Stuart Aken

The 6th Target, by James Patterson, Reviewed

2012-01-30T17:33:00.001Z

JamesPatterson's The 6th Target is, ofcourse, a thriller. I'm not a particular lover of thrillers, though I wrote aromantic thriller as my own first novel. I read this book because it wasamongst a large number on my shelves and I'd made a decision at the start ofthe year to read all that were unread. I think I picked this one up second hand ata charity shop.

Patterson'sbook took me some time to enter, largely because I couldn't initially find acharacter I cared about. But this book is one of a longish series, so perhaps theauthor assumed readers would already be familiar with his female homicidedetective. It took me a lot of chapters to become involved but, once I washooked, I read the book quite quickly.

Withover a hundred chapters, some only 2 pages long, and the usual short sentencestructure of the genre, it was a relatively quick and undemanding read. Though,at times, I lost track of who was who amongst the dozens of characters.

Threebasic story threads weave through the book and at times I was puzzled aboutwhich we were looking at. But the stories are told in linear form and, once Igot used to the style of presentation, I moved swiftly forward. I try not towrite reviews with spoilers, so I'll leave the story itself unexplained. Enoughto know that the book contains murders, of course, kidnapping and other crimes.Such acts should generally absorb the reader and make him care but I found Ionly started to really care towards the end of the book.

Thereis quite a lot of detail that adds little to the story and I guess a good fifthof the text could be removed without detriment. In fact, it would improve thepace.

There'splenty of drama here and some moral messaging amongst the violence that drivesthe story. There's a lot of procedural detective work, and some court scenes,that enlightened me about the US justice system.

Igradually came to know the main characters and slowly grew to find some empathywith the female detective, Lindsay Boxer, and her mission to capture the guiltyparties for the various crimes. Naturally, she had a complication in her lovelife; what detective doesn't? But that aspect of her life was written in suchbland terms that I had little response to it. Her professional concerns,however, were depicted with more emotional content and I was with her towardthe end of the book as the denouement unwound and the natural conclusion waspresented.

WouldI read any more of this? Well, I have another Patterson book on the shelves,unread, and I won't be getting to it soon, though it was originally the firsttitle on my 'to read' list. There just isn't enough emotional connection forme. The story is told and I prefer to be shown. But the guy sells a lot ofbooks, so the failing is probably with me. I just didn't ever feel sufficientlyinvolved; I felt like a neutral observer presented with enough superficialfacts to make judgements on the crimes but lacking any real connection to thecharacters that might make me care about them.

Ifyou're into crime and more interested in details than the deeper interaction ofcharacters, you'll probably enjoy this a lot more than I did.

The Week and What I've Done With It

2012-01-29T20:53:00.000Z

So, the end of another week. As usual, nothing like as much done as I'd hoped at the beginning. But, I've completed the first reading and marking up of the NaNoWriMo novel and begun the second phase, reaching chapter 3 and reducing the word count, so far, to 112,043. Along the way, I did a quick check for overused words, using Wordle.com and started to use this to reduce the repetitions in that chapter (the illustration shows the Wordle graphic after the changes). It then seemed to make sense to extend the search for those words to the whole MS. I have the file on the PC as a single file, since that way it's easier to make alterations that are global. Once I'd done about 4 of the repeated words, I suddenly realised this was a waste of time at this stage. I might as well wait to employ this exercise once I've made the other changes, as I'm otherwise replacing words that I might later completely remove.
I've also done a small update to the Writing Contest page - see the tab above. This is quite time consuming, but it keeps my own table up to date and hopefully allows my readers the opportunity to dip into those contests that might interest them.
I've been busy with the social networks, making changes and posts to Facebook, Goodreads, LinkedIn, Digg and tweeting on Twitter.
I'm currently reading a thriller and I've ploughed through a good number of its short chapters whilst Valerie has been watching the sport on TV.
Had a short spell organising a replacement windscreen for the car on Saturday. What's that to do with writing? Well, the chip that caused the old screen to crack happened as I was on my way to my writing group, so a tenuous link, I think.
So, still no contests entered and no short stories sent to magazines. But the coming week....

Reading Fiction Stimulates Brain Activity

2012-01-28T16:07:00.000Z

Image via Wikipedia

It's probably too early in the research to reach too many conclusions, but it looks as though reading fiction may do serious good to your brain. Have a read of this article - http://news.wustl.edu/news/Pages/13325.aspx from the Washington University website and see what you think.

Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 3.

2012-01-27T11:00:00.000Z

Breaking Faith was first publishedas a paperback 3 years ago and, on 24 October 2010, I published it as an ebookthrough Smashwords and on Amazon Kindle. I'm now posting individual chaptershere on the blog, so that anyone who wishes can read the book in full and freeof charge.

The Prologue, which beginsthe novel, was posted on 6 January. Here's a link, if you missed it: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html.

Chapter 1 was posted on 13January and the link can be found in the archive. (Subsequent chapters areposted each Friday and can be accessed via the archive).

Read, enjoy, tell yourfriends.

Just a bit of guidance,since you'll have read the previous chapter a week ago. The book is writtenfrom the viewpoints of the two main protagonists and each chapter is narratedin either Leigh or Faith's voice, in the first person. The viewpointsalternate, but sometimes one character will tell the tale over a couple of consecutivechapters.

Chapter 3

Faith’s unexpectedconversational skills and sense of humour were not the only surprises shesprung, once she recovered from her faint. She picked up my dislike of Biblicalquotations and allusions straight away and stopped using them, which was justas well, considering my views.

I found a well-organized, able and clever youngwoman, with a contradictory set of ideas and values and the most eclectic rangeof knowledge I’d ever come across. I was intrigued. I had nothing to lose bygiving her a trial. But it was only fair to let her meet Merv before either ofus made a decision.

She accompanied me from the office, through thesmall waiting area, where occasional reps and clients sat in ancient, leather,easy chairs and gazed at life-sized monochromes of women on the walls. Faithavoided the flesh but admired the smaller landscapes and sighed with audiblerelief when I led her into the studio.

The snow had stopped and early afternoon sun wassending shafts of light through the high windows to fall in dazzling rhomboidsat the base of the far wall. Specks of dust, floating in the silent beams,leant the large space a cathedral quality.

She seemed entranced; though whether by the scaleof the room, the atmosphere or the assorted equipment, I could only guess. I lether stand and stare at a sight I knew well. ‘Impressive, isn’t it? I spend somuch time in here, I forget how strange it must appear.’

‘It’s wonderful; amazing.’ Her enthusiasm wasgenuine.

‘Used to be two storeys; hay barn above, animalquarters below. They built these longhouses to provide living space for thefarmer’s family and animals all in one building. It was built in the sixteenseventies. Uncle Fred and I completed most of the work a year or so before hedied. The old coach house at the end is now a garage on the ground floor withthe darkroom above. That’s where I’m taking you.’

‘Is this where you work, Leigh?’

‘A lot of the time. The small items I do in herebut the larger stuff’s done on site. I do mostly catalogue work in here; lightindustrial, tools and fastenings, things like that. Some portraiture and a bitof formal work with models. But I prefer to work in situ with the girls when Ican.’

‘I noticed.’

The tone of her voice spoke volumes. I’d seenembarrassment and censure cloud her features as she looked at the work ondisplay in the office and waiting room. Strangely, the print of the VelazquezRokeby Venus, behind my desk, didn’t appear to unsettle her as much as myphotographs. Perhaps because it wasn’t frontal, or because it was a painting,she found it less threatening.

‘If I decide to take you on, Faith, you’ll bespending some of your time around models, often topless, sometimes nude. How doyou feel about that?’

She fixed me with a determined stare. ‘As long asI don’t have to take off my clothes, I’ll manage.’

I looked at her ragbag collection ofhand-me-downs: brown tweed skirt to the ankles, long-sleeved, heavy cottonblouse in dingy white with appliquéd lace, hand-knitted brown cardigan withdarned elbows and fraying cuffs. And, judging by the lines, she was wearing aheavy bra at least two sizes too big. I wondered what her knickers would belike: straight from the school gym? I hadn’t seen a young woman so badlydressed. Hardly the glamourpuss I was seeking. Maybe exposure to me and thegirls would educate her tastes and show her the possibilities. She hadpotential as far as face and figure were concerned. A bit of weight, makeup,hair set free from its constricting band, limbs allowed to feel the air, andshe could be a different and very attractive woman.

‘You can be as covered or uncovered as you like,though I do sometimes take off my clothes when I’m working with a model.’

‘All of them?’

I nodded.

‘Why?’ Her question was condemnatory.

‘Sex, a lot of the time. But a naked girl feelsvulnerable in lots of ways. Not least, there’s the temperature. It’s easy, whenyou’re sweating under the lights in jeans and polo neck, to forget how cool itcan be in your skin. I try to develop empathy with my models and being nakedhelps that.’

‘Don’t they mind?’

‘I wouldn’t do it if they did. In fact, some ofthem demand it. I never expect or ask anyone to do anything against their will,Faith. That’s one reason I’m making the situation clear to you now, so you knowwhat you’re getting into. I’m not about to change my way of working just toavoid embarrassing you. Nudity is pleasure and delight for me. You find itdisturbing or threatening and I sort of understand that; it’s depressinglycommon, but it’s your problem, not mine. If you find it unacceptable, we mightas well close this interview right now.’

She crossed the space between us until she waslooking up into my face with a challenging expression I found disconcerting.‘You said yourself I’m not the idiot people think, Leighton Longshaw. But youdon’t know that I’m also professional. I hate the idea of public nakedness.Your unclothed body might embarrass or offend me; I don’t know: I’ve never seena naked man. Your behaviour is sinful and it’ll send you to Hell for eternity.But, if you employ me to work with naked women, or men, I’ll carry out myduties as required. My feelings and beliefs are my own and have nothing to dowith you or the job.’

‘Are you always so truthful?’

‘I try to be. Life would be so much better ifeverybody was honest all the time, don’t you think?’

‘It’d be intolerable. But what matters is whetheryou can work in the conditions I’ve described.’

‘I thought I just said I can.’

I looked down into her face and saw truth shiningin her eyes; her wide-set, large and very dark, brown eyes that stared at me sodirectly. Looking into those eyes, I saw potential for passion. I also saw hervulnerability and unique quality and I wanted to know her better; to know herwell.

I needed to lighten the mood. ‘Do your eyes botheryou?’

She frowned. ‘No. Why?’

‘They bother me.’ I laughed shortly, as much at mymistake in using an inappropriate line, as at her incomprehension. ‘Come on;let’s see what you make of Merv the Perv.’

‘Mervyn Tupper?’

‘Know him?’

‘He’s a neighbour, of sorts. I’d heard he workedfor you. I hoped it wasn’t true.’

‘What do you know of him?’

‘Like most in the village, he’s called me names.But, really, only what I’ve heard about him from others.’

‘Reputation, then?’

‘And we both know how false that can be. Maybe he’llsurprise me.’

‘Prepare to be shocked.’ I led the way to the endof the studio and the foot of the vertical ladder. ‘Not pleasantly.’

I shinned up, aware she might worry I was lookingup her skirt, an impossible feat, if I followed her. On the metal landing, Iwaited for her before opening the door into the suite of small rooms thatserved as printing, storage and finishing area.

I studied her as she watched the glazing drum turnslowly, its mirrored chromium cylinder reflecting the fluorescent tubes and theblue-white daylight streaming through the windows.

‘It’s very warm and there’s an odd smell. Would Iwork up here?’

‘Eventually; I’d want you to do most of the printfinishing… drying, glazing, trimming and mounting. It’s all done in here.Merv’s kingdom is the darkroom.’ I indicated the blank white door with itsbulbs mounted above. ‘When the red light’s on, you can’t go in. It means Merv’sloading film into tanks for processing. Stray light would fog the film and ruinit.’ I explained the light-trap and gave quick descriptions of the otherequipment in the room until the red light went out and a green bulb shone.‘That means Merv’s put the darkroom lights on; we can go in now.’

‘Why not just one bulb?’

I was pleased she was analysing; it showed promise.‘The bulb might’ve blown. The green light’s insurance.’

I went through the light trap, closing the doorbehind me before I could open the one into the darkroom. Merv was working bywhite light, pouring developer from a glass measuring cylinder into a tall,stainless steel, processing tank on the wet bench. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’

Faith entered, blinked with surprise at thebrightness of the white room and turned quickly away from the wall facing her.Dozens of women, cut from the pages of porno magazines, displayed obscenelybehind Merv. It was his realm and I chose not to impose my own standards on theway he decorated it, much as I disliked his preferences.

‘Faith Heacham; Mervyn Tupper.’

Faith, good as her promise to give him a chance,extended her hand. He leered unpleasantly, stripping her with his eyes as hebriefly touched hers. I tapped his arm and caught his eye with a warning thatstopped him moving too far into vulgarity.

‘Yeah.’

‘How do you do?’

‘Fu… great, given the chance. You?’

‘Fine, thank you.’

‘Talks, then? Never thought it could.’

Faith failed to recognize this as a reference toher and, unfamiliar with small talk, remained silent.

‘I’m considering offering Faith the position ofGirl Friday, Merv. Do you think you could work with her?’

‘Any position it takes, I’ll go along with.’

‘And you, Faith, how do you feel about workingwith Merv?’

‘I don’t understand everything he says, but heseems less… coarse than I’d heard. I’m willing to try, as long as I don’t haveto work under those… those pictures.’

‘Good. Good. Right, we’d best leave him to it;don’t want him ruining the films by forgetting to agitate the developer, dowe?’

Merv immediately lifted the metal tank and upendedit five times in quick succession before replacing it on the bench. I indicatedthat Faith should leave the room again. She was barely out of the door before Iturned to Merv. ‘Well done, Merv. Think you can manage to remain as polite ifshe comes to work here?’

‘Once it gets its tight little bum under the deskI’ll ‘ave to tease it. It’s too thin. Keeps its curlies short and tidy though.You can see right through ‘em to its…’

‘Thank you for that, Merv. That order ready togo?’

‘Final rinse. ‘Ave ‘em on the dryer in a mo.’

‘Right. I’ll be up for them in half an hour.’

‘It’ll never let you, Leigh. Dunno why you’rebotherin’.’

I found Faith blushing on the other side of thelight trap. ‘He says some very strange things. Was he talking about me?’

‘All talk is Merv. Doesn’t mean anything by it,you know.’

‘He can’t possibly know what I look like.’

‘Guessing. Wishful thinking. Just guessing, that’sall. Shall we go back?’

I paced the office and Faith studied the locallandscapes of the Dales I’d displayed on the walls in the hope that touristsmight drop in to buy them.

‘Like them?’

‘They’re beautiful. I didn’t know you could dothat with photography. It’s beautiful countryside. I recognise this one, butwhere were the others taken?’

I thought she was pulling my leg until I saw thegenuine question on her face. They were all local, none more than a dozen milesfrom Longhouse.

Ma brought fresh coffee in before I had theopportunity to answer properly. Old Hodge poked his face around the door andsaw Faith. He smiled at her and lifted his cap in greeting. She gave him alittle nod of acknowledgement and smiled back. Everybody liked Old Hodge.

After Ma had placed the tray, she tested the whitesocks by the fire and found them dry at last. ‘You never took the lasstraipsing into that cold studio with nowt on her feet, Leigh?’

I hadn’t noticed, and she’d said nothing. I foundmyself apologising for my thoughtlessness.

‘I had nothing to put on my feet and you wanted meto see the rest of the work place. I wanted to see it. I’m used to cold feet.’

‘See, Ma, she’s perfect. No complaints, no fuss.Just what I need.’

‘Taking her on, then?’

Faith’s eyes followed me as I moved to my desk andsat down in the leather chair, still trying to make up my mind.

The door from the hall opened and Abby stepped in,pink along one side from the hearthrug. I saw Faith close down her emerginglook of surprised disapproval and turn it into polite indifference.

Abby glanced round the room. ‘Sorry. Thought you’dbe done by now. Just wanted my wrap.’

It lay on the floor near my desk, where Ma hadkicked it after Abby had discarded it for our earlier session. Her briefs layat my feet, out of sight. Faith picked up the wrap, shook out the dust andcreases and took it to the fire to warm for a few moments.

No one spoke.

She turned and held the gown, helping Abby intoit. ‘Does the hair around your genitalia grow that short naturally or do youtrim it?’ She sat down with no sign of a blush and gave me a look that spokevolumes.

Abby flicked her long tresses back over hershoulders and laughed a little uncertainly. ‘I …er wax and trim it, sweetie …But what an odd question to ask in mixed company.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know I shouldn’t…’ And thistime she blushed.

‘It’s okay, sweetie. No one’s died.’ She perchedon the edge of my desk and looked at Faith speculatively before twisting toface me. ‘Prettier than I expected but a bit on the thin side for you, I’d havethought. Taking her on?’

