Stuart Aken's Blog, page 252

The Concept of the Goddess, by Sandra Billington & Miranda Green, Reviewed.

The blurb on the back of this book suggests it’s ‘a scholarly yet highly readable study of the place of the goddess in past and present belief systems and mythologies’. As a convinced agnostic and casual student of history and myth, I thought it would be a useful book to augment my knowledge of these subjects. I was, unfortunately, disappointed.
The book is mainly an annotated list of references to other works with the occasional piece of narrative inserted to reduce the boredom: a trick that doesn’t work, by the way. Scholarly, it no doubt is. But highly readable it most certainly ain’t! It came across to me as a series of pieces by writers desperate to illustrate how well-read they are. It, perhaps, doesn’t help that there are various references and asides in untranslated Latin and some Scandinavian language I’m unable to identify, since I speak none of that collection of tongues.
Perhaps the book is intended as an introductory text for university students studying mythology; I could envisage it having a place in such course material. But, for the general reader, it appears dense, uninformative in those areas of most interest, self-congratulatory, obtuse and often plain boring.
I found myself skipping the frequent, not to say, innumerable, references in a vain attempt to find some meat. I rarely discovered anything more than the leavings of a dog-chavelled bone. In fact, I learned almost nothing, discovered very little that I didn’t already know from former reading around the subject.
I suspect you’ll deduce from the foregoing that I was unimpressed. You will be correct, Watson. I cannot, in all honesty, recommend the book.
Related articles Egyptian Mythology The Power of Myth The Complete Gods and Goddesses of Ancient Egypt

My Memories Suite Software Review

In conjunction with this review, there was originally intended to be an opportunity for me to offer a copy of the software as a prize in a contest. However, the associated commitment required on this blog would have involved monthly posts, which would go against my policy of neutrality and would have rendered the site more commercial than I intend. 
So, sorry, I can’t provide that prize. I’ve offered an alternative, which is detailed on the previous post. Why not have a go?
As regular visitors know, I rarely endorse or promote products here. However, a short while ago, as a result of the blog’s growing popularity, I was approached to do a piece on some digital scrapbooking software designed to produce albums and other items of memorabilia. At the time, I was trying to sort out the 5,700 photographs stored on my PC and the idea of turning some of these into albums I could share was very attractive. So, as I was offered the software free, I decided to give the My MemoriesSuite software a trial.
The first thing I should say about this product is that, unlike a lot of graphics applications, it’s very simple to use. Once I’d downloaded the programme, a process that took longer than expected because of the size of the file, I scouted through the various options and quickly understood how the various components worked. Because I was particularly busy at the time, but had committed to reviewing the suite as soon as possible, I decided to see how easy it would be to compile a simple album there and then.
The illustration of the album page, shown here with its photographs, was completed within the single hour that I used to download updates, familiarise myself with the various tools and view the huge collection of items on hand in the software. Now, I think that’s pretty impressive. I could quickly have expanded the album to several pages in very little extra time. The suite is that easy to use.
Out of curiosity, I wondered how it would work in producing some posters I’m intending to create for other purposes. I had an idea in mind, so I returned to the software the following evening and turned out the ‘Write…edit…’ poster in less than 10 minutes. That includes selecting the background, fonts, embellishments and colours, and learning how to place and arrange the various elements that make up the design. Now, I don’t know about you, but this is the sort of simplicity of use I value. My time is precious and I cherish tools that allow me to complete a specific project without fuss in a short time.
For those of you interested in using this application, let me give you a few facts before you decide:
Features:·         Backgrounds – many and varied – spoilt for choice here. And, if you wish, you can purchase additional backgrounds.·         Photos – the software automatically imports all your images into its library and makes them available, exactly as you have arranged them in folders. You can also import pictures from outside, if you wish.·         Photo Layouts – many pre-designed layouts to allow easy displays on each page. Or you can arrange your photos as you wish.·         Text – all the fonts on your system are automatically included in the range available, with examples of each font shown in the dropdown list.·         Word Art – looks similar to the familiar Word Art used with Windows programmes, including the different shapes, colours, sizes and formats.·         Embellishments – a huge catalogue of flourishes to embellish your creative efforts, all easily applied and sized to your requirements.·         Shapes – a great collection of different shapes that can be used as stand-alone decoration or to frame a particular page or photograph. Place your loved one inside a heart, for example.·         Calendars – allows you design your own illustrated calendars for months or years.·         Imprints - hundreds of ready-made designs to title or decorate your album, easily applied.·         Paint – a drawing screen that allows the artists in you free reign. Great fun.·         Video & Multimedia – allows you to add video, audio, websites, files and pages to your constructions for online viewing or production of DVDs.·         Music & Narration – so that you can add background music and tell a story over your series of pictures.·         Check Album – gives you the chance to make sure everything is as you want it to be, applies a spell-check and points out errors before you commit.·         Share Album – so you can print at home, export, send for professional printing online, make an interactive album, a DVD or a movie, as desired.·         Tools – a huge selection of tools to allow you to arrange, size, colour, edit and experiment so that your album becomes truly your own.
The software allows the design of more than just albums and calendars. I’ve used it to produce posters, as you can see. You can also make films, with sound, and interactive multimedia presentations.
The software normally costs just $39.97 (about £25.00 or about €31.00) for download. If you’re in USA or Canada, you can opt for a disc instead. You can purchase the software, and its associated products, which I haven't tried, through the My Memories Suite website.
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Contest: Win a Signed Copy of Romantic Thriller.

On Thursday, I promised you a contest, with some graphics software as a prize. However, things have not panned out as expected and I’m not able to fulfil this promise now, largely due to events beyond my control.
My apologies for this.
However, I promised a contest. And, whilst I can no longer give the prize originally intended, I can offer a paperback copy of my novel. So, the contest continues, but with a signed copy of Breaking Faith as the prize.
To win a free copy of this novel that has earned many very positive reviews (see the entries under the Published Work tab), here’s what you have to do:
Simple; just answer the following question:
Q: In Breaking Faith, what’s the opening line of Chapter 11?
If you’ve got the book in either paperback or eBook form, you’re laughing. But, if you haven’t, not to worry. The chapter has been posted on the blog. You just have to search for it through the Archive, or by using the ‘Search’ box. Make sure you let me have an email address where I can reach you.
