comfort alone, but with curiosity.

I wanted to understand what it is that I genuinely enjoy reading. Not what I admire in theory, not what I feel I should like, but the books that stay with me. The ones I remember. The ones I reread. The ones that shaped my instincts long before I had the language to analyse them.

What I discovered is that my favourite crime novels from Agatha Christie novels and Sherlock Holmes novels, to Amelia Peabody, Brother Cadfael, The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, and The Thursday Murder Club have been teaching me the same lessons all along.

They are not really about murder. They are about people, and the places that shape them.

Crime fiction as a study of community

One of the most striking things about returning to these novels with a writer’s eye is how rarely crime appears as an isolated act. The murder is almost never random. It is the result of something that has been allowed to exist for too long.

These stories are rooted in communities; villages, islands, cloisters, archaeological camps, workplaces where people live alongside one another over years or decades. Small injustices are overlooked. Power imbalances are normalised. Bad behaviour is excused because it would be disruptive to name it. Silence becomes a habit, then a tradition.

Eventually, that silence fails. The crime is not the beginning of the story; it is the moment the community can no longer sustain the lie it has been telling itself.

This is why setting matters so deeply in these novels. Place is not decorative. It is structural. The story could not happen anywhere else, because it grows directly out of the environment social, physical, historical in which it occurs.

Adventure and urgency are very much present

There is a tendency to describe this kind of crime fiction as “quiet,” and while it is often restrained in tone, that does not mean it lacks urgency or adventure.

Some of these novels are actively adventurous. The Amelia Peabody series, in particular, is full of travel, danger, physical risk, archaeological intrigue, and genuine momentum. People are isolated in hostile landscapes. Tempers flare. Bodies are endangered. The stakes can be very real indeed.

What distinguishes these stories is not the absence of action, but where the meaning is located. Even when events are dramatic, the centre of gravity remains human. Action propels the plot, but it is people their loyalties, resentments, fears, and blind spots that give the story its weight.

The clock is always ticking in these novels. It just isn’t always mechanical. Time runs out socially, emotionally, and morally. Pressure builds as truths embedded in people and places become harder to contain.

The environment as a silent character

Another thing that becomes clear on rereading is how often the setting functions as a kind of silent character. Villages remember. Landscapes constrain. Buildings preserve history. Islands trap secrets. Monasteries enforce obedience. Small towns amplify gossip. The environment shapes what people believe is possible and what they believe must never be spoken aloud.

These places exert pressure. They watch. They endure.

When something goes wrong, it feels inevitable not because the plot demands it, but because the place itself has been complicit.

The detectives who notice

My favourite detectives are not action heroes. They do not win because they are the strongest or the most aggressive person in the room. They win because they notice.

They listen carefully. They observe behaviour over time. They understand that people rarely act out of pure malice; they act out of fear, pride, love, resentment, loyalty, or desperation. They also tend to stand slightly apart from the communities they investigate belonging just enough to understand them, but not so completely that they accept everything as normal.

Crucially, these detectives are not infallible. They have blind spots. They misjudge people. They hesitate. And often, solving the case requires them to confront something uncomfortable about themselves as much as about others.

Motive over method

Another consistent pleasure of these novels is that the solution satisfies emotionally before it satisfies intellectually.

When the truth is revealed, it feels right. Not because the mechanics are flashy, but because the motive finally makes sense. The reader understands not just how the crime was committed, but why it was allowed to happen at all.

The lingering question is rarely “How did they do it?”
It is “Why did no one stop this sooner?”

What I am taking forward as a writer

Returning to these books during my Masters has been clarifying. They remind me that the stories I love most, trust the reader. They value attention, patience, and emotional intelligence. They create urgency without spectacle, comfort without denial, and resolution without pretending that nothing has been lost.

They show that crime fiction can be adventurous, gripping, and deeply humane all at once and that setting, community, and character are not separate concerns, but parts of the same engine.

These novels have stayed with me not because of their plots alone, but because they understand something enduring about people: that what we choose to ignore is often more dangerous than what we confront.

And that feels like a lesson worth relearning.

What are your favourite books, or do you have any crime recommendations?

Speak soon,

Jessica

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This feels like a big moment to share.

This year, I made a promise to myself to be braver with my work. Not just in writing it but in sharing it. In sending it to agents. In allowing it to be seen. In admitting that this story matters to me, and that I want it to find a home.

And now, it’s starting to feel real, so this feels like the right time to share the beginning of that journey with you. Today, I’m sharing the first three chapters of The Assistant’s Notebook. I’d genuinely love to hear what you think, your reactions, your questions, what stayed with you. This Substack has always been about what I’m learning as I go, and right now I’m learning how to let go a little, how to trust the work, and how to invite others into it.

I also want to take a moment to say thank you. To everyone who has read earlier drafts, offered feedback, encouraged me, or simply listened while I tried to figure this story out, you’ve been part of this book in ways you might not even realise.

This is me, being brave (or at least trying to be) and I’m really glad you’re here for it.

Speak soon,

Jessica

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Chapter 1

The sirens had started after lunch, and they hadn’t stopped since. One at first, then another, then a whole choir of them, sharp and insistent, like the city was trying to cough something up. DCI Nora Russo didn’t believe in hauntings. Not of places, or people, or time. But she knew when something had shifted. The world may have reopened, but the silence hadn’t left. It lingered in the corners of things. On door handles, in lift buttons, in the space between two people passing on a pavement. An echo from the second lockdown, long after the rules were gone.

She worked through her case notes alone, having sent the team home early. This was her first case back, and she wanted the quiet; to reset, to get back on top of the paperwork, to find her rhythm again. It was a simple one, thankfully. Nothing dramatic. Nothing high-profile. Just a John Doe found in Admirals Park.

Kate had said it felt “off.” She always did. A kind of prickling at the edges of things.
Nora had dismissed it at the time. Logic first. Always.

By the time the clock crept toward six, she had finally organised her case files into neat piles, each one marked with colour-coded sticky notes for follow-ups. She stood back, arms crossed, surveying her handiwork. Her eyes landed on a pink note: Identifying victim.

The grainy, black-and-white photo of a nameless man stared back at her. John Doe. No ID. No records. Just a collection of mundane, oddly specific items: loose change, string, and an old toy unicorn. How does someone vanish in the digital age?

Still, so far, so good. She had kept her promise to herself: Handle something straightforward. No drama. No chaos. Just a clean, manageable case to rebuild her confidence and remind both herself and everyone else, that she belonged here.

She slung her rucksack over her shoulder, ready to call it a day. As she passed the front desk, she caught snippets of conversation, something about an industrial estate… a poor constable… She hesitated for half a second. No, she was done for the day.

Or she would’ve been, if Ronald bloody Fitzgerald hadn’t intercepted her at the door as if summoned by the scent of her near escape.

Commissioner Fitzgerald. Unpleasant in every possible way: professionally smug, personally damp, and inconveniently above her in authority. He had a talent for showing up exactly where he wasn’t wanted. Like mould. Or local politics.

He mimicked other people’s ideas and passed them off as his own, punctuating sentences with performative little grunts. He chewed on his glasses not absentmindedly, but with the intensity of a man trying to solve them.

