Stuart Aken's Blog, page 253

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.
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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.
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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.
Related articles What Do You Love/Hate About Traditional Publishers? Goodbye vanity: Self-publishing goes mainstream Writers write, right? Writing: Advice for New Writers

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.
Related articles Spread The Word With GoodReads Wednesday Review: Goodreads.com My Goodreads Press or Pass Apps: Goodreads Goodreads App For iPhone And iPad Gets A Major Push

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.
Related articles The Secret Life of William Shakespeare by Jude Morgan - review [Review] Julius Caesar, by William Shakespeare William Shakespeare - "Steesh of Avon" Stephen Fry Battles Illness To Perform In William Shakespeare Play As You Like It: "the happiest of Shakespeare's comedies."

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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Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 45

You’ve come this far, and you’re looking forward to the climax now. 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 45
The drive to the island was hot, long and tiresome. I made a mental note to have a car radio fitted as soon as I returned to Longhouse. Just beyond Glasgow, I stopped at a wayside café for a break and discovered I hadn’t replaced my knickers after that last pleasuring of Leigh. I smiled at the state of mind that had allowed such forgetfulness. For the rest of the journey, I found my mind filled with ideas about the way I’d altered over the months with Leigh and how making love with him had changed me so absolutely with regard to modesty, both false and real.I arrived at the ferry station just in time and was grateful for the chance to spend a short spell out of the driving seat, letting the sea air blow through my hair and clothes. Though driving on and off the boat was an experience I hadn’t prepared for.Once at the other side of the narrow straits, I had another twenty or so miles to drive before I reached the meeting place. We’d agreed on the village post office as our rendezvous since there was a small café there where one could wait if the other was delayed. As it turned out, we arrived within minutes of each other. I wondered if she’d been looking out for me.Mrs McAlastair was a big boned woman with little flesh on her skeleton and she had a most unattractive face for a woman. But she smiled brightly when I introduced myself and offered her cash for the price we’d agreed.‘Och, best see the bothy first, lassie. You’ll no be wantin’ to pay if you’ll no be wantin’ to stay. Will you be wanting bread and milk from the store afore you go?’I spent a few minutes adding fresh food to my stockpile in the car.‘Follow me.’She drove a Landrover, which looked as though it might have been one of the first made. Great clouds of charcoal smoke billowed from the exhaust as she started it, but it ran cleanly after that.I followed her for three miles along a tarmac road with a pecked white line down the middle and passed no other vehicle. We turned off at a three-way junction onto a single-track road with occasional passing places, which we never needed to use. Another four miles and we turned onto a stony track that crossed open fields with mountains frowning down at us. I was anxious about my Mini’s suspension but there were few potholes and I managed to miss those there were.At last, we arrived at a gate and Mrs McAlastair got out and let me through, her own car staying the other side. As I drove past her, I got my first view of the croft and stopped the car at her signal.‘I’ll not drive down there, lassie, and I’d advise you leave your wee car up here. I’ll help take your things down and show you where everything is.’It was perfectly situated. The small whitewashed cottage lay at the foot of the steep track, hills on all three landward sides, rising to mountains on two. Beyond the cottage itself, a stretch of grass, dotted with windswept mountain ash, led to a shingle strip and a bar of brilliant white sand that plunged into the deep azure of the ocean. The water stretched to the horizon where a small island broke the line between sea and sky. The next land after that was America. I was impressed.‘Aye, it’s bonny enough. But see it all afore ye make up your mind.’