Please do not use the comment box for your answer. Send your answer to me by email to this address and put ‘Breaking Faith Contest’ in the subject line.
You have a week to reply. At the end, i.e. 11:00 GMT on 15 December, I’ll get my daughter to make a random selection from all correct answers, which I’ll print off and place into a box for the draw. I’ll announce the winner the same day, here on the blog.
Good luck. 

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Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 47

You’ve come so far with me and the end is close. Continue to enjoy the ride.
For those who haven’t been following the free read, I posted Chapter 1 on 13 January. Subsequent chapters have appeared each Friday, and will continue to be posted until all 50 have featured here. You can find those already posted via the archive; just search by chapter number. If you missed the start, you’ll find it here: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html
Read, enjoy, invite your friends along. As an author, I want people to read my writing, simple as that.
Chapter 47
Monday 20th September
A small, ancient tractor blocked the road as I drove to the village but the driver moved into the first passing place and waved me by. I recognized him at once. At the next passing place, I got out of the car and waited.‘Coincidence, or have you been peeping?’‘Faith, I’ve seen every bonny inch o’ you. I’d no peep like that. I’ve been down yon, checking the water for the beasts.’‘Serendipity, then. I want to thank you, Hamilton, for your lovely gift. The drawings are beautiful. How did you find the time and opportunity?’‘Just wee sketches. They didna teck long, and, och, ye were far away at times. I’m glad you like them.’I studied him for a moment. ‘I wonder if you’d do me a real favour, in return for a small reward?’He waited for my offer.‘I know it’s tempting for a young man to tell his friends what’s happened and I don’t mind that. But would you keep it secret until I’ve gone? I don’t want hordes of young men coming to the croft in the hope of similar treatment. They won’t get it and I don’t want to cause disappointment, and my holiday would be ruined. Would you do that for me?’‘I’d no gossip about what passed between us, Faith. That was private. Far too special and wonderful to be bragging. You read my note. You must know I love you. I’d no betray that for the passing glory tall tales might win.’‘Not tall tales, Hamilton, the truth’s impressive enough. And you’re not really in love with me. It’s no more than infatuation and it’ll pass when you find the girl you want to marry.’‘Tis no crush I’m feeling for ye, Faith, an’ the lass I’d wed is right before me. But I’ll no argue.’ He smiled shyly through the longing, and the blush came to his cheeks again. ‘I’ve no need of reward for being a gentleman, Faith. But I’d like to hear what you were offering.’‘It’s still on offer. Come first thing on Saturday and sketch me for yourself, that’s all, if you wish. But you’ll have to be there in time to finish before nine o’clock when I’ll be off home.’He looked at me with the hunger of lust that he called love. ‘I’ll take your gift, Faith. I’ll be there for eight, if that’s no too early?’‘Weather permitting, I’ll be finishing my last swim by then. Until Saturday.’ I stretched to peck his cheek and drove into the village to post my letter to Leigh and collect fresh groceries for the coming week. But I decided against posting the letter. There was a postscript to add and I could put it in a box on one of the trips I intended to take now my retreat had become a holiday.No one in the village looked at me any differently from my other visits and I knew Hamilton had been as good as his word. I was still no more than a mysterious wee Sassenach lassie visiting the island alone.Back at the cottage, I took my dip in a sea that grew wilder by the minute. It soon became too dangerous to stay in the water. Within moments of my return to the cottage, as I towelled myself dry in front of the fire, the breakers began crashing on the shingle and tossing spray against the window so hard it was like a rain storm. Closing the door, I realized I was probably stuck indoors for the rest of the day. I would review and complete my letter to Leigh.
My dear, adorable, sexy, wonderful, magical, delicious, wicked Leigh,I love you.I’ll save the description of my holiday home for my return. In any case, I’ve taken loads of pictures in and around the cottage, some including me in a state I believe you’ll find pleasing. The sea is wonderful and the isolation perfect for my intentions.First to my admission. I found a suitable young man to fulfil Dad’s wishes. He was a virgin, so no worry about disease and I’m on the pill, as Mum insisted, so no danger of pregnancy. We had sex eight times in the time I allowed. First time, he climaxed almost as soon as he entered me. He wasn’t a patch on you physically and I only reached anything like an orgasm on the couple of occasions I was on top. I sent him away after just one day and night and I’m back on my own now and missing you like mad.It seems to me, Leigh, that your sexual adventures have left you with one impression about sex and love, whilst my inexperience has given me an entirely different view. Because I came to love first and only experienced simple sex afterwards, I’m sure I was bound to be disappointed by sex on its own. The physical enjoyment is nowhere near as great when there’s no love involved, it’s a bit like… well, actually, there’s nothing else like making love at all.Making love with you is the most wonderful experience I’ve ever had. I can fully understand the compulsive, even obsessive nature of such lovemaking. Sex, on the other hand, whilst a pleasant enough diversion, is so far below the experience of love making that it pales into insignificance. With you, I felt alive in every cell of my being, I felt passion and elation, ecstasy and such delight and joy as I never thought possible. You brought me an awareness of myself as a woman that I had not known. You loved me so thoroughly and completely that no other man can ever come near to bringing me the same sensation. I always thought lust was dreadful, but when it’s mixed with love, it’s extraordinary. I certainly lust for you. I want you just thinking about you. Just writing your name makes me ready to take you inside me. But it’s more than that: somehow, in a way I can describe only partly, my soul bonded with yours when we made love. Our spirits combined so we became one and there were no boundaries between our essences, no barriers to our sensations and emotions.With Hamilton, I felt some pleasurable physical sensations, especially once I’d led him to my clitoris (horrible, ugly word for such a lovely part of my body). But, not only was he unable to bring me to a climax until I took the lead, I felt no soaring of my spirit, no joining of souls, no harmony of bodies as I did with you, Leigh.No, there’s no comparison between making love and having sex. I ache to be with you again, to have you deep inside me, to have your hands and mouth on my breasts, our lips and tongues together, our limbs entwined, our bodies made as one. I yearn for you to take me to that space where time ceases to exist and there’s nothing but us in the world and we two are one. I yearn just to be with you. To have you in my sight and hearing. To know you are but a step away.But I promised us a fortnight to understand ourselves and although I’ve no need of further self discovery, I don’t know how you’re doing with your test. So, I’ll stick with our original agreement, hard as it is. In any case, if I return now, I’ll probably have to get involved in Heacham’s trial and I’d rather avoid that for the moment.I know I made conditions about our togetherness, Leigh, and I understand those will be difficult for you to keep. But I can’t share you. I really can’t. I’ll give my whole self to you on my return, without reservation and for the rest of time. I had to have my experience with Hamilton; I could not have gone through life knowing I’d failed Dad in that way. And it had to be now, because when I return I intend to be yours alone, for the rest of my life. I need you to have the same sort of commitment and I hope to find Netta gone and you celibate until I come home to you.If you can’t manage this, I need to know at once. It may sound foolish, but I couldn’t bear to see you now if you can’t agree to what I ask. Please, let me have a sign that you agree: if you don’t want me on my terms, please put my things outside the door of Longhouse so I’m not forced to come inside and face your rejection. I can collect my things and leave without seeing you again and go away to make a new life for myself.If that’s what you decide, I’ll always be alone, since no one else will be to me what you are, Leigh. I shall not die but my life will be diminished and incomplete. I don’t tell you this to make you feel bad but to make you understand what you mean to me. Without you, I am but a shadow. With you, I can win the world.I love you, Leighton Longshaw and I want to spend my life with you. I want to marry you and have your children. I want to lie each night with you in our bed and know that I may share your love forever as you will share mine.Until Saturday, my darling love. Be there for me.Always, your adoring Faith.
