Stuart Aken's Blog, page 256

Do Facts Matter in Fiction?

Cover of Britannica Encyclopedia (Encyclopaedia)
You’re a fiction writer, as am I. So, how important is it that we get our facts right? Aren’t we writing pieces that stem from imagination and exist in fantasy? Does it really matter if we present a fact as fiction and distort it a little? Is it important whether we actually tell the truth at all? Isn’t all fiction basically lies?
I ask these questions not frivolously but out of a sense of responsibility to my readers. I know that I’ve learned things about the world, people and things, from my fiction reading. I’ve accepted what a novelist or storyteller has told me in the course of a work of fiction, assuming that anything purporting to be true has, in fact (and, yes, I’m aware of the pun), been checked for accuracy. This is particularly the case when it involves a new subject or something generally only known by a small or esoteric group.
Cover of The SpireAs an example, I learned that it was common practice for the builders of cathedrals in mediaeval times to incorporate a body, often a human, into one of the supporting pillars. The skilled craftsmen were largely pagan masons with little respect for the church authorities, and their acts of sacrifice may have been some sort of appeasement for their own gods for working on a monument to another religion. They also, of course, frequently modelled gargoyles on clerics of the time, often in mockery. I first came across this in the excellent novel by William Golding, The Spire , which I studied for my A level English Literature exam. Subsequent reading and some television documentaries seemed to corroborate the information. However, I can find nothing online to substantiate it, so I’m now in doubt about the facts.
Now, I don’t know about you, but I want my readers to have confidence that what I present as facts are actually facts, not some lazy assumption gleaned from inadequate research mixed with folklore and urban myth.
Yes, I want to weave my own story, using imagination and my creative skills to develop a story and people it with characters who come across as real and rounded human beings. But, when I introduce something in that story that’s presented as a fact, I want it to be true. I believe it’s the responsibility of the storyteller to do exactly that: to present facts as facts and not to exaggerate, diminish or embroider them to dramatize the tale. Anything that enhances the reader’s experience in emotional terms should derive from the characters, action and conflict, not from a distortion of the facts surrounding the text.
In preparation for this piece, I undertook some very basic research on a topic I knew to be uncertain. I wanted to illustrate how difficult, and important, it is to get the facts right, or as right as is possible. For it is the case that certain ‘facts’ do change over time, as more information is uncovered relative to the subject. A simple example of that is the way that history is presented over the ages. History, as we all know, is written by the victors. So the records left by a victor are frequently distorted in favour of that victor.
It was previously believed that the Oracle at Delphi in ancient Greece, had special powers of observation that allowed her to see into the future. We now know that the site of her prophesies lies over a fault from which certain gases escape to invade the brain of the prophet, causing psychological disturbances that account for the apparent visions. The rest of her supposed successes are now put down to misinterpretation coupled with the tendency of people to particularise generalities.
Jupiter 2010-12-05 (Photo credit: horstm42)To get back to the subject I chose to illustrate the changing and sometimes unreliable nature of facts. We all know that Jupiter, the gas giant planet of our solar system, has many moons. But how many? I have a print copy of the Encyclopaedia Britannica , purchased as a research tool back in 1994. It’s the 1993 edition and states that Jupiter has ‘at least 16 moons’. This was what was known at the time. As part of the deal, I was signed up to receive printed updates to keep the volumes current and, in 2005, received an amendment that told me there were ‘28 known satellites’ of Jupiter. I found a site online (I won’t name them here), last updated on 14 September 2006, that told me Jupiter has ‘4 Galilean and 57 other moons’. In 2008 I updated my Encyclopaedia Britannica by buying the CD rom version. That edition tells me that Jupiter has ‘more than 60 known moons’. An undated article on the Enchanted Learning website tells me that the planet has ‘67 known moons, so far.’ The NASA website, updated on 2 October 2012, lists ‘50 moons and a further 14 provisional moons’. A Wikipedia article, dated 9 October 2012, cites ‘67 confirmed moons’. And Space.comundated, but copyrighted 2012, states the number as ‘a total of 67 known moons’.  The sensible conclusion, therefore, is that, currently, we know of 67 satellites circling our largest planet. And I’d be happy to use that figure in a story, since it’s the latest corroborated information I have available. I know it will change as more data come to light, but I’m no more able to predict the future than was the Oracle at Delphi, or any of the other prophets whose names litter the annals of religion and history.
So, check your facts before you release them to your readers and, if they’re subject to doubt or change, make that clear in some unobtrusive way. You owe your readers the truth.
Finally, I was inspired to write this piece following a short interview I watched on TV whilst eating breakfast this morning. The piece concerned an episode of a popular soap in the UK, EastEnders , and a storyline about social workers removing a child from one of the characters. There was much discussion about the dramatic element of the story, which was considered good television. However, the representative of the social workers was most concerned with the way in which the work of her fictional colleagues was represented. She accepted that different social workers operate at different levels but was more concerned that the procedures depicted were factually inaccurate and would therefore give viewers a false impression of this very emotive topic. I leave you to make your own conclusions on that.
So, there you have it. My attitude to the representation of facts in fiction is that we, as writers, have a duty to our readers to ensure we’re as accurate as possible. I’d be interested to learn your opinions. Please share them by commenting below.
Related articles Encyclopaedia Britannica blog: 'Change: It's Okay. Really.' How important are facts in fiction? Amateur Astronomer Maps Jupiter's Moon Ganymede in Amazing Detail Britannica Publishes Revised Student Encyclopedia; Award-winning Set has New and Updated Articles, Maps, New Photos [image error]

Is Society Organised for Business or for People?