‘Is it safe to swim?’She looked me up and down as we took the case and bags from the car. ‘You’re a wee thing but strong enough I ken. You’ll be up to your navel five yards in and you’ll need to watch the currents further out. Otherwise, it’s just the cold’ll get you.’As we walked down to the cottage, I noted the small outhouse to one side, at the back. ‘Aye, that’s the privy. There’s no light but there’s running water.’She unlocked the only door into the cottage, facing the sea, and let me in before her. Small windows let the sunlight in. There was an odd smell I could not identify until she reminded me the lighting came from oil. The cooker used bottled gas and there was a supply already connected. A pile of peat rested by the fireplace, should I need it. Enough was stacked against the back wall, under a wooden lean-to, to last for several weeks so I should be fine for the fortnight.‘I’ll ask no questions about why you’re here alone, lassie. Good-looking young woman like you no doubt has her reasons for solitude. You’ll not be disturbed here, by anyone. There’s red deer wander the shore for seaweed, otters and seals in the sea and eagles in yon crags. Once or twice, a lad in search of adventure might pass on his way to climb the hills but you’d be unlucky to be caught unawares. The sun’s still warm enough to sit out at this time of year.‘The water’s from a wee loch up yonder so it’s peaty and sometimes runs brown from the fawcett but it’ll do ye no harm. There’s spare bedding in yon closet and a torch under the sink. New batteries. I’ve a radio if you wish? No?‘Well, I’ll leave you to it, lassie, you’ll no doubt be anxious to get settled after your long drive. When you leave, put the key on the shelf in the privy. Anything you need you’ll get from the post office; it closes all day Wednesday and, since you’re from the mainland, ye’ll no be aware it’s shut all the Lord’s Day too.’I handed her the cash and she counted it out carefully before she smiled and gave me a receipt. I walked with her as far as the foot of the track, from which I could make out the roof of my Mini.‘No need to fret about your wee car, lassie. No one here to steal or damage it. We don’t have much in the way of crime on the island. The men are hard but fair-minded. They get drunk and they fight. But they’ll do nae harm to a lassie. Should you happen on one you teck a fancy to, he’s like to be safe. Willing as any man, if you let him. Talk travels, so I’ll no let it be known you’re here, less ye want me to?’‘I’d not welcome a horde, Mrs McAlastair, but a clean, handsome young prince might come in handy next week.’She gave me a knowing look and assessed me as breeding stock. ‘Aye, there’s handsome enough about, lassie, but you’re no likely to find a prince, I fancy; more likely the frog.’ She turned and made her way up the track.I waited for her to drive away before I dashed to the cottage, pulled a towel from my case, stripped and ran down the shingle to let the ocean wash the travel from my skin.It was the first and only time I made that mistake. The ocean was cold and there was no fire in the cottage. By the time I had one lit, I was chilled and rather subdued. I vowed the fire would remain alight for the rest of my stay, and it did.The privy was home not only to gas bottles for the cooker but to a variety of spiders; large, huge and colossal. They generally moved away from the oil lamp I carried if I ventured there after dark but I was always anxious of the possibility of one dropping on me. My visits were brief and to the point.I discovered that the best way to collect the peat for the fire was to use the shovel provided for the ashes and take as large a pile as I could carry at one time. I stacked it high beside the fireplace and used enough to keep the place warm throughout the cool nights.I’d been warned about midges but they didn’t trouble me. The land surrounding the cottage was well drained and there was no standing water to attract them, I suppose.The light from the windows was enough for dreaming but if I wanted to read I had to either go outside or be near an oil lamp. Much of my time I left the front door open to reduce the slightly oppressive feeling engendered by the low smoke-stained ceiling.The cottage, a proper croft, consisted of a single room, which contained the small kitchen area in the corner facing the door, the bed in the corner furthest from the door and the sitting area near the fire on the same wall as the door. A window faced the ocean on each side of the chimneybreast and a smaller window looked out on the rising hills behind the croft. I found I could open the door wide and sit in the ancient armchair, warmed by the fire when the days were cloudy, and read in comfort with fresh air occasionally disturbing my hair.I was obliged to bathe in a tin tub that hung on the back of the privy door. It housed three tarantulas when I first took it down but they scuttled away when I dropped it noisily on the stone path. I had to fill it from two kettles, one hung over the fire and the other boiled on the gas stove. My first