I re-read the letter and decided not to alter it again. It was my fifth attempt and I could think of no improvements to it. But I wanted to be honest with Leigh and I felt I should let him know about my bargain with Hamilton and my reason for it. My postscript was brief and to the point.The rain continued for the rest of that day and I added one more line to the letter, telling Leigh I’d been nude whilst writing, knowing he’d gain pleasure from picturing me that way. I reflected on that thought and realized it came from love. Both Mum and Dad had said that love was giving the loved one what they wanted and that was what I was doing for Leigh and it felt good and right.The rest of my time on the island, I was a tourist. I visited the sites my map highlighted and saw a castle that had been occupied continuously for six centuries. Its dank, small dungeon haunted me for ages with its single stone to seal the entry hole above and cut out all the light, and the irons on the cold stone floor to hold the prisoner in chains in a space too small for anyone to lie down.I saw seals basking on the rocks and got soaked by breakers in the small boat I sailed in with half a dozen other tourists. I watched golden eagles soar above the mountains and sat in total silence by the shores of isolated lochs with sunlight shattering their mirror surfaces into a million bright shards. I even visited the island distillery where I tried their twenty-five-year-old single malt. Talisker tasted like liquid gold and I bought a case for Leigh.Everywhere I went, I took photographs. The light was wondrous, the skies alive, the seas so changeable, the hills and mountains grand and magnificently indifferent in their beauty. I felt insignificant in that landscape, irrelevant to its beauty. I was there, amongst mountains of red and black ancient as time itself, and falling, living water and the shimmering lochs, but my presence made no difference; the rocks and hills were oblivious of me. I was of less matter than an ant, a falling leaf, a whisper of sound on the breeze. Wind and water and sun and the gentle ticking of the universe were all that mattered here, to sculpt and form the land into shapes anew over eons of time. I was not even a blink of the eye.My week ended and the weather was kind enough to let me take my final swim. Hamilton was waiting as I strolled back to the cottage. I asked him where he wanted me and how and he drew his pictures and departed sadly after pleading only with his eyes.‘I’ll no forget you, lassie, not if I live to be a hundred.’I hoped that wasn’t true, but I could do nothing to prevent it.The journey home was more tedious than the drive north had been and I was weary as I entered the area I knew. But, approaching Longhouse, knowing Leigh would welcome me with open arms and whisk me to his bedroom, I felt my tiredness drop away to be replaced by the elation of promise.
###
Impatient for the last chapters? You can buy the book in paperback (through online or high street outlets) or ebook format for whatever ereader you use, just click on the cover picture or visit ‘My Books’. If you do, I’d appreciate a review, posted wherever possible - Amazon, Goodreads, Smashwords, or any other bookish site. Reviews get indie published books noticed, you see.
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Marketing the Marketers?

market 1 (Photo credit: tim caynes)
Writer? Serious reader? By ‘serious’ I don’t mean academic but interested, enthusiastic, passionate, even. As a writer, I read as much as I can, though time is clearly limited and I need as much of that elusive commodity as I can get to do the actual writing. And that’s the issue I’d like to discuss today.
We write so that readers can read our words. That’s the primary function of a writer. But, these days, we’re also encouraged to market our work.
Once, long ago, in a land of ideals and wonders unknown to mankind, publishers used to take on the task of marketing and selling books for their authors. They valued the creative nature of writers and understood that writing and selling are two very different activities: so different, in fact, that they can, and often do, act destructively on each other.
Creativity requires a degree of sensitivity far deeper than normal human perceptiveness and sympathy. It can, under certain circumstances, become debilitating, as the creator virtually lives through the experiences of characters he’s inventing, describing and challenging for the sake of the story.
Selling, on the other hand, requires a skin so thick that it rivals rhino hide. I know; I’ve worked in retail, been a travelling salesman, a telesales operator and a team leader at a call centre selling holidays and the inevitable insurance that goes with that product.
The two functions are so different, so opposite, that they inevitably conflict with each other. In the end, the person has to decide whether to create or to sell. I know there are individuals who seem able to do both. But an examination of the work of many successful sellers will reveal that much of their apparent creativity is a reworking of old material rather than the production of anything new.
It then becomes essential to the mental health of the individual to make a choice between these two activities. The alternative is to suffer the very real danger of becoming schizophrenic; a mental condition not to be envied.
In the process of learning this simple fact of a writer’s life, I’ve tried various strategies to get my name known, my work talked about, my books in front of readers. The activity is generically referred to as ‘marketing’. And I have nothing against the concept, or the legitimate practice of marketing. It is, unfortunately, a necessary aspect of modern trade in any commodity. But there are thousands of pseudo-marketers out there, ready to accept as much money as any gullible writer is willing to pay them. Now, I’ve no reason for personal animosity to this army of confidence tricksters: I’ve never paid more than a sample amount (£3 or $5, at most, and only rarely) for any marketing activity, usually as a way of ‘testing the water’. I’ve tried instead to do my own thing in getting the necessary publicity. But I’m aware of the many confidence tricksters out there who charge incredible amounts of money on the promise of bringing sales to gullible writers. I don’t, however, know of a single writer who has actually benefitted financially from a liaison with any of these organisations. Not one.