I’d almost made up my mind before Abby had comein. Faith’s demonstration of the professional attitude she’d described in thestudio was enough to clinch it, in spite of that strangely personal question.‘If she wants the job. What do you say, Faith?’

Her whole body relaxed and relief took the frownfrom her face. ‘Thank you. Thank you, very much, Leigh. I can start now, if youlike.’

‘Now? I thought you had a job at the Dairy? You’llhave to give notice, surely?’

‘They’ll not want me to work notice after what Idid this morning. No, I can start straight away, if that’s all right for you?’

She had no idea of the significance of her throwaway admission. Abby and Ma exchanged curious glances.

‘What, exactly, did you do this morning, Faith?’My tone alerted her to the seriousness of her comment. She was suddenlyconfused and unable to collect her thoughts. I wondered if I’d misjudged her oreven been misled. ‘Out with it. Let’s have some of this famous honesty.’

Still she was reluctant to speak and I began togrow impatient. Ma stepped in to the rescue. ‘We’re not sitting in judgement,love. Just curious.’

She glanced at each of us in turn, fear anduncertainty distorting her pretty face. When she brought her eyes back to mine,I nodded and tried to take the suspicion from my features.

‘Tell us in your own words.’

She literally took a deep breath, as if about toplunge into cold water. ‘I told you Father got me the job at the Dairy?’

‘Working for one of his cronies… friends, yes.’

‘I’d worked there a few weeks when Mr Furnswurthasked me to move out of the general office and be his personal secretary. He’sa… a horrible man. The other women talked about his wandering hands and the wayhis eyes undress you. He looked at me like Mervyn did.’

‘Some men routinely undress women with their eyes.I find their attitude appalling. I know Furnswurth and he’s just the type. Alloutward respectability but seething with sexual repression.’

She considered that for a moment. ‘His office hasa wall of shelves from floor to ceiling and steps so you can reach the top.Some of the women told me he sits at his desk and looks up their skirts whenthey get files from the top or bottom shelves. He couldn’t do that with me, ofcourse. My skirt’s a decent length.’

She must have guessed my intention to try tochange that because she stared at me sternly. ‘And always will be, in caseyou’re thinking any different.’

Her insight was vaguely unnerving after such briefacquaintance.

‘How you dress is up to you, Faith. Most men thesedays prefer the mini or micro, but the maxi’s fine, especially in a flowingfabric. Can’t say I’m a lover of your old lady’s tweeds but… up to you. Youwere telling us about Furnswurth…’

She let my criticism go but she’d have somethingto say should I raise the subject again. ‘He asked for one of the files on thetop shelf. I was looking for it when he came and stood below me, pretending tohelp me look. Before I knew what was happening, he put his hand up my skirt.’

‘The man needs seeing to.’

She gave me the briefest of troubled smiles, formy support, I suppose. ‘I couldn’t believe it. He goes to Father’s chapel. Iwas too shocked to move at first but then he slid his hand even further up andactually touched my genitalia. I came to my senses then. I kicked his arm andbent down and slapped him across his nasty face as hard as I could. I almostfell off the steps.’ She stopped, awaiting judgement.

‘Dirty old sod. I’d have kicked him in thegoolies.’ Abby slipped off the desk and put a comforting arm around hershoulders.

‘Do you think they’ll not have you back ‘cause youslapped his face, love? Is that it?’

She frowned at Ma. ‘They won’t have me backbecause I walked out, there and then, of course, Mrs Hodges.’

‘Did you hurt Furnswurth?’

‘I don’t know. I expect so. I know it’s verywicked of me, Leigh, but I hope so. Why? Does it matter?’

‘No. Just satisfying if you blacked his eye. Iunderstand your comment now, Faith. I think you were right to do what you did.Showed courage and presence of mind. And I’d be happy for you to start work forme in the morning.’

Her relief was almost tangible. ‘I can start rightnow, if you like.’

‘Go home and have a short rest. There’s only acouple of hours of the working day left anyway. But there is just one thing.’

‘What time should I be here in the morning?’

‘Up to you; eight thirty to five or nine to fivethirty in the week, up to lunch time on Saturdays. I don’t mind. But I want toknow something, Faith. I’m curious to know why, having reacted so violently toFurnswurth’s sexual advances, you came straight here? You must’ve believed Iwas the most sexually dangerous man in the area.’

‘I was out of a job. I have to work. Father is… Hewouldn’t understand me leaving like that. In fact, he won’t believe me.’ Sheshrugged as if resigned. ‘We really need the money because he can’t work, so Icouldn’t go home without another job. Yours was the only one with the skills Ihave. I saw your postcard in Mrs Greenhough’s window. In the rack outside, anewspaper said that unemployment’s gone past a million and is still rising.Where else would I go?’

I grinned at Abby and Ma. ‘Honest, but she’ll gainno points for diplomacy.’

‘Bit of honesty from a pretty lass’ll do you noharm. Most of ‘em are so eager to have you in their knickers they’ll say owt toplease you.’ Ma gave Abby a look full of meaning and received a protrudingtongue in response. ‘You’re a real surprise to me, Faith, but you’re a welcomeaddition to Longhouse, and I for one hope you’ll not change your ways too muchby working for Leigh.’

She managed a smile for Ma, and then turned to mewith apprehension. ‘I must be completely honest, Leigh. I believe it’s as badto miss out facts, as it is to make them up when it comes to truth. At theDairy, they either think you’re a wicked libertine or else the most eligibleand delectable bachelor in the district, whatever all that means. No one talksabout you as if you’re a danger to women, though; just the opposite, in fact.They say you’re licentious and lewd; more words I don’t fully understand,except I know they’re bad. So I didn’t think I’d be in any actual danger unlessI let you think I was willing to take off my clothes. Which, by the way, I mostcertainly am not! Also, I intend to help you see the error of your ways andlead you down the path of righteousness so that we can save your soul.’

I shook my head at her candour. Faith was showingall the signs of being a serious challenge and I relished the coming contest.But she hadn’t finished.

‘I also came here because Father’ll be livid whenhe learns I’m working for you. But he won’t stop me; we need the money. Hecalls you ‘Satan’s local henchman’ and believes no woman’s safe with you. I cantell him he’s mistaken about that, and for…’

‘You seem very sure.’

‘Oh, if you’d wanted to do something to me, youhad the perfect opportunity when I was lying at your feet. As far as I cantell, you didn’t even try to look up my skirt. And you went up the ladderbefore me because you knew I’d feel more comfortable that way. In fact, you’vebehaved in a way that even Father would find hard to criticize. I believeyou’re a gentleman, even if you do fornicate and take pleasure in the flesh,and I shall tell Father what I’ve learned when I get home’

‘You’ll ruin my reputation as the local despoilerof virgins.’

‘I don’t fully understand what that means, but I’mhoping you’ll ruin mine as the village idiot, Leigh.’

The studio door let Merv into the office. ‘Tightlittle twat gone…? Oh. Yeah, right. ‘Ere’s that order, Leigh. I’m done now.I’ll be off…’ He knew he’d overstepped the mark.

I wanted the girls, especially Faith, to know howstrongly I objected to his attitude. ‘Merv. I’ll say this now, in front of Ma,Abby and Faith. I’ll give you a choice: either you start to treat the women inthis household like human beings or you can leave for good. Understood?’

Merv looked at the floor.

‘Understood?’

He glanced up at me and nodded.

‘Understood?’

Faith jumped at my volume.

‘Yeah. Right, yeah, Leigh. Right.’

‘Good. Now, apologize to Faith and then bugger offhome. And find another word to use when talking about women to me or anyoneelse in this household. You might start by using their names. Go.’

Merv turned to Faith, his face purple with a mixof anger and embarrassment. ‘Yeah. Right. Sorry, then.’ I knew we’d get no morefrom him and I gestured him to leave. He went without another word but heglared at Faith as he closed the door.

‘God, but he’s foul that one.’ Ma had never likedhim.

‘Foul mouth, foul mind.’ Abby felt the same way.

‘It’s not just the words; it’s the attitude thatlies behind them.’

‘If he upsets you, Leigh, why do you employ him?’

Her directness continued to surprise and amuse me.‘There’s not much choice around here when it comes to skills and talent, Faith.If you turn out to be as good a Girl Friday as Merv is a printer, I’ll countmyself extremely lucky.’

She looked around the room, skimming quickly pastthe photographs of women’s bodies, but taking in the rest of the details.‘You’re expecting me to do most of the print finishing in that room next to thedarkroom. I didn’t see a phone in there. I won’t be able to answer calls unlessyou have one put in.’

‘Hasn’t even started and already she’s costing memoney. Hop it, wench, before I change my mind!’

She slipped her socks and shoes on quickly and wasinside her shabby winter coat before I relented.

‘You’re right, of course. You can have yourextension, but only when I’m satisfied you’re right for the job.’

A huge smile of relief brightened her cloudedcountenance.

Ma turned to Faith and nodded. ‘You’ll do.’

I foresaw those two forming an alliance against mein all sorts of subtle ways and I relished it. ‘Right. I’m off down toGarsington. Coming, Abby?’

She looked out of the window and then stretched,revealing tempting skin. ‘I’ll wait for you near the fire. You’ll need warmingup when you come back.’

My look softened her eyes and parted her lips. Iturned to Faith. ‘Can I take you home?’

‘Garsington? That’s a long way, isn’t it?’

I laughed. ‘Less than fifteen miles.’

‘Garsington.’ She spoke as if it were anotherworld. ‘No, thank you, Leigh. I believe it’s in the wrong direction.’

‘Suit yourself. See you in the morning then.’

‘Eight thirty. And thank you for giving me achance, Leigh. I’ll prove my worth.’

I wondered if she would or whether I’d saddledmyself with problems simply from a desire to try to mould this strange littlewench into a real woman. Time, no doubt, would tell.

###

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How Does A Writer Move You?

2012-01-26T11:00:00.000Z

Image by stuartaken via Flickr

How does a writer enter the mind, heart and soul of a readerand persuade a mature human being that the fiction purveyed is true enough todeserve and elicit an emotional response? Of course, the question itselfsuggests that every writer does this. But we all know there are writers whosucceed in the market place without ever stirring any deep emotion, relying onthe pace and action of their stories to maintain the interest of the reader.Such writing invariably leaves the thoughtful reader unsettled and unsatisfied,as if they've devoted time and energy to a pursuit that has failed to rewardthem with a fully rounded experience. For me, such writers might persuade me toread one of their novels but I'll never return to waste more time on suchsuperficial entertainment. It serves a purpose, of course, but holds littleappeal for me and many other readers.

If the writing of fiction is about anything, it's surely aboutproviding the reader with a multi-layered experience full of emotional content.As a writer, I want to entertain, of course. But I also want to cause myreaders to laugh in amusement, cry with empathy, gasp in surprise, wail atinjustice, call out in fear, retch with disgust, pause in thought, tremble inanticipation, wince at cruelty, warm with erotic response, scream in terror,applaud at justice, weep at despair andcheer over a deserved outcome.

But how are such responses to be achieved? People are sodifferent, so varied in outlook, experience and education, that it must surelybe impossible to get under their skin in this way? Well, perhaps it isn'tpossible to succeed with every reader on every occasion. But it clearly ispossible to form the desired response in enough of your audience to justify thetime, energy and effort needed to invoke the emotion you're aiming for.

So, how does it work?

I suspect the most important factor is shared experience. Allof us go through the basic events of life; births, deaths, illness, falling inlove and out of it, fearing the unknown, having sex or getting none, admiringsome natural or man-made phenomenon, witnessing a natural catastrophe. We maynot experience all of these events personally, but we will have at least someawareness of them through our family, friends, acquaintances and theever-present media. There is, therefore, some fellow-feeling which can be usedas a platform from which a writer can launch an assault on the reader's senses.

I'll give a couple of personal examples, since these arethings about which I know.

My real father died before I was born and I was raised, fromthe age of four, by the man who later married my widowed mother and calledhimself my father. I was loved, cared for, appreciated and nurtured. I've nocause to feel in any way that I missed out on anything due to my real father'suntimely death.

But. Yes, the 'but' is the crucial aspect here.

But, I always felt that I was incomplete because I'd neverknown my biological father. Because of this, I'm susceptible to certainelements in fiction. One of these is the situation that drives the hugelysuccessful movie, Mama Mia. Theheroine, Sophie, wants to know who she is before she gets married, and sendsinvitations to each of the three men she identifies as her possible father.Now, this motion picture has much in it that should, by the measure of many,not appeal to an average guy. It has been much lauded as a picture for women.That it's also a musical, lends it even more of a feminine appeal in the mindsof many. But, because I absolutely understand, empathise with, Sophie's desireto know about her father, I find the story moving. It touches me in a way thatprobably evades many men. There's a link for me. And that's the point. Irespond to the emotional element that drives the story because I have directpersonal experience of the central emotion of longing to know.

Another incident that never fails to move me is the denouementof The Railway Children. As Bobbiewaits on that railway platform and her father appears through the mist, I'm unableto prevent tears falling. And it matters not that I've seen both recentversions of the film on more occasions than I should. The power of the emotionremains.

Why?

I can identify two entirely separate reasons for this one, Ithink. The first is that I'm a father and have a strong love for my daughter. Ican empathise with the way both a father and a daughter must feel during aperiod of prolonged forced separation. My personal experience lies in thenecessary absence of my girl as she attends university. But there's a secondfactor at play here. I have a deep and enduring concern for justice. Injusticewounds me and always has; perhaps I suffered some unjust event as a child andthis lurks beneath the surface of my consciousness to elevate the quality ofjustice into something of paramount importance to me. I don't know; but it's asgood a reason as any for my concern. In TheRailway Children, of course, the father returns from a spell in prisonserved for a crime he didn't commit. So, the daughter/father reunion isenhanced as an emotional experience for me by the fact that justice isrestored. Hence, I think, my empathy and my inability to prevent the tears.

I use these two examples to demonstrate how powerful a tool emotioncan be for the writer.

Not only the most obvious emotion, that of love betweenadults, as embraced by romantic fiction authors, but all emotion. The readerneeds to be exposed to the emotional spectrum as experienced by the characters,to feel these emotions, not simply to be told that the character feels them.

'Rose felt the sorrow ofloss at the death of her baby.' This tellsthe reader what happened. 'Rose gentledthe tiny crumpled cot blanket in trembling hands, hardly aware of the damptrails she left as she brought it close to her face and inhaled the scent ofthat small perfect person she would never hold again.' This shows the reader her emotions. And,because the author will have built previous experiences into the writing,making the reader empathise with the character of Rose, the reader willexperience the feelings of loss and utter devastation such an event gifts thevictim.

This is one example of how it can be done. So, the writerengages the reader with the character(s), manipulates the reader into arelationship that involves concern and fellow-feeling. Where the thrillerwriter might get away with generic description and superficial emotionalcontent, relying on pace and action to drag the reader through the story, theauthor of almost every other genre must actually become his characters, in thesame way a good actor does, he must feel what the characters feel, in order toconvey the real emotions experienced by the people who act out the tale. Onlythen will the reader experience what the character feels and be moved, amused,shocked, aroused or whatever is appropriate to the situation.

It takes a clevercombination of the right language with a description and presentation of characterthat persuades the reader to care. If the reader really doesn't give a damn whathappens to the character(s), then the author has fallen at the first hurdle andmight as well take up some other activity. It's for this reason that mostserious (serious in the sense of intent rather than style) authors develop theplot through their characters rather than forcing characters into apre-conceived plot.

If you're an author who wants readers to respond to yourwriting rather than skip through the text on a mad dash to the end, you need tobe fully engaged with your characters and to allow them to dictate thedirection of the story. Only in that way will you find the necessary empathy toshare emotional events with them and, thereby, your readers. It's a demandingprocess but one that brings great rewards when handled well.

The picture, by the way, shows my biological father, Ken Burden, about whom I've recently learned a good deal from his surviving sister, my 98 year old Aunt Vera.

Contribution to Mankind, by Linda Acaster, Reviewed

2012-01-25T17:26:00.000Z

Herewe have a collection of short stories by an author who knows her craft. Thetales are all dark but, as with all good tales of the sort, carry patches oflight. Linda Acaster has an uncanny knack of undermining assumptions so thatthe reader finds her stories end rather differently from what might have been expected.Nevertheless, the endings are all apt; there is nothing either false orcontrived about them, it's merely that they lead to places not ordinarily considered.

Theauthor employs her considerable imagination to take the reader into unfamiliarworlds where all is not as it seems on the surface. Although ghosts and spiritspopulate some of these stories, they don't arise from the regular menu of ghoststories. Each has its own take on experiences that take us out of our normal,cosy world and plunge us into possibilities we might otherwise not encounter.

Asalways in this writer's fiction, the language employed is both apt and accessiblewithout being either patronising or too clever. She uses a down to earth toneto set the scene and to portray her characters. And the characters are beingswe might all have met, even those populating the other worlds she sometimestakes us into.

