Stuart Aken's Blog, page 257

Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 35

Not been reading Breaking Faith?  The reviews under the 'My Books' tab might persuade you to give it a try.
To those 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. As an author, I want people to read my writing; simple as that.
Chapter 35
Friday 6th August
Mum and Dad were getting along like true lovers since their re-introduction. I felt for both of them because Dad’s weakness marred their physical relationship and I could see it meant a lot to them. Mum, to my amazement, had become conventionally faithful to Dad, spurning her many admirers.‘I don’t know why you’re so surprised, Faith, David’s the only man I’ve ever loved.’She was at the cottage on the Friday before my birthday and had invited me to her home for the night. It was my first visit to her bungalow and I looked forward to seeing the place she’d made for herself.I had few expectations about Mum’s home, but its sheer conventionality was a disappointment. It just didn’t seem to match her outgoing, idiosyncratic, rebellious nature at all. A modern red brick building, it resembled, for all the world, a large dog kennel. Totally without character and lacking distinguishing features, it could have been any one of thousands of anonymous bungalows in any of the towns or cities I’d visited. My disappointment must have shown.‘It’s me and my body that display my nature, Faith. My house is just somewhere I sleep, often alone.’The location, however, was unusual. Built on the outer curve of an elbow in the street, the bungalow was set back from those at either side. The rear of the house wasn’t overlooked by any other property or from the street. And the south facing back garden sloped gently down to a small wooded area beyond which a panoramic view of the distant fells ran out to meet the wide sky. Mum had chosen it precisely because of its unique setting.‘I can be naked in my garden. No one need be alarmed or offended. And, on those occasions I bring a man home with me, we can indulge in a bit of fantasy sex under the stars or the sun without risking arrest. It’s perfect.’‘This is where Netta got her all over tan before she came to Longhouse.’‘Certainly is. Even in the cooler weather, you can sunbathe inside the conservatory with the door open, providing the wind’s in the right direction. Not as good as a Greek island, but not bad for the north of England.’Mum wasn’t a good cook so I volunteered to make tea. We sat outside under the warm sun, lingering over the meal with a bottle of wine I’d brought from the Longhouse cellar, and chatting.I took Leigh’s strange gift from my bag and passed it to her. ‘I feel really silly, Mum. But how on earth do you wear this?’She looked at it, uncurling it into the circle and toying with the lace. Then she wrapped it back up again and handed it back to me, her face a mask of private humour. ‘You don’t wear it, Faith. Its significance will become clear in the fullness of time. If you’re still unsure what to do with it after tomorrow, just ask Leigh. I’m sure he’ll be only too happy to put it on for you.’Was it something a man wore, then? But she’d say no more and I decided to leave it to see what the morning would bring.‘Do you miss sex now you’re being faithful to Dad?’‘You ask the most extraordinary questions, Faith.’‘That’s what they said at the driving school.’‘Generally, people don’t ask personal questions about sex in polite society. Generally, people behave as though the subject were taboo, in fact.’‘Isn’t that hypocritical, given that everybody’s obsessed with it?’‘Not quiet everybody, love. Just most people. Yes, it’s hypocritical. That’s the way life is. That’s the way people are.’‘Why?’‘There you go again. Because, I suppose, people don’t go much on honesty. It frightens them. Most folk are very uncomfortable with truth and reality. Fantasy and lies cushion them from the actuality they would otherwise have to face. Most people live their lives in a shell of fancy that protects them from the sadness and despair of their real lives. That’s why they won’t thank you for reminding them they’re living a lie.’I loved Mum in this mood. She displayed her learning and intelligence in a way she never did when Netta was around and I took full advantage of her. ‘That’s very sad. Why can’t they live full and enjoyable lives? Or, at least, take responsibility for the reality of their situation?’‘People seek perfection, in looks, relationships, environment, whatever. Advertising strengthens that attitude and society in general reinforces it. It’s a sort of self-perpetuating cycle. But people know they’re not perfect, they know their lives are empty and devoid of meaning, they know they live in horrible houses in mean streets, breathing polluted air and eating poor quality food. They know that politicians, businessmen and churchmen, are basically dishonest men who are self-seeking, corrupt and uncaring. I mean, I like people and even I see them for what they are.’‘If people seek perfection, do they all seek the same perfection? I mean, is the perfect woman, for instance, blonde or brunette or redhead? Are her eyes amethyst, hazel, slate or aquamarine? Are her breasts large and full or firm and pert? Is her waist a particular measurement, her hips a specific dress size?’‘Advertisers and the fashion industry would have us believe there are certain well-defined models of perfection.’‘So the tendency must be for all women to look more or less the same, barring differences in hair and eye colour?’‘That’s the logical conclusion.’‘And people actually aspire to this ideal?’‘Most do.’‘Not you, though.’‘I’m fortunate: I only have to be myself to have men falling over each other to worship my body. Of course, I have to watch my weight and keep my skin healthy but that’s just a matter of sensible diet and moderate exercise. If I’d been born with a big nose, small boobs, an arse the size of bus, a moustache or bandy legs, I’d probably view life entirely differently.’‘But most women aspire to the ideal the fashion houses create?’‘Most. Sad, isn’t it?’‘What about individuality? Didn’t God make us…’‘Avoid God, please, Faith. I know it’s actually a generic term but it carries very specific undertones. I prefer “Creator.” God, simply because there is also Goddess, smacks of male domination and a male centred universe I refuse to accept. God, you see, was fashioned in the image of Man, not as the Bible, written by men, would have you believe, the other way round.’There was more in that revelation than I cared to contemplate at that moment. I wanted to pursue my original line of questioning, valuing Mum’s opinion and knowledge. ‘Creator, then. Didn’t that Creator make us all different? Isn’t it an insult to the Creator to try and alter what we are?’‘Some would say it’s an equal insult to fail to make the best of what we could be.’‘But if the Creator made us, surely we must already be the best we can be? In any case, trying to achieve the best ‘you’ that’s possible is one thing, but striving to become the best artificial copy of an artificial ideal is something else entirely.’For someone brought up by that puritanical hypocrite, Heacham, you’re an amazing individual, Faith. I’m proud to call you my daughter and happy to have you by my side. I know you disapprove of my sexual liberty, which you call promiscuity, and I know you don’t share my attitude to men and sex in general. But your mindset is extraordinarily individualistic and liberal. We go right back to the beginning; you’re way too honest for your own good. But I hope you never change, I hope you never allow the world to turn you stale. I love you, Faith; love you as you are. I’m glad you came back into my life.’I could have spent the whole night in discussion with her, so impressed was I by her ideas and her manner of expressing them. Mum talked this way only to me and only recently. At first, I’d assumed that she was incapable of intellectual thought.‘I can’t talk like this to Netta. She hasn’t your mind, Faith. And I won’t do anything to diminish Netta’s opinion of herself. I’ve worked very hard to give her confidence as a woman in a world dominated by men. I may have gone too far with the sexual freedom bit. But she was physically and emotionally ready at fourteen and I couldn’t see, for the life of me, why I should let convention and the law stop her developing her natural gifts.