There is a veritable industry in marketing, operating under various different umbrellas, and often supporting one another by telling wannabees how much their services are worth and how they’re bound to utter failure and obscurity if they fail to engage one of their number. Some of these organisations hide the reality of their operations under the banner of publishing activity. Some offer services to ‘produce’ eBooks, usually for a huge fee. I have to tell you that the most technophobic individual can learn how to publish an eBook on their own, with little guidance other than that supplied by reliable organisations such as Amazon (their tax avoidance is a different matter, of course) and Smashwords. It requires a certain amount of patience and determination, but very little actual technical knowledge. I know; I’ve done it. And I’m far from being a techie wizard.
Then there are the vanity publishers, who advertise their skills and expertise to produce print books, usually at colossal fees, but who actually produce a mere handful of volumes for the £/$1000s they charge and then expect the writer to do the actual selling. These organisations frequently do none of the traditional work of publishers: editing, design, proof-reading and marketing etc. And they have few overheads, as they almost always produce books as print on demand (POD), a modern innovation that is wonderful when used properly.
But, and these are my special targets, there is a great army of marketers out there, all waiting to pounce on the unsuspecting with promises of great sales without delivering. They offer press releases, blurb writing, exposure on websites, tweets, and various other techniques supposedly designed to put the writer’s work in front of the reading public. I have to tell you that, by and large, they don’t do the job. The marketing market is primarily designed to support the marketers, not writers.
My cynicism has spared me from entanglement with these vultures. But I know of people who’ve been seriously stung, who’ve spent life-savings on a vain chase of fame and fortune. Often, those who fall for the trap are lacking in real talent and wouldn’t be published by normal means. But this isn’t always the case. Some rare and real talent has been destroyed by unscrupulous money-making confidence tricksters. So, beware my fellow writers. Never accept the word of any organisation that advertises its services. Always trawl your associates and colleagues in this difficult calling and ask for personal recommendations before you spend a single penny or cent on any publishing or marketing activity. There are more scoundrels and charlatans out there than there are genuine experts.
And me? What will I do, after my sortie into self-promotion? Well, it’s clear I’m no natural when it comes to selling. Far too honest for my own good, was how I was described by my boss when I was a travelling salesman. So I’ll keep up with Twitter, this blog, Pinterest, Facebook and Goodreads and I’ll probably design a website to replace my old one, when I find the time. But I’ll spend the vast bulk of my time in writing. I’ll hope that the quality of my output will be enough to persuade readers to read and review my work and spread the word. I’ll continue to self-publish eBooks via Smashwords and Amazon, and look into publishing paperbacks via POD with one or two organisations I know I can trust, and who charge sensible fees for their production and distribution services.
In a few months, I retire from my part-time day job and will be able to spend more time actually writing. I look forward to that opportunity and intend to use it to the full. Watch this space. There’ll be more stories for you to read, and they’ll be the best I can make them. Any writer who thinks it’s okay to create work that ‘will do’ isn’t worthy of the name. I respect my readers too much to take them for granted.
This turned out to be a longer piece than I envisaged when I sat at the keyboard this morning, but sometimes it can be helpful to examine realities in this fashion. I hope I’ve given writers and readers some food for thought. And, as always, I welcome your input in the form of comments here.
#####
By the way, look out for a competition here on Saturday. The prize will be some software I recently tried and will review on here. Anyone wanting an easy way to produce personal albums and mementoes should find this of interest. Of course, I’ll be marketing this product. And, no, the irony isn’t lost on me. But, having used the product and found it more useful than expected, I’ve no qualms in letting others know about it. As a result of any purchases made from my site, where buyers will be given a useful discount, I may even earn a little commission, which will help me continue with my writing. After all, even writers have to earn a living.
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Featured on Goodreads.

Those who are regular visitors will know of my enthusiasm for a large-membership reading community on the web: Goodreads is an excellent site for writers to interact with readers, for readers to chat about their favourite books, read reviews, gain recommendations, and, in fact, join in almost any activity you can imagine that deals with the world of books. It is, in short, a book-lovers' paradise. If you're not already a member, I urge you to join this community.
But, just for good measure, it turns out one of my books is featured there at present. Ten Tales for Tomorrow is an anthology of dark speculative fiction, which has earned praise from those who've read and reviewed it. You'll find more details, and buying links, on the Published Work page of the blog.
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Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 46

The Buttertubs (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
You’ve come so far with me, now we’re approaching the climax. Continue to enjoy the ride.
For those who haven’t been following the free read, I posted Chapter 1 on 13 January. Subsequent chapters have appeared each Friday, and will continue to be posted until all 50 have featured here. You can find those already posted via the archive; just search by chapter number. If you missed the start, you’ll find it here: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html
Read, enjoy, invite your friends along. As an author, I want people to read my writing, simple as that.