International Money Pile in Cash and Coins (Photo credit: epSos.de)
An odd question, or one you think should be considered? I suspect your view will be influenced by your basic attitude to the place of money in society.
Why would I even ask the question? I look at the world around me and view the priorities cited by government, commerce and those with a real interest in environment. What I see is a society slewed toward the making of money as a primary purpose. But isn’t money supposed to be the tool, the helpmate of humanity? Isn’t trade, and all those services involved with manufacturing, production and delivery, intended to serve mankind?
When I look at the world, I see that the production of wealth is actually the prime purpose of most commerce. Now, I fully understand that we can’t live in a society where barter takes the place of currency, but I do question the value we place on the process involved in increasing wealth. Businesses appear to exist primarily for the benefit of their shareholders, so that their customers are, in fact, at best a secondary consideration rather than the primary cause of activity.
Banks are probably the best illustration of what I mean: Banks were set up to provide a service that would allow the lending, borrowing and security of the funds of their customers to operate to the benefit of those customers. But the current system benefits primarily the bankers and those institutions and individuals who hold equity in the business itself. The customer who wishes to take advantage of the lending system is now seen more as a threat than a natural client. Customers are viewed as a source of extra income, often by the employment of questionable schemes to extract more money from them to be placed into the banks’ coffers. (There are many examples of this, the recent scandal of mis-sold PPI is simply the most obvious).
Sport is another area where money has become the prime purpose of participation. Football, in particular, has fallen victim of the money men. What used to be local clubs, with locally trained and selected teams, and whose object was the raising of local pride in association with the clubs’ successes, have now become simple businesses. They no longer have any real connection with the locality in which they reside. The teams are made up of international ‘stars’ of questionable value who are paid obscene amounts of money in order to progress their teams to gain more money for the club owners. In the rush to make more and more money from sport, all ideas of sportsmanship have receded to be overtaken by cynical gamesmanship. And this change is so pervasive that many of the fans and players aren’t even aware that cheating, play-acting and tricks are damaging both the sport and society in general. And all this because huge sums of money are on offer from the various media companies who distribute the product to the masses.
Religion has joined the rush for money, in spite of the injunction to the faithful that they should eschew material riches in favour of spiritual rewards. The Roman Catholic church is an obscenely rich organisation that begs for more income from its impoverished congregations whilst keeping its leaders in ostentatious luxury. The Church of England cries out for public funds to repair and support its many crumbling buildings, whilst remaining one of the richest landowners in the country.  I don’t know much about the Jewish and Islamic institutions, but I’m willing to bet they are similarly wealthy whilst many of their adherents remain in poverty.
I could go on with examples, but that would be pointless. My concern is with the way in which we have allowed money to become our master and, in the process, allowed those who own the most money to have power over the vast majority who have little or none. What was intended as a tool to aid interaction and prevent chaos in a growing population has become a weapon in the hands of a very few powerful institutions and individuals. A weapon of control, which promises to become eternally self-perpetuating unless we do something radical to overturn the supremacy of money in the use and abuse of power and return governance to the mass of people.
It is demonstrably unjust that there are individuals who have personal incomes and wealth greater than the GDP of some small nations. It is demonstrably absurd that some individuals have colossal wealth when there are many who have none. We have been sold the idea that those with wealth have somehow deserved it, that they are solely responsible for the good fortune that has happened their way. Please don’t spout the old chestnuts about ‘getting what you deserve’ and ‘work hard and you’ll succeed’ at me. I touched on those two lies a while back and the links (one below) will take you to my arguments.
The simple fact is that no individual ever has been or ever will be deserving of wealth disproportionate to their efforts. The tycoon who claims to be a ‘self-made man’ conveniently forgets that he could not even have risen from his bed in the morning without the help and input of a multitude of other people. For those who find this concept difficult to grasp I feel I must give an example. We all need food to survive. Let’s take the basic loaf of bread, without which our tycoon could not perform, due to hunger. Someone has first to plough and till the ground so that it can be seeded with grain. The crop has to be gathered and transported along roads, made by many more individuals using the tools and machines made by other individuals. At the bakery, more people are involved in turning the raw material into a food product, using machinery and electricity that depends on other individuals for manufacture. Once baked, using power derived from sources mined or generated by yet more people, the product is transported, using fuel and materials produced by other individuals. Eventually, the loaf arrives in the shop to be sold and is there dispensed by even more people. Along the way, we have also to consider the road sweeper who keeps the highway clear to permit the transport to move, the rubbish collector who disposes of the waste that would otherwise clog up the works, the teacher who educates all the people involved in the various process, the nurse who cares for those who fall sick along the way, the unpaid parents who ensure the children get to school…do I need to go on? The reality is obvious. But we seem to have fallen into the trap of believing that certain individuals somehow contribute a great deal more than the rest of us. It simply isn’t true.
The only real difference between the wealthy and the poor is often due to luck, preferential birth circumstances, the possession of a peculiar talent or the wicked selfishness and greed that allows some to ignore the needs of those over whom they wield their power.
Of course we need to reward those who initiate those ideas that are of benefit to the mass of humanity. Of course we must recognise those who possess rare and valuable talent. Of course we should ensure justice for those who accept high levels of responsibility. But none of these people is worth the huge difference in value that is ascribed to them.
In the UK, and I suspect, elsewhere in the world, there is a minimum wage, set so that unscrupulous businessmen cannot exploit too heavily those who produce their wealth for them. If a minimum wage is a sensible barrier to excessive poverty, then a maximum wage can easily be made a similar barrier to excessive wealth. It requires only political will. But, as long as we have a system of government that depends only on the value falsely accorded to money, we will have a control system that prefers the wealthy over the vast majority of hard-working people. Is that what you want?
Related articles 'Work Hard And You'll Succeed'; The Biggest Lie? The living Wage: Wealth and Romney's Goose Do Americans truly understand 'redistribution of wealth'? The Weaving of Illusions and Myths. [image error]

Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 38

Will Breaking Faith suit you?  Try the reviews under the 'My Books' tab, they’ll give you an idea.
Still on the journey? Enjoy the ride.
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. I’m an author; I want people to read my writing, simple as that.
Chapter 38
Sunday 15th August
‘At last! We’ve all been frantic, wondering where you were, Faith.’‘I needed time alone, Ma. I must phone Mum.’‘She knows.’I realised her grief was unexpressed, locked up. I didn’t like that. ‘I called Eric to find out where you were. I phoned Matilda and told her. Come and have some supper, you look all in.’She sat where she was and gave a single nod as if further movement was too much.‘Tea?’‘Anything but tea!’Coffee? And she would eat some toast. There was about her something deeply troubling, something I couldn’t identify at once. And she’d shed no tears. Netta was surprisingly sympathetic to begin with; almost demure, and silent for the most part.Faith ate in silence, looking at nothing, simply staring into the distance and passing food and drink into her mouth. Had I asked what she’d consumed, she couldn’t have told me.I sent her to bed and she went without a word, though I doubt she slept.‘She’s weird, Leigh. Creepy. I don’t like it.’‘People respond to grief in different ways. Faith’s had a hell of a lot of adjusting to do in a very short time. Think about it, Netta. How do you think you’d cope with so much change in such a short space of time?’She shrugged. Netta had no capacity for consideration. A hedonist through and through, all her thoughts and actions were informed by her body’s responses. Nothing else was of significance. ‘Come on, Leigh, she’s made me feel miserable. I need a good seeing to by a cunning linguist.’She was safe in bed for the night and Netta’s need was so tempting and something I could usefully comply with. It would do no harm to Faith for us to indulge a little.I waggled my tongue and she undressed me. Later, with my head between her delicious thighs, I was vaguely aware someone had come into the kitchen and passed the table where we played.‘Came down for a drink of water.’ Netta told me afterwards. ‘Think she was a bit surprised to find us there.’‘I expect she was.’I let her work during the days; hoping activity would help her face the death. She remained silent except for the essential connections of business and everyday contact. She wasn’t hostile, simply uncommunicative. I couldn’t fathom whether it was grief or anger, sorrow or rage that held her in that withdrawn state. But it was deeply disturbing.Eric arranged the closing that David had desired. We journeyed the long, hot miles to the crematorium in a short cortège of hired black limousines; Matilda, Eric, Netta, Faith and I sharing the lead car. He and Faith were silent throughout the journey in spite of Matilda’s outpouring of comments and observations about David.The cleric who greeted us was all unction and professional sympathy. Daily contact with death and the bereaved had killed any capacity he may have had to empathize. Death was routine; he made the right noises, formed the right expressions, even adopted the appropriate body language, but he fooled nobody, especially Faith.‘Can you perform a ceremony that will satisfy Eric who’s a partially lapsed Roman Catholic, myself, my father and Leigh, all atheists, my mother and sister, part time protestants in the Church of England tradition, and the mixed bunch of mourners here who either believe in no god at all or certainly not the limited one of your imagination?’Having been silent for so long, Faith’s challenge came as a shock.The cleric was jolted from complacency into a gesture of condescension guaranteed to make the blood boil. ‘I understand your grief, my dear. Please don’t concern yourself with details. I’ll send your father off properly, you can be sure of that.’‘Will you perform a eulogy based on firsthand knowledge? Will you despatch him without reference to your own peculiar god?’‘Well, now I don’t think it’ll do any harm to give him the protection of…’‘I do. Please, if the law or whatever regulations surround this process, mean you have to be present, simply stand wherever you must, in silence. I’ll lead the ceremony.’ Her glance at Matilda dared her to disagree; her look at Eric was more conciliatory. Both nodded their assent with differing degrees of surprise and reservation.‘I really think it would be much more satisfactory if you were to just…’‘Satisfactory? For whom? For you? I don’t give that for what you think. I don’t belong to your club and Dad was never a member either. He hated your false ideals, your hypocrisy, your exclusion. Let him take his leave the way he wished. At least have the grace to let me do this without opposition. It’s hard enough as it is, without the condescending interference of a Godbotherer.’He started to speak again and I stepped in. ‘Let her be. What’s it to you? You’ll still get paid and no one here will complain if you let Faith have her way.’‘It’s not right…’‘Not right for whom? It’s right for Faith and it’s right for her father. Aren’t they the ones who matter here?’He was very unhappy but knew he couldn’t go against our wishes without making a fuss and causing real problems. Not the sort of thing even the most determined conservative clergyman would want. He shrugged his resignation, made no effort to hide his disapproval, but led us into the small chapel.Faith asked him about the mechanics and he had the good grace to show her before he took up his seat facing the congregation.Once the black-suited pallbearers had departed, Faith stood by the foot of the coffin, her hand resting lightly on the polished oak. She waited for the piped Gounod’s Ave Maria to die away.‘Thank you for coming. David Lengdon was a life-long atheist. That’s why the priest has generously stepped aside and allowed me to perform this last farewell. Only a few of you know me. Most of you weren’t even aware that David had a daughter. I met him a few short weeks ago. He was as unaware of me as I had been of him. Matilda, my mother, brought us together. He loved her dearly and her name was the last word he spoke.’Matilda hadn’t known and she leant against me and began to sob silently. Others in that small chapel muttered quietly with surprise or indignation.‘Eric cared for him these last years, since cancer invaded his body and brought him to this parting we call death. He’s been a prince of kindness and I thank him with all my heart for his devotion and selfless courage. I came on the scene late, when Dad was already dying. I was warned and given the chance not to know him, but I chose to try to understand him and came inevitably to love him. I know he loved me, too.‘Dad was a brave man in many ways, a coward in others. He loved the truth but was willing to compromise for the sake of ease and to shield those he held dear. I lack that gift. I’m unable to do more or less than tell the truth. Had he not gone overseas, or had he known I was on the way, he would’ve married Matilda and all our lives would have been immeasurably better.‘But that was not to be and he lost the love of his life. Literature, without his beloved, became a sham for him. He discovered the sordid incest and facile insincerity that infects parts of the world of literary education and criticism and it destroyed his love for it. Had Matilda been with him, he would’ve understood that running from the false and self-delusional wouldn’t shift it one iota. With her beside him, he’d have battled all his life to change that superficial world into a place of passion and truth where creativity did not depend exclusively on antecedents and where true originality was as valid as recognisable derivation. His words.‘Dad was scholar, poet, philosopher and a builder of walls. I asked him about the barriers he erected and he justified them on practical grounds I couldn’t fault. Dad was a man who loved and was loved. His only physical love was Matilda and I am the fruit of their early passion. Spiritually, he loved many, finding it easier to like people than to dislike them. He was forgiving, tolerant, just and wise. He lived for years with Eric as his friend, no more, no less. He loved him as a brother. And admired his skill with stone.‘In the few short weeks I knew him, Dad gifted me with more knowledge and more love for life and all the world can offer, than I had found in the twenty years I had lived till then.‘I loved my father. Time is meaningless in such cases. I loved him as much as any daughter my age can love her father; maybe more. I’ll miss him every day of my future and he’ll be ever in my thoughts. My life is enriched for knowing him. He was a remarkable human being who will be sadly missed by all who knew him.’She turned away and leant over the casket, her face close and her voice so quiet only our first row could hear. ‘I love you, Daddy. I’m proud to be your daughter and proud to have you for my father. Go now to the place you know and love. Leave the flesh that has betrayed you and rise to join the web of life for all eternity. Goodbye, my darling, wonderful Daddy. I love you now and always will.’She forced herself away from the coffin and swayed as she addressed us again. ‘I’ve had my say. It’s your turn, now. Please; come and say a private or a public goodbye to David Lengdon.’I knew they would be reluctant and English about it. I took the lead, guiding Matilda, against her will, and walking to the coffin where I said a few words of goodbye and where Matilda eased her conscience with a whispered but heartfelt apology for her absence in his dying days. Others followed until Eric, proud and upright, took the last turn as the cleric tried to rush us to make way for the next body on the conveyor to the oven.Whatever Eric said was private and remained between him and David but it seemed to help with his grief. Of all the people at that extraordinary parting, only Faith remained dry-eyed.We trailed our way back along roads bathed in inappropriate sunshine to Longhouse, where Ma fed us traditional cold meats and sandwiches and the ubiquitous tea.Faith, in charcoal grey jacket and skirt to her knees, walked through the house and onto the back lawn where she stood alone, facing the fells. The other mourners, one by one or in small groups, thanked her for what she’d done. To each she nodded her acknowledgement but there was no emotion in her, no real response.I watched her in her desert of dry grief and wondered when the wind and rain would sweep away the dust of sorrow and wash her free of all that pain.With Eric, she exchanged a few words before he left, but she spoke nothing to Netta or me after the ceremony itself. I watched her make her way upstairs when the last of the mourners had gone. She didn’t reappear until breakfast time the following day.

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The Pitfalls of Stereotyping.