There was always a glisten at the corner of his mouth. Always.

Nora knew too much about him. More than any woman should know about her superior officer. The beer lectures. The hollow self-deprecation. Where tequila had blurred out all of his flaws. Leaving just enough charm to make a mistake seem like a good idea. Like any one night stand, it was followed by actual regret… particularly when he walked into her station only a few weeks later as her new boss.

Now here he was, glasses halfway into his mouth like a pacifier, blocking the door.

“Nora, Nora. Good to catch you,” he said, voice muffled by plastic. “Got a fresh one. Murder on Beeches Drive. Funeral parlour’s storage unit. Uniform found a body bit of a shock. First corpse.”

That was less than ten miles from her current crime scene. Damn feelings.

“Where was the body found, sir?”

“In a coffin.”

Nora blinked. “I’m sorry?” There was no way she’d heard that correctly. A coffin was exactly where one expected to find a body. Unlike the poor soul she had been dealing with earlier.

“Storage unit belonged to a funeral parlour,” Fitzgerald clarified. “Owner keeps spare coffins there. Very distressed about the body. Also unhappy about losing access while the investigation’s ongoing. Would be great if we could, you know… expedite things.”

Ah. There it was.

Nora stood still. Polite. Perplexed. Since when did Fitzgerald make suggestions?

“The funeral director’s a neighbour and close friend of the Chief of Police, Chief Constable Abbeton.”

Of course he is. Probably a Mason, too. Nora resisted a sigh, already bracing for the next line.

“So, as it’s quite an important case, I thought I’d put your team on it. Yes?”

“I’ve just started a case, sir.”

“Yes, yes…” A dismissive wave of the glasses followed.

God, she hated it when he did that.

When Fitzgerald first arrived, she’d felt a brief flicker of pity. It lasted all of five minutes, right up until he opened his mouth. What began as dislike had hardened into something closer to loathing.

She was about to push back when she noticed it. His gaze had drifted slightly past her.

Without turning, she knew there had to be a laminated poster or a reflective surface behind her. Just big enough for him to admire himself in. She exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

“Well, maybe we can adjust resources,” Fitzgerald said, waving his glasses again as though they were some kind of official stamp. “And I’ve been made aware this’ll be a fairly open-and-closed case. Homeless chap, right? Could give it to one of the newer officers. Hmm?”

Even as he spoke, Nora’s mind drifted. The Carmichaels. She’d scrawled something on a green sticky note that morning, odd dynamics. But what had felt off?

Her gut tugged. Something unfinished.

She was about to argue when…
Wave, wave.
The glasses flicked through the air again. Best not speak at all.

“We can work out the details later,” Fitzgerald said, sliding the glasses neatly back into his mouth.

Nora inhaled through her nose, forcing herself into polite detachment. Her nod was automatic. Professional. Non-confrontational.

Meanwhile, her mind was racing. This was not the gentle return she’d hoped for.

“I understand, sir. I’ll reassign some of my team to keep the John Doe case on track and start on this new one. I’ll head to the crime scene shortly.” The words came out crisp. Even she was surprised by her own composure. Well done, Nora.

With the new case file shoved into her rucksack, she strode out of the station.

The late hour did nothing to ease the chaos in her mind or the hunger in her stomach. She had barely noticed it all day, but now it made itself known with a deep, hollow grumble.

“Another case,” she muttered, unlocking the car. “Plus, a discount for friends and family. How lovely.”

Her stomach growled again, almost in tune with her growing irritation. The cool evening air was a sharp contrast to the stuffy station, offering a fleeting sense of relief. Shoving a hand into her pocket, she pulled out her phone and dialled. “Kate, it’s Nora. We’ve been assigned a high-profile case, a murder on Hill’s industrial estate. I’ll collect you and brief you enroute.” She ended the call with a sharp click, her jaw tight with frustration.

Slamming the car door, she turned the key harder than necessary. “Damn feelings.”

The drive was mercifully uneventful. Outside, the city was shifting from day to night, its edges softening in the deepening blues and purples of the sky. The colours mirrored the slow, creeping resignation settling over her. Her first day back, and already, the chaos had found her. As Nora drove, her thoughts lingered on the John Doe case.

Had he simply lost his footing, his worn, gripless shoes no match for the icy conditions this late in autumn? It seemed the most logical explanation. A report awaited her tomorrow. Pathology might confirm it a tragic accident, nothing more. Yet, as the streetlights flickered across her windshield, doubt crept in.

The details refused to sit neatly.

The injury on his forehead.
The peculiar unicorn toy.

“Damn feelings.” Was she overlooking something essential?

The world blurred past her, a series of vanishing tricks each building, each tree disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. It left her with the same disjointed feeling she had about the case. She pulled up outside Kate’s apartment, letting the engine idle softly as she waited.

Inside the car, the dashboard lights cast a dim glow, illuminating the furrow in her brow as she glanced at the scene photos scattered across the passenger seat. What was she missing? What was making her gut insist something was off?

Kate slid into the car, her expression clouded, lost in her own thoughts. Nora closed her mouth before the words left it. The sight of a subdued Kate instantly killed the lecture about her damn feelings that had been sitting on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she silently handed her the case file and pulled back onto the road. She stole a few glances at Kate whenever she could.

She’d deal with it tomorrow. For now, they had enough on their plate. Literally. They had two cases. Some first day back.

The crunch of gravel underfoot broke the heavy silence as they stepped out of the car. Both adjusted their jackets against the chill, checked their badges, and prepped their gear. As they neared the scene, Sam stepped over, adjusting his uniform. “Fitzgerald’s really going for it today. That John Doe got a name yet?”

“No.” Nora perched on the boot of the car, slipping on her shoe coverings. Avoiding eye contact with him, sometimes reduced her annoyance. Sam had been on Nora’s team for just over three years, having passed his detective constable assessments, and these days, he only irritated her about 25% of the time. A typical Essex lad through and through; cocky, sharp-witted, and just about kept in line by his missus at home. And, of course, now by Nora.

She glanced over still seeing him standing next to her, rather than just getting on with the job she knew Detective Inspector George Tshume would have assigned him.

“Constable Jones!” She signalled to the crime scene.

A beat of silence. “Sorry, boss. I’ll crack on.” And with that, he was off. “Good to have you back, Ma’am,” he said over his shoulder.

The crime scene was already buzzing with activity. Off to the side, a paramedic quietly attended to a young officer likely the one who had discovered the body. His face was pale, his hands slightly trembling. Nora knew the look. The first body you ever saw in this job was always a shock. You knew it might happen. Yet somehow, the actual moment always blindsided you. It hit you before you even realised you were in shock.

As Nora approached the police tape, she called over to the young officer, “You good?”

In response, he managed a simple thumbs up a feeble attempt at steadiness. She turned toward the unit but caught Kate smirking to herself. Nora narrowed her eyes. Oh no. “What.”

Kate shrugged, too innocent, too casual, “Uh, nothing. Just… in all our years of friendship, I think your face when Fitzgerald walked in as our new Commissioner is honestly one of my favourites.”

Nora exhaled through her nose, “You’re an idiot.”