‘Netta was made for sex; sex, not love. She doesn’t understand anything about love at all. She knows only feelings and pleasure, wants and desires. Netta’s a major hedonist. Everything she does, she does to increase her chances of pleasure. I haven’t taught her this. She’s come to be this person because that’s what lies inside her very being. Some people are born to be great artists, like Da Vinci or Goya; others are born to serve like Edith Cavell or to lead like Elizabeth the First. Netta was born to have sex with men. It’s her raison d’être, her function, her role in life. And she’s supremely good at it.’Mum had rarely spoken with such passion. I understood her and Netta more fully as a result. The people around me were becoming more real; I’d learned much about Leigh after the incident with the slip cast torso, now I was learning about Mum and my sister.‘What’s my raison d’être, Mum?’She made me stand and turn on the spot for her. I did, though I failed to understand the significance. She nodded slowly and I sat down again, the setting sun putting a glow on my skin as I lifted my glass of Burgundy from the black cast iron garden table.‘You’re a very lovely woman, Faith. Men will admire and want you. But you, my sweet girl, were made for love rather than sex. Love is something far more valuable, far more dangerous, immeasurably more satisfying and potentially fatal. Sex is part of love, of course, and you’ll no doubt have your share of fun and sensation when you find the man you love, if you haven’t already done so.’‘You must know I love Leigh, surely?’‘I’ve tried to kid myself it wasn’t the case. I hoped it was infatuation, a crush on the man who released you from the vicious grip of Heacham and his world. But I do know. I wish you didn’t. He’s not worthy of you and I doubt he’ll ever settle down and marry, which is what you want and need.’‘I think he will.’‘You hope he will, which is an entirely different thing. Don’t worry about Netta, though. On that score, I can ease your concerns. Netta will stay with him as long as the sex suits her and until someone more impressive comes along. She might fancy herself in love with him for a while but if it looks like becoming a relationship that needs commitment, she’ll run a mile. Netta is committed to Netta; there’s no room for anyone else.’‘And you accuse me of honesty?’‘Wicked girl! Tossing my words back at me. I’m your mother and therefore absolved from the responsibility for consistency. I’m allowed to adopt a “do as I say and not as I do,” attitude.’I threw my arms around her. ‘Thanks, Mum. Thanks for treating me like an adult. You’ve no idea how much it means to me.’She held me tenderly for a while until her nature made her embarrassed and she detached herself. ‘Come on, it’s starting to grow cool out here and I don’t want you catching cold the night before your twenty-first. Let’s go inside.’The wine helped me talk more freely and I asked the question I had wanted to ask since I’d read Shirley’s present and touched on the subject, unsatisfactorily, with Netta. ‘Mum, is it really helpful to your chosen man if you masturbate?’She actually looked shocked for a moment, then she burst out laughing and it was so infectious I had to laugh with her. ‘You amaze me, Faith. I never expected to hear such a word from your lips.’‘Is it wrong, then?’‘No more right or wrong than most sexual activity. Whether it’s right or wrong for you, though, depends on how you feel about it. Let me give you a rather extreme example. Some people actually enjoy anal sex.’‘You mean a man puts his penis into a woman’s bottom?’‘Or another man’s arse, yes. Personally, I can’t see what they get out of it aside from a rather smelly and, I’d guess, painful experience. It smacks of domination, rather like rape, to me, but there are people who enjoy either or both roles, so, for them, it’s okay. The question you have to ask yourself, Faith, is how do you feel about masturbation?’‘If it’s just for me, I don’t really feel comfortable with it, to be honest. But if it’ll teach me ways to enhance the pleasure of the man I love, then I’m happy to experiment with it.’‘People rarely do it for the benefit of others; it’s either a way of attaining pleasure or a way of obtaining release, or both. It can teach you about your body and how you respond to certain touches. But, in reality, it only teaches you how you react to your own touch, and that’s entirely different from the touch of another person.’‘Surely touch is touch, isn’t it?’‘No, my sweet innocent girl.’ She took a deep breath and sighed. ‘I can see I’ll have to demonstrate something to you, though it goes against the grain and I do it only as your loving mother. How sensitive are your nipples?’I shrugged.‘Is it pleasurable to brush them softly or does it set your teeth on edge?’‘Oh! I assumed it was the same for everyone. It feels quite nice.’‘It’s not the same for every woman, though most men seem incapable of realizing that. I know women who are so sensitive that anything more than a light, brief caress is unbearable. Any normal manipulation of their nipples is hell and brings them to screaming point. They are roused to a special form of rage that can induce real physical violence. But most men haven’t a clue and continue to twist and suck with no concern for the poor woman they’re torturing. Netta and I, on the other hand, have a different sort of sensitivity. We respond to nipple fondling in the way most men dream about. You see, men love breasts and nipples to the point of obsession. It’s supposed to be something they learn when sucking from their mothers. But that’s another and entirely different set of questionable theories, made up by men, of course. We won’t go there for the moment. In skilful hands, Netta and I can both be roused to the point of climax just by having them stimulated. Now, trust me. Unship a boob.’It sounded such an odd request but I could see she was serious and I had asked her for advice, after all. I undid my blouse and pulled my bra up over my breasts.‘Take a nipple between your finger and thumb and gently twist it one way and then the other.’I did as she suggested and felt a mild tingle of pleasure. Then, to my surprise, she took my other nipple and manipulated it the same way. Once I got over the shock, I realized the sensation was entirely different. I felt a little guilty because the pleasure was considerably greater and I felt an echo of arousal elsewhere and that didn’t seem right with my mother.She stopped, similarly embarrassed. ‘That answer your question?’I adjusted my clothes and thought about her demonstration. ‘My own touch isn’t a valid clue to my response to the touch of another person. I see. I don’t think I’ll be masturbating, after all.’And then I suddenly recalled how different had been the touches of Mervyn and Leigh and wondered why I hadn’t recollected that difference in answer to my own question.‘Like I say, it can bring pleasure or relief or both. The trouble is, and you’ve been brought up with a man who taught you to be a puritan, the church induces feelings of guilt in its members if they indulge. I know Heacham’s a hypocritical bastard, but you’ve been subject to his indoctrination for so long I doubt you could rationalize your emotional response. And guilt can be terribly destructive. It’s up to you in the end, Faith. I don’t do it, but only because it never comes near to matching the real thing.’‘Thank you, Mum.‘Sex, you know, is a remarkably powerful force. Trouble is, it can so easily be destructive. It ought only to be creative. Sex created you and all the rest of us. And it’s sex that causes murder, more often than not.’‘And rape.’She looked at me with sudden sadness. ‘Rape is rarely about sex, Faith. It’s about power. It’s a way for the inadequate to convince themselves they have power over someone. Like violence and sadism, it has almost nothing to do with sex. Power may be a strong aphrodisiac, but in the end, it’s far more about domination of one ego by another. All rapists are pathetic creatures if the truth’s known.‘Heacham’s a classic example. The only time he could raise an erection with me was when I was either dead drunk or too exhausted to care. The closer I was to dead, the better he liked it because I was entirely in his power. That’s why he routinely raped Hope but never actually fucked you, even though he had you stimulate him by doing the housework half naked. Hope had no way of responding, resisting or even participating in any real sense. And, of course, she couldn’t tell anyone else what he was doing to her.’‘I suspect Leigh still has his doubts about my role in that, in spite of what he says.’‘He can’t see through your eyes. Shall I have a word?’‘Will he believe my mother?’‘I’d have fun trying to convince him. Sorry! Forgot you want to marry him. I wish you didn’t, though, I really wish you didn’t.’‘But I do, Mum, I do.’