A multinational crowd in Paris, taken from the Eifel Tower.You do it; you know you do. We all do, usually without realising it. We have a tendency to put all people from a nation, class, occupation or whatever into the same pot and accuse them all of the same faults. It’s a form of laziness, sometimes a simple resort to shorthand because we find it too onerous to look beneath the surface, sometimes because we lack experience, sometimes because our circle of friends and acquaintances simply isn’t wide enough.
Here, today, I want to look at the way we, as writers, can easily be persuaded into making our characters into stereotypes; specifically, national stereotypes. Of course, what we should strive for is the archetype instead, if we are attempting to portray a ‘type’ at all.
So, let’s start by understanding what a stereotype actually is. My SOED(Shorted Oxford English Dictionary - 2 large authoritative volumes for those who don’t know), my personal bible for definitions, defines the noun, for the purposes of this piece, as follows: A preconceived , standardised, and oversimplified impression of the characteristics which typify a person…often shared by all members of a society or certain social groups; an attitude based on such a preconception. Also a person…appearing to conform closely to such a standardised impression.
And, because it’s germane, let’s also look at what inspired me to post this today. My wife and I have just (Tuesday 2nd October) returned from a 10 day holiday in France. It’s a country I’ve not visited before, so my expectations of the people were formed by impressions from friends and colleagues. Now, it’s well known that the Brits and the French aren’t natural buddies. They’re said to consider us conservative, dull and uncultured. We, especially the English, apparently consider them arrogant, dirty, sexually predatory and unwelcoming to strangers.  But, Paris is as cosmopolitan as any major city so I also expected to meet people of many other nations. I wasn’t disappointed. We were greeted at Charles De Gaul Airport by a charming Frenchman, who drove us to our hotel in the city, speaking excellent English and quietly informative. The receptionist, Karolina, was a pretty, efficient, charming and multilingual Polish girl who greeted us warmly and answered all our questions with knowledge and confidence. The lady who prepared breakfasts and cleaned the rooms was a black Frenchwoman, with no English, who smiled and greeted us with warmth.
We’d booked an all day walking tour of the city and found the French staff at Cityrama helpful and competent with no trace of the arrogance they should have displayed with their superior knowledge. Our guide for the day was Chantal, a charming mature French lady who conducted the tour with skill, humour and encyclopaedic knowledge, shepherding our small group of five around the crowded Louvre, Eifel Tower and Notre Dam with casual expertise and patient attention to our varied needs. The group consisted of my wife and I, both from the north of England, an English woman from London and an American couple from a small town near Cincinnati, Ohio. The latter pair, who made no effort to speak even a greeting in French, could have impressed me with an idea of Americans as being selfish, self-important, inconsiderate, grouchy, complaining, demanding and generally rude. However, not only was this initial impression softened slightly during the day by the addition of a glimpse of inappropriate humour from the man, who seemed to think it okay to mock the armed guards patrolling the Eifel Tower, much to the distress of his wife, but also by his willingness to engage our lone black English lady in conversation.
It helped modify my first impressions of Americans that we sat next to another couple, from Texas, in the first floor restaurant at the Tower (lunch there was part of the package), and they proved charming and interesting neighbours with no trace of the gung-ho attitude displayed by our tour companions. When they left and were replaced by a couple from Washington State, my impressions were further improved due to their quiet and almost shy responses to our conversation.
I could go on to describe the French staff at the Tower restaurant (all charming), the Italian staff at the restaurant where we ate one evening (also charming), the Japanese group who shared our carriage on the train from Paris to St Raphael (amusing, multilingual and helpful), the French taxi driver who waited exactly as arranged via my pigeon-French emails to collect us for our ride to St Maxime and proved to be friendly and welcoming, and the various groups and couples we met on walks, boat trips and in restaurants - Swiss, German, Australian, English and French. But I think you get the picture.
Perhaps the one fly in the ointment, for the French, was the utter lack of customer care shown by the owners of the holiday resort where we spent our week in St Maxime. We were greeted there by an envelope stuck on the outside of the door of the reception point. An inadequate map directed us to our accommodation, where we were expected to make our own beds, and where there was nothing in the way of a welcome pack - no food or drink to refresh the weary travellers, not even any paper in the toilet, and no information about where we might buy such items. This theme extended throughout the week, with an early morning meeting demanded for the following morning, which we attended but for which they failed to show up. This was followed by a departure, where we were expected to allow an inspection prior to leaving, for which they also failed to arrive as arranged, leaving us concerned in case we couldn’t finalise things before the taxi arrived to take us to Nice Airport. As it happened, both these failures were dealt with efficiently and in a friendly manner by two English maintenance men who happened to be on duty, cleaning the swimming pool, at the times.
If I’d based my impressions of the French on the behaviour of the owners of that complex I would have left the place with a very different impression from the one I gleaned by contact with many other people. And that’s my point: apologies for the convoluted trip to arrive here.
If we, as writers, have no contact with the people about whom we write, it’s clear that we can’t rely on the impression provided by minimal contact with a few representatives of a nation or on information given by friends and acquaintances, no matter how well-meaning. The popular habit of labelling people from other countries as if they were all the same is patently absurd. The world, as a whole, seems to regard the French as arrogant, Germans as aggressive, Americans as obsessively self-important, Italians as incurable Lotharios, the Swiss as boring and the English as dull and repressed. If, as writers, we employ such lazy categorisation to describe fictional characters, we do the citizens of the whole world a serious disservice.  
People are different or the same according to our own perceptions, ideas, philosophies and personalities. Whilst the placing of a descriptive label on a whole nation may be considered acceptable for everyday reference (and I don’t think it is), it’s certainly not a satisfactory way for an author to represent a character. If I’ve learned anything about the peoples of various nations it’s that they’re all as complex and individual as we are ourselves. It’s an insult to make a box, label it ‘French’ and stick inside it every person from that nation, unless, of course, it’s a shorthand joke intended to create humour rather than offence.
We’re more than the seed of the country of our birth, however proud, or otherwise, we may be of that origin. Americans are more than America with its brash, overconfident, hypocritical, Bible-bashing, superior and dominating world image. Germans are more than Germany and its efficient, calculating, aggressive, bullying and precise global persona. And the English are more than England with its quaint, bumbling, reserved, atheistic and self-effacing world picture. Each nation is seen as a specific type by every other nation and these types differ according to which nation is describing which: a proof, if ever one were needed, of the inaccuracy of such stereotyping.
So, when you decide to make your villain an Englishman, your business tycoon an American, your lusty lover an Italian, your artist a Frenchman or your engineer a German, please call to mind the simple fact that people are individuals first and national types, if at all, a long way down the line. You’ll make your writing so much more real and accessible and, perhaps more importantly for a writer, you might even collect some foreign friends and readers along the way. 
Related articles Some Inaccurate Negative Stereotypes About Stereotypes French Stereotypes / Stéréotypes français New research reveals what the French really think about London Stereotypically racist lib site criticizes conservatives for being stereotypically racist

Sorry Folks.

Last week there was no Thursday post for my regular readers. Sorry about that. I was preparing for a holiday and simply ran out of time to produce a post before I left the country.

A post will appear here today, however, very shortly.

The Count of Monte Cristo, by Alexandre Dumas, Reviewed

I read this classic on my Kindle whilst holidaying in Paris and the South of France, which proved serendipitous, as the bulk of the action takes place in these two locations. In fact, I recognised many of the places referred to in the book, as I toured.
A great tome of a read, it gripped me from the start and held my attention throughout, in spite of the often flowery descriptive prose, authorial intrusion and sometimes obtuse classical references.
Dumas draws the central character, Edmond Dantes, later the eponymous count, with a fine and sympathetic pen. The young man’s utter innocence is beautifully depicted as is his fall through bad luck into catastrophe. But his rise from near death and subsequent search for justice and revenge, acting as an agent of God, is sublime writing.
The author is, of course, writing his fable in France close to the time of Napoleon and his rise, fall and regaining of power. The Catholic faith is a deep and constant influence on the actions, thoughts and emotions of the novel’s characters. It is also a profound driver of the author’s philosophy and is often a subtle enough influence to deceive the writer into a false impression of his own impartiality.
The language is, of course, picturesque, detailed and full of allusion, as you would expect of a novel written in and for an age when readers had more leisure time and actively sought such full narrative form. Dumas often uses fifteen words where today’s readers would be content with four.
But the narrative fits the action, the period and the characters. This is deservedly a literary classic and those whose experience of the tale is limited to the distortions of Hollywood and the many adaptations (I except the brilliant 13 part series produced by BBC TV in the 1960s) will be unaware of the great humour and satire displayed by the written text.
This fable of man’s desire to usurp the role of Fate, God, or whatever other disinterested mechanism for corrective justice you envisage, is not an easy read. But it rewards the attentive reader with its ready exposure of both the dark and lighter side of human behaviour. It explains aspects of history, particularly French history, which might otherwise remain obscure. And it deals with ideas, themes and philosophies that might be imagined more modern than they are in fact.
I happily recommend this book, well aware that its length and content may make it appear too daunting to those modern readers reluctant to venture beyond the boundaries of the genre with which they are comfortable and familiar. Should you get the opportunity to read this, I urge you to do so. You won’t be disappointed.
Related articles The Real Count of Monte Cristo

Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 37

Think Breaking Faith might not suit you?  Try the reviews under the 'My Books' tab, they might make you think differently.
Still taking the journey? Enjoy the ride.
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. I’m an author; I want people to read my writing, simple as that.
Chapter 37
Sunday 8th August
It had been the most amazing night of my life and I felt so loved and wanted as I received those marvellous presents. Dad’s gift overwhelmed me and Leigh’s, generous as it was, left me wondering if he did expect me to take him along, and equally uncertain whether I would. But the one that most touched me, strangely, was Old Hodge’s hand-carved wren on the log. It was exquisite and he’d carved it with love, spending time and skill instead of money, for me. I placed it on my windowsill where I could see it from my bed last thing at night and first thing in the morning against the ever-changing backdrop of the sky.Dad’s early departure bothered me and I hoped he hadn’t overdone it by attending and forcing himself to stand. We’d grown to know each other over the weeks and there was a bond of love between us as strong as any between daughter and father. I found myself facing his inevitable demise with dread and praying the day might be postponed as far as possible and further.Tired as I was, I rose early and took advantage of a bathroom that would later be in great demand. Susie stirred slightly on my floor and I pulled the cover back over her and brushed the auburn hair away from her pretty face. She’d cried on my shoulder over her boyfriend’s desertion but I’d explained no man was safe if Netta had designs on him.‘Netta’s choice is nothing to do with your boyfriend, you know, most men are helpless in her hands. She just wanted to make Leigh jealous.’ It seemed to help and she’d gone to sleep at last.There was no one awake downstairs and I left the house, after breakfast, without witnesses. The Mini started at once and I saw it was full of petrol. Leigh had put the steering wheel cover on at some time during the evening and I smiled at the touch of the soft leather and the thought of him taking that trouble for me and saying nothing; leaving it as a surprise. It was the sort of thoughtful gesture he made from time to time and it just added to his other attractions.The new car smell filled my nostrils and every surface gleamed with freshness. It was more than just a car to me; it was freedom and independence.The early morning roads were quiet and I met little traffic even though it was the peak of the holiday season and there were tourists staying everywhere. As I approached the cottage, it occurred to me that Eric might not be awake. When he answered my light knock, I realized I’d known instinctively he would be a habitual early riser.‘I’m deeply touched by your gift, Eric. I know what it means to you.’‘Good to see ‘em round a pretty neck again, lass. You wear ‘em well and that top sets ‘em off a treat. They went smashing with that dress last night. Almost had me fancying you myself. Tell the truth, I were right glad of a chance to give ‘em to a lass as deserves ‘em.’I kissed his cheek and he made no move away as he had previously when I got too close.‘You’re a good lass, Faith. You’ve never a word agin me for the way I am and I thank you for that. I’ve always felt that you, at least, respect me.’‘I do respect you, Eric. Your life must’ve been hard and I value the devotion you’ve shown Dad, knowing there’d be no physical reward. I know about sacrifice, Eric. I admire the way your love for Dad guides you. But I’m amazed at your lack of bitterness over the way life’s treated you.’‘Life could’ve been crueller, Faith. I might never’ve met David. Funny thing; we can’t help who we fall in love with, but we can help how we react. Most folk never learn that. You have, though.’‘Leigh?’He nodded and took my hand gently in his, squeezed it tenderly.‘Do you think he’ll ever be mine?’‘Who knows? Thing is, though, you’re his, aren’t you? Best make the most of that, don’t you think?’‘I spent my life sacrificing my needs to those of Heacham and Hope. I’m not sure I’m up to sacrificing what’s left to a man who doesn’t know I exist.’‘Hardly that, love. He had eyes enough for you yesterday.’I knew he was right. But Leigh wasn’t what I wanted him to be in my life and I was growing weary, waiting for him to mature into the ideal I hoped he would become.‘Your dad’s taken it hard after last night, Faith. He were fair done in by the time we got back and he’s slept more or less ever since. He never lets on, but he’s a lot more poorly than you might realize.’We went into the front room where Dad was sleeping. I sat by the bed in the armchair and Eric made the ubiquitous tea. Bruce no longer stirred at my comings and goings, accepting me as a regular visitor.The cottage fitted silently around us, isolating us from the world outside but for the sounds of nature. I heard the soft wind sighing through grass and trees, the ‘chuck’ of a stonechat close by, the melancholy bubbling of a curlew across the fields, the ever-present murmur of sheep. No cars passed the cottage and Public Footpaths brought walkers no closer than a mile. It was a perfect retreat from the world and suited Eric more, perhaps, than Dad.‘It was a grand party.’Dad’s sudden comment startled me and I looked down to see the tired eyes open and a smile playing on his pale lips. I bent and kissed him.‘It was wonderful. But I’m not so sure you should’ve come, Dad.’‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world. The look on your face was worth everything. To know you were so happy and to witness the love and admiration of your friends; that was worth the effort. If I die tomorrow, I’ll know my little girl’s a grown woman, a very beautiful woman, who is well respected and well loved in the world. That knowledge is worth far more than a fortune, my wonderful daughter.’He spoke softly but the effort cost him dear. It was a long time before his chest stopped its frantic rise and fall in an effort to find the oxygen he needed. I knew then he really was dying and wouldn’t be with me for much longer.Eric brought the tea and saw he was awake. ‘Tea, David?’He just shook his head slowly.‘Drop of water?’A single nod and a wink.The water came laced heavily with scotch and I must’ve frowned. Eric beckoned me to follow him to the door. We stood in the kitchen where Dad couldn’t hear us if we whispered.‘Don’t begrudge him his relief and his enjoyment, lass. He’s no danger of becoming an alcoholic now, is he? And if it dulls the pain and makes it easier for him to bear the life that’s left him, what harm is there?’‘None. I agree with you. I just hadn’t realized he had the need.’‘Good. I’ll be honest with you, lass. I’ve called the doctor but I’m afraid he’ll not see the close of next weekend. I wonder if we’ve done you such a favour letting you come to love him when he’s so close to departing.’‘As Dad said, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Eric. I’m only grateful you all thought I had the fortitude to deal with the loss, and risked our meeting. Coming to know my dad has given me identity, family, history, a base from which to grow. Without him, I was orphaned and only half formed. I’m so glad I’ve had the chance to love him. And, Eric, I’ll not let him, or you, or myself down at the end, I promise.’We returned to find him sleeping again. He was like that all day; in and out of sleep. We had to wake him when the doctor came. Not Paul, but a tall thin man with a moustache and serious grey eyes. He was a partner from the same practice.‘You’ve got the necessary for the moment, Eric, and you know what to do. If it gets too much for him, give me a ring; any time, doesn’t matter when. I’ll be here as soon as I can to help him. I no more want him hanging on in pain than you do.’ He turned to me and studied me a long time in silence. ‘Paul told me about you, Faith. Eric knows; I think you’re strong enough to face the facts. Your dad has days at the most. Sunday now. I doubt he’ll see the weekend. If there’s anything you want to share with him, now’s the time. Don’t let him go and then find you regret the things you never said or never asked him.’I thanked him and he looked at me along time again before he nodded, as if satisfied. He took my hand in his, smiled, squeezed my hand very gently, nodded again and then left.I sat beside Dad with his hand in mine as he slept and woke and slept and woke throughout the day. I forgot to eat and only drank the tea that Eric made all through my stay. He sat at the other side of the bed in a hard, upright, wooden chair from the kitchen. We spoke softly across Dad when he was sleeping, to him when he woke. He was lucid all the time but tired and frail.The time came when I had to leave for Longhouse. I made Eric promise to ring me should he start to falter. I wanted to be with Dad when he died.I was unable to cope with the banality and self-absorption of Netta back home and I cut her from my consciousness. Ma and Old Hodge helped as much as they could to keep up my spirits. Leigh was torn between his obsession with Netta and his concern for me. It was no surprise to me that she won most of the time.Mum let me down badly when I phoned her. ‘Thanks for telling me, Faith, but I won’t watch him die. I don’t do death. I’d rather keep the memory of him alive. Dying won’t keep him as fresh in my memory. Tell him I love him, please.’‘Tell him yourself!’Three faces stared at me as I slammed the phone down. I stared back at them in defiance. But when the phone rang almost immediately I picked it up. ‘Tell your dad I love him. Please, Faith. Do it for him, if not for me.’‘Okay.’ I replaced the receiver more gently and went to my room to weep, but remained dry-eyed.During the days, I worked to occupy my mind. Each evening I went to see Dad and stayed until midnight.Saturday, I knew he would die. I could feel it even before I left Longhouse. Leigh made the effort, got up to see me off and asked if I wanted him to take me for a change. ‘Thanks, Leigh, but I’ll drive. I don’t have to worry about how long I’m away then. I’ll be back only when there’s no point in me staying.’‘You never know, he might….’ He stopped as he saw my expression. I was proud of him for recognising it was time for truth; that platitudes were no help. ‘If you need me when you get back, just call me, wherever, whenever. I mean it.’It was a genuine offer and one I knew I wouldn’t take up.Eric was at the front door, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, his proud shoulders slumped in weariness and at first, I thought I’d arrived too late. ‘Just taking the air, lass. He’s sleeping and peaceful just now.’ Bruce was roaming the nearby moor but returned to thrust his cold wet nose into my hand the moment I arrived.The house was silent apart from the soft dry sound of Dad’s light breathing. But it was heavy and oppressive in the room. The curtains were drawn against the sunlight and the window shut. I opened the curtains and window to let in light, air and sounds from outside. Dad stirred as if he sensed the change and his eyes opened.I had to bend until my ear touched his nose before I could hear his words. ‘Don’t blame Matilda. She’s a creature for life not death. I know she’s with us in spirit. Tell her I love her.’‘Mum says to tell you she loves you, Dad.’‘I know.’It was as much as he could manage for the moment and I sat beside him with his hand in mine, dry as paper and cold as stone. Eric came in and raised his eyebrows at my departure from tradition.‘I read that the dying need more stimulus, not less, Eric. Fresh air, light and sound help them.’He nodded his agreement without conviction and I understood he was too weary to debate the matter and too considerate to go against my wishes even though he favoured tradition. He wandered off and made tea.The day was long, endless; full of silence and tea. I took a couple of short spells outside in the sun with Bruce, as much to revive my circulation as to have a break from the vigil. Eric was with him if I was away. We spent the day that way; two isolated guardians watching over the person who most mattered to us yet unable to talk of him for that time.Dad’s breathing was ragged and insubstantial when he opened his eyes for the last time. He seemed unfocussed at first and then found Eric in his hard backed chair and somehow made him aware he wanted to speak to him. Eric bent low and listened for a space but I heard none of the private words that passed between them. I waited and hoped that my turn would come. Eric returned to his upright position after a while, his eyes wet with unshed tears.Dad let his breathing calm as much as was possible and then turned those tired eyes to me. I knelt by his bedside and placed my face as close to his as I could without putting any weight on him.‘Love you, Faith. Don’t be afraid… not painful now…empty old house… switching off lights one by one, that’s all. Proud of you. Live life well, for me.’‘I will, Dad. I love you.’His eyes closed after his enormous effort. His breath came in shallow gasps that rasped as though all moisture had left his airways. Eric held one hand, I held the other and, as I met his eyes across the narrow bed, we stretched out our free hands and held each other.I was conscious of the silence, broken by the distant drone of a summer plane high and far away and irrelevant. A curlew bubbled its melancholy, close. No wind stirred the trees and grass beyond the window, but, in the silence, the small beck gurgled in its rocky bed. The sheep were still. It was as if all nature knew.Dad suddenly tensed as if he was about to move. ‘Matilda.’Eric and I glanced at each other and then at Dad. He breathed a few last ragged sips of worthless air and then was still, as life left his body with a final soft groan. Bruce howled just once and then lay silent at the foot of the bed.I don’t know how long we sat there unmoving. Something from outside; a bird call, the mutter of a sheep, the trees and grass communing with the wind, something brought us back to an awareness of the world. We returned but were not spiritually separated from that other somewhere we inhabited with Dad.‘Tea?’I shook my head for the first time in answer. ‘I need to be alone.’He nodded.I stood and then knelt, bent and kissed his empty shell in departure.‘You’ll …’Eric nodded. ‘I know what has to be done. I cared for him in life…’‘He told me he had a fear of…’Eric waved away my concern. ‘It doesn’t matter that his wishes were at odds wi’ mine, lass. It’s what he wanted. I’ll not lock him in darkness when he wanted flames. Who knows, he might be right about the end and after. I’ve only got my catholic indoctrination. Your dad had brains and knowledge I never found. He’ll have his way, I promise you. I’ll let you know when it’s all ready.’I took a last look at the shell that had housed my dad. Eric saw me to the door and we embraced a little awkwardly, neither of us willing or ready to release the swelling tides of grief within us.I drove a short way from the cottage and stopped on a stretch of open grassland. I left the car and walked a distance from the road and found a rock to sit on. Darkness was falling when I moved at last, returning dry-eyed to my car. The world was no longer the same warm place. Part of me had died with Dad and there was nothing to put in its place. Only grief would heal the gaping hole I felt inside me, grief and tears. And tears refused to wash me clean.