Thereis irony, some just desserts, and a glance into our possible distant futurewithin the tales in this collection. I enjoyed all the stories and commend themto you.

Asa bonus, the book also contains the opening chapters of Linda Acaster's 'Torcof Moonlight', a superb paranormal romance novel that stands out as more thanjust a great example of the form but as a demonstration that such works cantruly transcend the narrow definition of the genre and appeal to the widestreadership.

The Secret Life of Bletchley Park, Reviewed.

2012-01-23T17:23:00.000Z

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AChristmas present, this was a book I was unlikely to pick up for myself. However,I'm very pleased I was given the gift. WWII is long gone, of course, and formany of the younger generation probably holds little interest. I was born someyears after its end and my parents were involved, of course, so it has somepersonal resonance for me.

Ihad, of course, heard of Bletchley Park; the place has shed its cloak ofsecrecy over the past few years. Several books, TV documentaries and otheritems have opened up the world that had previously dwelt only within the wallsof the establishment and the minds of those thousands who had worked there. Isuspect that most people now are at least aware of the invaluable work that wasdone in this otherwise rather nondescript property. There is, after all, amuseum there now displaying the secrets of the code breakers.

Whatis not generally known is the way of life in the place during the crucial yearsof the war and it is this aspect that is covered by the bulk of this book.Written in an accessible style dotted with bits of humour, the book details thedaily lives, the trials and most poignantly, the pervading requirement forabsolute secrecy that prevented even those closest to the workers knowing whatthey were up to. These brave, talented and diligent men and women were unableto even hint at the nature of the work they did day in and day out. Many wereostracised by those who assumed they had a cushy job for the duration, manywere unable to tell their relatives how they really spent the war and had toallow their parents to die without ever being given the chance to feel the verywell deserved pride they would otherwise have known.

Fullof detail and crammed with fascinating facts and descriptions of the variouscharacters and personalities who made up the workforce of this extraordinaryestablishment, the book gives a real insight into the relationships,friendships and disputes that occurred. It also points the finger of blame atthose senior military men and politicians without a clear understanding of thenature of the work done at Bletchley Park. That Churchill understood the vital significanceof the operation is possibly the only reason it managed to continue with thetask that shortened the war by two years and saved countless lives as a result.

Onthese pages you will find the petty squabbles, the passionate devotion to thetask, the daily courage of people working against the odds and under dreadfulconditions, the strokes of genius and the dedicated pure slog of perseverance whenall seemed to be against them.

Oneother aspect of the book must be mentioned: contrary to Dan Brown's assertionthat the modern computer was developed as the result of work in Harvard in1944, this account makes it clear that Alan Turing and Tommy Flowers wereworking on the original idea of such a device and had built such machines atBletchley during 1943. The problem was that all their work, both written andpractical, was destroyed on the orders of a government obsessed with thepossibility that the Russians might somehow gain from the knowledge. Thus, GB'scomputer industry never really got off the ground.

Ifyou're interested in real people, tales of courage, accounts of socialinteraction between all classes for a common cause, if you want to read a trueaccount that will amuse, inform and move you, I suggest you give this book aread. I've enjoyed the journey and can recommend it to all those who have aninterest in the human condition.

Continuing the #NaNoWriMo Challenge.

2012-01-22T20:16:00.000Z

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This week has seen much activity outside of writing, a lot of it to do with my daughter, who I've just returned to her place at university, hence the lateness of this post. However, I'm well on with the current read, The Secret Life of Bletchley Park, and I've read another of my writing magazines. As far as the current WIP is concerned, I'm now up to chapter 15 on the first read-through and still finding little that needs amending. Mind you, once I do the reading aloud from a typescript, I suspect I'll discover much more that needs changing.
A short spell of sickness also interrupted my week, so not much else to report for now.
Chapter 3 of breaking Faith will appear on Friday. And, on Thursday, there's a post about how authors make their readers feel what the characters are experiencing. So, hopefully see you then as well.

Read My Novel, Free, Here: Chapter 2.

2012-01-20T11:00:00.000Z

Breaking Faith waspublished as a paperback 3 years ago and, on 24 October 2010, I published it asan ebook through Smashwords and on Amazon Kindle. I'm now posting individualchapters here on the blog, so that anyone who wishes can read the book in fulland free of charge.

The Prologue was posted on6 January. Here's a link, if you missed it: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html.

Chapter 1 was posted on 13January and the link can be found in the archive.

Read, enjoy, tell yourfriends.

Just a word or guidance,since you'll have read the previous chapter a week ago. The book is writtenfrom the viewpoints of the two main protagonists and each takes a full chapter,narrating in first person. So, last week was Leigh's point of view, this weekFaith tells part of the tale. It continues in this way throughout, butsometimes one of the characters will tell the tale in a couple of chapters in arow.

Chapter 2

I crossed pristine snow onthe village green to use the phone box for the first time in my life andtrembled with more than just cold. Mrs Greenhough, cosy in her post officestores, might have let me use her phone but Father called her the villagegossip and it was not worth the risk.

I followed the scratched and faded instructionsand dialled the number, taken from a card in the post office window. Theringing tone stopped and I heard his voice for the first time, and felt anunexpected and disturbing tingle at its deep, musical quality.

A relief map of the local area stood next to thephone box to show tourists the walks. Fortunately, someone had scribbled ‘Houseof Sin’, in bright red felt tip on the map; otherwise I would not have knownhow to find Longhouse.

Four miles from the village; it took me less timeto cross unknown fields of snow than I planned. Better early than late. Though,with feet and fingers numb from cold, I could have done without the wait.Father’s watch, leant so I would not be late for my job at the Dairy, showed Istill had a few minutes before the interview.

Curiosity, and a sense of mission; to saveLeighton Longshaw’s wicked soul, took me to Longhouse. The inevitablepunishment from Father, if I returned home without a job, after walking out ofthe Dairy earlier that morning, had only a little to do with it.

I ploughed through deep drifts that lay againstblackthorn hedges lining the steep lane. Fresh snow worked its way into wornshoes Father had bought from a jumble sale, joining slush already soaking mysocks. Near the white five-bar gate, I considered running back home to face thebelt. Better the devil you know….

On the gatepost, a sign warned ‘Beware’ above ablue and white glazed tile of a man chasing a woman. I had never seen a manwithout his clothes and, although I should have turned away, I was fascinated.Father often saw Hope and me undressed but I had not seen him, of course. Aman, being forged in the image of God, must preserve some mystery.

I wondered if they all looked like that; if I gotthe job, I would soon know.

The long, old house crowned the soft curve of thehill, its three entrance doors facing me. The left one seemed to lead to aworkshop or garage with a stone arch over closed double doors beside it. Theright, with its deeply carved panels polished by time and use, had to be themain entrance. The plain centre door opened as I looked and a man, agedsomewhere between twenty-five and forty, poked his head out and beckoned me in.

I drew breath sharply; this danger might overwhelmme, if I let it, and that was enough to make me enter. I closed the gate,crossed the space rutted only by one set of car tyres, and turned to find hisdeep-set eyes gazing into mine with a directness I had not met before.

‘Step on it, love. Ma’ll have my balls if I leavethis door open much longer.’

Ma? Of course, Mrs. Hodge, his housekeeper;respected by everyone, in spite of all the dreadful things they said aboutLonghouse. I would be safe with her in the house. Though safe from what, I hadno real idea. And I was not at all sure what his balls, whatever they were, hadto do with it. He opened the door wider so I could step inside and the brightcolours of his patterned shirt assailed my eyes.

‘No further in your shoes, love. Can’t have wetfootprints all over Ma’s polished floor.’ He closed the door behind me. Thetrap snapped shut as I knelt uncertain on coarse cocoanut matting with‘Welcome’ written on it.

My fingers were numb and the knots in my frozenlaces almost defeated me. By the time I had them untied, the heat inside theroom was overpowering. I got up too quickly as he offered to help with my coat.His next words made no sense through a loud buzzing in my head. My skin feltwet and cold. The walls swayed in and out of focus, as if they might fall in onme. Abruptly, everything went black.

Brightness, like white unbroken snow, made mesquint; a fine black line cracking its surface as my eyes focussed. My face wastoo warm on one side and the ground hard but smooth beneath me. I heard themurmur of voices at the same time as I realized I was on my back. A secondlater, I knew where I was and that my feet were in the air, naked as my knees.

‘Steady. Steady, love. You’re safe.’ The voicemade me tingle, again.

‘She’s concerned she’s decent.’ Mrs Hodge movedinto my field of view. ‘Don’t worry, lass, no-one can see your unmentionables.’

The fold of skirt between my legs reassured me hecould see no more than my knees and lower limbs, though that was bad enough. Heheld my bare feet in his hands, massaging them so that a dull, hot ache flowedthrough the flesh to offset the surprising pleasure of his skin on mine.

‘Stay there. No one’s going to harm you and you’resafer on your back than standing, for the moment.’

I must do as he said, though Father would punishme for this pleasure I could not help but feel. I turned to face the source ofheat and saw flames flickering round thick logs in a large, black grate. Hisfeet were in view, pale skin visible between the dark leather straps of hissandals. Blue, shaped inserts with embroidered flowers of gold, red and violetwidened the bottoms of the legs of his pale khaki, denim jeans.

‘Fainted, love.’ Mrs Hodge frowned down at me.‘Fainted with the heat after the snow.’ She spoke slowly and loudly, as if Imight be deaf, or stupid, like so many others did.

‘Thank you, Mrs Hodge, I know. I’m sorry. I don’tusually fall over when I meet people.’

‘Don’t worry on my account, love. Women fall at myfeet all the time.’

‘Bighead.’ Mrs Hodge accused him.

Father held women inferior to men but I had seenthem behave almost as equals at the Dairy. It was good to know that, in thishouse of sin, women were able to speak their minds.

Mrs Hodge squinted down at me. ‘You all right,love?’

‘I’ll be fine if you’ll help me to my feet and letme sit for a bit, thank you.’

Her look of confusion deepened.

‘Told you.’ The man smiled back down at me withsatisfaction. ‘Sure you’re ready to be upright?’

‘I’d feel happier perpendicular than prone, now mybrain’s recovered its circulation, thank you.’

Mrs Hodge looked utterly flummoxed but helped meto my feet and guided me to a wooden chair in front of the desk. ‘It’s no good,love; I’ve got to know. You are Faith Heacham, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry about that. I normally just sayhello, you know.’

The man grinned and held out his hand. ‘LeightonLongshaw; pleased to meet you, Miss Heacham, or is it Faith?’

I took his hand. It was warm, dry and firm. At theDairy, I had started with Father’s formal approach but quickly learned mostpeople preferred first names. ‘Faith.’

He held my hand for what seemed a long time andonly let go when a slight frown crossed his brow. ‘Coffee or tea, Faith? Orsomething stronger?’

‘What are you having, Mr Longshaw?’

‘Call me Leigh, everybody does. “Mister” makes mefeel a hundred.’

‘And he’s only ninety-eight, you know.’

I saw a twinkle in Mrs Hodge’s eye and, startingto understand some of the humour I had heard at the Dairy, wondered if I shouldrisk joining in. The way she spoke to the man made me bold. ‘I can’t believethat, Mrs Hodge. I wouldn’t have thought Leigh was that old.’ She looked at meexpectantly and I dared the rest. ‘No, not a day over eighty-nine.’

They both laughed and the look that passed betweenLeigh and his housekeeper showed me I had been right to try.

‘I’ll get the coffee.’ Mrs Hodge left, shaking herhead.

‘Ma thought you were…, your reputation, you know?’

‘Reputations, Leigh. I suspect, and hope with allmy heart, that you know more than most folk just how false they can be.’

###

Of course, whilst I want youto read the book, it would be even better if you bought it. So, if you can'twait until next week's instalment, check the links below, which will take youto a place you can make your purchase, either as paperback or ebook, dependingon your preference.

Sample or buy as any format Ebook: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stuartaken
Barnes & Noble - Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Breaking-Faith/Stuart-Aken/e/2940011126079

Amazon paperback or Kindle To buy from USA Amazon

Amazon paperback or Kindle To buy from UK Amazon

Apple idevice:

United Kingdom: http://itunes.apple.com/gb/book/isbn9781849233149

USA: http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/isbn9781849233149

Canada: http://itunes.apple.com/ca/book/isbn9781849233149

Web site: http://stuartaken.co.uk
Tweet with me: http://twitter.com/@stuartaken
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/StuartAken

The Editing Process and Why I Enjoy It.

2012-01-19T11:00:00.000Z

Unlike many writers, I enjoy the editing process that followsthe white hot period of creation. This is the time when you find the rightwords to replace those that flew off the end of your fingers in the rush to getthe ideas down before they escaped into the ether. This is your opportunity toturn a banal phrase into something poetic and memorable. It's the time to hone,sharpen, tighten and close up the text to build in the pace that carries thestory forward. It's the chance to spend some prime time with your charactersand understand them better than was possible at the beginning of the story,since even the most well-drawn characters have a tendency to diverge from theauthor's view of them as they grow during the story. It's the place to do thathardest of all things every writer must do in order to succeed; to murder yourdarlings. Most writers will understand this expression. For those who don't, itsimply means that you have to examine your writing critically and decidewhether that exquisite phrase you used to describe the heroine, the scenery,the hero, is actually necessary to the story. If it isn't, you cut it out andtoss it away. Your darling infants consigned to the bonfire of vanities.

I've always held to a short but, for me, true mantra onwriting: write from the heart, but edit from the head.

I've also always placed a distance between the writing of apiece and the editing. If you can come to your work with a fresh mind,following a break without reading or thinking about it, you're far more likelyto spot problems within it. So, after the creative phase, I always lock awaythe piece for a period, the length of which is more dependent on circumstancesthan any formal programme. But when I return to it, I work methodically.Whether my method will work for you, however, depends on the type of writer youare.

I do a first read through, quickly and without stopping forchanges I see as necessary - merely marking these points as prompts for thenext read through. This first read I do more or less as a reader, rather than awriter. It re-acquaints me with the work, allows me to see whether the ideashave translated into something that will interest readers, and highlights anyglaring inconsistencies in plot, character or setting.

Next, I read through and look at those marked places, makingwhatever alterations seem necessary. As I do this, I also make any changes thatmight affect pace by removing redundancies and repetitions.

I then subject each chapter, or section, to the http://www.wordle.net/check. This wonderful and simple program provides a graphic (see theillustration for this post) that highlights words used according to frequencyand is an invaluable tool for identifying overused words. I thoroughlyrecommend this free editing helper.

The next stage is the crucial one, which I advise every writerto do, regardless of genre, habit, type or experience. I read the entire workaloud, from a typed script, marking it as I go along to indicate any areas oferror, confusion, repetition, clumsy construction etc. Reading aloud makeserrors far more evident, and reading from a printed source, rather than thescreen, makes mistakes and inconsistencies far more obvious. I can't emphasisetoo strongly how important this step is. If you do nothing else in editing, atleast do this.

Once I've been through and made the changes indicated by theread-through above, I subject the piece to the mechanical spell and grammarcheck. This highlights a number of issues and, in spite of its shortcomings andinadequacies, often reveals odd things missed during the manual process.

A final read through allows me to ensure consistency inplotting, characterisation, timeline, setting and theme. I keep a spreadsheetfor the timeline, so that I know where each character is at any given time.This includes a hyperlink to each character's sketch, so I can ensure I haven'tinadvertently changed hair or eye colour or suddenly made an atheist into agodbotherer, or aged a youngster, etc. I also include phases of the moon andsunrise/sunset times on the timeline, so I can keep track of such items whenI'm describing activity or scenes.

You will no doubt note that I haven't described a sessionwhere I make changes to improve the language of the piece. That's because I dothis as I go along, as part of all the other checks and alterations.

That's it. I know I could go through the piece again andagain, and find other faults or places where improvements could be made, but Iwrite to be read and there comes a time when the piece must be revealed to readers.Some writers find this final phase the most difficult and I suspect theirreluctance to get their piece out in front of an audience is due to eithermisplaced lack of confidence or an unwillingness to let go of their child andsend it out into the world.

There are writers, particularly amongst the indie writercategory, who don't bother with even the most basic editing. Their work isreadily identifiable by its numerous spelling errors, lack of grammaticalaccuracy, inconsistencies in expression and poor story planning. It puzzles anddistresses me that readers give such writers the time of day, but perhaps Iconsider such things as correct language use, basic spelling and grammar, astools of the trade and see their lack as insults to the readers; insults that,perhaps, certain readers don't perceive as such.

So, there you have it: the process of refining the initialpiece of created fiction into a story worthy of exhibition before my readers.Yes, it's a lot of work, time and effort. But nothing worthwhile was evercreated in ease. I can only hope that my efforts produce stories that readersfind entertaining, illuminating and enjoyable.

An unrelated question for you to ponder: Why do doctors leave the roomwhile you undress, since they're going to see you naked anyway?

The #NaNoWriMo Challenge Revisited.