“You’re the one who slept with Fitzgerald.”

A low blow. Nora almost stopped walking. Instead, she turned sharply. Fine. If we’re doing this, “So, are you going to talk about what’s up with you, or keep using my year old mistake as a pastime?”

“Ten months, actually.” Kate shot her a sideways glance. “But who’s counting… Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Fine. Suit yourself.” Nora pressed forward toward the barricade tape, her cheeks warming from the cold or from Kate’s little reminder, she wasn’t sure. The storage unit loomed before them, cloaked in shadows and dim light. The air was thick with dust, sawdust, old varnish, an unsettling mix that clung to the walls.

Forensic technicians moved carefully, silent but efficient, weaving through coffins and cluttered shelves, their presence marked by the soft clicking of cameras and rustling of evidence bags. As Nora stepped inside, she could immediately see why the young officer outside was still shaken.

A young woman. Sequined costume. The fabric of her costume soaked the blood up, the once-gleaming sequins now a macabre contrast of sparkle and ruin. But that wasn’t what bothered Nora the most. It was the way she had been placed in the coffin. The precise positioning of her hands. The frozen expression of horror on her face.

“Any ID on the victim yet?”

A forensic officer turned, handing Nora a laminated show pass retrieved from the victim’s handbag, “We found this.”

As the forensic officer handed over the laminated show pass, a flicker of relief washed over Nora. She extended her hand, and the officer placed the plastic card in her palm. She turned it over, examining its design and embossed lettering. Rebekah Moore-Magician’s Assistant. The photo on the pass showed a smiling young woman bright eyes, a hopeful expression. Nora glanced back at the lifeless body in the coffin. The contrast was stark.

“That’s her, isn’t it.” Her voice was flat, more statement than question. Her gaze flicked between the photo and the body, connecting the two. Rebekah Moore. The name brought a wave of sadness. She was so young. “Our victim is Rebekah Moore,” Nora called out.

Kate nodded, already pulling out her phone to start the procedural tasks, her fingers moving quickly as she delegated jobs to the arriving team. The forensic officer continued, her gloved hands gesturing toward the victim’s neck.

“No obvious signs of a struggle just this.”

Nora’s eyes tracked the wounds, deep and rugged across her neck.

“We’ll know more once we get her back to the lab.”

“What do we know about her?” Nora called over her shoulder.

“Only child. Both parents alive and well. No criminal records,” Sam recited, his eyes flicking between the tablet in his hand and the victim’s body. He wasn’t good around bodies. For all his Essex bravado, he was still a sensitive soul. Nora just hoped he could hold onto that for as long as possible. He’d lose it eventually. They all did. She just hoped the job wouldn’t get to him too quickly.

Kate let out a low whistle, “High social media following. She was quite an influencer,” she said, scrolling through her phone. Then, her expression shifted. “And guess who she worked for.”

Kate turned the screen toward Nora. A photo of Rebekah, beaming in her sequined costume, standing next to Michael Carmichael. Their witness from earlier.

“Send it to Alice and Zarak, see what else they can get on her. And let the commissioner know about the potential link and who our victim is.” Nora looked down at the lifeless girl, exhaling slowly. Some first case back.

She turned to Sam, “I need you to contact this morning’s forensic lead. Tell Stuart and Paul we might have a link between these two cases: time, location, and our witness. There are coincidences… and then there’s this.” She gestured around the gloomy warehouse, the weight of it settling in, “Apart from being her employer, we need to dig deeper into their relationship.” Nora stood beside the coffin, already feeling the gravity of the case pressing down on her shoulders.

Such a beautiful young woman. What a waste.

Nora sighed and checked her watch. Her first day back, and already she was pushing a twelve-hour shift. The weight of it pressed against her temples, but she knew the hardest part still lay ahead.

The silence came next. It always did, a dome of stillness swallowing the air, pressing in on her chest. Her team had fallen quiet, their fatigue heavy enough to anchor the room. Nora knew this hush well. The calm before the storm. The shared grief before they had to deliver the words that would shatter someone’s world.

The next of kin.

God, she hated that part. It gnawed at her, wore her down in a way nothing else could. No amount of experience hardened you to it. Each time, it stole something more from her. And yet, there she was again, bracing herself to speak the words no one ever wanted to hear.

“Alright, folks. Let these guys do their thing. We should all go home, get some sleep.” She turned to Kate. “Can you get hold of the family liaison officer for when we go over to inform them?”

Kate nodded, pulling her phone from her back pocket, “We’re not telling them tonight?”

Nora turned to Sam, “Did she live with her parents?”

He glanced at his tablet, then shook his head. Nora looked down at Rebekah one last time, “Let’s give them one last night of peaceful sleep. It’ll be the last one they get for a long time.”

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Chapter 2

Felicity

No one thinks they’re the villain. We are all masters of justification. With the right mindset, you can explain away anything. Any action. Any behaviour. Any deed. Even murder.
Try it.
The rationalising, I mean. Not the murder. Naturally.

Take marriage, for example. They say every marriage has its secrets. Mine hides a monster. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’ve found secrets are easier to carry when you have someone to confide in. I’m not sure when I started talking to you, silent one. You’re like journaling, but without the page. The audiobook version. One he’ll never hear.

But one thing I am certain of: there’s no preparation for the moment you realise the person you love is the one you should fear. It doesn’t hit all at once. It creeps in, like a splinter working its way deeper under the skin. At first, it’s just an irritation. A faint sting you convince yourself you can ignore.

But then comes the fall.

Falling in love, falling apart, falling face-first onto a cold bathroom floor. It’s all the same in the end. The moment before impact is almost worse than the fall itself. You see it coming, but you can’t stop it.

I remember the sound the tile made when my head hit the floor. The silence after was even louder.

Love lifts you; grief drags you down, but both offer the same mercy: madness.

Am I mad? Maybe. Recent life events may have pushed me over the edge. But can you honestly tell me you’ve never escaped into your own mind?

But if there is anyone or anything out there listening… Forgive me. Help me. For I am trapped in the invisible veil, caught between the world’s stage and the unknown audience watching my life unfold.

Nothing.

As always, you answer me with nothing.

I suppose you’re doing your role correctly, but a round of applause now and again wouldn’t go amiss. I never meant for it to become like this… speaking to an unseen confidant.

Yet here you are, born out of necessity, an invisible thread woven from my solitude and survival. You know everything, the things I dare not whisper. Together, in this quiet communion, we share a truth too dangerous to acknowledge aloud. Our marriage has created a monster.

My face still stinging from said bathroom floor, I stare out the window, trying to catch my thoughts before they slip away.

I am cold.

The scent of my coffee drifts up from the side table.

Probably cold now too.

Here, secluded in the supposed sanctuary of my bedroom, I look out through the glass at the world beyond. Life continues without me. A white tent. Figures in forensic suits moving like ghosts through crime scene tape from yesterday’s murder. No not murder, just a body. Their movements careful, deliberate. Detached.

The sting at my cheek pulls me back into the moment.
Give Michael his due he didn’t hit me. Not really. He just shouted. I fell. I’d taken a long shower that morning, trying to wash away the heaviness clinging to me. When I stepped out, still fogged in steam and numbness, he was just there. Shouting. Loud and sudden. The shock of it made me stumble backward, into the door, then the floor.