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Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 36

Not reading Breaking Faith?  Read the reviews under the 'My Books' tab, they might persuade you to give it a try.
Still on the journey? ‘Enjoy the ride.’
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. I’m an author; I want people to read my writing, simple as that.
Chapter 36
Saturday 7th August
All the planning for the party was worth the effort. Ma surpassed herself with the catering; Old Hodge decked the gardens as if for a queen. Even the weather was perfect, with clear skies and warm balmy air gifting the gentlest of breezes. Everything was set for the arrival of the star and I’d made a promise to Netta who, in return, had pledged to behave herself.Matilda brought Faith, as arranged, shortly after lunch. I’d already collected Eric and David from their cottage and some of the more mature guests decided they’d prefer an afternoon session to the livelier evening bash.She was wearing Matilda’s present and looked stunning. Her hair was up, emphasising her bare shoulders and the soft curves of her unsupported breasts. As I’d requested, her neck was devoid of ornament.Matilda had finally persuaded her to pluck her eyebrows and the finer curves lifted her eyes, drawing attention to their deep colour and size.We collected on the gravel as she arrived, and watched her emerge from Matilda’s ancient Hillman Imp, like a butterfly leaving its chrysalis. There was spontaneous applause at the sight of her and she blushed with pleasure at our attention. The short satin dress echoing her flush in a deeper shade of crimson. I wondered how long it would be before she kicked off the matching high-heeled sandals, her preference for bare feet just one of her endearing qualities.We gathered round her and sang the ubiquitous chorus, Eric holding David’s wheelchair to ensure him a good position. I took Faith’s hand and presented her to David.He rose, desperately trying to hide his attempts to make it seem effortless, and embraced her. ‘I have a little present for you and it couldn’t be taken inside. That’s why we’re all gathered here for your arrival.’Eric, on cue, helped him back into the chair and wheeled him the short distance to where it stood. Faith followed, a picture of puzzled excitement.‘You’ll need these, of course, my wonderful, beautiful, charming and adorable daughter. Happy birthday.’ And he handed her the keys attached to a small leather fob bearing the county’s white rose.At first, she didn’t understand what he was giving her and she looked at the keys in her hand in bewilderment. Only when David urged her nearer to the door of the car did she understand the significance.Her face was a picture, which I managed to capture. She looked at the bright red Mini, with its gleaming white roof, and literally couldn’t believe her eyes. ‘Honestly? For me?’ And then she thought she had it worked out and nodded. She was very good, betraying no trace of disappointment as she turned back to her dad. ‘How long for?’He was quicker than I expected. ‘It’s not a hire car, my precious daughter, it’s yours. Yours to own, yours entirely and for as long as you wish to keep it. Taxed, insured and ready to drive.’For a moment, I thought there would be tears, but she fought and won. Instead, she embraced and kissed him. When she straightened, she sought me out and stood before me. There was such delight and joy on her face as she looked up at me that I found myself deeply moved. ‘Leighton Longshaw, you are a wicked, wonderful, lying, marvellous, cheating, adorable, generous man. Thank you very much indeed.’Without giving me chance to respond, she turned to the rest of the crowd. ‘For those who don’t know, this dreadful man sent me away on a driving course, at his own expense, and had me believe it was so I could deliver his orders for him. All the time he was plotting and scheming with Dad so that I’d be able to drive the car I’ve just been given. Can you think of a more wicked, wonderful pair of men anywhere?’She turned back to face me as the assembled guests cheered and made rude remarks about us. Her arms around my neck, she kissed me full on the mouth, not fleetingly, as she had previously, but a full kiss with her lips slightly parted. It left me feeling more alive and wanted than any of thousands of previous kisses I’d been given.‘Thank you, Leigh.’ And, for my ears only, ‘I love you.’I froze for an instant and a vision of the whole party falling in ruins as I failed to make the expected response washed over me. But, true to her nature, she expected no reply.‘I’ve got to drive it. I just must.’Everyone cheered as she let herself in and studied the controls for a moment. One of the guests opened the gate. She waited for us to clear a way and then backed easily out of the parking space, executed a perfect three-point turn and reversed the car back into its original slot. She cut the engine and locked the door. ‘Sorry about that. Rude of me to abandon my guests for so long.’Laughter all round and the man at the gate rejoined us wearing a rather sheepish smile as we went into the house for the remainder of the giving ceremony. I felt so proud of her, so proud that she was somehow associated with me. And her ‘I love you’, reverberated through my mind throughout the evening.Matilda, elegant in a little black cocktail number, supplemented the satin dress with a small case of makeup. Zizi, sensually superb in mock leopard-skin cat suit, gave her a Nikon camera, knowing it would accept my lenses and accessories. ‘If you can’t beat the buggers, join them.’Paul, my doctor and friend, suited and professional, presented her with a boxed set of ‘The Lord of The Rings’ for which he received a kiss and hug that had his wife, Sarah, looking somewhat askance. Ma, minus her apron for once, gave her a pair of excellent walking shoes, which fitted like gloves, and a small backpack. ‘So you can do some proper walking.’Old Hodge, in corduroys and checked shirt, had managed to carve a wren from a branch that was still attached to the log it sat on so that it looked amazingly lifelike. She kept looking at it all through the evening as if it might fly away.Netta, surprisingly demure in a flowing, yellow backless maxi but nothing else, gave her saucy underwear that she’d be unlikely to wear herself. Abby, turquoise boob tube revealing as much as it hid and floral flares hugging her lovely hips, gave her a stylish hair dryer for travelling. Eric, sombre in dark grey suit, shyly placed a string of natural pearls around the naked neck he’d requested, fastening the diamond clasp himself.‘They were my mother’s. I’ve wanted to find a suitable neck for them to adorn and yours seems just right, lass.’ There wasn’t a woman in the room who failed to envy her that particular gift and Faith acknowledged the honour by making him blush with her enthusiastic acceptance. There were other small gifts, and some flowers. I deliberately left my own till last.‘This young lady, a lady because she is rightly treated as such by those around her, came into my life unexpectedly and completely changed it. So far, she’s brought in more than three times her salary in collected bad debts. She’s not aware that another of her charmingly threatening letters persuaded yet more money from tenacious claws this very morning, increasing my bank balance by four figures as a result. So, she’s worth her weight in gold. She organizes, controls and directs my business life with a gentle efficiency that allows me to concentrate on the creative aspects and I want her to know that I appreciate her more than I can say. She has never celebrated a birthday before and it’s fitting she should enjoy this gathering on her coming-of age. She’s been given pretty clothes, which she is wearing delightfully, makeup, which she’ll take some time to decide about, and some very personal items I would dearly love to see in place…’‘And remove.’I gave Abby a stern look that made everyone, including her and Faith, laugh. ‘…but suspect I never will. There’ve been brilliantly chosen books, a handcrafted work of art made with love, a priceless family heirloom and other items to let her enjoy life more fully. A beautiful woman who claims to be my friend has given my Girl Friday a camera so she can compete with me behind the lens as she already does in the darkroom. And, of course, that small present of her first car from her dad.