2012-01-15T20:38:00.000Z

So, what has the last weekheld for me with regard to writing?

I was reading Plato's The Republic and discovered it heldreferences to a number of themes I'd touched on in the novel I drafted inNovember for the NaNoWriMo challenge. It was clear that it would help me withthe editing if I finished reading Plato's work before I started. So, this weekI finished reading and then reviewed TheRepublic.

I wrote another post forthe blog, a piece about emotion in writing that will appear on 26 January.

I revisited two shortstories; one a piece of erotica that I'm still unsure about placing, thoughit's a finished tale now. The other was a dystopian science fiction piece,which I'm still considering for submission. Can't make up my mind whether tosend it to a contest (there are plenty listed under the 'Writing Contests' tababove, so I've no excuse on that score) or to one of the many magazines (Duotrope, of which I'm a member,lists over 3,770 journals that take stories or poetry, so no excuse there,either).

And, I finally made astart on the editing process of the NaNoWriMo novel. My first read through is asimple one, highlighting anything obvious that needs attention but withoutactually making any alterations. I've done the first five chapters so far. Ofcourse, there's a lot of work to do before it'll be ready for publication, butI'm enjoying the work and surprised at just how good some of the text is,considering the speed with which I produced this first draft. More on that as Iprogress.

I've also done a littlework on various websites I visit, some of the social networking sites I belongto, and have read this month's Writing Mag, highlighting those portions I needto revisit. The current Writers' Digest is still only half read, though.

So, that's the end of thiswriting week. Let's see what the new one brings.

The picture is a reminder of the summer to come; something to warm you in this cold part of the year.

Breaking News - Price Drop on Kindle Ebooks

2012-01-15T15:55:00.001Z

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Due to some information from a friend, who also writes, I've just discovered that Luxembourg has reduced the VAT on book to 3%. So what? Well, apparently, Amazon UK operate out of Luxembourg, so that means all the ebooks on there have now reduced in price. An excellent oportunity to fill up that Christmas Kindle with new books at even better prices.

You'll find mine at http://www.amazon.co.uk/Stuart-Aken/e/B002WTJ3VE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1
Pay a visit and pay less for the reads; none of my ebooks is more than £2.00 now.

Read Free, My Novel Here: Chapter 1.

2012-01-13T11:00:00.000Z

3 years ago, I publishedBreaking Faith as a paperback and on 24 October 2010 I published it as an ebookthrough Smashwords.

Those who've read the bookhave enjoyed it: some of their comments are shown below. I'd like more peopleto read the book. That is, after all, why I wrote it; to be read.

So, I'm offering thechance for everyone to read it free, here on the blog. I'm posting a chapter ofthe book each Friday until the whole novel has appeared.

The Prologue was posted on6 January. Here's a link, if you missed it: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html

Read, enjoy, tell yourfriends. The more who read, the happier we'll be.

What othershave said about

BreakingFaith

...I couldnot believe how determined this book was to make me read it...set in the summerof 1976, it details Faith’s journey from isolation, deprivation and abuse...toenlightenment...A shocking but captivating story...’ Shirley Mace

I read thisbook in one sitting, unwilling to put it down, immersed in Faith’s journey fromdarkness to self-knowledge. The characters drawn with a fine brush...Thedenouement is sudden, violent and completely satisfying. Mr P. F. Field

...a storyof triumphant human spirit. The novel simmers with heat, lust, decadence andsexuality...Stuart Aken is indeed a writer to watch. Karen Wolfe, author.

1976

Monday 9th February

‘You’re having me on!’ Ithought one of my former lovers must be playing silly buggers.

‘What do you mean, Mr Longshaw?’ Her voice had anedge of nervousness, almost fear, to it.

‘Pulling my leg. I mean you’re not really FaithHeacham.’ It couldn’t be her.

‘I’m sorry; I don’t know what you mean by pullingyour leg.’ Her anxiety was briefly overcome by undisguised frustration. ‘But Iam Faith Heacham.’

I struggled to accept that Faith Heacham was onthe phone to me, of all people. But her naivety convinced me. I answered therest of her hesitant questions and, in spite of misgivings from a small warningvoice, invited her for interview.

Abby tried to recapture my attention, playing thecoquette, shrugging her gorgeous shoulders and bringing beguiling movement toher breasts.

I closed the mouthpiece with my hand. ‘Patience.’

The door from the kitchen opened and, apprehensiveat once, Abby flung one arm across her chest. But, seeing it was only Ma, sherelaxed again.

‘Until one o’clock, then. TTFN.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Ta ta for now.’

‘Oh, I see. Good morning, Mr Longshaw.’

The short call finished, I replaced the phone andwondered what had made me agree to interview this strange girl from thevillage.

Abby saw my puzzled frown. ‘Who was it, Leigh?’

Carrying coffee mugs on a tray, Ma stumbled overAbby’s polyester wrap on the floor and kicked herself free of it.

‘Faith Heacham.’

Ma frowned at the name. ‘Shilling short of apound.’ Thumping down the tray in emphasis.

I decided against pointing out the anachronism; Madidn’t take kindly to that sort of criticism. ‘I’m interviewing her afterlunch.’

Abby arched delicate pencilled eyebrows. ‘You’reinterviewing the village idiot?’

‘Didn’t sound like an idiot. Local, uncertain,nervous, naive but not stupid. Voice like burgundy silk, with none of thecoarseness you’d imagine. Funny, I’ve never heard her speak, you know. Wouldn’texpect that voice from a tiny wench like her.’

‘Beats me why you want a Girl Friday anyway.’

‘Answer the phone when I’m working, amongst otherthings.’

‘Stick an extension in the Perv’s darkroom and gethim to take messages.’

‘Of course! I never thought. Merv’s unique andcandid misogyny would be perfect. Work like a charm on every secretary,receptionist and potential model who called. Good idea, Abby.’

‘Sarkey sod.’

I tripped the shutter. ‘Shift your lovely bum atad to the left. Beautiful.’ Another work of genius captured on film.

‘Can’t Ma take messages?’

‘I do.’ Ma’s face said all she needed to on thatsubject and she left without another word.

‘She does. It’s not just that. Takes me hours totype a letter. Paperwork clogs up my creative cogs, I’m forever running out offilm and paper, and the tax return’s murder. Anyway, a good pair of legs undera mini or micro and some bold boobs in a see-through might keep those damnedreps out of my hair. Do wonders when clients visit in person.’

‘All three of them.’

‘Cheek. If I had some glamour here to greet them,there’d be more.’

‘Faith Heacham hasn’t got legs or tits. She’s notglam. She’s skinny and square. I’m glam. I’ve got legs and tits.’ She displayedto best advantage.

‘And very beautiful they are, Abby. But you’ve allthe organisational skills of a bramble bush, and your idea of accounting is,“Any money? Yes, stroke no. Spend it”. Anyway, you’d not work the hours I wantfor the wages I’m offering.’

She yawned her boredom again and I prepared tofinish the session with a last couple of shots. ‘Move a bit further over, honey,and don’t pose. It’s “Housework au Naturel.” remember? You’re supposed to beactually doing the hoovering.’

‘As if I’d get involved in housework. I’m not askivvy. Anyway, if it’s supposed to be au naturel, shouldn’t I be completelynude?’

‘They’d never publish it. And I’d never get you onpage three like that.’

‘Even so, wouldn’t you like…?’

‘Of course, even if it’s just for my personalcollection.’

She did; leaving just the shoes to enhance thelength and shape of her legs. I repeated the poses I’d already done.

The roll finished, Abby decided she’d had enough.She took my hand off the film magazine I was about to remove from the ‘Blad.‘That’ll wait. I won’t.’ She dragged me into the sitting room, where UncleFred’s framed sepia parents, stiff in matching gilt frames, glared Victoriandisapproval at us from the ancient oak mantelpiece. The roaring fire counteredthe ice in their stares, making the sheepskin rug yet more inviting. Abbyrested her lovely skin on the soft wool and pulled me down to join her.

An hour or so later, I left her glowing inside andout, languorous on the creamy fibres. At her request, I stuck a stack ofsingles on the radiogram and wandered off as Hot Chocolate sang ‘You SexyThing’, appropriately enough.

Back in the office, I replaced denim flares andthe psychedelic shirt Abby had insisted on removing from me during the shoot,and took the films to the darkroom for processing.

Merv, however, was not lurking in the orange glowof his domain. The stockroom door was ajar and, fixated by his view through thetiny window, he didn’t hear my approach. I loathed his attitude to women.

‘Stripping another unfortunate female?’

‘You do it.’

‘Merv, comparing my photography of women with yourlewd mental despoiling is like placing Velazquez in the same frame as Vargas.’

He grunted. ‘Seen that ‘un starkers.’

I peered over his shoulder, down through thewhite-encrusted skeletal sycamore to the lane end where a small, anxious youngwoman stood ankle deep in fresh snow. It took me a moment to recognize her,though she wore her usual cast-offs and was expected.

‘Not that one, Merv. I doubt even the doctor’sseen that little body.’

‘I ‘ave! Seen the lot. Outside it were an’ all.Doesn’t shave its armpits. All ‘airy they was. Mucky little twat.’

I left Merv his fantasy, unwilling to explore orargue and suddenly aware of the dangers of his corruption and loathing meetingwith her reputed purity. ‘Depending how things go this afternoon, you may soonsee her; face to face.’

‘Eh?’

‘I’m interviewing her in twenty minutes.’

‘It’ll never effin’ model for you!’

‘Girl Friday, Merv.’

‘Waste o’ time. Less brains than a shagged sheep.’

‘I’ll accept your expert assessment of the sheep,Merv, but have you actually met the girl, spoken with her?’

‘Everyone knows. Even its effin’ dad says it’sthick as cow dung.’

‘I admit he seemed determined to brand her anidiot before he sent her out to work. Anyway, I’ve nowt to lose by giving her ahearing. The only other two who responded were great to look at and fun in bedbut the blonde had all the mathematical aptitude of an artichoke and theredhead thought typewriter keys were arranged alphabetically.’

‘You’ll not gerrit in bed, Leigh. Never tecks itsknickers off. It’ll not even teck off its coat if it knows a man’s lookin’ atit.’

I turned him away from the window to face me buthe couldn’t meet my eyes, despite our equal height. ‘I want that order printedand finished, Merv. I’ll deliver it after the interview.’

‘Waste of effin’ time if you ask me. It’s gotnothing you want.’

I left Merv to it; confident he’d do his usualperfect job. As a photographic printer and technician, he was brilliant; as aman… I shuddered.

At my desk, I picked up the morning paper andwaited for Faith Heacham to knock at my door. Recalling her, apprehensive inthe snow, I wondered again how the skinny, ragged, village idiot had persuadedme to interview her.

###

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The Republic, by Plato, Reviewed.

2012-01-12T17:09:00.000Z

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Thisclassic, in the true sense of the word, was written by Plato some time afterthe execution of his admired narrator, Socrates, in 399BC. The supposeddramatic setting for the narrative is around 420BC.

Takingthe form of a discussion between Socrates and friends, the work is aphilosophical treatise founded on the theme of justice. It touches, along theway, many other aspects of life and thought and can be seen to be a foundationstone in the building of Western thought, politics and ideas.

ThatPlato wrote in an era when slavery was not only accepted but was an everydaynormality, and where women were perceived as inferior beings, permeates thetext for a modern reader. There are many places where I felt like grabbing thenarrator, and his fellow conversationalists, by the metaphorical lapels andshaking them out of their complacency over these two issues. But that is more areflection of my attitudes about these issues than of the quality of thewriting.

Istarted reading this tome, which requires a good deal of concentration, beforeXmas and the season rather interrupted the serious read. But I becamedetermined to finish the book before starting on the editing of the novel I'dwritten the preceding November (NaNoWriMo challenge for those interested). Thereason was that it immediately became clear that The Republic deals with many of the themes I included in my noveland I wanted to see what this seminal work had to say on these ideas.

Theideas expressed are remarkably contemporary in many cases. I was surprised byreferences to personality, character, political systems and religion that I'dpreviously considered to be relatively modern. There were times when Icompletely forgot that this book was written almost 2,500 years ago.

WhatI found most disturbing, however, were some of the theories and philosophicalideas that have clearly been responsible for the way we think and live today inthe Western world. That some of these ideas have been distorted, misunderstood,partially comprehended or, in some cases, deliberately taken out of context, tojustify certain modern political decisions became clearer as I read. Iunderstood, for the first time, some of the classical references I've comeacross in life and many of the underlying reasons for our current way of lifebecame obvious. It's clear that many of our current leaders are steeped in thearguments put forward in this narrative. The teaching of the classics is, ofcourse, fundamental to the education supplied by most private schools. That itisn't generally included in the curricula of state schools is equally clear. I'mnot a lover of conspiracy theory, but it's difficult to avoid the conclusionthat there has been a deliberate policy of discouraging the reading of suchbooks as this, lest the general populace become aware of what leaders havealways known.

It'simpossible to do justice to this text in the space of a simple review. I canonly suggest that those who have the intellectual stamina and the necessarycuriosity about the nature of thought and life read this book. There is muchthat the modern reader will deplore, disagree with and denigrate. The benefitof living long after the work was completed provides us with a greaterunderstanding of many things that must have been mysteries to Plato and hiscontemporaries. But the fundamentals of his thesis on politics, rule and theactions of leaders and the general populace are sound.

Thosewho love the superficial and the easy will find this book indigestible butthose who like depth, provocation of the grey cells and stimulus for theimagination and curiosity will find this a singularly rewarding read. Ithoroughly recommend it.

Writing: the Pen or the Keyboard?

2012-01-12T12:00:00.000Z

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Writers are a funny bunch. We each have our own self-imposedrules, routines, favourites and hates. I know of authors who can no more createat the keyboard than they can lay an egg. But my method of composition now dependsutterly on the keyboard. This is despite the fact that I can't touch type anduse only two fingers (not those two!) and a thumb (either will do, I'm notprejudiced). I have to look at the keyboard as I write and then glance at thescreen, with Word's spelling correction thingy open so it underlines any typosI make as I go along. I make a lot of ytops so I really should do somethingabout it.

I should learn to touch type, of course.

In fact, I spent a fortnight doing just that, about 700 yearsago, on a manual typewriter, and became quite proficient by the end of thecourse. Unfortunately, events jumped up and down on my ambition at the timeand, having finished the course, I never went near a keyboard again for over twoyears. By that time, I'd forgotten everything I'd learned and went back to mythree digit approach. It's not too bad; I can manage about 45 words a minute,when I'm really going. But I'd be much better off if I could touch type. Oneday, perhaps…

I don't dare write in script. I was clearly meant to be eithera genius or a doctor, because my handwriting is all but indecipherable, even tome! Where did it all go wrong? The bit about being a genius or a doctor, Imean. As for the handwriting, well I have a small excuse that I was one of thelucky few who, following the end of World War II (I'm not that old that I haveany personal connection with WWI), I was part of the generation who went toschool during the continuing paper shortage. So, I learned to write, at age five,using a framed slate panel and a lead scriber. We complain about Health andSafety rules these days, but at least our kids don't learn using intimatecontact with poisonous metals, eh? I was still in the early days of thisinitial learning when I contracted Scarlet Fever. I recall the ambulance, withits ringing bell (yes, a bell, not a siren) rushing me to the local hospital onChristmas Eve. There, I spent six weeks in an isolation ward, along withumpteen other patients, of all ages and both genders, suffering othercontagious illnesses. Another six weeks off school, after I was discharged,meant I'd fallen seriously behind my fellow pupils when I returned to school afew weeks before my sixth birthday. I never caught up. So, that's my excuse forthe poor handwriting.

But, in spite of my dyslexic fingers, the keyboard serves mewell. Thank heavens for the speedy ability to right wrongs there. I repairspelling errors on the fly, but never actually read what I've written until Ireach the end of a piece, no matter whether that piece is a tweet, a shortstory or a novel. Then I return to the beginning and correct, edit, replace andcut wherever necessary. Unlike many writers, I actively enjoy the editingprocess. The creative part, which I do at tearing pace, flying through theparagraphs like a demented racehorse set free from its jockey, I love. Themaking up of lives, events, lands, and all the other story elements feeds thatpart of me where the imagination dwells.

In my early days, I did actually write in longhand and thentransposed the work to type on a manual typewriter; a process that took moretime than the composition, usually because I couldn't read my own writing andhad to decipher words to make sense of it. I used the less than perfect Tippexto deal with the odd typo. Later, I progressed to an electronic machine with acorrection ribbon; a real boon. But, in those days before the word processorand computer printer, any re-arrangement of a sentence involved retyping anentire page and, sometimes, an entire chapter. Publishers required pristinetext without alterations, so it could take a long time, much patience, and anentire forest to turn out a manuscript that an agent or editor would accept.