I told you… rock bottom.

As ever, afterward, he softened. He brought me here, handed me a towel, set his coffee beside me like a gift.
Generous as ever, Michael.

How long have I been sitting here?
The cold has crept into my legs. I bet the bed is wet now.
Shit. I only changed the bedding yesterday.

I know I need to step back into that world, the one with the white-suited ghosts. But I don’t want to. Watching them only makes me want it less. The world beyond the window feels entirely different now.

“Felicity?” Michael’s voice, low and familiar, comes from behind me. He steps into my line of vision, “You should put some ice on that.”

Aww, that’s nice. See, this is why…

“Don’t want people to start asking questions.”

Never mind.

Michael’s hand, gently holding the ice pack to my cheek, bears a faded scar. It’s hard to walk away from someone you think you understand better than they understand themselves. Watching him on stage performing, I see a different Michael. Confident. Charismatic. The kind of man who makes people lean forward, hang on every word. A far cry from the boy he once was. That transformation pulls me in every time. Always has.

Granted, his temper was an unexpected extra when I first met the famous Michael Carmichael. But I know what lies beneath the act. No one else does. And knowing someone that deeply, including their darkest places, that feels like a privilege. Like a secret I’ve earned. It makes me feel… chosen. Special.

Yes, I know how that sounds. But I know you get it.

I take the ice pack from him, pressing it against my cheek. The handsome bastard in front of me, dressed in a light grey three-piece suit, looks as though he’s just stepped out of a fashion editorial, not merely beginning his day. His dark hair, perfectly styled as always, complements his tall, athletic frame. He’s the kind of man who turns heads wherever he goes.

And sometimes, I catch myself wondering I’ll never find anyone like him. It’s maddening, wanting someone who makes you flinch. But I still do. That’s the worst part. And that… that alone keeps me here. Despite everything.

He sticks out his bottom lip, as if on the verge of sharing some deep philosophical insight. But all that comes out of his mouth is, “You’re making the bed wet.”

I hold in a sigh.

“I shall get dressed and sort out the bedding after,” I say, standing.

“No.” Firm hands are placed on my shoulders, guiding me back into the bed, “Keep the ice on it for five more minutes. Then get dressed and sort out the bedding.”

“I’m cold.”

“Well, maybe if you weren’t so clumsy, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” His eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, just a moment, I feel ridiculous for even thinking… Had he? No. No, of course not.

But the memory was too raw, and I was too tired to edit the events.

I lower the ice pack and look up at him. For a moment, his eyes flicked away, the confident façade cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of shame. He cleared his throat, adjusted his tie. His gaze dropped. Not quite an apology. But I’d take it.

After a beat, Michael leaned in and brushed my hair from my shoulder, pressing a kiss to my skin. “I do love you. You know that.”

Why did it hurt when he said that? I just smiled and nodded. Best to leave well enough alone.

“My beautiful wife,” he murmured. “How did I get so fortunate?”

I let him kiss me. Let him hold me. And I thought, what a beautiful love story ours could be, if you just omitted all the seasonal affairs. Maybe I’d bask in his light a little longer.

Michael pulled back slightly, watching me, “Why don’t we get away for a bit?” he said softly. “Just the two of us. We’ve earned it this year.” He gave me a small, knowing smile, “LA? I saw you reading that National Geographic on California. Hell, we could do the whole coast if you like.”

I blinked, caught off guard.

Michael chuckled. His eyes lit with quiet amusement. “Did I guess what you were thinking, my love?” he asked. His voice was smooth. Intentional. “You know I’ll always protect you. Cherish you. Your needs are my needs.” Soft words. Well-rehearsed. He kissed me again, murmuring sweet promises. Hopeful nothings. As if whispering them often enough might make them true.

I don’t know if what we did could be called making love. It felt deeper than that like I was offering him my soul, piece by piece. It was his way of apologising. Of making amends for his wandering ways. And I let him. Tears slipped down my face. Michael kissed them away. But no amount of tenderness could banish the monster in the room.

Afterwards, he dressed. And I just lay there numb to it all. Then my gaze drifted back to the window. Eventually I rose, reaching for the fresh blouse folded neatly on the chair. As I pulled it over my head, my mind betrayed me, dragging me back to yesterday. To her.

The woman at the door.

She hadn’t looked like a detective, not in the way you expect. There was no ironed collar, no polished shoes, no cool apologetic professionalism.

She stood on our path as if she’d been summoned from the underworld, her presence impossible to ignore. She was all sharp angles and tangled hair, her wild mane whipping around her face like it’s trying to escape. Her clothes, layers of dark fabric knotted and twisted in defiance, clinging to her like an afterthought. She moved with the jittery energy of someone teetering on the edge, her arms flailing as if she’s wrestling invisible demons or maybe just herself. Something about her… that unsettling mix of chaos and defiance, making her look like Bellatrix Lestrange had clawed her way out of Azkaban and stumbled straight into my street.

But there was a focus in her that unnerved me. Like she could see through things not just into them, but beyond them. Through the mirrors we hold up for protection.

She looked at Michael like she had already unpicked his story. She looked at me… like I was a missing jigsaw piece. Not lost. Misplaced.

And I think I could have hated her for that.

“I am going to make breakfast, I am sure I can remember how to whip up some eggs,” Michael had said, but by then my mind had already gone again, back in that moment, watching her boots sink slightly into our garden soil as she stepped through the gate.

She didn’t ask for permission. She didn’t need to.

I shake the thought of her off like a chill. Just a detective. Part of the process. Nothing to be afraid of.

Still, I reach for the warmer blouse.

Routine. I wake up. Make a double espresso. Drink half. He finishes it. I shower. He showers while I make breakfast. He comes downstairs, talks at me about new show ideas. Maybe he comments on what I’m wearing. The first real conversation I have in the day is usually with the postman. He asks about Michael’s latest show. I ask about his kids. And then the cycle repeats. No wonder Michael has affairs. Even I’m bored by me.

But Michael was always committed to the performance. Gracefully, he extended his hand, just as he had thousands of times before onstage, coaxing volunteers into his illusions. An accomplice. A willing participant.

With the same hesitance as a fly approaching a Venus flytrap, I placed my hand in his. A chill crawled up my spine. I had just agreed to something. What that was, only time would tell.

The morning was perfect. Michael sat across from me, stirring his tea with lazy, absent circles. For once, he seemed calm; no sharp words, no instructions barked out like orders. Just... normal.

He asked if I’d seen the article about that old bookstore in Chelmsford closing.

“Shame,” he said with a faint smile. “I know you liked it.”

He’d remembered! A memory that didn’t hurt, a memory that wasn’t twisted or weaponized later. Just something simple and kind. Then he cracked a joke, and I laughed. Really laughed. Not the strained chuckle I usually gave to keep the peace, but something real, something that rose up from inside me before I could stop it. For a moment, the weight of everything else vanished. The guardedness, the tension … they slipped away.