attempt took me over an hour for a reasonable depth and even then, the water was only warm. I hung it back on the door for the spiders to recolonize and decided to stick to my daily dip in the ocean waves, followed by a strip wash in soft, brown fresh water at the kitchen sink. Washing my hair was the most difficult and I had to make do with the sink for that as well, allowing it to dry by the fire or in the sun.But these privations didn’t worry me. I’d sought isolation and simplicity and that’s what I’d found. I was used to cold and discomfort from my time with Heacham and the croft on my own was infinitely more comfortable than the cottage had ever been when shared with that perverted excuse for a man.The isolation, and Mrs McAlastair’s hints that I may sunbathe unwatched, together with the loss of my shyness after sharing my body with Leigh, allowed me to be relaxed about being naked. I spent my time wearing very little or nothing unless I needed clothing for warmth.Each day I swam as I had on my first day and ran to the cottage to dry off on a towel left by the fire. I saw no one for the first days but had the privilege of watching red deer grazing on the seaweed just along the shore and catching sight of a pair of otters playing in the surf. Seals eyed me curiously when I swam but never approached close enough to touch. Eagles evaded me until the Thursday when two flew overhead, circling quite low until one found and caught a small rabbit in the field near my car. I managed to catch something of all these natural sights with my camera and the telephoto lens Leigh had loaned me for my trip.The weather varied enormously and there wasn’t a day when I didn’t see both sunshine and rain. Some days a heavy shower would smite the windows with lashing drops so loud they drowned the ocean’s constant surge. Other days a few drops would precede unbroken, glorious sunshine when I could lie outside and laze under the warm rays, reading Watership Down or The Thorn Birds or Lord of the Rings or simply imagining myself alone with Leigh.For the first three nights, I allowed myself the necessary freedom to weep. My sorrow and grief at Dad’s death, having been finally released by that incident at Longhouse, now swept from me in tears heeded by no one but me. By Tuesday, I could think of his passing without desperate sobbing, though I knew it would be years before I could think of his death and remain completely dry-eyed and I was relieved to have the worst of my grief expressed at last. I felt free to enjoy myself without the guilt that grieving brings so unfairly in its wake.It was on my first Friday that I met Hamilton. I was trotting up the beach, fresh from the waves, when I became aware of him standing by the door and watching me with evident surprise and delight. He was the prince I’d jokingly requested Mrs McAlastair to provide. He didn’t attempt to look away or hide his enjoyment of the view. On the floor, at his feet, rested a large rucksack and I guessed he expected me to believe he was one of the occasional mountaineers his mother had mentioned.‘Good morning.’ I walked past him into the cottage and started to dry myself.‘Hello.’ He remained in the open doorway, with his back turned, just out of sight.‘You’re welcome to step inside and take a seat. I’ll make a pot of tea once I’m dried’He entered at once and sat and watched me dry myself, continuing to study me with frank admiration and ill-disguised lust as I made the tea, but he said nothing.‘Quiet sort, aren’t you?’He nodded and continued to study me.‘I haven’t seen a soul all week so you’ll forgive me if I’m a bit chatty.’‘You’ve a lovely wee body, miss. Aye, and a pretty face.’I stood and considered. Leigh had told me I was beautiful, but he said that to all the women who had sex with him. Then, of course, since he invariably also took photographs of them with the intention of selling them, they all would have to be beautiful. ‘Thank you.’‘Thank you. Do you no think it a wee bit risky walking about in that state in front of a stranger?’‘Your mother said I’d nothing to fear from the men of the island and …’His face was a picture.‘Oh, it’s obvious she’s either your mother or your aunt; you’re like peas in a pod. She said I’d be in no danger but that the men were willing enough if invited. I expect you’re hoping for an invitation?’He blushed wonderfully and I stopped teasing him, knowing how unpleasant a blush can be but happy it wasn’t me who suffered this time.I suddenly became aware of exactly what I was doing and laughed out loud at my audacity. I felt such relief that I was finally free of that terrible shyness that had been forced on me for so many years. I was confident in my body and myself and felt no shame attached to its voluntary display. I was good to look at and it was up to me whether I was seen.