Paper wasn't generally recycled back then, so the waste binoverflowed with screwed up pages. These days, we wait until everything appears perfecton the screen before committing the work to paper. But even that isn'tfoolproof: every writer understands that editing on paper is far more likely tothrow up errors than doing the same job on the computer screen. But, at least,it's simpler to correct now, and it isn't often necessary to reprint the entirework simply because of a few errors.

So, I compose at the keyboard, correct on screen, print indraft and re-edit using a pen, and then I transfer the changes to the file andreprint in 'best' mode to send my work off to editors and agents. I print, asrequired by the industry, on one side only of the paper, with wide margins. Imean, what's it matter if I still use a forest to achieve this level of perfectpresentation? All that matters is that the reading professional will have no reasonto reject the piece without even bothering to read it. After all, competitionis tough out there. It's good to know that they'll have a pristine piece ofwork to view before they reject it without reading; makes the whole process somuch more worthwhile, don't you think?

A question for you to ponder: Why are you IN a movie, but ON TV?

Short Term Offer

2012-01-12T09:23:00.001Z

Just to let you know, I recently - i.e. today, answered a query on LinkedIn relating to how an ebook could be offered free. To illustrate how it's done, I produced a coupon for my anthology Ten Tales for Tomorrow, which allows the user to download the book free from Smashwords in any ebook format. Thought I should share that with the readers of my blog. So, if you want to take advantage just use the code - SC28Q - when you go to this link
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stuartaken
and select the book. Just enter the code and you'll get the book free. But this is only available until 1 February. If you wait any later, you'll have to make me much richer by paying the regular price of $0.99 or £0.65. You have been warned!

Writing, Reading, Blogging.

2012-01-08T21:22:00.000Z

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So, the first week of theNew Year is over, done, gone. And what have I achieved? Well, I've updated myWriting Contests page, which takes a bit of work and time. I've written threelengthy posts for the blog, the first of which has appeared and the next ofwhich will appear on Thursday. The free read for the novel seems to be meetingwith some good reaction; Chapter 1 will appear on Friday, now that the Prologuehas featured.

I've completed my 'ToRead' page on both Goodreads, and on my blog here; see the tab above. Adeliberate exercise aimed at getting me to stick to my intention of reading anaverage of 1 book a week. Of course, I haven't finished the book I was alreadyreading, but Plato's The Republic is hardly a quick read. And, incidentally, isthe reason I haven't yet started to edit the novel I wrote during the NaNoWriMochallenge in November. Having come to this book late in life, I wish I'd readit 35 years ago. It contains so many of the themes I use in the novel that I'vedecided I need to finish reading it before I start on the editing. So, that'sthe priority task now.

Watch this space: I'll bedoing a short run-down like this each Sunday.

Read Free; My Novel Here.

2012-01-06T12:00:00.000Z

Prologue of Breaking Faith.

A little over 3 years ago,I published my first novel, Breaking Faith, as a paperback, through YouWriteOn,an Arts Council sponsored publisher. On 24 October 2010 I published it as anebook through Smashwords.

Those who've read the bookhave enjoyed it: read some of their comments below. I'd like more people toread the book. That is, after all, why I write; to be read.

So, I'm offering thechance for everyone to read it free, here on the blog. I'll post a section ofthe book each Friday until the whole novel has appeared. Here's the first part,the Prologue. Read, enjoy, tell your friends. The more who read, the happier we'llbe.

What othershave said about

BreakingFaith

...a storyof triumphant human spirit. The novel simmers with heat, lust, decadence andsexuality...Stuart Aken is indeed a writer to watch. Karen Wolfe, author.

Prologue

I had to wait when I wentto collect bread and milk from our village store. The owner was serving the manthat Father called ‘the Devil’s Henchman’. He said some really dreadful thingsto her but she laughed as I had never heard her laugh before. When he left theshop, she frowned at me.

‘What d’you want, girl?’

‘Father says Leighton Longshaw is evil, MrsGreenhough. But he was making you laugh.’

She twisted her mouth into an ugly shape andsighed. ‘Your good-for-nothing father’s a hypocritical fool, girl. And you’rejust a fool; plain and simple.’ She smiled as if she thought she had saidsomething clever. ‘What do you want?’

‘Father says I’m to tell you I start work at theDairy next week and can he have a bit of credit until I get my first wages,please? We’ve run out of sugar for his tea, you see.’

She almost threw a bag of sugar at me. ‘You’ll payas soon as you’ve got your wages, girl. Though, God knows what sort of job anidiot like you’s going to get.’

I bowed my head, as Father had taught me, and tookthe bag back home. On the way, I passed a cottage with the door open. There wasa thing I had never seen before in the far corner of the room. It had movingpictures on it and I was so surprised to see this that I actually stopped andwatched to see if it was true. It was only a few seconds before the man wholived there saw me.

‘Bugger off, cretin.’ He started to shut the door.

His wife came and peered at me. She frowned. ‘Oh,it’s only that Heacham girl. She can’t help it, George; probably never seen atelly before, livin’ with that ne’er-do-well father of hers. Shouldn’t yell ather; she’s simple.’ She turned to me, her face firm but not unkind. ‘Off yougo, Faith, there’s a good girl. It’s not nice to peer into people’s houses, youknow.’

As I moved away, Leighton Longshaw walked past mein the street. He was a tall man with the happiest eyes I have ever seen, a mopof dark hair and a beard. And he smiled at me. Smiled. I remember because noone ever smiled at me; people generally scowled. Because I was schooled athome, by Father, and lived outside the village in an isolated cottage, I had nofriends I could ask about why this bad man should smile at me so nicely. When Igot home, I mentioned it to Father but he warned me to have nothing to do withhim.

‘Keep well away from him, girl! Evil beyond yourworst nightmares. That man’s trouble through and through. You better not havedone owt to encourage him or I’ll have to scourge you, girl.’

‘I just passed him in the street, Father.’

‘Make sure that’s all you ever do with LeightonLongshaw, girl. Now get my tea.’

I never argued with Father, of course. But I didthink the man’s smile had been kind and friendly. It was such an unusual eventfor me and it left me feeling the sort of joy I only knew when I was up at thetarn; swimming or watching the birds flying. I very much wanted to experienceit again.

Now, of course, whilst Iwant people to read the book, it would be even better if they were to buy it.So, if you can't wait until next week's instalment, check the links below,which will take you to a place you can make your purchase, either as apaperback or an ebook, depending on your preference.

Sample or buy as Ebook: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stuartaken
Barnes & Noble - Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Breaking-Faith/Stuart-Aken/e/2940011126079

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Organic Change or Stability in English?

2012-01-05T12:00:00.000Z

Language, they say, withsome justification, is organic. And, in common with organic structureseverywhere, it must grow, develop and experiment with variations, or die. Manyof the world's small languages have disappeared, often because their speakersand users refused to adapt to the changes imposed by the developing world.English, considered the most widely spoken language on this extraordinary planetof ours, has some champions who would subject it to the sort of purity thatwill ultimately suffocate it. On the other hand, there are those who stretchthe meanings of words until they become meaningless.

To be a useful method ofcommunication, language needs to maintain some stability. A common example ofthe changes imposed on English in the relatively recent past concerns the word 'wicked'.Initially stemming from the Old English 'wicca' or the female version, 'wicce',and then evolving into 'witch', this word was initially all about badness andmalevolence. Though, even as early as the 17^th century it could betaken as meaning 'playfully mischievous or roguish'. Last century, it took onthe exact opposite meaning and came to convey the ideas of 'good, brilliant,wonderful' in the mouths of youth.

At the time, I recallbeing disturbed by this reversal of meaning, which appeared to have the effectof turning communication upside down and causing confusion. But the period ofbewilderment proved short and it was soon evident that context would make theintended meaning clear, often depending on who was actually using the word. Itcontinues today to have the meanings of both 'bad' and 'good'. As such, itought to be an obstacle to comprehension but, except in the most clumsy cases,its meaning is generally obvious from its usage.

Had we employed the samesort of language police as the French have for centuries, the new meaning ofthe word would have been prevented and the language made poorer by its lack.English, because of its global appeal, is not only able to absorb such changesbut actually seems to welcome them. We are blessed with a wide vocabulary withmany words borrowed, stolen or high-jacked from other languages. This gives us,as writers, the ability to express our ideas with some niceness (I use the wordin its sense of 'accuracy'). If we wish to express an idea for which there's noreal English word, we can employ one from a foreign language, knowing that inmost cases it will be both understood and accepted. So, to express the ideathat a girl is in a state of romantic attachment to a man she intends to marry,we call her a 'fiancée', borrowing the term from our cousins over the Channel.And, is there an English equivalent for that wonderfully expressive Germanword, 'Schadenfreude'? (For those who don't know, it means enjoying, in amalicious way, the misfortune of another.)

Our common language,evolving from influences of Latin, early French, ancient Greek, the dialects ofthe Norse invaders, Celtic and Germanic origins, has borrowed words from allover the world. The days when Great Britain ruled a vast empire ensured that wecollected many exotic words from lands as diverse as India, Tasmania, Borneo,Argentina, China and Egypt to mention but a few. With the development of theearly United States of America, when peoples from all over Europe mingled withthe native populations they eventually displaced, many more words were absorbedinto the growing language.

It's said that English, asused worldwide, now contains over one million different words. That's one hugemine from which to excavate the words you need to express your ideas withclarity and exactitude.

So, this is a plea forflexibility harnessed to sensible and accurate usage of language. Metaphor andsimile encourage writers and readers to expand their understanding of languageand, providing such linguistic expeditions don't remove the reader from arecognisable landscape, they can act as a means of broadening horizons for all.

It really would be wickedof you not to indulge in the full splendour of our common language to make yourwriting as wicked as you can, don't you think?

A question for you toponder: Why do folk say they 'sleptlike a baby' when babies wake up so often?

Featured Author on Another Website

2012-01-03T19:55:00.001Z

This link will take you to a website, where I am the featured author for today, 3 January. Visit it, and you'll see why I'm delighted with this piece of unexpected and unsolicited generosity from Ronnie Dauber.
http://ronniedauberauthor.com/

A Tale for the New Year: Read it Free.

2012-01-01T11:00:00.000Z

'I'm seeing in the New Year, with my chosen lover, in front of thefire. Wonderful. Until, that is, an unidentified rural noise makes the townienervous and something must be done to restore the magic.'

If you prefer to read onan eReader, you can download this free for any platform at http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stuartaken

But, Baby, It's Cold Outside.

A Seasonal Short Story

Stuart Aken

For all that it's black asthe proverbial out there, I'm required to venture forth if I'm to retain credibilityin the current lover's eyes. First, there's the unexplained and ill-definednoise, which I ignore. Then, coincidentally, the light goes out, provoking aperformance worthy of the heroine in those supposedly scary black and white Bmovies from the forties.

The failure of the light turns out to be nothingsinister. 'Just a blown bulb.'

'Replace it, then.'

'Call me an old romantic, but wouldn't firelightserve us better?'

The response is unprintable and indicates anunhealthy reliance on artificial light. So, once I've restored adequateillumination, I'm ordered outside to see what made the noise.

'Me?'

'It's your house.'

'As the woman, shouldn't I stay in the warmth andsafety of my home whilst you, Macho Man, go fight the marauders?'

'Along with the rest of your gender, you claimequality. You have to deal with the downside as well as the up.'

'So far, I've experienced little up, except theobvious, and I'm pretty sure that's been as much benefit to you as it has tome.'

He raises his eyebrows but not my hopes and I knowI'm onto a loser; it doesn't help that my statement wasn't the truth, either. Iwonder, in passing, why him? And then recall his superb taste in clothes andcars, his delicious and sensual touch, and the generous cut of his wallet, whichhas so far afforded me access to three first nights, a private viewing and thebest table at Egon's. I can stand a little misplaced equal opportunity for theluxury and privilege that are his accessories. Wimpishness isn't the cause ofhis reluctance; he sincerely believes equality of the sexes means I should dowhatever he'd be prepared to do on my behalf. Daft, I know; but he is a man,after all.

Being rural, I ignore strange noises in the night,examining their cause in full light of day, if at all. He's a townie who putsup with the shouts of drunks, the screams of distressed women, the whistling offools and the constant clatter of traffic past his trendy pied à terre but ismade suspicious by the noise of something falling over outside.

'It's just that old gate I stacked against theside of the house. The wind's blown it over.'

'Didn't sound like a gate falling over to me.'

'It's pitch bloody black out there. How am Isupposed to see anything?'

'Use a torch.'

'Batteries are flat.'

'Well, we'll open the curtains and turn on all thelights, assuming they work.'

'They do. Mostly.'

Raised eyebrows indicate his lack of faith but heaccepts. 'Good.'

'And your monster of the night is just going tohang about out there, awaiting discovery, having received the signal of ourintent?'

'Our?'

'We're conspiring jointly in the process, even ifI'm the active member and you're merely the source of ideas.'

'Mmm.'

I rise, turn on the spot. 'Look at me.'

'Yes, very lovely.'

'You really expect me to venture forth into thewild night with…?'

'Put something on and stop making excuses.'

I don seductive red satin recently abandoned,rather than the woollen protection I know is appropriate. It'll be cold outthere. New Year always is. But I won't be gone long and I intend to continuewhere we left off after the interruption of the unidentified noise. I suggesthe turns on the downstairs lights, front and back, whilst I plunge into thefrozen void.

'You're not going out there like that on your own,are you?'

'Are you coming with me?'

'Are you mad?'

I try a simple facial message but it doesn't getthrough. Insufficient intimate togetherness yet for such subtlety to connect, Isuppose. 'Exactly how am I supposed to go outside without you, yet not bealone?'

A pause for consideration. 'Be quick, then. I'llworry about you.'

'Not enough to accept my plausible explanation.'

He avoids the shrug that his body and myexpectations demand and makes do with a non-committal grunt.

'Not enough to be the gentleman?'

'Equality of opportunity. This is yours.'

'But I don't crave such opportunity. In any case,I'm not worried by the noise.'

Another grunt; distinctly negative and indicativethat this is the end of the discussion, as far as he's concerned. That much ofhis subtlety I have learned.

Outside, it seems even darker than the proverbialand I wait for light to issue through the curtains he's supposed to be opening.I wait. And slowly freeze. The darkness remains; unilluminated, unmoving andunmoved by my presence. I understand I am irrelevant to the void and begin towonder if I represent a similar rank of importance to him.

At last, a faint glow signals the start of hissimple task, but at the front of the house. I left by the back door and he sawme. Is this contrary action merely pique at my rational response to hisirrational fear? Or is it simple idiocy? Hardly the latter. I don't getinvolved physically or emotionally with imbeciles. Not deliberately, anyway.But I wonder why I've become so attached to a man who's beginning to seem remarkablylike a prat. Except, he has his good points. The fact that he's unjustlywonderful at that most subtle of interpersonal activities adds to theattraction of his wealth, devastating good looks and multiple connections. Iponder, for a fraction of a second, whether I might be a tad guilty ofsuperficiality here but I expunge that unworthy thought and recall theextraordinary evenings, nights, afternoons and mornings I've experienced sincewe met.

The light at the back escapes at last through theraised kitchen blind and the drawn dining room curtains. I examine the area ofgarden I can see and note that the soft cold stuff assaulting me is snow,augmenting the frost already formed. Nothing moves but flakes of lightness andthe tips of visible vegetation, shaking in the gale. It occurs I've denied anyidea of what I'm supposed to be seeking and a question might afford me re-entrybefore I freeze further. I open the back door and call into warmth I'm temptedto re-enter.

'What sort of noise?'

He is by the fire; I can tell by the distance hisvoice has to travel. 'I told you.'

I have no recollection of either being told or, ifI have been told, of the message. 'No, sorry, that doesn't help.'

'Oh! You're useless. There's something out there.Just see what it is.'

'Well, there's a large area of garden, mostlyimmobile and recumbent under a falling blanket of snow, except where it'ssufficiently fragile to be disturbed by the howling gale, of course. There's afence, beyond which lie several thousand acres of fields, forests and hills,dissected by a river, currently out of my field of vision ...'

As I list the inventory, he emerges into thekitchen.

'Idiot! I mean something moving, something thatshouldn't be there!'

'Ah. An alien? Ghost? Creature of the night, specifiedor un? Perhaps a monster from nightmare? A serial killer out for a midnightstroll? A lynch mob intent on suspending a victim, if not its credibility?'

'God, you're obtuse. And I'm freezing here withthat door open in my robe...'

'I suggest you shut the door in your robe and giveme a…'

'Look, it was a sharp slithering sort of softthudding scraping noise.' And he shuts the door. Not the one in his towellingrobe, but the more substantial wooden portal to the house, before I can askfrom what direction this comprehensive oxymoron of a sound emerged.