For that one moment, I forgot myself. Forgot what I’d grown used to. Forgotten. Just like that. But when my laughter faded, I caught him watching me, a look that lingered too long, like he was seeing something he didn’t quite recognize. Something he wasn’t sure he liked.

Then the phone rang.

His face hardened as he answered. “Yeah... no, tell them tomorrow... yes, urgent.” The warmth evaporated. His voice was cold, clipped. A sigh. A curse. Without a word to me, he took the phone into the other room, shutting the door behind him.

I sat there, still holding my mug, the air around me thick and sharp. If it mattered, he’d tell me.

Wouldn’t he?

Taking a slow sip as I studied my kitchen with fresh eyes. My life was… very dull. How minimalist could you get, really? Maybe I could paint the kitchen. Green?

Michael’s voice rose from the other room, sharp and edged with frustration, “…Just find her, and I will agree to a settlement rather than lose the whole damn show! God knows we could do without this scandal.”

The tea in my hands suddenly felt heavier. I set my redecorating plans aside. Being exciting could wait. Right now, minimalist was better. Safer. I poured myself another cup of tea.

Michael came back into the kitchen, his mood shifting like a storm rolling in. I had seen this before. So many times. I did what I always did … sipped my tea, counted the acts, breathed through it. I have even started timing them.

Michael must have caught my glance because he followed my line of sight to the dent in the fridge from a previous episode, then sighed and shook his head, “I am sorry for that, my darling,” he said, his voice softer now. “And my mood has nothing to do with us. Well… not entirely.”

I didn’t respond. Michael’s hand dragged across his face, preparing himself, “I need to talk to you about something. And it’s not going to be easy for me.”

Ah. The performance begins. If Michael had been respectful or even observant, he would have realised this dramatic prelude was entirely unnecessary. Because I had already turned my emotions off. The shell was in place. It was like watching my life from the outside, like being a third person in my own marriage. A survival skill I had learned three years in and never looked back.

Michael pulled out a chair, sitting beside me, “That was Alex on the phone.”

A pause.

“Rebekah didn’t turn up for work today.”

I said nothing. I waited.

“And I have a pretty good idea why.” Michael exhaled, shaking his head, “I’m sorry to tell you this, my love, but Rebekah was blackmailing me about some of my affairs.”

There it was. The usual and unexplainable jealousy crept up me like a coiled thing, the smoke before the pantomime villain enters.

“And the other night, I refused to give in.” He leaned forward slightly, gauging my reaction, “She didn’t take it well. Which might be why she hasn’t turned up to work today.”

It didn’t add up. I put down my cup and looked at him across the table, “No.”

A simple word. Michael’s head lifted, his brows furrowing in confusion. I realised then he wasn’t used to me contradicting him. “There’s more to the story than that.”

Michael’s expression barely shifted, but I saw it the flicker of irritation beneath the surface.

“Rebekah knew your history,” I continued, my voice even. “And she was a self-sufficient woman. You refusing to pay her wouldn’t stop her coming to work. If anything, it would have made her do the opposite.”

A pause.

“She’s a bigger threat being around.”

Michael’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, “Now, now, darling, let’s leave playing detective to that drab little woman who came around the other day.” He took a slow sip of his tea, watching me, “Come on, little mouse. Isn’t turning a woman’s advances down enough?”

I tilted my head, studying him, “I thought you said it was blackmail?”

“I did, but it wasn’t for money.”

He has got to be joking. Surely. Do I look like a complete idiot? Actually, given recent events, let’s not answer that question.

“I love you. I won’t let anyone come between us.”

A laugh bubbled in my chest before I could stop it. I shifted to stand, desperate to remove myself from this conversation before the laugh escaped. But before I could move, I felt his hand on top of mine. The laughter died. And my stomach dropped. Had he noticed? Michael never usually noticed.

“Fine, there’s a little more information I should give you a heads-up about.”

I didn’t react, but inside, I was already bracing for the next lie.

“When we...”

Oh. Interesting. We. Yes, silent one, I noticed the change in pronoun.

“When we decided to bring things to an end, she informed me she was going to take my affairs to the press.”

I sat perfectly still, waiting. There was always more.

“The reason she’s taking it to the press isn’t just to expose me it’s because she wants to take the show we created to another theatre. With her at the centre, rather than assisting.” His voice turned bitter. “It’s just outrageous.”

I gave a small nod, processing.

“My darling, you’re in shock. Is there anything I can do?”

I stopped nodding. Like a dashboard trinket caught mid-motion. You could start by keeping it in your bloody trousers, I wanted to say. To scream. To throw his tea in his face, wipe that smug, performative guilt off his expression. But let’s not open that door. We don’t know what would come out. “So, what’s the plan?”

Michael leaned closer, pressing a deliberate kiss to my forehead. His usual script resumed. A carefully crafted monologue about: How lucky he was to have me, how we had to get ahead of the press before Rebekah did, how he knew he’d done wrong, but we could fix this together.

I let the words wash over me. A looped recording I’d heard before. Something inside me shifted. A reaction I hadn’t expected. I was going to scream. Not in frustration not even in pain but in something primal. Louder than anything I’d ever said to him before. The rage bubbled up, thick and boiling, pressing against my ribs.

Breathe. Switch it off. Focus.

But I was too far gone.

I jumped up from the breakfast table, heart hammering, lungs burning. Michael’s voice followed me, some honeyed reassurance, but I couldn’t hear it. I barely made it to the kitchen sink before I threw up my breakfast.

When the panic-fury finally subsided, I rinsed my mouth and stood up, exhaling a shallow sigh. I could feel Michael about to speak again. Another apology. Another explanation. I lifted a hand weak, trembling, almost pleading. “Please, enough…” The words were barely breath a warning as I fought to keep control. Without another word or glance, I turned and walked out of the room.

He wasn’t upset over the lies, the cheating, the betrayal. No. For the first time, Michael was experiencing betrayal himself. And it wasn’t about me. The idea of Rebekah taking his limelight, his stage, his audience that was what had wounded him. Good.

But then…

A horrible thought formed. The air in my lungs felt thin, cold. I turned and shouted down the corridor, “When is it coming out in the papers?”

Michael appeared in the doorway, his expression shifting. Hesitation. A slight shake of his head. He didn’t know. I nodded again, turning on my heel. I walked past him, straight to the kitchen. I reached for my phone.

“What are you doing?” His voice was quick, alarmed.

I didn’t look up, “I’m calling my mum.”

Michael tensed, “Why?”

“Because this is going to be a big deal in the papers if she’s using it for free publicity. I’d rather Mum hears it from me first than read it in the papers.”

Michael exhaled sharply, irritation flickering across his face, “You know your mum doesn’t like me anyway. So why bother? And speaking to her isn’t going to fix the situation now. She just makes you more stressed and … “

I pressed dial before he could finish. Michael stopped talking.

“Hi, Mum… yes, I’m okay, thank you...” My voice was light. Perky. A polished performance. “Yes, I know it’s been a while. You know how things get when creating a show…”

Michael watched me from across the room, arms folded, lips drawn tight.

“Listen, Mum,” I said into the phone, each word smooth, composed. “There’s going to be a bit of fuss in the papers, and I just wanted you to hear it from me first.” It was effortless. Familiar. Like brushing lint from a jacket. Damage control disguised as tenderness.