Chapter 46
The police said the mountain rescue teams would be out at first light, assuming she hadn’t returned. Once I’d confirmed with an anxious Matilda that Netta hadn’t somehow made her way home, I persuaded her to stay put in case she did arrive there. Ma insisted I ate, and prepared a quick meal for me. She glowered as I prepared to set off with a torch and my backpack stuffed with warm dry clothes from Netta’s case, and a couple of flasks of hot coffee generously laced with brandy.‘You’re wasting your time, Leigh; you’ve no idea where she’s gone. And it’s dangerous out there in this lot.’‘No, Ma. I have some idea. She told me once, when she was trying to taunt me, that she has a favourite place for sunbathing. She laughed and lifted her shirt. “Lovely Seat.” You know it; top of the pass leading down to Buttertubs. Three, four miles as the crow flies.’‘I can just see that ‘un flaunting hersen up there, knowing full well there’d be tourists within sight, teasing them with her body. Little hussy.’‘It’ll not be easy, walking and searching in this lot in the dark. Don’t wait up for me, Ma. I’ve no idea when I’ll be back. But leave the door unlocked in case she’s somewhere else. She won’t have her key.’‘Serve the little madam right to be kept out all night.’‘Mebbie. But I’d not do that to her, Ma. She’s done a great deal for me.’‘Done a great deal to you, more like. Done a lot of damage; I know that.’I was in no mood to argue. I’d started the morning with two beautiful young women available and wanting me. The most important had abandoned me out of some incomprehensible need to find herself, whatever that meant. The other had run off, pretending anger and hurt, into the hills. Faith was safe, as far as I knew. But Netta might very well be in danger. She was bound to be cold and wet. I must, at least, attempt to find her and bring her back into the warmth and shelter of my home. Even if I did intend to throw her out once there.Crossing the river on stepping-stones, at night, even with the aid of a torch, was no fun. The rain had swollen the river and a slip could well have put me into real danger. It was slow going to reach the far side where I began the laborious trek across the fields by the side of the river and up the fells.She was unlikely to have remained on top of the hill, where the viewpoint gave panoramic vistas of the surrounding fells and dales. In this storm, it would be exposed and very dangerous. But it seemed likely that, had she made for her special place that morning, she might have fallen on her way back and hurt herself. If I found her, it was most likely to be somewhere near the path, en route.I was sparing with the torch at first, though I had fresh batteries with me. Occasionally, I called her name into the pouring rain and the blackness.‘Netta!’Nothing replied but wind and rain. From time to time, a rumble or a crack of thunder drowned the sound of rain, followed by sheets or jagged forks of lightening.It was a difficult, tiring journey to the top of that fell, with many stops to search pockets of darkness on the way. And there had been no sign of her near the path, none as I reached the soft, round summit at last. It looked as though she’d chosen some other secret location to sulk for the day.I decided to do a quick search around the top of the hill and then return to Longhouse until daylight gave me a better chance of finding her. Disappointment at the futility of my search vied with growing conviction that she was already back at Longhouse, laughing at my concern and waiting impatiently for my return.As I swept the area with the powerful beam of the torch, thunder crashed overhead and lightening crackled out of the sky and along the length of barbed wire fence a short distance away.‘Jesus wept!’The narrowness of my escape paralysed me for a moment. My first thought was to run like the devil from the isolation of the exposed hill. But, in the bright brief light, I’d seen something white, flapping wetly in the wind. It was some two hundred yards away along the fence and I couldn’t leave without trekking across the boggy ground to find out what it was. Even though it would most probably turn out to be nothing more sinister than an abandoned fertiliser sack left behind by a careless farmer.I walked into another fence, catching myself on the sharp barbs, as the strands of wire on their waist high posts joined the more substantial barrier that constituted the parish boundary.‘Bugger!’ I sucked at the cut on the back of my hand and tasted blood.Following the beam of my torch along the wire, I picked up the patch of white that had caught my eye. From this close, it was clearly an item of clothing. I struggled over the lower, less substantial field boundary without further injury, and reached the spot, wondering why Netta would bother to make such an effort.I knew at once it was her summer dress. Not just a portion of it, torn off as she climbed the fence, but the whole garment caught on the barbs as, presumably, she’d climbed the barrier and jumped down the other side. The weight of her body must have attached the barbs so firmly she’d been unable to free it without first slipping out of it. But why had she left it here?When I began to untangle it, I found it relatively easy to disengage from the wire. It was caught only lightly on a couple of barbs, for all the world as if it had been tossed there in careless abandon.‘Netta!’I stopped to consider; rain soaking my hands and face. Why had she been going away from Longhouse? It was hard to believe she would still have been so upset by that time. Her sulk was no more than an attempt to make me feel guilty; there was nothing genuine about it. She’d always come back once she’d made her point in the past. Returned hungry for food and sex, ready for the fun of reconciliation. There was no need for her to behave any differently this time, unless she felt more than straightforward lust for me and saw Faith as a threat.‘Netta!’I pointed the torch through the fence and searched the ground beyond, but could see no sign of her. When I aimed the beam closer to the fence, I discovered one of her sandals lying abandoned and half covered by black peaty water in the mud beyond the fence.This made no sense. Why would she abandon her dress? And why leave her shoe? What possible reason…? Unless she was being pursued. Try as I might, I could think of no other set of circumstances that would cause her to act that way. Someone must have chased her.I struggled over the fence and discovered how easily she would’ve caught the dress as she jumped down. I almost hung up on my backpack, even though I was in no hurry and forewarned of the danger. My landing sank me ankle deep in the black muddy water where her shoe lay. I bent and retrieved it, placed it inside the dress I’d tied loosely to the strap of the pack.Carefully, I walked forward, scanning the ground ahead with the beam of the torch. Another peal of thunder startled me with its proximity and the accompanying flash of lightening scared the pants off me for a second time. I sat down heavily in the soggy grass and cursed as the wetness soaked into the seat of my trousers. For a while, I stayed put, though; unsure what to do or where to go.‘Netta!’I rose again and scanned the ground ahead, all too quickly discovering her second shoe lying upside down a short distance ahead. At least I seemed to be moving in the right direction. I slowly continued in what I hoped was something like a straight line as the ground began to fall steadily away from me before it rose for a few paces and then fell away again more steeply. Soon I was in danger of losing my footing, as the slope grew ever more precipitous.I stopped and tried to picture my whereabouts in my mind’s eye. I knew the area well and was aware of dangerous scars and steep slopes on certain parts of the hill. My torch shone into blank darkness when I pointed it more than ten or twelve feet ahead. It was simply too dangerous to go on in this manner. If I continued, I may well end up lying at the foot of a scar, as perhaps, Netta had in her flight from whoever had pursued her.