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Related articles Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 34 Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 33 Read my Romantic Thriller, Free: Chapter 32 Read my Romantic Thriller, Free: Chapter 31

I Can’t Get Started. I Can’t Continue. I Can’t Finish.

Occasionally, the words won’t come. Not because there’s nothing I want to write about, but because there’s too much. I have lists of topics I intend to use to engage my readers here on the blog, for example. But sometimes I find myself overwhelmed by the sheer variety of things that interest me. What doesn’t help is  that I’ve suffered from ME for the past ten years; one of the features of this debilitating condition is its effect on the brain, causing perceptual and short-term memory problems. It’s largely a neurological condition, distorting the control function of the hypothalamus. I thought I’d defeated it until a couple of weeks ago, when it returned with a vengeance. Took me a while to figure out that I’d been neglecting to take my regular rests after activity. So, it appears, I’m likely to have to deal with this for the rest of my life. I mean, if it hasn’t gone after ten years, it seems unlikely it will completely disappear.
I find that time spent on holiday in sunny climes has a fantastically beneficial effect on my health. I asked the doctor if I could go and live in the Mediterranean on the National Health Service, but she thought it unlikely! Still, my next sortie overseas will probably have a positive effect and I should return more energised, I hope. Roll on the hols, eh?
But, enough of my personal problems.
I know that a lot of writers experience difficulty in starting to write, others have problems continuing and many have difficulty with actually finishing a piece. There are probably as many reasons for these problems as there are writers, so I’m not about to start pontificating on what you should do and how you should deal with your problem, whatever it is. For one thing, I rarely have these issues, so I have little first hand experience. 
(At present, my own problem is that the ME is preventing me writing as smoothly as I do normally because it keeps misdirecting my fingers on the keyboard so that I have to correct a typo for every few words I’m typing - bit of a bugger, but hardly a serious issue.)
What I can do for those of you who have problems with starting, continuing or finishing is point you in possible directions where you just might come across a ‘cure’ it that’s not too strong a word for it. First, two books that I consider absolutely essential to any writer:
Dorothea Brande’s Becoming a Writer ; this is essentially a guide to the way you should set about becoming a writer. It consists of advice and exercises. The exercises are an essential part of the process. I strongly urge anyone who suffers from any form of writer’s block, at any stage in their writing career, to read this book and do the exercises. They really are life-changing. But you must be prepared to put in the work. It certainly worked for me. I now see I’ve never reviewed this book, an omission I will correct very soon!
 Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way ; subtitled,  A Course in Discovering and Recovering Your Creative Self , is a manual for finding the creative drives in your life. Again, there are exercises and, again, I urge that readers who wish to fully engage with their writing do these exercises.