And still, the hollowness inside me remained. We’d eaten breakfast. We’d laughed. We’d made love. The morning had been perfect. But perfect isn’t peace. It’s precision. It’s choreography. And I’m tired of hitting my marks.

Sometimes I wonder what it would take to catch him off guard. Just once. To watch that slick composure falter. To see him stunned. Small. Human.

Till death do us part.

And suddenly, I wasn’t sure if that was a promise. Or a plan.

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Chapter 3

The transition from city centre to countryside was surprisingly smooth, the road unfurling like a ribbon through the landscape. As they pulled up to a large house at the edge of Ongar, Nora found herself mulling over an odd thought. Why would a young girl with money and opportunity choose to become a magician’s assistant? Chelmsford wasn’t exactly Las Vegas.

The house was chic and spacious, its cream walls and modern design giving off an air of welcoming luxury. The layout spoke of a family that enjoyed entertaining; large, open spaces designed for laughter, for guests, for life. And soon it would sit hollow. Gutted and gasping in the suffocating quiet that follows unimaginable loss.

Nora took one step toward the front door; and the air shifted. It was so subtle at first, she almost missed it. The sky brightened, the gravel cracked faintly under her shoes, and then everything started pressing in at once. The space. The silence. The overwhelming weight of what waited behind that door.

Her fingers tingled. Her chest grew tight. She knew this rhythm. The cold flush beneath her skin, the quickening of her breath, the hard blink against a gathering wave. Not here. Not now.

She turned slightly, pretending to adjust her coat. One hand gripped the car door, the other braced her hip. A long breath in. Count to four. Hold.

Kate noticed. Of course she did. But instead of speaking, she shifted her body slightly closer, just enough to be present. Just enough to remind Nora she wasn’t alone.

The worst of it passed. Not gone, but leashed.

Nora straightened. “Let’s go,” she said, voice even, and stepped forward before it could start again.

Paulene Moore answered the door with the kind of polite composure that came just before detonation. She was wearing makeup but it had started to slide, cracking at the edges. Her cardigan sleeves were rolled unevenly, as if she’d pushed them up in haste and forgotten.

Andrew Moore stood behind her, taller, broader, a little more intact. But not by much.

“Mrs Moore. Mr Moore. I’m DCI Nora Russo, and this is DI Kate Anderson. May we come in?”

Paulene stepped aside without speaking. Andrew followed silently.

The hallway was pristine. Vacuum lines in the carpet. The faint scent of lavender polish. A home that didn’t yet know it was a crime scene by proximity.

They led them into the kitchen. Chairs scraped gently. A mug sat steaming on the counter, untouched. Probably made by instinct. Nora waited for the right second. There was always a right second. She hated knowing that.

She spoke slowly. Measured. “I imagine you’ve heard something already,” she said. “There’s been a lot of chatter this morning, on the local news, social media, all of it.”

Paulene gave the smallest nod. Andrew didn’t move.

Nora took a breath. “A body was found early this morning at a warehouse site in Chelmsford. I’m afraid that we’ve now confirmed the identity of the young woman. Based on personal effects and preliminary forensic work... it is your daughter, Rebekah.”

Paulene didn’t move.

Andrew blinked. Once. Then again.

Nora continued, gently, “We’re so sorry.”

Kate sat forward, hands folded in her lap. Present but not intrusive. Her version of comfort.

Paulene’s mouth opened, then closed. She pressed both palms against the table, steadying herself like she was bracing for aftershocks. Andrew turned away whether from them or from his own tears, Nora didn’t know.

“I know this is impossible to process right now,” Nora said. “We’re here to support you through it. We’ll walk you through what happens next when you’re ready.”

The silence that followed was enormous. Heavy with the sound of grief beginning.

Then Paulene whispered, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Nora said simply.

It was the only word that ever made it real.

Nora waited a beat, then continued, steady, but gentle. “We found identification on her, cards, a licence. Her clothing matched descriptions you gave, and there was a birthmark behind her right ear. We’re waiting on full forensic confirmation, but at this point… there’s no reason to doubt it’s Rebekah.”

Neither parent spoke, but something shifted, a slight deflation, as if the last thread of hope had been cut.

“When you’re ready, we can arrange a formal identification. You won’t be expected to do that alone.”

Paulene gave a barely perceptible shake of the head. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“I also need to let you know that a Family Liaison Officer will be assigned to you today,” Nora said. “They’ll be your point of contact going forward; updates, support, anything you need.”

Andrew nodded. Once. Slow. Mechanical.

“I know this is an impossible moment,” Nora added, “but anything you remember could help. When was the last time either of you spoke to her?”

Paulene blinked like she hadn’t heard. Then: “Two nights ago. She Face Timed me after her show.”

“She say where she was going after?”

“She said she had plans,” Paulene murmured. “Something low-key. But she was smiling. She seemed… excited.”

Nora let that settle before moving on. “At some point, we may need access to her phone or laptop, her social media just to help us understand the full picture. But that can wait.”

Paulene made a sound, half gasp, half sob and staggered back, as if the air itself had turned solid. Her hand flew to her mouth, then dropped, then clenched, grasping at something that wasn’t there.

Andrew didn’t move at first. Then, as if hit by an invisible force, he turned and pressed both hands against the kitchen wall, bracing himself. His breath came in short, fractured bursts. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just jagged. Helpless.

Paulene drifted toward the dining area and lowered herself into a chair, her movements mechanical and slow, like someone much older than she was. Then she folded in on herself. A sound tore from her chest, not a scream, not a sob, but something older than either. Primal. Private. The sound of a world ending. Nora stayed still, giving the grief its space.

Silence fell. Thick. Absolute.

Then, with quiet purpose, Kate turned and filled the kettle. The routine was automatic. People needed tea. Not to drink, rarely that but for something to hold. Something warm in a world that had just gone cold.

The hiss of boiling water broke the stillness. Cups were placed gently on the counter. Milk. Sugar. Ritual in the face of ruin.

Without speaking, Andrew joined Paulene at the dining table. They sat at opposite ends of the long wooden surface, as if distance might protect them from the truth. Kate placed a mug in front of each of them. Neither reached for it.

Paulene’s hand hovered over hers, then curled back in. She let out a quiet moan and bent forward, arms wrapped tight around her ribs, trying to contain what could no longer be held.

Andrew gripped the edge of the table. His jaw clenched. He didn’t cry, not yet but tears shimmered in his eyes like pressure behind glass. Then, slowly, he dropped his head into his hands. Silent tears began to fall.

And then it broke.

In the kitchen, where a glass wall should have flooded the space with light, the atmosphere was heavy and dark. At the dining table, a man sat in mute disbelief, his grief spilling quietly onto his hands. Opposite him, his wife rocked gently, a soft, keening moan escaping her lips. The kind of sound no human should ever have to make.

With careful, practiced movements, Nora and Kate stepped into the scene. They knew their roles. Nora had become fluent in this language of grief, how to enter without breaking it, how to hold the silence without trying to fix it.

She glanced down at the nurse’s watch clipped to her jumper, a gift from Kate. A small thing, but it worked. People spoke more freely when they didn’t think they were on the clock.