‘Netta!’I checked the time. It was well after dark, around eleven o’clock, when I’d set off. Since then, I’d covered a few miles at snail’s pace due to the nature of my search along the way. But I was staggered to discover it was approaching half past four in the morning. The sun would rise in less than two hours. I could do nothing more until it brought its light to guide me.Sweeping a full circle, I noticed a small rocky outcrop a short distance to my right and higher up. I made for it, falling knee deep into a cold black puddle on the way. At length, I reached the rocks and sat there, wet, chilled, weary and now desperately anxious about Netta.‘Netta!’I did a quick search of the backpack and took out a flask of coffee. Its heat and spirits revived me a little. The storm moved away to the southeast. Two more cups of coffee and I was dangerously close to setting off down the hill again. But I recovered my senses when I noted the shapes of hills emerging as pitch black silhouettes against a sky that was now merely inky and studded with stars in the east. The steepness of the slopes dissuaded me from setting off again.Slowly the clouds moved away until the whole sky above was clear and stars replaced the blank darkness. The moon, a pale sliver of crescent waning toward the new phase, was no help at all and I sat awaiting the glow of sunrise that would shortly illuminate the sky in the northeast.I was shivering when the first signs of sunrise gave the ground vague shape and contour at last. But I remained seated until I could see enough to move safely. There was little point in me falling to my death or serious injury in my search.As I moved and retraced my steps to the point I’d ended my hunt in the darkness, I struggled to find new reasons why she’d abandoned her clothes. Perhaps she was just being more of an exhibitionist than usual, perhaps the storm had brought out the pagan in her and she’d given in to primeval urges to run, a free spirit in the rain. But, knowing her terror of thunder, I knew I was clutching at straws. Perhaps her dress had caught up as she sought a more comfortable spot to sunbathe before the clouds had descended and she just couldn’t be bothered to retrieve it there and then, thinking she would reclaim it on her way back from wherever she’d decided to go. Her love of the freedom of nudity certainly fitted that fantasy.‘Netta!’As I made my way slowly down the slope I discovered that fifty or sixty yards further on I would have fallen down a steep scree slope onto the road. In the growing light, I managed to slither and slide down to the tarmac in one piece, stepping onto the highway as the disc of the sun broke the horizon.I stood and pondered. She’d apparently been heading in a specific direction. Would she have continued the same way on the road or would she have turned and headed the other way, knowing she would eventually come to Simonstone and the hope of help? I shrugged. If she’d chosen the hamlet, in all probability she was safe and snug in some lucky farmer’s bed, probably with the farmer. The other way, the road clung to the side of the steep valley, passing through the Buttertubs; strange pots that were sunk into the ground, like limestone wells: vertical caves in all but name. Further along, the road dropped down a steep hill to pass through the villages of Thwaite and Muker. It was that route I followed.I decided to go as far as the Buttertubs themselves, search the area and then return home. I could go on forever and never find her on my own and I was already weary, cold and hungry. The professionals would be out soon with their numbers and knowledge to make the search more productive. Unless she had somehow returned to Longhouse and Ma had called off the search.The road made walking easy and I covered the distance to the tourist spot in minutes. During that time, the sky faded from indigo through azure to iris with a hint of rose around the now full orb of the sun. It was light enough to read and colour was returning to oust the black and greys of predawn.The holes in the ground, varying from two to ten feet in diameter and from six to fifty feet in depth, spread across a small area of the saddle shaped hillside. The fell sloped down to this area quite steeply and the road ran through the middle. At the valley side of the road a small lay-by marked a place for tourists to park their cars before the ground began to slope again. It ran down towards the valley slope, which was precipitous and dropped into a deep, narrow, serpentine canyon too close to vertical even for sheep to crop.I moved to the side next the valley first. Here, the holes were less spectacular and fewer.‘Netta!’The light was clear enough now to reveal the bottom of each pit as I approached, and each was empty as I expected. My search had no conviction but was simply something I must do whilst in that place with its vaguely sinister feel.I crossed the road, aware it was an unnecessary exercise, a completion of my futile quest. I would return home, as soon as I was done, and find Netta asleep in my bed.Would I join her? Would the tide of elation at finding her safe, overcome my sense that I was no longer a free agent but must remain true to Faith? And who imposed this condition? Faith had made it clear she expected my fidelity if she was to be mine. But recalling so easily our single night, such a short time past, when we’d made love, I knew it was nothing to do with conditions and everything to do with what was right. I wanted to be faithful to her. I wanted to be hers and hers alone. No, if Netta were in my bed, she would remain there alone until I roused her to take her home to Matilda.‘Netta!’Slight irritation returned to me as I walked the ground, searching. Netta’s childish sulks had caused me grief in the past. It was absurd that I should have to be out here hunting for her when she’d had no need to run off in the first place. It would serve her right if she had been in some sort of trouble. Perhaps, then she might think twice before pulling such a stunt again. Though, on reflection, that was unlikely to present a problem for me any more.‘Netta!’I started with the pit nearest the road. They were wider on this side and significantly deeper. Tourists had made paths through the grass with their passage and I followed one to the edge of the nearest sinkhole. As I swayed at the top of the opening, my fear of heights made me step away from the brink. The dark bottom of the pit was wet with the rain but was otherwise as it had been for centuries. I moved to the next and the next and found them devoid of all but damp and early morning darkness.The last pit was the deepest. Furthest from the road, it bored into the ground close under the slope of the fell. A small rowan struggled to grow at the lip of the gaping mouth, leaning over the hole and lending the scene a touch of lightness to dispel the sinister aspect of the pit. I moved towards it, knowing I would end of my search here and then return to Longhouse, still uncertain of Netta’s fate but content I’d tried to find her. She would be lying warm, dry and eager in my bed, ready to demonstrate her sexual prowess, mistakenly determined to show me Faith’s simple love was no match for her own experience and skill.I stopped for a moment, listening to the silence of the hills. A soft breeze soughed through the grass, a sheep bleated wetly somewhere out of sight, and closer, the sound of trickling water, falling, caught my ear. I shrugged myself back into action and approached the edge of that dark pit quite certain it was empty like the rest. On the brink, I hesitated; it was deep and foreboding, a threat to my fear of high places. The sound of falling water was rain run-off trickling in a small fall over the edge near the tree. I leant forward and followed the falling water to the bottom.She was on her back; her arms flung out and above her head. One leg was almost straight, the other bent at hip and knee. Her skin was pallid, almost without contour in that dim reflected light, uniform but for the stark contrast of her dark nipples and the smudge of short hair. I looked at her face and had to kneel to stop myself falling. Her eyes stared up past me to the sky they reflected.I called her name, softly now she was in hearing. I upbraided her for running off like that, asked her why she hadn’t retrieved her dress, why she’d left her shoes.‘I’m sorry. I came as soon as I could. You were so hard to find. I’ll go for help and we’ll get you out of there. There’ll be rugged men with ropes to lift you. You’ll enjoy that; all the attention, the way they’ll look at you with admiration and desire. We’ll warm you up with soup and blankets. I’ll make them jealous; cuddle you beneath the blankets for warmth.’I heard sounds of other people. The mountain rescue team had found the place I’d described to Ma and were searching in vain.