I reviewed this book a while back and you can read that review here: http://stuartaken.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/the-artists-way-by-julia-cameron.html#.UFGr9I0iaSo  
And, finally, for this piece, a few words of suggestions that might help you over those barriers.
Can’t get started? Try simply writing down anything and everything that comes to you as you sit in front of that piece of blank paper or white screen. Literally everything. So, if your thoughts are, ‘I can’t think of anything…’ write it down. Often, the simple fact of having words on the blank sheet will unlock the gate and allow others to flood out. At this stage, it’s best not to review your writing but allow the flow to continue until you reach the end. You can always edit afterwards, and it might just get those creative juices flowing.
Can’t continue?Try writing something else, something completely different from the story or book that’s causing the struggle. If the worst comes to the worst, copy something from another piece and develop that instead. The subconscious mind sometimes needs this sort of trick to kick it back into the groove you were previously ploughing (if you’ll forgive the tortured metaphor).
Can’t finish?As with the first suggestion, just write whatever comes into your head, with no concern for errors, content or grammar. Sometimes we get obsessed by our need to get it right and this simply prevents us from getting it down. I repeat, you can always edit later. The creating and editing processes involve different parts of the brain and these two aspects of our make-up are often in conflict. By trying to edit as you go along, you’re actually denying your creative self the freedom it needs to work imaginatively.
Try it. What have you to lose? Don’t tell me it’s a waste of time: you were already wasting time sitting unproductively in front of that blank screen/sheet of paper, weren’t you?
Good luck with your writing, folks, and let me have your thoughts in the form of comments.
Related articles Writer's Block; What's That? Help! I Have No Idea What My Passion Is Wordcounter: An Invaluable Tool to Prevent Repetition. Morning Pages

Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 34

Not been reading Breaking Faith?  The reviews under the 'My Books' tab might persuade you to give it a try.
To those 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. As an author, I want people to read my writing; simple as that.
Chapter 34
Monday 12th July
‘What were you up to so late, Faith?’‘She was tidying up for me after you lot abandoned your mess and went to bed.’ Ma shook her head at him and smiled at me. ‘My treasure.’‘Aye, it’s a shame you don’t give Faith more of your attention than that young trollop you’re allus abed with. She’ll harm you, Leigh, mark my words.’Ma and Old Hodge often warned Leigh of the dangers in his relationship with Netta. I viewed her as an obstacle, a barrier between Leigh and me; one I couldn’t surmount. That she was my sister made my attitude ambivalent. Leigh pretended to shrug off their concerns.I’d never noted any resentment in him over anything Ma and Old Hodge suggested, but it was creeping in over their attitude to Netta. I could sense a row developing if they didn’t sit down and discuss the issue properly. I left the kitchen to escape the slowly building storm and set about catching up on the work I’d left the previous day because of the party.It was hard to believe my youngest sister was only eighteen. She always seemed so much older, except, of course, for her capricious nature and selfish responses to Leigh’s needs and actions. I assumed the sex she gave must be far more generous than the rest of her actions.Leigh wandered through with a cup of coffee and a slice of toast and glanced at the diary.‘Nothing today, Leigh. Carlisle tomorrow and Bradford on Thursday. I’ll catch up on some printing this afternoon and tomorrow whilst you’re out. Thursday I must do the invoices and accounts.’‘I don’t deserve you, Faith. You’re far too good for me.’ He left for the studio before I could respond.Toward midday, Netta sauntered into the room. ‘Where is he?’‘In the studio. That set of spanners and feeler gauges, you know?’She nodded but I doubted she knew. She had no interest at all in Leigh’s real work, only in what he did with his camera when she was in front of it. She wandered aimlessly about the office, distracting me by picking up various bits and pieces and idly putting them down in the wrong place. She’d just picked up a small white slip-cast female torso that Leigh had once warned me never to damage, when he returned looking a little harassed.‘Where’s my incident cone for the Weston, Faith? Oh, up at last?’ He noticed what she was handling. ‘Please put that down, Netta. Drop it and you’re in serious bother.’‘It’s where it always is when it’s not on the meter. Third drawer down, snuggled in its protective foam rubber coat.’He opened the drawer, one eye still on Netta, and retrieved the small white cone from its place. ‘Put that back where you found it, Netta, please.’She could never take a hint, or, rather, she was sufficiently contrary to allow her sense of bravado to overcome her common sense. She looked at the small piece in her hand, turned her mouth into a wicked smile and, without warning, tossed the figure across the desk in my direction. I glimpsed a look of horror on Leigh’s face and knew I must catch it or be equally blamed for its destruction. I rose swiftly from my seat, banging my hip painfully against the desk as I lunged forward in a desperate effort to catch the fragile hollow figure. My fingers closed around the white shape and clasped its contours firmly. I placed it gently onto the desk and only then reacted to the pain in my hip, rubbing at it and wincing.Leigh’s face was thunder. ‘You stupid little cow! If you’d broken that …. Get out of my sight!’I’d never seen him so angry. Netta knew she’d made a serious mistake. ‘Hit me, and I’ll be out of here so quick you’ll think I’ve got wings!’ But for all her bravado, her face was full of uncertainty and anxiety.‘Out! Shift your selfish little arse from my sight before I …’ the tone of Leigh’s voice was frightening and, as he took a step toward her, she dashed from the office for the kitchen.Leigh struggled for control and sat heavily on the chair I normally occupied, since I was in his leather one. He leant forward and took the small headless, limbless torso in his hand and held it. His anger seemed to give way to something close to grief.For a long time he was silent and I let him be. At last, he was back in control and he looked up at me with sadness in his eyes. ‘I expect you think I was way o.t.t., Faith. I’m sorry if I alarmed you, but Netta deserved what she got. She ought to consider herself lucky she wasn’t within reach or I might well have tanned her backside. And I have never ever struck a woman.’ He stood as if he was about to leave.‘I think you owe me an explanation, Leigh. I don’t think your behaviour was called for. Heacham might behave the way you threatened, but it’s hard for me to think of you being in any way like him. I think you should tell me what that was all about.’He sat again, with the small female body sheltered in his hand and looked down at it for a while before he raised his face to mine. ‘Okay. But it’s not easy for me and you mustn’t interrupt.’ I was surprised and moved to see tears in the corners of his eyes. ‘You don’t really know much about me, do you, Faith?’‘Very little.’He stared at me for a while and then turned his gaze to the figurine and I watched his eyes soften with memory. ‘My mother was born here, in this house, but she married a man from Kent. I was born up here but they moved south shortly afterwards and spent most of their married lives down there. She always missed her home and we used to come up to stay in what became Uncle Fred’s house, at least twice a year. Mum’s brother was a lot older than her. He liked me even as a small child, we always got on, and I enjoyed my times at Longhouse.‘When I was fourteen, we travelled up for what we expected to be our last family holiday in Yorkshire, or anywhere else for that matter. My dad smoked all his life and developed lung cancer. He was dying a slow cruel death before our eyes. I hated him for doing this to Mum and I was frightened of what would happen when he finally died. Every time he lit a cigarette, I had to leave the room; I couldn’t stand the look of utter desolation on Mum’s face as he inhaled the poison that was killing him.‘Mum was an artist, you know. She painted those landscapes in the sitting room, the male nude on the landing and that portrait of herself in the library. She was a great believer in the study of the human body as a creative inspiration and teacher of lighting and form. Of course, she usually worked on the male; as a woman, she was aware of the sexual element inherent in figure studies. She was never precious or hypocritical about it.‘Dad was a businessman and had difficulty understanding her creative urges but he was sensible enough to allow her her painting and her life classes.’He paused and studied the torso in his hand for a moment, his eyes growing distant with memory and time. I waited, unwilling to break into his contemplation of the past and he rewarded my patience by continuing his story.‘We’d taken a trip to West Bunton, had a short walk and were returning to the car. Dad couldn’t walk far without becoming exhausted, so we’d just been up to the waterfall and were crossing the village green to the road when I pointed out a small pottery to Mum. She loved such places and we went in, much to Dad’s disgust. He could only ever see any point in the utilitarian. Mum and I used to call him The Philistine but it was all good-natured, you know.‘I was wandering amongst the shelves, looking at the display, when I came across this. The lines and contours, the clean feel of it, the simple beauty of the creation fascinated me. I’ve always loved women and I liked this in one sense because it detached me from the personal aspect; its anonymity allowed me to study the female form at fourteen without the embarrassment I would’ve felt looking at an identifiable individual woman.‘Mum saw me and asked if I would like it. I was surprised she was in favour and then not at all surprised when I thought about it. Dad was dead against it but he wouldn’t argue in public. I took it to the counter and Mum took the small, hand-painted, earthenware jug she’d found. She refused to let me pay for this; it was a present, a memento of our holiday. Dad lurked at the back of the shop, eager to get back to the car.‘The man, the potter if his clothes were anything to go by, took our money and was wrapping the two pieces in tissue when a young woman, eighteen or nineteen, I suppose, came into the shop from the studio behind. She was slender and pretty with gorgeous auburn hair down across her shoulders. She wore a tight cotton tee shirt covered in splashes of clay and colour. But, bearing in mind this was sixty-one and I was fourteen, it was her unsupported breasts, nipples prodding thin cotton, that held my gaze.‘The man was wrapping the figure as she came through with her hands, coated in clay, held out before her and a wry smile on her face. She took no notice of me as she asked her dad to tie her apron as she’d forgotten, again, before plunging her hands into the clay.‘Mum saw my fascination and wanted me to witness this beauty for longer. She greeted the girl and asked her, outright, if she’d modelled for the torso. She nodded, smiling and then looked at me for the first time. I was still captivated by those gorgeous breasts but I managed to raise my eyes and look into her pools of topaz. I saw humour, pleasure and understanding there, none of the condemnation, scorn or disdain I feared.‘She grinned wickedly at me and turned so she was semi profile. Raising her near arm, pretending to pat her hair with the flat of her wrist, she displayed her shape to best advantage. I think it was that gesture and her obvious pride in her body that taught me it was okay to look at women, provided the look was open and admiring. I managed a smile of gratitude. She bent and whispered something in her father’s ear and he laughed and shook his head, gently tapping her denim clad bottom before prompting her back out of view. As she slipped through the doorway, she turned on the spot, just for me, and then disappeared into the depths of the studio. I’d been given an introduction to the exhibitionist that resides in many beautiful women, an introduction and a conviction that genuine admiration was welcome.‘Mum made me a present of that figure and I sat holding it in the back of the car whilst Dad, hacking at almost every breath, drove us to Longhouse even though he was no longer fit to drive.‘That evening, I ate with Uncle Fred as they went for a meal at a restaurant in Hawes. It was as they made their way back, along a single-track road with passing places, that they met a stupid murderous bastard, drunk and driving too fast the other way. They never stood a chance. They died in the car. He escaped without a scratch and was fined for dangerous driving and banned for a year. Justice. Of course, Dad should never have been driving anyway.’He held the small figure for my inspection. ‘Mum’s last present to me, the day she died. Does that answer your question?’All I could do was go round the desk and hug him awkwardly as he sat there. So many questions answered, so much more understood about him, so much easier to love him. ‘Thank you, Leigh. I’m so sorry.’He carefully extricated himself from my embrace and stood, placed the figure back on the windowsill where it always stood, in full view of his desk. ‘Hip all right?’I touched myself tentatively and winced.‘Let’s have a gander.’With no thought of the impropriety, I lifted my skirt to reveal the bruise already forming over my hip bone. Leigh very gently eased my knickers from the area and examined my skin for damage. He carefully released the fabric back into place.‘Skin’s not broken but you’ll have a nasty bruise. You might be more comfortable with a different pair of pants so the elastic doesn’t press on the flesh, or none for the moment, if you can bear to be so exposed.’I dropped my skirt and only then realized what I’d done. But there was nothing sexual in the exchange; I felt neither exploited nor exposed and I gave him a small smile of wry realization that made him grin and shake his head at me. I felt cherished and flattered that he’d recalled my injury after having recounted what must have been a very moving story for him; it certainly was for me. I kissed him in thanks and affection.From the door, he blew me a kiss as he returned to the studio.Alone, I followed his advice then continued with my morning’s work, glancing occasionally at the torso, and wondering whether I should explain his reaction to Netta.I never did, though.