Disconsolate at being left out in the cold,wearing a garment designed to lure the eyes of men to my assets rather thanprotect them from frost, and unsocked wellies that barely insulate my feet fromfrozen ground, I begin a rapid exploration. Alcohol has lost supremacy by nowand the threat of frostbite dictates I make a simple circuit to rule out anyobvious cause before I return, bold cold and brave, to conquer his residualconcerns with passion, before the night freezes my ardour: I can rest assuredthat his will not diminish in the waiting.

The corner of the house allows the gale to swirlincreasing flakes into a small tornado that lifts my scandalous hem andspatters snow against the skin beneath to melt and slowly slide in wetness downmy legs. But there's nothing in the intervening darkness, between the dim lightat the back and the dimmer light at the front, to suggest a monster might belurking at that side of the house. I pass, unmolested, beside the solid brickbarrier to the front garden; neat, hedged and deserted.

Beyond the hawthorn and beech runs the narrow lanethat leads eventually to the hamlet where my nearest neighbours celebrate thenew arrival. And I recall we haven't made the usual ritual this time: I have nocoal or logs, no money, salt or bread to enter with and bring the luck we alldesire. Though, on being questioned, I'll deny any interest in or subjection tosuch craven superstition as 'first-footing'. In any case, he's supposed toperform that particular ritual, as the man.

The front garden is also devoid of alien beasts,hobgoblins and mass murderers. I lightly skip along the beds of restingflowers, past the blank front door and across the white blanket that is now thedrive. His red Ferrari, encrusted with a soft layer of white icing, like alittle boy's birthday cake, is exhibited at his insistence for the hungry eyesof the envious before the garage door, behind which skulks my wheeledutilitarian box. Fooled by softness, I forget the constant puddle and slip onthe ice it has now become. The robe helpfully lifts so that my naked buttocksslide along the frozen surface until the stone kerb brings me to a halt withonly a spine-jarring jolt and superficial injury to my fast freezing passionateparts. I curse the night, rub the offended rump and other bits and struggleupright, glad no one saw my pratfall and exposure.

The last side of the house, also in darkness,reveals no sign of monsters but there is evidence of some disturbance in thedrifting snow. Tracks of recent footfalls meander, and the broken gate, whichhad been leaning against the house, has fallen onto the path. I right it. Butwill he believe I was correct in my original supposition when I give him thissolution to his mystery?

I turn the corner and tumble headlong over a darkhuddled shadow that mumbles. I land against the dustbin, upside-down with myhead buried in a small drift, and moon into the moonless night. An unknown handmolests my unprotected flesh and then hoists me back to my feet and suddenly I'mat the back door.

He is there, in gratitude no longer worried by thedoor in his robe, which he's removed to reward my bravery with his undiminishedand evident passion. The robe, that is, not the door. Behind me looms thehuddled shadow that caused me to befriend the dustbin.

He cries out in alarm. I turn, ready to attack anddefend.

''Appy New Year, m' dear. Shorry 'bout the clisionback there. Dropped me lump o' coal an' I was tryin' to fine it. Firsht footin'an' all that.'

It is the redoubtable Miss Fobiter; she of thethree facial hirsute warts and fixed leering grin. I grin back, hopefullywithout the leer, and wrap my robe more tightly.

By the time I've turned, he's vanished intoconcealing darkness within and I'm left stumbling my thanks to my nearestneighbour and inviting her in for customary seasonal cheer. The picture ofdeparting gratitude, flouncing as though no longer quite so pleased with mysolution to his fears, suggests I'll see New Year's Day arrive without hisclose company.

'Thought you'd be on your own, like me, don't y'know?'

I wonder whose car she thinks she passed on mydrive and then recall her reputation as a woman resistant to normal consumerpressures. She probably didn't even notice it, or worse, thinks it's mine.

My neighbour, whose first name she reserves as amystery, insists on two full choruses of Auld Langsyne, which I'm powerless toresist. To my surprise, he returns to join in this ritual, his robe replaced.She greets him with a cursory assessment that suggests she finds him, becausehe's a man, wanting. But she accepts the second glass of cheer he politelyoffers. Two hours of pointless chatter pass as the fire slowly settles in thegrate and he grows glassy eyed. At last, she decides it's time she visitedother neighbours. I hold him close about the waist as she departs into the snowand we close the door on night.

With her departure, my role in his earlierexposure is recalled and expressed in word and deed, the repelling hand shovingme unceremoniously back into my armchair.

'If you think you're having your wicked way withme after letting that dirty old hag see me naked, you've another think coming.'

'I don't think she was interested in you; naked orotherwise.'

'You should've warned me. I don't like strangewomen seeing me undressed.'

I'm being unfair and mighty inaccurate when Isuspect, aloud, he's anxious at being found wanting. He sulks at the unguarded,unfounded suggestion the alcohol encourages me to make, and I watch him climbthe stairs.

He lingers at the turn on the landing taking allpromise of passion with him. 'A real woman wouldn't take no for an answer.'

Unsure whether this is an invitation or simplyanother assault, a reminder of my imperfections, I return to the fire,unwilling to be seen as coercive and determined to play the part of the injuredparty to the bitter end. I place more logs onto the embers, refill my glasswith the last of the Chivas Regal I bought him for Christmas, and stare intothe flames, imaging what might've been and recalling New Years that startedmore auspiciously.

Lurking at the back of my mind is the suspicionthat he'll forgive me, once he finds the bed a little wide and cold without mycompany. Just to encourage that idea and persuade him of my value, I sneakoutside and bang the metal dustbin lid with the coal shovel. I'm back in frontof the fire, waiting on the hearthrug, by the time he reaches the security andwarmth of me and the blazing logs.

I invite him to open the door in my robe. He doesso willingly but, as I surrender to his delicious demands, I hear the gate fallover again and await his protest. Oddly, he seems preoccupied and doesn't evenmention the noise, this time. Aahhh.

###

This story, whilst free to read here, is copyright the author, StuartAken, 2011. Please respect the author's work in producing this and avoidpirating, copying or sharing other than through this blog, to which I'm happyfor you to link with all your friends.

I hope this little piece of seasonal fun has amused you. Please considerit a gift in appreciation of your time and support.

If you'd like to read more of my work, please see the books in the righthand column. A click on each will take you to a place you can read more and/orbuy.

A New Year and a Change of Direction.

2011-12-31T14:00:00.000Z

I'm a writer. Not news, Iknow. But, writers write. They read as well, and, sometimes, they do a bit ofliving - on the side, so you won't really notice it.

So far, on this blog, I'veserved the needs of numerous authors by interviewingthem and promoting their work. I've reviewed books I've read. Because,believe me, any writer who doesn't read is wasting his time. You can't write inisolation, unaware of what's happening in the world of books. I don't read asmuch as I used to, or as much as I should, or, indeed, as much as I'd like to.But last year, apart from the monthly writing magazines, frequent newsletters, and emailed updates I read, I managed to get through 30 books. This year I'dlike to try to average 1 a week. We'll see.

But, more importantly, I'dlike to get some new writing done, some of my past writing edited, and more ofmy work published. So, I'm publicly declaring a determination to enter work forcompetitions, to submit work to magazines and to complete the novels Icurrently hold in draft form.

Why make such adeclaration public?

Well, if it's out therewith readers, you're likely to ask me about my progress, which means I have anadditional motive for actually keeping to the plan. I don't want to have tofind excuses why I haven't done this or that. Not that that will stop mefinding such excuses, when I feel the need, of course.

What this means inpractice is that my Daily Word Spot will either disappear completely (pleaselet me know how important this is to you as a reader by making a comment) or itmight become a weekly digest with a few words in each instead. The problem withthose posts is that they take up a lot of time, you see.

So, the plan is to do alonger article each week, usually on the writing process or something involvedwith books, reading and writing. This will replace my previous regularThursday interview slot. At the weekend, I'll do a summary of my writingactivity, illustrating what does and doesn't work and letting readers knowwhat's involved in actually getting words down on paper (or, of course, onscreen for the ebooks).

I'll keep up the writingcontests page, since I'll be entering competitons and know how useful thatparticular page has been to a number of you.

And, this is breaking newshere, I'm going to be giving something back to you for your time andcontributions. Tomorrow, I'll post the full text of my free ebook, But, Baby, It's Cold Outside, so you canread it here, if you wish. It's an appropriate story for the day, since it's seton New Year's Eve. However, the real news is that I'll start to release thefull text of my novel, Breaking Faith,in instalments, so that those who haven't bought or borrowed it, can read the wholestory here. That will start on Friday, 6th January, with the Prologue, andcontinue each Friday until the end of the book is reached.

Why?

Writing is all about beingread. Any modern writer who sets out to make money from writing as a primaryaim is either daft or self-deluded. The JK Rowlings and Dan Browns represent analmost infinitesimal fraction of the community of writers out there. In UK, theaverage novel sells no more than 2,000 copies. For an experienced writer,that's around a year's work. At a royalty rate of 10% on a £7.99 paperback -well, you do the math, as they say. Let's just accept that by far the majorityof writers, irrespective of talent and ability, will never make a living fromtheir writing. For those wannabees who think they'll make a quick killing inthe market place, please accept this as a friendly warning: if you want to makea quick buck, find something else; writing isn't going to do it for you.

So, I'll waste no more ofyour time now. But, please, do make comments. It's easily done, anonymously, ifyou can't do it any other way; you can always add your name at the end of thecomment. Writers exist in a world that can be isolating, and feedback is notonly important, it's essential.

My thanks for your timeand attention. May I wish you all the very best in the coming year? I hope youall receive the good things you wish for yourselves.

Stuarts' Daily Word Spot: Allegory

2011-12-31T12:00:00.000Z

Allegory: noun - a narrative written under theguise of another and sharing points of correspondence with it; symbolicrepresentation; an extended metaphor; an emblem; a picture where meaning is representedsymbolically.

Allegory in the visualarts is almost as old as the art form itself. I could list hundreds ofexamples, but will make do with just three representatives of the form: SandroBotticelli' s Primavera,also known as Allegory of Spring,Johann Vermeer's Allegoryof the Catholic Faith and Il Bronzino's Venus,Cupid, Folly and Time

In literature, there isthe famous case of the 'mistaken' allegory as exemplified by JRR Tolkien's Lord of the Rings, which many criticsassumed to be an allegory of WWII, in spite of Tolkien's emphatic denial ofsuch and his assertion that he loathed the very idea of allegory.

Amongst those works thatare recognised as allegory, of which there are many, a few are as follows:

Jonathan Swift's politicalallegory, Gulliver's Travels,William Golding's Lord of the Flies,an allegory about the conflicting forces that apply to civilisation and power,and, of course, the famously allegorical work by George Orwell. In Animal Farm the author skilfullycaricatures the rise of Stalin and the follies of the communist state.

Many works of fictioncontain elements of allegory and some have said that my own Breaking Faith isan allegory of good and evil. I'd argue that 'good and evil' is too wide atopic to be the subject of allegory and, in any case, is more a theme than asubject for allegory. But it is nevertheless true that many novels that are notspecifically allegorical do carry an element or elements of allegory withinthem. Often, however, these are interpretations made by readers and critics,rather than intentional designs of the authors.

1696 - A window tax wasimposed in England, causing many shopkeepers to brick up their windows to avoidthe tax. It was repealed on the 24th July 1851, following much lobbying. Asimilar tax was imposed in France from 1798 and lasted until 1926. A realexample of the wealthy law-makers being oblivious to the harm caused bythoughtless legislation on those less well-off, it was responsible for seriousdeterioration in living conditions for many of those who lived in poverty. Thelack of light and air caused innumerable illnesses and deaths amongst the poor.Walking around England's historical urban areas it is easy to mistake somearchitectural devices for examples of attempts to defeat the window tax. Manywindows were, or course, bricked up as a result of the imposition, but thehabit of designing 'mock' windows continued long after the tax had beenrepealed and goes on today, with the decorative elements now used to harmonise andbring symmetry into the design of some buildings.

Stuarts' Daily Word Spot (Antonyms): Zany/Serious

2011-12-30T12:00:00.000Z

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Zany/Serious

Zany: adjective - comically idiotic; ridiculous or comic; bizarre, crazy.

Serious: adjective - grave, solemn or sober indisposition or intention; responsible, neither reckless nor careless.

'The tabloid newspaper wasin the habit of describing any student activity that was even marginally out ofthe ordinary as "zany", so that it was impossible to take its reportsseriously.'

'Jason was a serious youngman; his sober clothes, sedate manner and generally grave habit made him thebutt of the jokes played by his more frivolous fellow students.'

1703 - Tokyo was hit by anearthquake, which killed about 37,000.

1919 - Lincoln's Inn inLondon admitted its first female law student. And even after almost a hundredyears of supposed equality, women are seriously underrepresented as barristersand judges. So much for progress, eh?

Stuarts' Daily Word Spot: X-Rated

2011-12-29T12:00:00.000Z

X-Rated: a film classificationused in UK, USA, France and Australia in the early days of film censorship andrating. In UK, in 1982, it was replaced in by the 18 certificate, and it wasapplied to films felt unsuitable to be seen by people under 18 years of age dueto sexual, violent or nude content. In US, much the same situation appliedinitially, but because 'X-rated' was not trademarked, it quickly became a toolfor the pornographers to use to advertise their films, frequently beingconverted to XX or XXX to indicate the level of hardcore pornography peddled.

In more general terms,it's become a symbol of something outrageous or risqué, something to titillateand excite, usually in a sexual manner. It is still sometimes applied toviolent entertainment as well.

'The bikini that girl'salmost wearing should be X-rated, is you ask me.'

'I'd tell you what I heardabout Barbara and Trevor the other night at Joanna's, but it's X-rated.'

A question to ponder:

How is it that we put a manon the moon before we decided it would be a good idea to fit suitcases with wheels?

1170 - Thomas Becket,Archbishop of Canterbury, was assassinated inside Canterbury Cathedral byfollowers of King Henry II, and later became a saint and martyr in the AnglicanChurch and the Roman Catholic Church. The story is that Henry never intendedhis death and that his statement, 'Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?' was misinterpreted by the subjects who went on to dohis bidding. However, if those were his actual words, it's difficult to knowwhat else he might have meant.

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1955 - Barbra Streisand's firstrecording of 'You'll Never Know' wasmade, when she was aged 13.

Stuarts' Daily Word Spot (Antonyms): Yell/Whisper

2011-12-28T12:00:00.000Z

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Yell/Whisper

Yell: noun - a loud cry of pain, fear, anger, delight, triumph orsurprise; a shout, scream.

Verb - to utter a yell or shout.

Whisper: noun - an instance of whispering orspeaking softly; a softness of voice characterizing such speech; a whispered phrase.

Verb - to speak very softly; to converse like this for the sake ofsecrecy;

'When Roger crept upbehind Sarah, fresh and warm from her shower, and placed his cold hands overher uncovered breasts, she gave out a great yell of shock and indignation.'

'As the time came for thenews to be passed on, John brought Mandy close, embraced her, and with a gentlewhisper, explained that he wouldn't be spending the night with her but withJacob.'

'In the falling darknessof dusk, the dark figure that emerged from the trees and lurched toward her, madeMartha yell with fear.'

'Mark teased Maria'sauburn locks away from her small ears and placed his mouth close so he could whisperwords of love and tenderness to her without alerting her husband to hisfeelings.'

1846 - Iowa became the29th state of the US.

1908 - An Earthquake struckMessina in Italy and killed nearly 80,000.

1981 - The infamous RendelshamForest UFO incident, in Suffolk near the US Airforce base, caused muchspeculation in the press. Just another cause for conflict between those whobelieve and those who don't. If the military had been more open from thebeginning, the whole field of UFOs could probably have been less fraught withconspiracy theory.

Stuarts' Odd Definitions (SODs): Solicitor

2011-12-27T12:00:00.000Z

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I'm adding a little darkhumour and devising some definitions of my own. Since I generally rely on theShorter Oxford English Dictionary (SOED) to inspire my 'real' definitions forthe Daily Word Spot, I thought I'd use the acronym SOD for my own odddefinitions. Here's the second of what will become an irregular series.

Solicitor: noun - an individual for whom law is amoney tree, someone more interested in law than justice, an encourager ofconflict, a partner in a firm set up to rob honest folk of their hard-earnedcash, any member of a gang devoted to separating law-abiding citizens fromtheir inheritance, a frustrated actor, a person willing to ensure the guilty gofree if enough payment is received for the service, a member of the House ofCommons who ensures that laws are made and kept as complex as possible so thatthe man in the street will be forced to employ him or her to interpret them.

Okay, so I might be beinga bit hard. I do actually know a couple of people who are or were solicitorsand who manage to remain pleasant people. But they are few and far between, Ifear. I'd be interested to learn your experiences of the legal profession.