‘I had a good idea of what she was to receive, since most of you seemed to think it wise to consult me over appropriate gifts. I note that you completely ignored my advice to give her money, presumably because you all thought I was likely to try to steal it from her in some guise or other. My dilemma, then, was what to give this lovely young woman for her coming of age…’‘But you’ve already given me a present, Leigh. My driving course…’‘Tax deductible and therefore not valid.’‘And, of course…it’s a steering wheel cover. Oh, you wicked man. Thank you, Leigh.’ She kissed me again.I held her hands and smiled at her. ‘As I say, what do you give to someone like Faith? Money’s too impersonal and it had to be something not only marking her twenty first in a way that she would remember, but sending her a message I think she might otherwise refuse to hear.’ I took the envelope from my pocket, handed it to her and kissed her forehead to smooth the frown of puzzlement. My hands on her shoulders picked up again that tingle of pleasure I always felt from her skin.‘Well, open it, then.’She stood there in that short, delicious dress that emphasized her femininity so cleverly, and looked me in the eye for a full minute without a word. I almost quailed under that scrutiny but managed to hold my own and eventually she moved her eyes to the envelope and carefully opened the flap. She extracted what she found inside and examined it carefully before committing herself to the most wonderful smile of pleasure and surprise. I received another kiss of gratitude.‘I love you even more.’No one else was allowed to know what it was she whispered that rendered me so uncharacteristically contemplative.‘Well? What is it?’She turned and curtseyed to the assembly; an action that emphasized the shapely lines of her legs. ‘This terrible man clearly wants rid of me for a very long time. He’s given me vouchers to allow me to take a holiday for a month.’‘Perhaps he’s hoping you’ll take him with you.’I could have hugged Paul for his perception.She looked at me for a sign that he was right. I tried to convey my agreement without signalling the same to Netta who was watching me like the proverbial bird of prey.‘Perhaps I might. Or maybe I’ll take Mum and Dad. Maybe I’ll invite my secret lover. Maybe I’ll go alone. I’ll have to give the matter a lot of thought. Thank you, Leigh; a holiday does seem tempting. Thanks to all of you. I’m moved more than I can say and far more than I dare show. If you’ll forgive me a moment, I need a little while alone as I was raised not to cry in public.’ And, true to form, she calmly left us.Ten minutes later, she returned, her face fresh and with no sign of tears, though her eyes held that hint of red that told the truth. For all that, she was recovered and in control.Her father had to give up far sooner than he’d hoped and Paul offered to drop David and Eric home even though it was hardly on his route. I allowed him to do me the favour. I certainly didn’t want to miss one second of what was proving to be a very educational event where Faith was concerned.As the evening wore on, so the drink loosened tongues and banished inhibitions. With the departure of the older people and the incursion of more young folk, the whole event livened up. Warm summer weather and daylight that only began to fade after nine, to give way to the gentle light of a fading crescent moon, leant an air of freedom to the whole proceeding.Inevitably, at Netta’s instigation, clothes were removed and dancing on the lawn attracted some of the gang as participants and others as observers.‘Going to join them, Faith?’She shook her head and smiled at me as if I were being very silly. Very close, so I could hear her whisper above the music, she made a promise. ‘Alone, for you, at the right time, I’ll happily shed my clothes, Leigh. When you’re ready to love me, I’ll be more than ready to love you.’Netta grabbed me before I could respond but all the time I cavorted with her and her abandoned friends, I heard Faith’s words and found my mind dwelling on her promise.She was asked to dance by every man at the party and honoured them all, even the most uncoordinated and clumsy, with the same grace and favour. A couple tried to grapple her into a clinch but she managed to remove herself and maintain her own humour and their dignity so that no one was offended or left to feel rejected.Faith impressed me more that night than any time previously. It was as if she’d suddenly become a fully mature woman in charge of her life and her being. And all through the dances and my eventual alfresco sex with Netta and then Abby, Faith’s words of love and promise haunted me, taunted me and, ultimately, declared all else no more than a sham compared with what she offered.And she enjoyed herself, despite my other women, despite Netta’s almost orgy, despite the early departure of her father. I found my eyes drawn to her frequently during the evening, noting how she looked, how she held herself, how she remained honest but gracious with her many admirers.Inevitably, the night turned into early morning. Some left for home with the help of the single local taxi, who made at least five visits over a period of three hours, or with reluctant parents dragged from bed, or more unwisely under their own steam. One pair returned on foot from the lane end and sought me out with exaggerated caution. ‘There’s a weird fat guy in the trees with a pair of binoculars. Just thought you ought to know. He pissed off as soon as we saw him. Big lad with an ugly face.’I said nothing to the others but made a mental note to have another word with Merv. I wondered for how long and how frequently he’d been spying on us but said nothing to the girls. I was still positive he would do no harm, beyond his leching, especially now that my suspicions about Netta’s part in the so-called attempted rape had hardened.Those who were too far gone or too wise to make the journey home found places to stretch out on floors and sofas and cushions.A small group of us talked into the early hours, drinking coffee and setting the world to rights, Faith among us. She sat on the floor, opposite me, so I could study her at leisure as the talk touched on religion, politics, music and sex. Animated, her features were alive with complex expressions of emotion, her face portraying the truth of her words and her reactions to the words of others. No other face in that small group gave such a clear picture of the real feelings of its owner. I found myself fascinated by her in a way I hadn’t encountered before and wondered what had wrought this change in my perceptions of her; how she’d changed to come to my attention in this way.Physically, she’d developed a great deal since our first meeting. Her body was now that of a woman, with firm, rounded breasts, a slender waist and the generous hips of a slim woman. Her legs were fuller and shapelier and her face had lost its pinched appearance. I could picture her now as a model and thought I might ask her to pose for me. She would refuse, I had no doubt but I was tempted, all the same.Her eyes, when they met mine, as they did on numerous occasions during that early morning conversation, held a message of such promise that I felt almost overwhelmed by her open love for me. It frightened me that she felt so deeply about me. If I lied to her, promised her the constancy she demanded, I could have her in my bed and sample the pleasures she was so willing to share with me. But I couldn’t take that step. I wouldn’t betray her like that. And Paul’s words of warning returned even as I toyed with the idea.Netta left the group first, dragging some other girl’s boyfriend up the stairs. It was clear she’d be with him for the night and I was sure she was trying to make me jealous. I, however, had Zizi to myself before she returned to London the following night.Faith, of course, went to bed alone, making space on her floor for the abandoned girl to sleep in one of the sleeping bags.Zizi was as generous as ever, and as tempting. But I felt something was lacking, not from her, but from me. ‘Hey, Stag, I’m here, remember?’I indulged her, making up for my lack of attention with passion that was purely physical. If Zizi noticed the difference, she was grateful enough not to comment. But it was Faith who remained in my mind.