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If you're impatient for the next chapter, you can buy the book in paperback or ebook format for whatever ereader you use, just click on the cover picture or visit ‘My Books’. If you do, I’d appreciate a review, posted wherever possible - Amazon, Goodreads, Smashwords, or any other bookish site. Reviews get indie published books noticed, you see.
Tweet with me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/@stuartaken
Like my author page on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/StuartAkenRead on Goodreads:  http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4234877.Stuart_AkenStumble with me: http://www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/stuartakenPin with me here: http://pinterest.com/stuartaken/Buy my ebooks via Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stuartakenUSA readers, see my author page on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/stuartaken(for some odd reason, this type of link isn't yet available on Amazon for UK)Join my professional connections on LinkedIn: http://www.linkedin.com/pub/stuart-aken/22/1b6/aaa
Related articles Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 33 Read my Romantic Thriller, Free: Chapter 32 Read my Romantic Thriller, Free: Chapter 31 Read my Romantic Thriller, Free: Chapter 30

What Drives a Writer?

Those of us who write, do so for a variety of reasons. I know of people who write entirely from a desire to make money. Others are driven to write about themselves, to tell the world about their exciting, boring, amazing, average, fantastic or mundane lives. Many are looking to put ideas into words, to explain to the world why things are as they are. Some are impelled by a deep desire to put things right, to educate those they see as unaware of what they believe to be important factors. And some simply love the idea of telling stories; entertaining, moving, amusing, scaring, arousing or exciting their readers.
Johnson famously said that anyone who wrote other than for money was a blockhead. I must be a blockhead, then. Money has never been a driver for me, in writing or any other aspect of my life. It’s a necessary evil, of course, in the commercial world we inhabit, but, as a driver, it’s empty and unfulfilling. So, I’m happy if my books sell. But I’m happier still if people enjoy what I’ve written.
I belong to that last class of writers in the first paragraph. But, and it’s an important ‘but’, I’m also compelled to write. There is deep within me the need to write. In fact, if I don’t write, don’t create something, on a regular basis, I feel unwell and unsettled. It’s as if my creative needs begin to pile up and block my channels to good health. I always feel better when I’ve written something new. So, I guess you could say that I write because I have to. But that doesn’t mean I see it as a duty or a chore.
I love words; always have. I love the way they can be played with to bring about so many different reactions. I hate the misuse of words, the easy option that results in cliché. Because I love words, as a tool and a means of expressing and conveying emotion, I also read, of course. Frankly, any writer who doesn’t read is doing both himself and his readers a disservice. How can any craftsman improve without input from others?
My imagination is my greatest asset; it’s a thing almost apart from me, feeding me with ideas and characters, situations and plots almost without any conscious direction, it seems. Imagination is what forms the core of my stories. But, as is always the case with anything of worth, there’s more than one component involved in the making of my tales. I have drives that are formed from a combination of my experiences, education, up-bringing, moral stance, interests and relationships. Those with well-developed perceptual powers will be aware that I care very much about justice, real love, fairness, intelligence, creativity and talent. As a corollary, I naturally loathe injustice, superficial attraction, ignorance, destructive force and dullness. These aspects inform my writing.
But, I write mostly to entertain and amuse my readers. I want to move, excite, shock, scare, arouse, anger, surprise, divert, cheer, sadden, jolt, soothe and amaze. Of course, having a proselytising nature (many of those who know me say I should have been a teacher), I also want to educate and persuade. In my early writing, this desire to convert readers to my point of view overrode the entertainment in my work. It took time for me to realise that readers of fiction don’t want to be lectured. A writer has to be far more subtle than the preacher standing in the pulpit before a congregation willing to swallow his message. So, I now keep the themes that drive me as just that; themes.
I’m fortunate in that I have a clever and honest wife who quickly spots any movement toward my urge to preach. And my writing group, made up of talented professional writers, never allow me to get away with anything that even sniffs of the soapbox. I remain blissfully unaware of the times I use language that might be considered pompous or even condescending. Because I left school at 16 with few formal qualifications, I assume that my knowledge of English is pretty average but, apparently, I sometimes use language in a way that certain readers might find difficult. It’s not deliberate, but stems from a desire to combine accuracy with a concise style. So, sometimes, the intervention of my chosen critics helps overcome a tendency to use language that might otherwise be seen as ‘clever’, never an intention but sometimes an outcome.
So, I write out of an almost physical need combined with a love of words and of the power of story to convey emotion. What drives you to write? I’d love to know. Please go to the trouble of commenting. It’s really very easy.
Related articles We Lonely Writers In Pursuit of Words 7 Links for Writers From the Blogging Couch in a Galaxy Not So Far Away!