Her gaze drifted to Paulene. Her face was hollow, eyes wide and unseeing, fixed somewhere deep in the past, the kind you fall into and can’t get back from. That look. Nora had seen it before. No parent is guaranteed to outlive their child.

Nora recognised that look. She knew that pain. The world should have stopped turning for them. Instead, the post still arrived. The bills still needed to be paid. The groceries still had to be bought. Life forced its way forward, splitting their reality into two: One world, where everything was as it had been. And the other, where everything was broken.

“She always loved to perform.” Rebekah’s mother spoke first, her voice brittle but proud, “She was destined for greatness.”

Her father nodded, his fingers curled tightly around his untouched mug of tea, as if the warmth could somehow anchor him. Nora listened. She had heard so many stories like this before; the bright young lives, the boundless futures, the sense of unfulfilled potential. But something about this one felt different.

“You should have seen her,” Rebekah’s mother murmured, dabbing her nose with a fresh tissue. A crumpled pile of used ones sat beside her, silent evidence of her grief.

“She was so excited when she got the job with Mr Carmichael. He treated her so well. She even turned down other offers real opportunities, proper TV shows but she chose to stay.”

Her husband’s tears had dried, but the weight of loss pressed into the lines of his face. “She was an adventurous child,” he said, his voice strained. “Always pushing limits. That’s why she did so well in the show…” His voice cracked, and the surface of his tea trembled as he lowered his head.

Nora watched them both carefully. “Why do you think she stayed in Chelmsford?” she asked, her voice gentle but direct. “If she had offers elsewhere, and you say she always tested limits…”

Her mother gave a small shrug. “I think she liked being a big fish in a small pond.” For a moment, her face softened with a flicker of pride. Then it fractured again, the momentary ease replaced by something raw. “She had been talking about moving on, though,” she added, her voice cracking on the last word. “Stretching her wings.”

Nora let the silence settle before asking, “Was there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to harm Rebekah?”

Her mother shook her head vehemently. “No. No one. In fact,” she hesitated, glancing at her husband before continuing. “We think she had started seeing someone. She seemed so happy. So… excited.”

Nora and Kate exchanged a glance.

“Do you know who?” Kate asked.

“No, no.” Her mother sighed. “She didn’t tell us anything outright. But you know the signs.”

Her fingers twisted the damp tissue in her hands.

“The highs, the lows…” she swallowed. “The tiredness around the eyes.” She turned, moving to the bin, where she dropped the tissues with finality.

Her father, still red-faced from grief, lifted his chin. His voice was rough, strained. “And now… now we won’t even be able to tell them what they’ve lost.”

His hand moved over the early stubble on his jaw, a subconscious act of comfort.

Kate reached out, squeezing his shoulder briefly. “Let us worry about that.”

For nearly half an hour, they talked a halting mix of memories, shattered hopes, and things left unsaid. By the time they were at the door, the next stage of grief was already unfolding.

Rebekah’s father walked them outside, his stance now rigid, set with purpose. He was as sturdy as a man in his sixties could be, his gruff voice no longer cracking but hardening into something determined. He extended a firm hand to Nora. She took it.

He looked her dead in the eye, “Make sure you get whoever did this to our little girl. Make sure they pay.”

Nora held his gaze. A single nod was all she could offer. Then, they left them to their grief. And outside… outside the world pressed on steady, unbothered, and cruelly unchanged. And for a moment, Nora hated it. Hated this post-pandemic world for the way it always moved on so quickly. For daring to be ordinary when someone’s everything had just been lost.

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A section of this course that has built up over time is giving peer feedback. The structure of the course gently insists on connection. We read one another’s work, respond to it, and show up together online each week. I’d braced myself for isolation, for solitary writing and quiet deadlines. Instead, I found myself part of a group that shows up generously, thoughtfully, and with genuine care for one another’s work. And it’s within that space that I’ve learned something I didn’t expect giving feedback has changed me as a writer just as much as receiving it.

On the course, we’re encouraged to participate in workshops where we submit work and write around 500 words of feedback on someone else’s piece. At first, this felt daunting. There’s a responsibility in being invited into someone else’s unfinished thinking. Their draft is vulnerable. Their ideas are still forming. The question quickly becomes: how do I respond in a way that’s useful rather than fan-girling?

Because good feedback isn’t just saying what you liked.

I’ve learned that good feedback is specific. It notices where something is working and why. It names the moment a sentence sharpens, an image lands, a voice becomes confident. And rather than rewriting the piece in your own image, it’s guided by a few clear questions:

• What is this writer trying to do in this piece?

• Where is the writing already working well?

• Why do those moments work?

• Where could the intention be clearer or more fully realised?

Perhaps most importantly, good feedback is generous without being vague, and honest without being unkind. It’s the kind of feedback you would want to receive yourself.

What I didn’t anticipate was how much this practice would feed back into my own writing. Again and again, I’d notice comments I’d made on someone else’s work resurfacing in my head as I drafted. A reminder about specificity. A note about trusting the image. A suggestion to slow down, or cut back, or let a moment breathe. The learning didn’t stay on the page of someone else’s essay; it embedded itself.

Even more unexpectedly, giving feedback helped me learn how to receive it.

When I read my peers’ work closely, when I stepped into the role of reader rather than writer, I began to see my own drafts differently. I could suddenly recognise the places where a reader might stumble, skim, or feel unconvinced. Feedback stopped feeling like a judgement and started feeling like information. Data.

Because once you’ve tried to articulate what’s happening in someone else’s work, you understand how hard that process is. You realise that most feedback is offered with care, even when it’s clumsy. You learn not to take it personally, but to take it seriously.

And there’s something else too: feedback creates connection.

Writing can be lonely. Online learning can amplify that loneliness. But sitting together each week, talking through ideas, laughing at half-formed thoughts, offering considered responses to one another’s work. It reminds me that writing doesn’t have to happen in isolation. Progress doesn’t have to be private.

Giving feedback has taught me how to read more attentively, write more deliberately, and listen more openly. It’s made me a better editor of my own work and a more generous reader of others’. Most of all, it’s shown me that learning to write isn’t just about producing words; it’s about learning how to see.

And sometimes, the clearest view comes from standing in someone else’s draft.

Speak soon,
Jessica

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With lots of love

Auntie Jessie xx

No Homeland but Here.

They arrived carrying winds, war-silenced and the ache of departure

Grandparents who surrendered

Names,

Dishes,

Dances,

Trying to fold themselves into a country already looking past them.

and yet Love, that stubborn architect, insisted on building anyway:

A German Jew’s daughter and a Caribbean man

finding one another in the narrow space the world allowed.

In each morning tea I summon their shadows,

steam lifting like half-remembered stories,

Their values;

Connection,

Persistence,

A refusal of erasure

filter quietly into the present moment

as I reach for your small, certain hand.

For now, you will hold my hand as we go back though the woodland path

Two wondering souls in charge of each other

One to show you this new world

and the other to show this world is still new.