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Are Your Characters Written to Fit Movie Stars?

I ask this question quite seriously, since I’ve seen a few articles suggesting people do precisely this. It would be a waste of time for me as I’d have difficulty in putting faces, let alone other characteristics, to more than half a dozen actors. It’s not that I don’t admire their skills, simply that when I watch an actor at work I lose myself in the character portrayed rather than watch the person playing that part.
For me, the essential aspect of a character is personality. Hemmingway suggested we should write about people not characters, as he described characters as caricatures. I agree with his first point. But his second is off the mark. A character is only a caricature if it portrays the person in an unlikely or exaggerated manner. A character, as used in drama and fiction, is or should be an imagined person drawn in such a way that the reader or audience will accept them as real.
Having said that personality is the vital aspect, I don’t mean to suggest that appearance is unimportant. It’s simply that appearance is a secondary consideration for me. In fact, when I create a character I always do so with some image in mind. I generally use a picture of a person collected from the internet. These are unnamed human beings who I use as visual frameworks to which I apply a history, relationships, likes and dislikes, traits and faults to bring them to life. Having a picture of the person I intend to create helps me develop a more rounded human being for the story.
I suppose I could search the internet for pictures of actors and then apply my method to those pictures. In fact, I suspect I’ve done so occasionally, without actually realising it. There is, of course, a very ‘good’ reason for using the physical type of a known actor as, if the work is seen as suitable for a film or a TV play, the producer may recognise the character more easily and use that recognition for casting. On the down side, however, if the chosen actor has always played ‘baddies’ and my character is actually a ‘goody’, such recognition could well prove an obstacle.
For me, applying the idea of the actor to the role of a character in my fiction would involve extensive viewing of films and TV works simply to identify potential models. I don’t have time to do that. I do, of course, watch TV and go to the cinema. But I do that in the spirit of escapism and don’t want to turn my leisure into an extension of my writing. In any case, I prefer to use my imagination, and employing ‘unknown’ human beings gives me far more scope to overlay the model with the characteristics I determine as necessary to the story I’m telling.
So, for me, picturing Emma Watson as other than Hermione Grainger, Johnny Depp out of pirate’s costume, Julia Roberts outside the role of Pretty Woman, or Robin Pattinson other than Cedric Diggory would be difficult. It’s not that I’m unaware of them playing other roles, simply that my experience of them is in these parts only. So, these images would overlay them as characters in my fiction and that would be counter-productive. It would limit my choices. I don’t blame the actors or their roles, simply my own lack of cinematic attendance.
So, to return to the opening topic. Do you make your own characters in fiction fit particular movie stars? And, if so, how do you get past the roles they’ve played? I’m intrigued, you see, and you may be able to pass on valuable lessons to me.
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Becoming A Writer, by Dorothea Brande, Reviewed

On 13 September, I posted a piece on the difficulties that often beset writers. In that post I mentioned Dorothea Brande’s excellent book, Becoming a Writer , and, having discovered I had never actually reviewed this seminal work, promised I would do so.
Here’s that review.
As budding writers, we’re all faced with a bewildering panoply of books on the techniques of the craft. As beginners, this huge bulk of work on how to perform the miracle many of us see as writing, can seem very daunting. So, why am I bringing to your attention yet another book, causing you further anxiety of deciding in which of the hundreds of volumes you should invest your valuable time and energy, let alone money? Well, let me first say that this attempt to persuade you of the value of this book isn’t aimed only at beginners. Well established, experienced authors will also benefit from the words of wisdom contained within this relatively slim volume.
The first clue is in the title. Becoming a Writer isn’t a technical manual. It’s not a guide to grammar, style or subject choice, genre, presentation or any of the many other, often contradictory aspects of writing that are shoved relentlessly at beginning writers. This, if at all possible, is the book you should read before you even contemplate immersion in the techniques of the trade. If that moment has already passed, worry not. I’d read dozens of technical books on the craft before I happened upon this wonderful book in the late 80s. But I wish I had come upon it at the very start. So much time and energy would’ve been saved and so much misunderstanding would’ve been avoided.
As Dorothea states so eloquently at the start of her encouragement to writers, we are all told, repeatedly, by books, lecturers, course leaders, and many others in the writing trade, that ‘genius cannot be taught’. Here, however, is a writer who exposes this lie and provides practical exercises aimed at discovering and freeing your own inner genius.
A word of warning: if you wish to continue your life believing yourself a writer without putting that possibility to the test, do NOT read this book. If you see writing as some sort of dilettante occupation involving no real work, DON’T read this book. Once she’s explained the lies behind the discouragement of so many of the writing trade’s so-called experts regarding the ‘magic’ of writing, she presents her readers with a hard choice. If, having attempted her initial exercises, you discover you’re incapable of following her advice, she suggests you take up some other career and leave writing to those who take it as the serious lifestyle it must be if anything worthwhile is to come from your scribbling.
This isn’t simply a book. In order to gain anything from reading it, the reader is required to undertake certain exercises. Initially, some of these may seem arbitrary, meaningless, pedantic, even a little odd. But, and I speak from experience, perseverance will pay out in spades. As a direct result of reading this book and following the advice, I’m now able to write anywhere, under any conditions, and turn out the germ of a worthwhile story more or less at will at one sitting. I believe that to be an aim worthy of effort. If you think there’s no chance of you ever achieving this level, read this book before you either give up writing or face the rest of your life in a state of dissatisfaction where your hopes have no chance of fulfilment.
I’m not going to attempt to provide a synopsis of the book. But I will quote a short statement taken from the back of the copy I picked up, second hand, for less than the price of a coffee. ‘Becoming a Writer…is unique and genuinely inspirational. She (Dorothea Brande) believes there is such a thing as the writer’s magic, that everybody has it in differing degrees and that it can be taught. This book is about freeing that unconscious ability in all of us.’
Both John Braine, who wrote the foreword of the edition I have, and Ted Willis have words of praise for the book. Braine claiming that it is ‘…the only book about writing which has been of practical help to me…’ And Willis describing it as ‘…the best book on creative writing and the process of creative writing that I think I have ever read…’
So, if you’re looking for a ready guide to discovering and utilising your innate abilities as a writer, and you’re prepared to put in the work required, this is the book for you. If, on the other hand, you’re only playing with the idea of becoming a writer, this is also the book for you; for it will confirm your lack of seriousness and perhaps persuade you to try something more suited to your personality.
I recommend it unreservedly to all those who take seriously the complex, wonderful, frustrating, creative, stimulating and rewarding art and craft of writing.

To buy the book:Amazon UK £11.69, Amazon.com$10.49,  Book Depository (inc free postage for many countries) £6.88,  Via Squidoo, where you’ll also find a more extensive breakdown of the chapters. with various links to different booksellers. 
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