‘You Always Get What You Deserve’: Another Blatant Bloody Lie?

Major religious groups (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Last week, I wrote a post titled, ‘Work Hard and You’ll Succeed: the Biggest Lie?’ Today, I want to explore, with you, another blatant lie.
We’re told, frequently and with much volume, that we get what we deserve. I think this is an attempt by some to encourage the first lie in the minds of those as yet unschooled in reality. It’s also, of course, a saying completely founded in the religious concepts that underpin the Abrahamic religions of Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Their sacred texts explicitly tell followers that their rewards will follow from their actions.
But is it true? Do we, or indeed anyone else, get what we deserve?
Does the innocent child deserve to starve to death by an accident of geographical location? Does the winner of millions on a lottery actually deserve this piece of great fortune? Does the drug baron deserve a life of luxury and ease at the expense of those who suffer and die through his activities? Does the Chairman of a business empire deserve the exorbitant income he awards himself?
There are millions more examples of people receiving things they don’t deserve. In fact, I’d say that more people get what they don’t deserve than get what they do. In fact, I can think of very few people I know who have actually been given what they deserved.
I hear those of a religious mind-set yelling that we get our real rewards in heaven, paradise, or whatever other presumed afterlife they believe in. But such destinations are pure speculation. There’s no way of knowing whether they even exist except by taking that final step to enter them. By then it’s too late to discover that all your effort, good, bad or indifferent, has, in fact, resulted in you reaching the same end as all living things on death: i.e. the recycling of your components. If there is an afterlife, and it’s something we can never know since no one has ever returned with a reliable report, then surely the creator of such a splendid reward system would want us to be certain?
There’s little point in any deity permitting us to have doubts about such things, since these are supposed to be the very motivations that make us do the bidding of that deity. Yet the tales that are sold by the various religions are so different and contradictory. Surely any deity worthy of the name would at least remove the elements of doubt and dispute and provide a means whereby we could actually experience such rich rewards? Nothing else makes sense.
Of course, I understand that many are now yelling at me that I have to have faith. I’m sorry, but faith in something for which there is no evidence, let alone proof, strikes me as little short of imbecility. Does anybody seriously believe in fairies, a flat Earth, that Mars is inhabited by little green men or any one of thousands of such tales? We’ve dismissed the myths of ancient times, the tales of Zeus and his clan, Odin and his cohorts, Ra and his comrades, as early attempts to explain what was then inexplicable. A similar fate is already undermining current deities as reason and rational thought supersede superstition and folklore.
It isn’t that I deny absolutely the possibility of religious dogma having a basis in truth; it’s that I see such division in interpretation and I don’t believe it can be proven. The very existence of God is a matter we, as humans, will probably never be able to determine one way or another. If such a power actually exists, it must, by its very nature, be so far outside our experience and knowledge as to be incomprehensible. Any attempt to define such a power must inevitably diminish any reality it might possess. So, I take the only sane and reasonable attitude possible: I can’t know, which is why I style myself agnostic.
I’d like to say, ‘religious considerations aside’ and give examples of my argument on that basis but, unfortunately, the world in which we live is so deeply imbued in religious foundation that it’s impossible to escape its influence.  
But I will set a challenge.
Can anyone, without citing religious concepts, please provide more examples of people actually getting what they deserve than those who most clearly do not deserve what they get? I’m open-minded enough to be converted to a different view, if I can be given evidence that ‘just deserts’ is something more than a meaningless lie disguised as truth by those with vested interest in maintaining the status quo. Go ahead; change my mind.