Dappled light crosses pure path, and a game of living is set with the light and shadows

the world, so often hurried past, slows itself around you

Light

Dark

Light

Although I like to drink my tea in silence

it is a rarity now I have you

the steam is usually gone

the tea bag has somehow made a small pond in my cup

Not too dissimilar to the one on the woodland’s edge!

But you want me to see your dances, all the things you have seen and found in this new world.

My adventurer

My Storyteller

My dreamer

I hold a quiet and deliberate hope for you that steeps more than my forgotten tea.

I hope your future opens wide, unconstrained by the shadows of ours

I hope that you inherit courage without inheriting the wounds:

I hope the world meets you with fairness it once withheld from them,

and that you answer it with curiosity rather than fear.

Let tenderness be your measure of strength,

and connection the ground on which you stand.

If storms arrive (and they will)

may you remember the lineage of resilience behind your name.

Know that you are loved without condition,

and that your story is not confined to the stories that came before it

Walk forward with the knowledge

that you were made from perseverance

and the will to begin again.

To those who will come after,

Descendants imagined but not yet breathing.

Understand that you were present in every ritual of our days;

in each cup of tea cooling untouched.

In each woodland step,

in each inherited silence softened by love.

You are the horizon none of us could fully see,

but all of us trusted would arrive.

Carry the values that steadied us; refine them as the world requires

Let love be the homeland you construct for yourselves,

and when you are dapple jumping in the dark, know that there is love for you here.

Keep humanity as your compass that draws you back to one another.

May your lives grow from what we built,

and grow beyond it with equal grace.

Hold fast to what nourishes; release what confines

and may the future be gentler, larger, brighter

because we loved you.

And because you choose love

Every

Single

Time

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As part of my master’s program, we’re required to take on a secondary genre. A creative side quest of sorts. Something adjacent to our main writing practice, something meant to stretch us. I chose poetry.

Now, if you’ve been around here for a while, you know this wasn’t completely out of character. I’ve always liked poetry. I’ve flirted with it. Taken a short course here, written a handful of poems there; usually small, contained things. Thank-you poems. Moment poems. Safe poems.

But this assignment? This assignment demanded a 70-line poem.

Yes. Seventy.

Reader, the panic was immediate and very real. Poetry feels exposed in a way other genres don’t. There’s nowhere to hide behind plot or structure or explanation. Every word has to earn its place. And suddenly, I was being asked to sustain that level of intention for seventy lines.

But…I did it.

Once it’s been marked, I promise I’ll share it with you. Regardless of the grade. (Hold me to that.)

What surprised me most wasn’t that I finished it, but what the process gave back to me. I went in expecting discomfort. I didn’t expect development. I certainly didn’t expect confidence.

Yet somewhere between drafting, deleting, reshaping, and staring far too long at individual words, something shifted. My technical control as a writer deepened. My emotional confidence did too. Poetry forced me to slow down and interrogate my language in a way I hadn’t done before and that attention to language and detail had been a key note in my feedback on a previous essay.

Poetry doesn’t let you get away with being vague.

It taught me the importance of precision, not just saying the thing, but choosing the exact image that lets the reader feel it. I learned how much weight an object can carry. How implication often lands harder than explanation. How an emotional state can be revealed through what’s on the table, what’s being washed, what’s being left undone.

One of the most effective tools I discovered was the use of recurring domestic rituals, small, ordinary actions repeated across the poem. Folding. Washing. Waiting. These gestures became emotional anchors, allowing meaning to accumulate quietly over time. Figurative language did the rest, creating resonance without overstatement.

My primary learning aim going into this was simple, though not easy: I wanted to improve my use of language and detail so that emotion could be communicated indirectly, rather than explained. Poetry demanded exactly that. Every time I tried to name a feeling outright, the poem flattened. Every time I trusted the image instead, it breathed.

And here’s where it loops back into my main writing life.

What I learned from poetry doesn’t stay in poetry.

I now think more carefully about how gesture, object, and environment can develop character in fiction, how a room can reveal more than a paragraph of backstory, how a single action can hold emotional truth. Poetry sharpened my attention to form, rhythm, and implication, and those tools are just as powerful on the page of a short story or novel.

This side quest reminded me that learning a new (or adjacent) form isn’t a distraction from your primary work, it’s an investment in it. Poetry didn’t make me a different writer. It made me a more deliberate one.

So, dear reader, if you’re standing at the edge of your own creative side quest - something that scares you just a little, I hope you take the leap.

You might come back with more than you expected.

Speak soon,

Jessica

Happy New Year!

So, I had a very strange realisation at the end of 2025. In the beautiful, complicated, and twisted journey of my life, somewhere along the way, “good” stopped feeling like success. Only better. Only more. Only perfect began to count. And that’s not how my mother raised me.

As many of you know, I’ve recently started my master’s degree. A few weeks ago, I submitted my first assignment, my first piece of academic writing in over eleven years.

I finished it on time.
I earned a merit.
I should have felt proud.

Instead, my first instinct was to open the feedback and search for what I’d done wrong. I skimmed past the praise. I barely registered the things that worked. All I could see were the “next steps”. What I needed to do to reach 80%, to get that distinction.

For the first week after receiving the feedback, you’d honestly think I’d failed the assignment altogether.

What struck me later was how familiar that reaction felt. It reminded me of the same instinct that drives us to apply filters, the quiet dissatisfaction with what’s already there. The sense that what exists isn’t quite enough, that it needs refining, improving, perfecting before it can be seen or celebrated.

I started to notice that this doesn’t just happen with faces or bodies. It happens with achievements too.

In a space where everyone shares their best scores, biggest wins, and most impressive milestones, simply doing the thing can feel insignificant. Starting something new. Completing it. Even daring to step outside your comfort zone can feel strangely small when placed next to someone else’s highlight reel.

Yet those first steps are often the biggest ones.

As I write this, my mind goes to Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, the moment when he has to step forward before the bridge appears. The hardest part wasn’t crossing the bridge. It was stepping onto something he couldn’t yet see.

We’re very good at celebrating the finish line. The outcome. The result. But it’s the leap of faith, the beginning, that stories teach us to honour. And I think it’s time we started doing that in our own lives.

You can even see this here on Substack. Lately, I keep reading notes that say things like, “I just hit 11,000 subscribers in 12 days!”

And genuinely, wow. Good for you. But o my gosh really? (To my own small but mighty group of readers: I’m deeply grateful for you.)

So, this year, I’m making a conscious edit to my thinking.

My New Year’s resolution for 2026 isn’t to be better, faster, or stronger. It’s to notice what I usually dismiss. To name the small wins. To support them. And to celebrate them, especially the ones that come before certainty.

Because once that first step is taken, all I have to do is follow my feet. I don’t need the full plan, or a clear map, or the reassurance that I’m doing it perfectly. I just need to keep moving, trusting that each step will show me the next one. The pressure to have everything figured out fades once motion begins. Progress doesn’t come from certainty; it comes from courage. And sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is stop waiting for confidence and start walking anyway.

So, I’ll leave you with this:
Where in your life have you overlooked “good,” believing it wasn’t enough?
And what small, quiet leap of faith are you standing on the edge of right now?

I’d love to hear it. And I’d love to support you.

Much love,

Jessica

And Happy New Year!