‘I’m going to ask you a few questions and I want you to know that I’m very good at detecting lies. I want you to answer me truthfully, even if you think I might prefer a different answer. Whether you get to have sex with me depends on you answering my questions truthfully. Do you understand?’‘I do, but how d’you know I actually want sex with you.’‘It’s self-evident. But, if you don’t, you might as well go. I’ve no other use for male company at present.’He grinned at his deception and my discovery of it. ‘Mother said you were a strange wee lassie. She was right and no mistake.’I smiled at this description. ‘What’s your name?’‘Hamilton.’‘Well, Hamilton McAlastair, how many women have you had sex with?’He opened his mouth to speak, gave himself time to think and then looked at me as if seeking a clue.‘When I talk about the truth, Hamilton, that is exactly what I require.’He shrugged, a little ashamed. ‘None, then.’‘Excellent.’He brightened at my obvious pleasure in his answer. ‘Kissed a few, of course, touched the odd wee titty, but no more than that.’There was something charming in his use of a word I generally disliked and I found myself smiling again. ‘Just a few rules.’ I handed him a cup of tea. I noticed he was sweating slightly in the heat of the cottage fire. ‘Why not take off your jumper?’He put the tea on the floor and did as I suggested, revealing a broad chest clad in a sleeveless shirt.I waited till he sat again before explaining my rules. ‘Nothing you do must hurt me. I do not want to be kissed; kissing is an intimate act between people who love each other. I don’t love you and I don’t expect you love me. What I offer you will be for the period I offer it, no longer. When I’ve had enough of you, you must go, at once and without argument. Will you agree to these terms?’‘Mother didn’t know the half of it. You’re the most amazing wee lassie I’ve come across. Aye, for the chance of knowing that lovely body and learning a trick or two to help me wi’ a woman, I’ll do as you ask.’‘Good. Drink your tea and we’ll start to explore a little. Just to set your mind at rest, Hamilton, I’m not a prostitute and I don’t expect payment. I’m not in the habit of inviting strange men to have sex with me and you’ll be only the second man to know my body. I won’t explain why I’m doing this, except that I’m fulfilling a rather odd but important obligation. The sign for you to go, by the way, will be when I put on some clothes, or when I ask you. I’ll be naked whilst I wish you to stay. I take it you’ll not be missed if I need you overnight?’‘Astounding. I’ll no be missed for a night or two, lassie. May I know your name?’I told him.‘Am I to start the … the er, whatever, or do I wait for your lead?’‘However the mood takes you, Hamilton. I’m adaptable and ready to respond to your advances.’I was so nervous inside but I couldn’t show him how I really felt. I was doing this to satisfy my need to carry out Dad’s wishes. I had no wish at all to satisfy the lust of another man or to give myself to anyone other than Leigh. But Dad’s wishes had been explicit. This was the only way I could reach a satisfactory compromise and I’d already decided I might as well approach the task enthusiastically. Hamilton’s arrival allowed me to do some good to someone else along the way. I considered myself fortunate to have been given the chance to do some sexual comparison for my education whilst teaching this pleasant young man something of value to him. I had no doubt at all about the outcome of my experiment but I must fulfil Dad’s last request of me. I knew myself well enough to understand that I had no choice in that matter if I was to live with my future self in peace.The sun was high in the sky on Saturday when I moved off his strong young body for the last time. He lay looking up at me as if I might be an angel or a magical princess and I was sufficiently moved by his obvious adoration that I leant over and kissed his lips softly. ‘Thank you, Hamilton; you’ve been exactly what I needed. I’m going for my swim now. I expect you to be gone when I return.’‘You canna just leave like that. Surely you don’t expect me to…’‘I expect you to keep your side of the bargain, Hamilton. I expect you to follow the rules of our agreement. I expect you to show me that your mother was right.’ I draped my towel over the chair before the fire and walked out of the door and down to the sea without a backward glance.The sea seemed particularly cold that day but I gave him time to make up his mind and to get dressed. I had no wish to confront him or argue with him. He’d done the job and enjoyed himself in the process. I’d given him an opportunity he was unlikely to get again and he would now have a better idea of how to pleasure any woman he cared to form a relationship with in future.I deliberately avoided looking at the cottage as I swam and tried to lose myself in the waves and the water as it washed me clean of the sex and the smell of him. Although we’d shared some pleasurable sensations, I’d experienced nothing of the passion and desire and indescribable joy I’d felt with Leigh and I now fully understood for myself the real difference between having sex and making love.Chilled and tired, I left the waves and sauntered up the beach, reluctant to reach the cottage in case he was lurking, waiting for more of me. But the place was empty. I dried myself and cried a few tears of relief. The job was done, my pride and honour saved by the anonymity of my subject, my duty to Dad complete. I could return to Leigh and know that I loved him not from inexperience or ignorance but because I loved him.As I made myself a pot of tea, I noticed something on the table. The small package was wrapped in sheets of my notepaper and tied with string from the kitchen drawer. Inside was a small wooden box with a thistle carved on the lid. It was a handmade piece and the lid fitted well on its tiny brass hinges; the carving was good but lacked finesse and I guessed he’d brought it with him as an offering should I need inducement. Inside the box were three small sheets of paper. Each bore a charcoal drawing of me; in one I was sleeping on top of the bed, in another I stood at the door looking out to the ocean and in the last I was at the kitchen sink, making tea.On the back of the one of me sleeping was a short note.
‘Faith, you gave me less than all of yourself but more than I deserved. I will carry you with me in my heart through all of my life, though I know I will never see you again. Thank you for your generous education of a simple man. You said I would not love you. That was the only mistake you made. Goodbye, Hamilton.’
I tucked the pictures back into the box, wondering when he’d found the time and opportunity to draw me, closed the lid and wiped a tear from the corner of my eye with a fingertip.That night, I started writing my letter to Leigh, intending to drop it into the post office on Monday when I went to the village to replenish my supplies.
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A Day of Cultural Contrasts

I want to share with you a strangely satisfying day of contrasting culture. This morning, my wife and I travelled to our nearest city, Hull, to view some of Da Vinci’s drawings on exhibition at the Ferens Art Gallery. Hull is not noted for its culture, though both Philip Larkin and John Godberproduced some of their best work in the city. And, of course, it is the birthplace of William Wilberforce, whose influence on world culture through the abolition of slavery must be considered great.
To get back to the Da Vinci: A few weeks ago, we were in Paris and spent some time in the Louvre, where, over the heads of the multitude, we saw the Mona Lisa in its original form. It was distant, because we were unwilling to elbow our way through the throng, and it was protected by non-reflective glass to protect it against the assaults of the multiple flashes from the tourists’ cameras (the signs asking people not to use flash have little or no effect on those who haven’t a clue how to actually use their cameras, of course).
Today, in Hull, we joined a much smaller number to walk in peace and quiet around an exhibition where we could get up close to the drawings made by Da Vinci. The subtlety of his technique, the detail captured by his eye and the skill of his translation of reality into pictorial form were aspects I will treasure for a long time. That we could actually examine them as closely as if reading a book, spend uninterrupted time before each of the ten examples, study and absorb the brilliance, was wonderful. Information boards enhanced the experience and the gallery staff were on hand to enthuse and guide where necessary.
An exhibition I urge you to visit if you’re anywhere near the city. It’s on until 23 January 2013. The drawings are on loan from the Royal Collection, by the way.
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Because we are not city lovers, we rarely visit without a specific purpose. Today we also decided to go to the cinema to watch the latest Bond movie. Skyfall is a very typical Bond film with plenty of chases, improbable action scenes and occasional sexual encounters, understated so that the films can be watched as family entertainment. Though it’s always puzzled me that film classification allows extreme violence to be witnessed by young children, yet prevents youngsters seeing the natural state of human beings. Never understood why nudity should be considered bad for children when violence and killing is apparently considered acceptable. But that’s maybe a subject for a different post.