1825 - The first publicrailroad using steam locomotives was completed in England. The network ofpublic transport first slowly and then rapidly expanded to carry people allover the country at reasonable cost and in growing comfort. Then, in the 1960sDr Beeching, at the behest of the Conservative government then in power, wrotea report, which resulted in over 6,000 miles of track being taken out ofservice, along with more than 3,000 stations. The motivation for this waspurported to be that most people would own cars and the railways wouldtherefore become more or less obsolete. Of course, this was a self-fulfilling prophesy,as the removal of usable public transport from many locations ensured thatpeople would be forced to buy and use cars instead. I often wonder how muchmoney passed from the motor manufacturers into the hands of the politicians andothers responsible for the decline of our railway system, which was, at thetime, the envy of the world. Of course, the railways are no longer a publiccorporation but privately owned companies now struggling to replace the lostcustom and upgrade the service to cope with increasing demand. Anotherwonderful decision made by our government that only ever thinks short-term.

1945 - The World Bank wascreated with the signing of an agreement by 28 nations. It has since become aninstitution with the potential to do enormous good. It's a shame it's been sofrequently hijacked by the unethical and the exploitative to make someseriously damaging decisions, especially as far as environmental matters areconcerned. Yet more politicians buggering things up, eh?

Stuarts' Daily Word Spot (Antonyms): Vacant/Occupied

2011-12-26T12:00:00.000Z

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Vacant/Occupied:

Vacant: of a benefice, officeor position - unfilled or not occupied; containing nothing, empty, uninhabited,untenanted; not occupied or in use.

Occupied: of a country,town or strategic position - taken by military conquest or by settlement;forcibly entered and held, often as a form of protest; taken up, used, filled; keptbusy, engaged, employed; of a position or office - filled, held by anindividual; lived in, tenanted.

'Carol returned home afterher business trip to discover the house vacant. The note, scribbled in red crayonabove the dead fire in the grate, explained that her husband, Dave, tired ofher continued absence, had run off with the willing barmaid from the CuckoldArms and taken all the furniture to set up home with her.'

'When Roger returned fromhis four week holiday in the Caribbean, he discovered his detached homeoccupied by travellers who'd assumed it was unused.'

1799 - George Washington waseulogized by Col Henry Lee as 'First in war, first in peace and first in the heartsof his countrymen'.

1860 - The first everinter-club football match took place, between Hallam F.C. and Sheffield F.C.,at the Sandygate Road ground in Sheffield, England. That is soccer, not thegame now played in the US.

Stuarts' Daily Word Spot: Daft/Sane

2011-12-25T12:00:00.000Z

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Daft/Sane

Daft: adjective - silly; lacking intelligence; stupid; wild or reckless; unsoundof mind; crazy.

Sane: adjective - sound of mind, not mad; sensible and rational;moderate; free from misguiding prejudices.

'It is often said thatthose who believe in any form of scripture must be daft. And this may be so. Butsuch a stance takes account only of rational intelligence. It makes noallowance for emotional intelligence, where the subject recognises their needfor some moral or heroic leader to guide them through life and therefore choosesto give credence to some doctrine that cannot be true on a reasoning level.'

'The only really sanestance on religious matters is to recognise that any form of organised religionis the product of man and has little or nothing to do with God. The sane personunderstands that we are incapable, as a species, of fully comprehending anypower capable of designing, manufacturing and installing what we understand asthe known universe. Science can sometimes appear adamant that God doesn'texist, but this is to take on the same dogmatic stance as religion: it requiresfaith in an absolute that cannot be demonstrated to exist.'

On a lighter note, morefitting to the season, perhaps:

'Sally was daft enough to followJack's urging and donned the ridiculous Santa outfit that displayed her amplecleavage and left her long legs exposed almost to the point of his desire.'

'Jane was sane enough tounderstand that skating on the frozen pond was not a good idea and refused tojoin David as he skidded over the cracked surface and finally broke through itso he was plunged into icy water to a level that cooled his ardour ratherrapidly.'

1 - The first Christmas,according to calendar-maker Dionysus Exiguus. But the evidence, such as it is, suggestsJesus was probably born in either January or July somewhere around 4-6BC. Butpeople will inevitably believe what they choose to, since it has long beenshown that belief has little or nothing to do with either fact or evidence andmuch to do with a mixture of nurture and personal preference.

1818 - The first knownChristmas carol Silent Night, Holy Nightwas sung in Austria, sparking one of the more attractive and seductive elementsthat make up the spiritual Christian festival today.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot (Antonyms): Taboo/Permitted

2011-12-24T12:00:00.000Z

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Taboo/Permitted:

Taboo: verb - to place under a literal taboo; todebar or forbid by influence; to place under a social ban; to ostracize orboycott; to award a sacred status to something, thereby restricting its use; toprohibit.

Permitt(ed): verb - to allow; to give permission; to consentto a person doing or experiencing something.

'In many religions, theeating of certain foods is taboo. These restrictions stem mostly from ancientobservations of health risks associated with the consumption of the foods, butmodern methods of cooking, along with other safeguards, now render the taboosirrelevant. However, the religious organisations concerned, having built theprohibitions into the very structure of their dogma, find themselves incapableof admitting the truth and freeing up their adherents to sample foods that arenow known to be safe to eat.'

'Long before Nataliediscovered that nude swimming was permitted in the private pool, she'd abandonedher costume and taken to the waters in her skin to enjoy the delights of skinnydipping.'

1777 - Kiritimati, alsocalled Christmas Island, was discovered by James Cook, who therefore decided toname it after the celebratory day of his chosen moral leader.

1939 - World War II: PopePius XII made a Christmas Eve appeal for peace. The war had been under way foronly a few months, so perhaps the world in general, having convenientlyforgotten the mass death and destruction of the previous world war, wasn't yetready to gang together to defeat the evil that was Nazi aggression led by themadman, Hitler.

2011 - It's Christmas Eve,and the occasion for joy, celebration and merriment the world over for allthose who live in a state formed or dominated by Christian beliefs. As anagnostic, I no longer follow the man who became unwittingly responsible forthis once wonderful celebration of goodwill and peace. It doesn't prevent meenjoying the ideas held within that celebration, however. Much as I detest theabsolute commercialism that's now replaced any form of spiritual awareness forthe mass of the population, I still enjoy the idea of giving. And my past, as aonce active member of the Church of England, catches up with me to make meenjoy the music and spiritual richness of the occasion.

So, I wish allpeace-loving, caring and kind individuals, whatever their faith or philosophy,a very Merry Christmas, and hope they receive those things they most desire.

Stuart's Odd Definitions (SODs): Politician

2011-12-23T12:00:00.000Z

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I thought I'd add a little darkhumour and devise some definitions of my own. Since I generally rely on theShorter Oxford English Dictionary (SOED) to inspire my 'real' definitions forthe Daily Word Spot, I thought I'd use the acronym SOD for my own odd definitions.Here's the first of what will become an irregular series.

Politician: noun - unreliable representative of thepeople; a corrupt official; opinionated orator; self-obsessed child; blinkeredfollower of party dogma; greasy pole climber; a person with their snout in thetrough; demagogue; someone with ideas fixed by reference to a dubious past; aperson suffering retarded development and needing undue attention from a largepool of otherwise insignificant strangers; an immature seeker of attention.

As is evident from mydefinition, I have huge admiration for politicians as a class of individuals. Afterall, they have, over the years, managed to persuade large numbers of peoplethat they act in the interests of their constituents, whilst ensuring thattheir own goals are given priority. They've achieved that most unusual feat of foolingmost of the people most of the time: in this case, mostly a reflection of theweariness and indifference of the voting population. In a democracy,politicians are supposed to represent the views of those whose region theyserve. In reality, of course, they invariably either bow to pressure from theirparty machine and thereby distort or delete their personal election promises,or they put forward their own views regardless of any conflict these may havewith those of the people they're supposed to represent.

So, a pretty worthy bunchof reprobates, thoroughly deserving of our continued support. They'llundoubtedly maintain their positions of power and influence and use them togain greater rewards for themselves and those they favour, whilst the rest ofus lie back and let them trample over us, thereby receiving the respect andtreatment we deserve.

So, I say, well done politicians.May you all receive the rewards you so richly deserve.

What say you?

1672 - Giovanni Cassinidiscovered Rhea, one of the many satellites of Saturn.

1922 - BBC Radio begandaily newscasts in the UK, starting a tradition that has grown over the yearsto inform, educate and, sometimes, irritate the hell out of the listeners.

Are Traditions and Customs Really Worth Keeping?

2011-12-22T14:00:00.000Z

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Such a question willinevitably promote discussion, debate and perhaps some outrage at the meresuggestion. But, before I say my piece and invite your comments andcontributions, perhaps I should define the terms, so that we all know what we'rediscussing:

Tradition is defined asbelief, custom, etc., passed along from generation to generation by non-writtenmeans; those beliefs, collectively; established and accepted practice orcustom; principles held and generally followed by a branch of the arts, adoptedfrom and handed down through experience and practice; doctrine regarded as possessingdivine authority with no written evidence; the spoken messages of Christ andthe apostles, passed on by word of mouth through generations; words and actionsof Muhammad not incorporated in the Qur'an but transmitted orally before beingrecorded.

Custom is held to behabitual or common practice; a usual way of behaving; usage, fashion or habit; establishedusage which, because it has continued for a long time, has taken on the forceof a law or right.

The world is overrun withexamples of custom and tradition; many are religious in origin, others stemfrom early ignorance of certain realities, yet others have developed asresponses to threats from outside the boundaries set by those groups practicingthem. We, mostly, take such things for granted and promote their continuancewithout much thought for either their origins or their real social effects. So,is any harm done by such continuation? Is it possible that some customs andtraditions are not good things?

Let's look at some of themost popular and widespread. Christmas is almost on us. This celebration of thebirth of a notable prophet, a figure responsible for the formation of one ofthe world's great religions, is touted as a demonstration of love, generosityand general goodwill to all men. Peace and harmony are tied into the verymeaning of this tradition. So, can it be seen in any way as other than a goodthing?

Well, the timing of theceremony, as most people are aware, is way off if it is an actual commemorationof the prophet's birth, since it's believed he was actually born in the summermonths. So, the first aspect I question is the lack of honesty in the dating.Of course, it's well known that the old Pagan ceremony that was traditionallyheld at the mid-winter point long before Christianity came on the scene, washijacked by the church in order to allow the celebrants to more readily acceptthe new religion. So, the timing of the celebration immediately takes on thenature of a con-trick, something devised to make more palatable a set ofbeliefs that were at variance with those of the people it was invented toconvert. Such trickery is hardly the way to promote a doctrine that purports tohave truth at its heart, I think.

In Islam, the position ofthe woman is traditionally that of subordinate; traditionally, though notaccording to the holy book of the faith. The Qur'an states quite clearly thatmen and women are of equal value and worth. However, the later commentaries,supposedly recorded as the words and actions of the prophet, Mohammed, are opento interpretation that women are rightly considered subordinate to men. Suchdowngrading of the gender would fit in well with the beliefs of a man broughtup in a brothel, of course. And they fit in well with the traditions of aculture which has regarded women as goods and chattels since the beginning ofrecorded history. One has only to look at the ethnic communities where Islamfirst developed and note the custom of awarding their leaders numerous wivesand concubines to see that the male attitude to the position of women in suchsocieties was less than generous. The Islamic belief that men who are martyredin the cause (whatever that cause may be determined to be) will be rewarded byan eternity in paradise served by anything up to 72 virgin maidens, indicatesthat women are seen as the playthings and servants of men. No such rewardawaits those women who sacrifice themselves to the cause, however. And,clearly, the fate of the 72 virgin maidens is hardly something to be relished. So,I question the custom and tradition held so dear by the sects of this religionin this regard.

The tradition of regardingpork as unclean, elevated to quasi-legal status in certain communities, stemsfrom early observations that pig meat can cause many illnesses. Of course, withmodern farming techniques and the knowledge that such meat must be well-cookedto avoid the problems, the risk has been reduced to similar proportions asthose of eating any other meat. But it's noteworthy that the ban on eating porkremains. It's been enshrined into the culture of those communities and is upheldas something positive simply on the grounds that it is customary, traditional.Another example of the religious authorities being unwilling to accept that thebasis for their laws might actually be questionable.

In certain parts of theMiddle East and Africa it's customary for young women to be circumcised. This,of course, is a euphemism for brutal damage to the victims genitalia. Thecustom, carried out without anaesthetic, involves the removal of the clitorisand, frequently, the stitching together of the labia minor to prevent penetration.This tradition, often continued and encouraged by the mothers of the victims,is designed entirely to serve the men of the communities. The thought behind itis that women will not 'stray' if there is little pleasure for them in the sexact. The victim's stitched labia are cut open once the woman marries so thather husband may penetrate her, regardless of any pain she may suffer. Thiscustom is defended by those within the community on the grounds that it is along held tradition. And, of course, it the combination of the status oftradition with subliminal brain-washing that allows the mothers to continue toperpetrate this violence on their daughters.

I could go on. There aremany examples of similar customs and traditions: wife burning at the death of ahusband, the disfiguring of women who refuse a suitor's advances, the killingof daughters who 'dishonour' a family by refusing to marry the chosen husband.All, of course, with serious consequences for those affected. There are also lessercustoms and traditions that do more subtle harm. The custom of the Abrahamicreligions in their elevation of commerce to the level of some sort of divinelyinspired activity, for example, has allowed business to proceed without anyreal concern about its effects on those who are less well off. And the customof giving at Christmas, whilst producing some very real generosity of spirit aswell as actual charity, has caused many millions to put themselves into debt inorder to avoid being thought either mean or too poor to give as much as theirneighbours.

So, to return to myquestion: is it possible that some customs and traditions are not good things? Ithink you'll know my answer, but I'm interested to learn yours. Are you willingto get involved in the discussion here? It's easy enough to make a commentbelow.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot (Antonyms): Rabble/Aristocracy

2011-12-22T12:00:00.000Z

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Rabble/Aristocracy

Rabble: noun - a crowd of disorderly people, amob; people imagined as comprising a mob; the lowest class of people, commoners.

Aristocracy: noun - a ruling body of members of the nobility;the class to which these rulers belong; a patrician or privileged class ofpeople; the best examples of a quality or skill; a privileged or elite group.

'Recent riots in Londonwere caused by a rabble of opportunists in search of thrills and free booty,rather than by any group of real protestors.'

'Most of the aristocracyin the UK are descendants of robber barons who helped various unworthy monarchsto maintain their power over the populace. The social contract was supposed tobe a deal in which the powerful protected the general population in return forfood and some small reward. Of course, it quickly degenerated into an excuse toexploit those with lesser means and take advantage of their ignorance andpowerlessness; it remains so today, of course.'

A question for you toponder: When they cure ham, what disease does it have?

1882 - The first string ofChristmas tree lights was created by Thomas Edison, starting a tradition thathas grown into the excess of today, with hundreds of millions of cheap illuminationsdecorating the interiors and exteriors of millions of homes and publicbuildings to little purpose.

1941 - Winston Churchillarrived in Washington for a wartime conference. Of course, it's unlikely the USwould have joined the battle without the rude behaviour of the Japanese indestroying their fleet in Pearl Harbour only days before. Perhaps we, in UK andEurope, should applaud the Japanese for involving the US in a war that mightotherwise have resulted in a very different world for all of us?

Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Quarterdeck

2011-12-21T12:00:00.000Z

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Quarterdeck: noun - originally, this was a small decklocated above the half-deck and covering about a quarter of a vessel. Thesedays, however, it's used for that part of a ship's upper deck near the stern, andusually reserved for officers or privileged passengers; the officers of a shipor the navy.

'Shirley winked withlittle subtlety at the steward who brought her glass of champagne, and invitedhim to join her on the quarterdeck a little after midnight, where, she assuredhim, she would make it worth his while.'

In the UK, today isgenerally considered the shortest day of the year and a cause of much joy thatimprovements are now on their way. Though, sometimes it is the 22nd that'sconsidered so. The night between 21st and 22nd December is the longest.Certainly, following this day, the hours of daylight increase until themid-summer point, when the whole thing begins its decline again.

The Christian world,borrowing the wisdom of the preceding pagans, placed Christmas at this time ofyear to capitalise on the potential of associating the birth of their prophetwith the ending of the declining season and the hope of better things to come.A wise decision for those early leaders wishing to increase their following ina very uncertain world.

1835 - HMS Beagle sailedinto the Bay of Islands, New Zealand, on Darwin's historic voyage of discovery.

1914 - The firstfeature-length silent film comedy, "Tillie's Punctured Romance" was released,featuring Marie Dressler, Mabel Normand & Charles Chaplin. Chaplin, ofcourse, went on to become one of the cinema's icons over the following years.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot (Antonyms): Pacific/Belligerent

2011-12-20T12:00:00.000Z

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Pacific/Belligerent

Pacific: adjective - making, or tending to makepeace, resulting in reconciliation; appeasing, conciliatory, calming; of a peacefulcharacter, peaceable; characterized by calm or peace, tranquil.

Belligerent: adjective - waging war regularly, asrecognized by law; aggressively hostile, pugnacious; pertaining to abelligerent.