‘I’ll call them in a minute. I just want a little time with you alone. You don’t mind, do you? Not too cold? Only, you look so beautiful, so very beautiful.’I think it was the thought of the sweet beauty gone and wasted that dragged me back from that temporary madness. I found my feet and stood and waved to the professional rescuers, yelling until they noticed me at last.They brought ropes and the other paraphernalia of climbers; contacted the police on their special radiotelephones.‘It’s obvious she’s dead, so we’ve not to move the lass until they give the word. Jack, Monty and Jim, if you’ll hang on with me so we can lift her when they’re ready? Rest of you might as well go home. Thanks for the effort, lads.’A beautiful young woman lying naked at the bottom of an isolated pit was too good to miss. They must lean over and look at her with eyes that saw her naked skin, her woman’s body but forgot she was a person.The rescuers had food and brought me warmth with insulated blankets. I told them what I’d discovered, how I’d spent the night. One or two seemed ashamed they’d waited for the light, but castigated me for taking risks that might have meant another body to retrieve.The policemen had to come from urban distance, so the sun was warm, the ground drying by the time they arrived. They were all questions and procedures. I should have left her clothes where I’d found them. I would have to take them to the exact location I’d found each item, though there would be precious little use in the tracks after I and the rescue team had pounded the ground. Where was her underwear? I explained and they looked at me with cynical curiosity and I became a suspect.It was after noon when they brought her up. The pathologist went down to her first to read the signs and pronounce her dead of blood loss from a fractured skull, possibly caused by her fall, if fall it was. Her wrists had been bound at some time and she bore signs of possible sexual assault but the lab would prove or disprove that.The policemen took me home as the van arrived to take Netta’s body to be sliced open and examined, her lovely skin ripped apart to expose the gore within. I had identified her body for them.Ma was her wonderful usual self and dispensed coffee and biscuits for the investigating officers and roundly told them they were idiots if they believed for one second I had anything to do with it. They defended their suspicions until Ma told them the truth of things and I was grudgingly reclassified as victim and given the appropriate sympathy. They decided they wouldn’t, at that stage, take me in for further questioning.Once I’d agreed to keep them informed of my movements and they had left, Ma slipped something from her medicine chest into a cup of tea and I slept for hours without dreams.Matilda was downstairs, demanding explanations, accusing me of complicity in Netta’s death as soon as I returned to the sitting room. I told her everything I knew. She was beside herself; had spent a sleepless night at home at my suggestion when she should have been out searching with me. Now she wanted reasons for her daughter’s death that would exonerate her from all blame and I was the obvious scapegoat. Faith, who shared the blame for Netta’s outburst, was her other daughter and therefore not responsible, being just another victim of my lust.‘I want Faith home. She’d want to be here. Bring her back, even if you have to drive to Scotland for her.’It gave me something positive to do.‘In any case, Leigh, we’ve got to try to get her back for Heacham’s trial.’‘I know, Ma. I’ll go and see the travel agent.’‘Fuck Heacham and his trial. I want Faith home. I want to know she’s safe at least. I want my daughter with me.’The travel agent told me only that she hadn’t redeemed my vouchers, as they couldn’t provide what she wanted. They had no idea where she’d gone.As I left the shop, I ran into the local bobby who seemed glad to see me.‘They’ll tell you by letter, sooner or later, Leigh. Or, rather, they’ll tell Faith. But let the lass know she’ll not need to attend court after all. Heacham’s hanged hissen. Poor Jenny found the bugger first thing this morning when she delivered his foreign porno magazine. Saw him through the window. Stark bloody naked, he was. Looked like he’d tried to cut his prick off. ‘Ell of a mess. Bloody good riddance. Save us all a lot of time and effort.’He expressed his condolences over Netta but thought there would be no need for me to answer any further questions now they’d discovered Heacham. That should have set my mind at rest but something at the back of my mind kept me unsettled.I found Matilda’s anger dissolved in belated tears on my return. I comforted her as best I could, her weeping on my shoulder adding to my personal distress, especially as there was no way for me to contact Faith and bring her home for both of us.Ma tried to force me back to business so I wouldn’t brood, but I just cancelled and postponed and explained that orders would be delayed until I could find time for them. I had no heart for work.All I could see was the look of accusation on Netta’s face when she discovered me in Faith’s bed. All I could hear was her hurt abuse as I watched her go for the last time. If I’d followed, if I’d told her I was sorry and would make it up, if I hadn’t been so tied up with Faith, that beautiful young woman would still be alive. For all that someone else had chased her on that hillside, it was my fault she was dead.
###
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The Comedy of Errors, by William Shakespeare, Reviewed

Heresy! Infamy! Thou darest malign the Bard?
The Comedy of Errors appears to be based on a premise that I found impossible to swallow, for two simple reasons. First; why would the twins, both sets, not have been named prior to their separation and therefore have different names? It seems unlikely that these infants were so young as to have been denied such a basic ceremony as naming. Secondly, and perhaps more to the point, why were both sets of twins dressed identically, bearing exact copies of the same hairstyle, using the same manner of speech? So identical, in fact, that they could not be separated by the intimate servants or, in the case of Antipholus of Ephasus, by his wife and her sister. One was raised in Syracuse, a town in Sicily, with, admittedly, Greek influence. And the other in Ephasus, in Turkey, again, with Greek influence. However, the manner of speech in these two widely distant provinces would undoubtedly have been equally wide. Manner of dress, customs, mannerisms etc would all have been very varied, and Shakespeare would have been aware of such regional differences from his exposure to such during his everyday life in England.
A farce, and this play is definitely a farce, requires the audience to suspend their disbelief in order to appreciate the confusions caused by the plot. I found I was unable to suspend my incredulity to the extent necessary to enjoy this piece of comic drama.
I’m an admirer of our national Bard; what writer of English could fail to prize the literary skills of this world renowned wordsmith? But I couldn’t push past what quickly became an insuperable barrier to my enjoyment. This impediment was further reinforced by the poor quality of the poetry of the piece. We’re all used to the subtlety, variety, cleverly composed and richly metaphorical nature of Shakespeare’s dialogue. But in this, one of his earlier plays, he seems not to have quite got the hang of things. The language is unnecessarily convoluted, as if he’s more concerned with impressing the audience than with conveying his meaning. The usual contemporary references aside, I found the meaning often difficult to determine because of the structure of the sentences and the employment of obtuse metaphors. I accept, when reading Shakespeare, that some of the language’s more subtle meanings will be lost on me: I’m not a scholar of the period and I lack the time to delve into references that require lengthy searches to unpick. But, in this play, I felt the playwright was more concerned with fireworks than with substance. Also, although I’ve never seen a production, I very quickly knew the outcome, since this was flagged too clearly in the first act.