The film is the best of those starring Daniel Craig. There is a great story and more interaction and narrative than the previous efforts. The film is also full of surprises. Naturally, James wins most of his unlikely fights, defeats his enemies and gets the girl. I won’t spoil the story for those who haven’t seen the film. But, if you’ve been less than impressed by the previous outings of Craig’s Bond, you will find this one a real improvement.
As I say, a day of cultural contrasts. But a very enjoyable day in spite of, or maybe, because of, that.
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What Do You Love/Hate About Traditional Publishers?

Way back, in the fogs of the ancient past, when men were apes and women were damned glad to be fleet of foot, traditional publishers took on a role in the world of books. They sought out and nurtured talent. They actively encouraged good writers. They sold their authors’ books. It was a dream world, where writers could actually spend their time writing, learning technique, coming to grips with the process of telling stories, unburdened by the constant need to expose themselves to their public like some lurid music hall act.
Way back then, the publisher took on the tasks of marketing and sales, jobs requiring entirely different skill sets from those needed to produce creative fiction. Sales people are a breed. They are driven by money and the idea of reward. Creative people are artists, driven by the need to express themselves and living in hope that someone somewhere might enjoy their output sufficiently to pass a positive comment and maybe even recommend it to a friend. Publishers organised the production of the book; engaging and paying for skilled cover artists to draw attention to the work, hiring editors to iron out inconsistencies and grammatical errors, choosing the font most suitable for the text, taking a pride in turning the creative work into a marketable product. Publishers negotiated with booksellers and others in the book trade to get the volumes on the shelves of stores and libraries. They produced publicity material and arranged for signings and, sometimes, tours by their authors.
All this activity released authors from the need to worry about a side of writing mostly foreign to the creative nature. It allowed writers to spend time actually learning their craft and developing into practitioners with insight, depth and experience. Their writers grew in talent and value to their readers. The authors were protected from day to day anxieties regarding deadlines and targets and sales list positions. They could actually get on with the job of writing; the role for which they were best fitted.
Of course, there were downsides, for both writers and publishers. Occasionally a publisher would encourage a promising prospect only to discover either a lack of real talent or a lack of discipline, which resulted in the one-book author or the procrastinator who promised but never actually delivered. For the writer, there were restrictions in genre. Publishers would light on the first novel and then drive the writer along the same route time and time again, trying to turn their protégée into some sort of word machine churning out endless versions of the same, once-successful book until both the writer and his readers became disenchanted with the whole business. Readers then turned to some other talent whilst the writer went off to be a plumber or park warden instead.
We have reached a stage in publishing today where the potential for a better deal for all is possible. Because it costs almost nothing to produce an ebook, financial risk for publishers regarding that first novel is no longer relevant. The only potential loss involves their time. The monetary layout is negligible and there is no concern for overheads with a warehouse full of unsold books. The publisher can devote time and effort to marketing the books and, should the ebook prove successful, can then produce a POD, again at little cost, but with the confidence that the book is likely to sell well. This is a win/win situation for publisher and author. The writer is spared the time-consuming and destructive work of marketing and can get on with the actual creation of a really good book. And the publisher can return to the role of nurturing mentor and guide, taking care of those tasks most authors find so onerous; i.e. marketing and sales.
So, why are so few publishers doing this? Why are so many locked into the recent cycle of backing pointless celebrity with huge advances only to lose these enormous sums when the product fails the first test of quality? I suspect it’s because publishers, along with most other businesses, are now run by bean counters rather than by those with imagination, flair and taste. As long as money is seen as the only worthwhile outcome for publishing, traditional publishers will continue to fail and decline. Once they start to understand and return to their original role of mentor and protector of talent, there is a strong possibility that they will flourish as never before. I just hope they discover this fact before I’m too old and decrepit to benefit from such services.
As always, I value your thoughts. Please comment freely and pass on this piece to as many of your writing/reading friends as you can.
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