The Quiet Joy of Re-Reading (and Re-Watching)

There’s something quietly comforting about going back to a story I already know. A book I’ve read before, a TV show I’ve finished, a film I could almost recite line for line. Some people chase the new, the thrill of the unknown — and I enjoy that too, but every now and then I find myself drawn to the familiar.

When I re-read a book, I’m not really chasing the ending anymore. I know what’s coming. Instead, I notice the little details I missed the first time: a clever line of foreshadowing, a look between characters that suddenly feels heavier, a piece of worldbuilding I brushed past too quickly. The story deepens, even though it hasn’t changed.

The same is true with films and TV. A favourite series becomes like background music for the soul, something I can put on when I want the comfort of characters I know. Watching them again is like visiting old friends. The tension of “what happens next” is gone, replaced by a softer anticipation of “ah, here comes that moment I love.” Sometimes it’s a dramatic scene, sometimes just a small exchange that always makes me smile.

Re-reading and re-watching remind me that stories aren’t just about surprise. They’re about connection. The first time is discovery; every time after is relationship. A well-loved book or film isn’t just entertainment, it becomes part of my personal landscape, a touchstone I can return to whenever I need grounding.

So yes, I’ll keep chasing new stories. But I’ll also keep circling back to the ones that stayed with me. Because in their familiarity, I don’t lose the magic, I rediscover it in a different way.

Ashes of the Damned is out!

I’m excited to share that my new short story, Ashes of the Damned, is now available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FHY2YPWX

Set against the backdrop of a burned-out industrial estate and a crime scene like no other, this tale follows Paladin Gideon Voss and witch detective Isolde Thorne as they uncover whispers of rituals, missing persons, and something far darker rising beneath the city.

The deeper they dig, the higher the stakes become—until the threat they face could tear everything apart.

Though short in length, Ashes of the Damned packs in all the grit, sharp dialogue, and urban fantasy atmosphere of a full novel—perfect for a quick, immersive read.

Writing and Escapism

 I’m a daydreamer. I often retreat into my own stories, crafting worlds and creating new narratives. It’s one of my favourite things—like having a brand-new movie on demand, only one that plays out entirely in my head.

It’s probably why I write. Some of these stories seem interesting, at least to me, and I hope that by sharing them I can pass along even a fraction of the joy they bring me.

Sometimes the ideas arrive fully formed and feel unique, as if they’ve come from nowhere at all. My mind latches onto them and starts filling out their reality with details and characters.

Other times they’re sparked by games. I’ve always been drawn to open-world sandboxes where you start as a blank slate—no obligations, no backstory, just freedom to define who you are within that world. That sense of possibility is intoxicating, and it often bleeds into the stories I write.

Books inspire me too. When I’m reading, I sometimes put the story down and imagine what else could happen. I’ve written before about my favourite characters, and occasionally I rewrite their fates—saving them, adding someone new to balance the group, or better yet, disrupting it completely.

Films do the same. I’ll drift off and change the ending in my head. Some films invite this more than others—I’ll let you decide which.

Imagination is a powerful, wonderful thing. I’m not suggesting anyone should live there all the time. Reality is tough, but it’s also necessary—and honestly, there’s no finer source of inspiration than the world around us. The trick, I think, is learning to carry that spark of daydreaming into the everyday, where it can make both fiction and life feel a little richer.

Behind the Scenes: Detective Eleanor Bryce

Detective Eleanor Bryce has built her reputation on grit, discipline, and a fierce sense of responsibility. A senior officer with decades of experience behind her, she’s the sort of person colleagues look to when things get difficult. Calm under pressure and unshaken by intimidation, Eleanor has a talent for keeping order in chaotic situations.

She carries herself with quiet authority—never needing to raise her voice to command attention. Her silver-white hair and sharp eyes make her instantly recognisable, but it’s her steady composure that leaves the stronger impression. Whether in uniform or plain clothes, Eleanor presents a picture of professionalism, always immaculately turned out and always prepared for the unexpected.

Though she operates in a world where supernatural forces often collide with the everyday, Eleanor herself has no magic or enchanted weapons to rely on. Instead, her strength comes from training, experience, and an unwavering moral compass. She believes in protecting people first and foremost, especially those who can’t protect themselves. That fierce protectiveness has earned her the loyalty of her colleagues and the respect of the communities she serves.

Outside of the badge, Eleanor is private. She doesn’t talk much about her personal life, and she’s not one to indulge in gossip or idle chatter. What people do know is that she has a dry sense of humour that surfaces at the most unexpected times, and a sharp wit that can disarm even the most stubborn personalities.

Above all, Eleanor Bryce is defined by her integrity. She does the job because it needs doing, and because she refuses to stand by when others are at risk. In a city where the lines between ordinary and extraordinary are often blurred, Eleanor remains firmly, proudly human—proof that courage and conviction can be just as powerful as any spell or blade.

When Cleverness Wins the Day

 I like it when the Doctor—the Doctor, as in Doctor Who, not my local GP—is clever. There’s something special about those moments when the Doctor is standing toe-to-toe with a villain, the odds stacked impossibly against them. Everything looks lost, companions are in danger, the enemy has all the power… and then, with a spark of brilliance, the Doctor reveals the plan. Suddenly the tables turn, and the day is saved not by brute force, but by wit, timing, and sheer cleverness.

But here’s the key: it has to be done properly.

The best of these moments are like a good whodunnit. All the clues were there, scattered for us to see, but we missed them—or didn’t quite piece them together. Then, when the reveal comes, it feels both surprising and inevitable. You realise the solution was in front of you all along. That’s when the writing shines.

It also works best when it’s the underdog who pulls it off. The character who has been battered, beaten, and underestimated. The one who never quite gets the upper hand, who’s been on the ropes the whole time. When that character finally turns things around through sheer ingenuity, it’s not just a resolution—it’s a triumph. That’s when you get the jump-out-of-your-seat moment, the cheer, the fist pump, the yes, they did it! feeling.

Of course, when it isn’t done well, the magic disappears. If a solution suddenly appears from nowhere, with no groundwork laid, it doesn’t feel clever—it feels like the writer pulled something out of thin air. Instead of being impressed, you’re left thinking, well, that was convenient. Nothing kills tension faster than plot armour disguised as genius.

I’m looking at you, Star Trek. As much as I love it, nobody does last-minute techno-babble like Starfleet. Voltaire even wrote a song poking fun at it—“bounce the tachyon particle beam off the main deflector dish”—because sometimes it really does feel like the writers are just making it up as they go along. It sounds impressive, but without proper set-up, it’s more like narrative duct tape than true cleverness.

That’s why I enjoy Doctor Who when it gets it right. Often the Doctor’s plan looks chaotic or half-formed, cobbled together from scraps and quick thinking. But when the final reveal comes, you can look back and see the breadcrumbs that were there all along. It’s not magic, and it’s not luck—it’s storytelling that rewards your attention.

Think of the way Sherlock Holmes lays out his deductions—you had the same evidence, but he saw what you didn’t. Or how Bilbo in The Hobbit wins not through strength but through sharp thinking and a different perspective. These are satisfying victories because they feel earned.

That’s the essence of why I love the clever win. It’s not easy to pull off, but when it works, it sticks with you. It’s the kind of storytelling that respects the audience, makes you want to go back and spot the clues you missed, and leaves you grinning long after the credits roll.

Hard to write? Absolutely. But when it lands, it’s brilliant.