So, not the best of his work, but, hell, it’s Shakespeare, so it must be good, yes? 
####To my regular readers, my apologies for the lack of a piece on writing today. My ME/CFS has returned and it limits my energy and creativity. I'll try to get back to normal next week. Thank you for your patience.
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Girl With a Pearl Earring, by Tracy Chevalier, Reviewed

In Chevalier's fictional account, the character Griet is the model for Vermeer's painting. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Vermeer’s muse for his famous painting is brought to life in the fictional Griet, who narrates her story in a voice at once apt and accessible. The reader is quickly transported to the Delft of the mid 17thcentury and plunged into a world where Protestant and Catholic are labels with real meaning.
The place of women in society has long been that of second class citizen, with even the relatively recent progress appearing mostly as lip service to equality. Here, in the Europe of 1664 to 1676, a time when the plague swept through the region and London was all but destroyed by fire, we learn at first hand what it must have been like to be a young woman from a less than wealthy background.
Tracy Chevalier has done her research, gleaned enough information and background to bring alive the times, the fears, the hopes and the dreams of the young woman who is her central character. Griet combines a natural naivety with a worldliness that makes her both courageous and vulnerable. In spite of the almost continuous thread of drudgery and usage, the injustices that visit her daily, her acceptance that this life is what she will live until the end, there is a spirit here that lifts her out of the ordinary, raises her above the mundane and portrays her as vital, intelligent and questing.
The maid’s acceptance of casual bullying and usage is hard for the modern reader to accept, yet it is written with such openness and confidence that the reality cannot be questioned. Her mixed attitude to minimal exposure and maximum concealment echoes the hypocrisy of the church in which she has been raised and which she accepts without question. No modern girl could be so accepting, in light of the many proofs regarding the lies, hypocrisy and dogmatism of the church, but the reader is persuaded that such considerations are not available for Griet. She has no opportunity to question society and its unjust traditions, merely accepting that this is the way things are.
The love story, such as it is, remains understated. Hints alone draw the picture as the self-obsessed painter, drawn sparely and shrouded in a false air of mystery by the skill of the author, finds a way to persuade the shy but willing maid to model for him. Her very willingness to perform difficult and dangerous tasks for him leads the reader to understand the feelings she never expresses. The claustrophobic settings and customs lend menace to a relationship that could lead to only a pair of outcomes. We can hope for the better of the two whilst understanding that the worst is more likely.
The novel explores themes of injustice, bullying, the casual and cruel superiority of the wealthy, familial loyalty and the pragmatism of the poor. I cannot describe this as a happy book, yet it is strangely compelling. And, although the pace rarely alters, there is a quickening of movement in the denouement. I found I was driven to finish the book in a final sitting once I’d reached a certain point in the narrative.
There is a film of this book. I doubt it does justice to the narrative, which maintains an honest and credible voice of the maid as narrator throughout. But I will make the effort to watch it, in the hope that the director illuminates the shadows and borrows the colours of the novel.
This is a book I enjoyed and one I happily recommend to all those who like their fiction steeped in history and character.  
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Do You Work Best in Chaos or Control?

Stones on the beach at FlamboroughDo you work well in clutter? Does it really matter to you if the desk is covered in piles of manuscripts, notes to remind you, a document stand overflowing with ‘things to do’? Is it no problem for you to step over those things you’re planning to sort out every time you enter the room?
On the other hand, do you have to have a tidy desk, with everything in its place and nothing outstanding. Is that box of odds and sods already sorted for sale on Ebay or ready for the local charity shop? Or does such a box never exist in your life because you always clear these things as they come along? Is your inbox only ever the place where new emails live for the short while it takes you to deal with them? Are you obsessive about the places your things are located, ensuring everything is always exactly where you want it?
I lie somewhere in between these two extremes of chaos and obsessive tidiness.
For a number of reasons, with which I won’t bore you, I’ve had to allow certain irritations to build up over the last few weeks. It’s always a question of priorities. But I do find it difficult to be creative and disciplined in my writing habits when the desk has a pile of correspondence awaiting attention, the inbox has over 100 emails I need to explore further, the room I use as a study is crowded with objects that need some attention before I can either sell them or recycle them via the local Help the Aged shop.
So, on Wednesday afternoon, when I arrived home from the half week I spend at an office in order to supplement my earnings from writing, I decided enough was enough. It was time for a serious bout of deck-clearing. I want to get on with the fantasy trilogy I’m writing, and all these interruptions are getting in the way. The only solution is to deal with them.
So far, I’ve reduced the inbox to 13, and 12 of those are required for future action I can’t actually take at the moment. I’ve updated the Writing Contests page on this blog and therefore removed from the desk the pile of magazines, leaflets and other printed matter I consult for this task. I’ve restored my daughter’s old computer to a working state, which took some 10 hours of attention, reformatting and re-installing of software, so I can see if that will sell on Ebay. Along the  way, I’ve dealt with all new emails (I get around 70 a day), posted a couple of items on the blog, kept up to date with Pinterest and Twitter and Facebook and LinkedIn, all of which are social sites I use to keep in touch with readers. But, as a happily married man who wishes to remain so, I’ve also spent some real quality time with my wife, who is a great support to my writing activity. An earlier post on here describes our day in Hull to see the Da Vinci drawings and watch the latest Bond film. And we also managed a longish walk along the local cliffs near Flamborough. I love the sea and find it refreshes my spirit. Took some pictures along the way, which I’ll add to the albums I have on Facebook when time allows.
Why am I telling you all this? Well, the lesson of the last few days has been that I work better without clutter. And, if I’m able to keep it at bay, I’ll get a lot more writing done. So, I’ve found my ideal working situation. Have you found yours, or are you continually in a state where you’re either fighting against a chaos over which you have no control, or are you so busy keeping everything tidy that you have no real time to do what matters most; you writing?
There you go. I’ve even found time to write and post this piece on the blog. So, here’s your challenge: if you’re not already working in your ideal environment, do something about it and sort it out so you can work in your optimum way and actually get that writing done.
Good luck, and have fun!
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