'In the world, whilst thegeneral perception of Switzerland and Norway tends to the pacific, many nationsview the USA as belligerent, due to its chosen stance as policeman of theglobe.'

'Jenny stepped lightlybetween the boys, her gentle touch on each of their arms, a pacific influenceon what had promised to be an ugly conflict over her charms.'

'Always ready for a fight,Tony was known as a bully in the streets and feared because of his belligerentnature and readiness to use his fists or any available weapon to get his ownway.'

1669 - The first jurytrial was held in Delaware, resulting in Marcus Jacobson being condemned forinsurrection and suffering a sentence of flogging, branding & slavery.

1920 - Bob Hope became anAmerican citizen, creating the 'loss' of a great comedian to the British butextending his talents to the wider world in the process.

Are You On The List?

2011-12-20T07:57:00.000Z

Avril Field-Taylor is a talented lady, who,I am pleased to say, shares a writing group with me. A writer of crime fiction, historical crime fiction, Sherlock Holmes stories and much else, she isalso a very accomplished singer. In celebration of Christmas, she devised thefollowing ditty, based on the song, Behold,the Lord High Executioner, from the Mikado, sung by Ko-Ko. It scans evenbetter when sung to that tune.

Avril’sChristmas offering to her Hornsea Writer colleagues – with apologies to Gilbert& Sullivan.

When the Orange Fiction prize requiresauthors to be found,

I’ve got a little list, I’ve got a littlelist,

Of the stalwart Hornsea Writers who onkeyboards daily pound

And to whom all life is grist, to whom alllife is grist.

There’s Karen’s Granny Beamish who canreally mess your mind

By making you eat sprouts or somethingequally unkind.

While notforgetting Georgie, the dog whisperer supreme

And her gorgeous cohort, Matt, who’s everythinking woman’s dream

She’s adefinite contender and she’s not to be dismissed

So just put her on the list, yes just puther on the list.

There’s Linda’s Torc of Moonlight, sodiverse and quite complex

Whosecharacters are damaged but they’re always up for sex

They interact and squabble as theirfeelings they convey

With sultry scenes of passion so hot under theduvet.

Oh yes, Linda is a writing force, on thatwe must insist,

So she’s going on the list, yes, she’sgoing on the list.

Then we’ve Madeleine’s romances that willreally touch your soul

In far flungplaces round the world from Europe to the pole

Her settings are so well drawn, to ourchairs she keeps us glued

And ne’er byword or gesture are her people ever lewd

So for sweetness and decorum, we need oneromanticist

And she’s going on the list, yes she’sgoing on the list.

And Penny’sAnnie Raymond books are never ever dull

The stories alltake place near here in Holderness and Hull

The pace grows bit by bit until the tensionis extreme

And if someone interrupted you, you’d verylikely scream.

She’s a master storyteller and her plotsall have a twist,

So for that, she’s on the list, yes forthat she’s on the list.

Not forgettingStuart Aken, who can write with white hot heat

Complete anovel in a month, you know that’s no mean feat

His imagination knows no bounds andsometimes shocks occur

Ensuing mental visions make us all winceand go urrr.

But there’s nodenying Stuart is a writing alchemist

So we’ll add him to the list, yes we’ll addhim to the list.

An interview with Avril, the writer ofthese lyrics, can be accessed by clicking here.

And an interview with Karen can be read byclicking here.

My interview with Linda will be found byclicking here.

To read the interview with Madeleine, clickhere.

For the interview with Penny, click here.

And, for an interview with Stuart (yes, Iknow, that's me), click here.

Okay, so there's no picture of me, but, hell - the site's mine and I'm all over the place already!

My thanks to Avril for permission to use her piece of festive fun.

A very Merry Christmas and a staggeringly successful New Year to all of you.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Onomatopoeia

2011-12-19T12:00:00.000Z

Image by sekundo via Flickr

Onomatopoeia: noun - the shaping of a word byimitation of the sound connected with the thing or action denominated; a wordformed this way; in Rhetoric - the use of naturally suggestive language foreffect.

Here's a list of some thatcome to mind. There are more, but I'll let you discover those for yourselves.

Ah, baa, bang, beep, belch,boo, buzz, cheep, chirp, clang, clap, cluck, clunk, crunch, fizz, giggle, growl,gurgle, hiccup, hiss, honk, hum, jangle, meow, moo, murmur, neigh, oink, ouch, phew,piss, ping, plop, purr, quack, rattle, roar, screech, shush, sizzle, slap, sniff,splash, squelch, thud, thump, tinkle, twang, ugh, vroom, whack, wham, whip, whizz, zap,zoom, etc….

'The tinkle of thefountain was interrupted by the plop and splash of the coins Christina tossedinto the pool, making her giggle with delight but causing grumpy Godfrey growlwith dismay at the waste.'

'In the golden fields ofcorn, the cattle meowed and the crows purred; flying overhead, the hissingbears collided with zooming pigs causing them to neigh in annoyance, as, alongthe horizon, a long line of lions oinked and buzzed as they devoured the janglingflowers.'

What do you mean, that'snonsense?

1154 - Henry II wascrowned King of England.

1910 - 1st city ordinancerequiring white and black residential areas was made in Baltimore. It would beyears before such discrimination was first recognised for the injustice it was,and then made illegal. Of course, there remain idiots who still consider racialseparation to be a good thing; but such ignorance and fear simply identifies theseunfortunates as either stupid or ill-informed.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot (Antonyms): Nab/Release

2011-12-18T12:00:00.000Z

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Nab/Release

Nab: verb - catch and take someone into custody; apprehend, arrest; snatchor seize something; steal.

Release: verb - liberate; free from physicalrestraint or imprisonment; let go of.

'Noreen left her place inthe check-out queue to step outside and nab the man she'd watched steal a canof Coke from the supermarket shelves.'

'Keep an eye out for thebarman, whilst I nab some beer from the pump.'

'When the allies marchedinto the town, they were able to release the prisoners of war who'd been heldin camps for so long.'

'I want you to releasethat cash into my custody, where I'll make damned good use of it.'

1621 - the Englishparliament unanimously accepted Protestation, and the roots for conflict were formallyplanted. In parts of the UK that conflict remains and provides certain ill-informedfools with a motive for indiscriminate killing.

1960 - A General Meetingof the UN condemned apartheid. In backward parts of the world, such prejudiceremains, allowing the ignorant and afraid to blame all misfortune on those whofail to appear to be like them.

A Fun Day on the Road

2011-12-17T18:41:00.000Z

I don't normally use thisspace to promote personal matters, but yesterday deserves mention, if for noother reason than to thank those who helped in my moment of need.

The day began to unravel atthe not particularly early time of 08:45, when I left home to collect Kate, mydaughter, from her university in Preston; a journey of some 114 miles. Iexpected to meet a bit of bad weather on the way, as I had to cross the spineof England, the Pennines, and those wonders of modern inaccuracy, the weatherforecasters, had predicted snow for somewhere in these odd islands of ours.

But the car was wellprepared for emergencies, since I've often travelled in adverse weatherconditions.

Following a long, slowcircuit of York, caused by millions on the hunt Xmas gifts, the first hint thatsomething might not be quite right was a brief flash of red from the dashboardas I entered Knaresborough, some 50 or so miles from home. I couldn't decide whetheror not I'd imagined it. A pause for a natural break in a car park (well,actually, I made use a public convenience), a sandwich and a check of the mapto remind me how to get to the university residence block, made all appear fine.So, intrepid traveller that I am, off I went again.

Another 12 miles oftrouble free motoring found me descending the steepish hill overlooking picturesqueFewston Reservoir. Here, I was flashed again. This time more substantially. Adefinite warning and one not to be taken lightly, since ahead rose the isolatedand rather high Greenhow Hill; not a place to be driving a dickey car inwinter. Fortunately, the red light took up permanent residence at this pointand, as I was conveniently passing a curve of the old road that had been turnedinto a lay-by, I swiftly turned into it. For a few moments, I sat in thestationary car watching the light and listening to the radio click on and offin a slightly sinister fashion, whilst the clock display changed by the second,suggesting I was in some sort of Dr Who time-warp. Not a mechanic, Inevertheless recognised that this was not a good sign. The car was clearlyobjecting to something and it might not be a good idea to force it furtherwithout some of the attention it seemed to desire.

I insure my car withDirect Line (a good company that provides comprehensive cover for reasonablepremiums - and has the advantage of allowing my daughter, as a named driver, tobuild up her own no-claims bonus) and they are involved with the breakdown service,Green Flag, which I'd joined as a result. So, I called the emergency number andwas connected with a man who clearly knew the geography of the region where Iwas located. So much more reassuring than the usual Asian call centre, wherethey try to help but haven't a clue whether Driffield is a town or some sort ofobscure agricultural reference.

The man organised a pickup and told me it would be with me within the hour. I sent a text message (yes,despite my advanced years, I can thumb the keys with the best of them) to Kateto let her know I'd be delayed. Quick as a flash, she was on the phone to makesure I'd still be able to rescue her from threatening isolation on campus.Alas, I was unable to provide such reassurance at this point.

I had my camera with me,so took a little stroll and a few pictures, before retiring to the now cold carto await mechanical help. The recovery vehicle arrived just before certain delicateparts of my anatomy became permanently detached from my person. He swiftlydiagnosed the problem as a dead alternator. It seemed I had alternatives; a towback home (leaving Kate isolated), a tow to Preston (leaving the pair of usisolated with a buggered car), or he could phone a friend and arrange a fix. Ithought the latter the most attractive and he made said call. We travelled toGargrave, a small town not far from Settle, where I once lived, and more orless on the way to my final destination.

The guy who runs ADLMotors on the small industrial estate on Eshton Road was out on a job. But hischarming receptionist took control, handed me a key to a loan car (whichhappened to be the same model as my own) and said they'd have the car fixed formy return. No fuss, no unnecessary questions. Off I went.

Snow filled the sky andcoated the road with slush as I approached Preston, where I made 798 hillstarts as I joined a queue of traffic trying to enter the town; though Godalone knows what would make the place so popular. Fortunately, my memory hadn'tdeserted me completely and I made only one false turning, into a university carpark - the wrong one, but soon found the right one. Another text and Kate wasthere like magic in minutes.

Packing, sorting andtransportation from room to car achieved, we set off back to Gargrave. Thistime, the traffic seemed determined to join us on the way out of Preston. Icould understand their desire to leave the place but wished they'd chosen a bettertime to become fans of my leadership. Though, to be fair, I was more a followerthan a leader at this time.

Eventually, we left behindthe hordes and found ourselves on a less crowded road until we found thecompletely deserted track that led to Gargrave. Arriving only minutes after thespare part had been delivered, we left the borrowed car, full of Kate'sbelongings (mostly the gift of dirty washing for her mother to cure), and wentin search of food for Kate, since she'd had no lunch and it was now around16:30.

The local Co-op (Good withfood), provided us with a couple of warm snacks and some flavoured water. Ialso picked up a copy of The Silence of the Lambs, by Thomas Harris, for a quidfrom a charity bin; a nice touch of serendipity.

Back at the garage, ourcar was ready to collect. We transferred the goods from borrowed to owned car,paid the bill, and set off for home, eternally grateful to the lovely folk fromthe breakdown service and the garage, who'd all been so charming and helpful.

All went swimmingly, withme driving, until we reached a roundabout just outside Knaresborough. Here, theA59 leads to York and every motorist in the country had decided to travel thatroute with us. I sneaked in behind a Mini that was clinging to the tale of afairly new Audi, and many more trailed behind us. It soon became evident thatthe driver of the Audi was either drunk, dim-witted or demented. Here he was,driving a car with the power to eat up tarmac at over 100 miles an hour butdetermined never to exceed 30 mph. The A59 isn't a road with many places toovertake, especially when the oncoming traffic is a more or less unbrokenchain. Eventually, the Mini pulled off onto a side road and I was stuck behindthe dithering Audi. A brief break in the oncoming traffic gave hope and Igrasped it, overtaking and driving about seven miles at the permitted speedlimit of 60 mph.

Some 3 miles from York, wehit the end of the queue approaching the city. That was fun. It took us over anhour to travel up to and round the ring road. And such wonderful scenery onshow under the black night sky, to keep us occupied. (for those who don't knowthe area, York sits on a flat, featureless plain and the ring road is banal andboring).

At last, we reached thebridge to take us from the A64, up and over to join the A166, which eventuallyreaches the seaside resort town of Bridlington. A short way along this stretch,I pulled into a lay-by next to a petrol station and Kate assumed the drivingseat. She took us, fast and safe, the last miles home, so we arrived in time tounpack the car just before the evening meal was ready. Good timing by Valerie,my adorable wife, and a great end to a somewhat wearing day.

But it was worth theeffort to get Kate home for the holidays.

Passion to Die For, by Marilyn Pappano, Reviewed.

2011-12-17T17:13:00.000Z

This romance is more than a mere love story, otherwise, as a man, Iwouldn't have read it. With its undertones of menace, thread of injustice, mysteryto be solved and unspoken comments on small town American life this is a novelthat should attract readers from both genders and all adult age ranges.

The characters are alive and, whether nasty or nice, cynical or naive, beautifulor ugly, they portray traits we can all both recognise and empathise with. Themain story, of unrequited love, is interwoven with another that deals withjealousy, intrigue, hatred and injustice.

The reader is driven to first trust the heroine and then doubt thattrust, as she grows through the experiences she faces and even doubts herself.The hero remains a stalwart but retains his professional concerns andsuspicions so that he is reluctant to make the conclusions necessary to end thedoubts he's faced with.

I won't spoil the story by alluding to the ending, except to remarkthat it is apposite; it fits without being contrived.

As a reader of many different styles and genres, I found I was drawninto this novel by the characters very early on. The mystery and intrigue keptme absorbed and the emotional content, coupled with the well-drawn characters,carried me through to the ending.

A book I enjoyed and can happily recommend to men and women alike.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Metaphor

2011-12-17T13:00:00.000Z

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Metaphor: noun - a figure of speech where a name,descriptive word or pertinent phrase is assigned to an object or actiondifferent from, but similar to, that to which it is literally relevant; aninstance of this, a metaphorical expression.

'One indication that anovel falls into the genre of literary fiction is the confident use of metaphorthroughout the writing.'

'Crossing the beach from thesea in her bikini, the girl burned the eyes of her followers as theyfelt the heat wave she left in her wake.'

'A breath of wind stirred the standingbarley, sending waves across the field.'

'The hippie girl swayed in her rainbow muslin sheath.'

942 - William I ofNormandy was assassinated.

1900 - A first prize of 10,000francs was offered for communications with extra-terrestrials, but Martians wereexcluded as they were considered too easy. Could be a retrospective claim offalse discrimination, taking account of current knowledge.

Penny Grubb, Crime Writer Extaordinaire, Book Signings.

2011-12-17T11:52:00.000Z

PennyGrubb who I've interviewed here, and whose books, I have also reviewed, has her previous three hardback novels now issued as paperbacks. They are, of course, available from all the usual online outlets and from high street retailers. But for those who live in England, she is doing a book-signing tour of WH Smith shops, and in some of these (maybe all) the three novels are available as a 3 book deal for £15.00, which, I assure you, is a damned good bargain.

Like False Money

The Jawbone Gang

The Doll Makers

are the three titles, featuring Annie Raymond, her Private Investigator.

Signings at WH Smith as follows:

17 Dec Hull, ProspectCentre - 12.00 - 2.00

17 Dec Hull, Kingswood - 2.30 - 4.30

If you live locally or are visiting on the dates, pop in to see Penny. She's a lovely lady and a super writer.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot (Antonyms): Laborious/Easy

2011-12-16T12:30:00.000Z

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Laborious/Easy

Laborious: adjective - assiduous, industrious,hard-working; characterized by or involving labour or exertion; necessitatinglabour in execution.

Easy: adjective - comfortable, quiet, tranquil; characterized by ease orrest; conducive to ease or comfort; an action or task that can be completedwith little effort.

'As the eldest daughter, Dubaku,was forced into the laborious task of providing water for the whole family bywalking two miles each way to the well, carrying two ewers, four times everyday.'

'Fadil led an easy life,as a married man with three wives and seven daughters, he had nothing to do allday but sit and talk with his contemporaries, whilst the women did all the workand kept him fed and comfortable.'

1431 - King Henry VI ofEngland was crowned king of France; just think, if subsequent wars hadn'tintervened, the English and French would now be a single nation!

1631 - Mount Vesuvius,Italy erupted, destroying 6 villages and killing 4,000 local inhabitants. Itwas this eruption that led to the discovery of Pompeii. There is strongevidence to suggest it will erupt again in the near future, which, with over2,000,000 people living within the immediate vicinity, could cause significantloss of life.

1653 - Oliver Cromwell wassworn in as English Lord Protector, ostensibly replacing the late King CharlesI as head of the nation. As usually happens with leaders, he quickly forgot hisdislike of dictatorship and became a tyrant.