World War D, by Jeffrey Dhywood, Reviewed

Voters are frequently disempowered by the very people they elect as their representatives. Rarely has there been such a gaping void between public opinion and political will, however, as there is on the question of drugs. Whilst the vast majority of the public recognised long ago that prohibition of drugs, like the experiment with prohibition of alcohol decades ago, doesn’t work, the politicians have dithered and dodged the question, failing to take effective action, whilst spending billions on ineffective policing.
Jeffrey Dhywood’s excellent book, World War D, explains the history of the drug problem, examines the political action and inaction, exposes the colossal hypocrisy surrounding the issue and suggests ways the world might move forward in an effort to defeat a problem that is largely the result of lunatic legislation.
Those who were unaware will learn how drugs, once a legal component of everyday medicines and other stimulants, were demonised and became the cause of criminalisation of huge numbers of otherwise normal citizens all over the world. They’ll learn the hypocrisy of figures such as Newt Gingrich, a user who believes it wasn’t immoral (though it was illegal) for him to indulge but who now believes current users act in an immoral way by taking the same substances. It’s probably common knowledge by now that alcohol is a far more dangerous substance than most drugs within society and, of course, we’re all familiar with the role of tobacco and the tobacco industry in causing major damage to the general health of the world. What is not, perhaps, generally understood is that drugs themselves are relatively harmless in most cases and it’s the criminalisation of drug users that is the source of most problems.
It has long been known that governments have used drugs as a way of undermining other governments: our own UK government almost destroyed China with the Opium Wars, and the CIA is documented as having destabilised many small regimes by its use of drug smuggling. The most vocal opponent of the removal of criminalisation of drugs is the USA, even though many of its former presidents now actively, or in some cases, secretly, consider that decriminalisation is the only answer. One has to wonder what it is that governments feel they have to fear by taking control of this huge market.
Currently, many criminal gangs and terrorist organisations, including the appalling Taliban, exist on money they obtain from the black market in drugs. The war has long been lost. All that continued criminalisation does is to ensure that criminals dealing in prostitution, child sex slavery, illegal immigration, pornography, extortion and indiscriminate violence against populations the world over continues and, indeed, expands.I am not, and never have been, a user of drugs. I prefer to be in control of my own mind. But I do drink, of course. It’s socially acceptable, isn’t it? Perhaps that’s something worth considering.
Jeffrey Dhywood has done his research. The evidence he presents has been meticulously recorded and he provides links and acknowledgements of his many sources. This book is the result of a combination of careful scholarship with a passion to see injustices removed and the world improved.
After reading this book, you will hopefully be convinced of the destructive inanity and hopeless failure of the War on Drugs. My hope is that everyone will read this book and take action. For those who don’t read it, but wish to know more, and maybe even consider taking action, please refer to the notes below.
LEAP (Law Enforcement Against Prohibition – http://www.leap.cc/) needs your support. They’ve been fighting in the trenches for years or even decades, and they need your help.
There are also various initiatives circulating over the Internet, mostly as petitions. Join them, sign them, support them, and help their diffusion by sharing them via email or the social networks.
Jeffrey and his group are launching an ambitious initiative that you can check on their website - www.worldwar-d.com.
To buy from Amazon UK (Kindle)

 Tobuy from Amazon.com  (paperback )
Related articles Is Drug Prohibition a Form of Mind Control? Should drugs be legalised in the UK? Drugs: Without the Hot Air, now in the USA! Is this something ALL politicians could finally agree on? De-criminalising drugs WORKS.

The Great God Brown, by Eugene O’Neill, Reviewed

What to say about this piece of classic American literature? The play is presented in six stages; a prologue, four acts, and an epilogue. 

First impressions are that this should have been devised as a film, not a stage play, had that medium been capable at the time. Many of the stage directions (and these are multitude and detailed) would produce results invisible to all but the first few rows in the audience. And some are so specific and precise as to defy execution. It’s as if O’Neill has forgotten that theatre is a collaborative medium relying as much on director and actors as on the text from which the action is driven. I recall, in my early days of writing for radio, being advised that stage directions should be kept to a minimum, the nature of the delivery being evident from the words used in the dialogue.

Parts of the play come over like the tortured polemic of the inebriate, which the drunk generally mistakes for truth. Given that large portions deal with a drunken Dion, this struck me as ironic.

But, the play has a great deal to say and, in spite of its overambitious and sometimes pretentious presentation, it manages to say much of it very well. Written during the great depression, and strongly affected by the religious hypocrisy that remains a pervasive influence over huge swathes of the USA, it deals with the conflict between creativity and money-making. That it is also a love story is what mostly redeems it for me.

The use of masks to illustrate the difference between what is said and what is meant by the various characters is probably very effective on stage, for those at the front of the audience at any rate. I suspect that the subtle changes would be invisible to those paying less for their seats, which is again ironic, given that the play has a good deal to say about the uneven spread of wealth.

I can’t say that I enjoyed reading this text. But I was compelled to read it to the end. I cared about the outcome and was interested in the characters. Ultimately, however, it was a play that left me unsatisfied and, to some extent, confused. I don’t expect it to live in my mind for long and I doubt I’d bother to go to a performance at a theatre. I might be tempted to watch it as a television production, hoping, in that medium, to experience the minutiae that might otherwise be missed on stage.

As a piece of American culture, it exposed, to me, the national obsessions with money, ambition and religious guilt, as well as the inability of some men to separate lust from love. Dion, as the tortured artist came across as more selfish than passionate and Billy, as the face of business, portrayed the greed and self-interest that many find distasteful about the culture of the country. But the players are complex and very human, displaying the characteristics of a society still searching for its identity under the weight of imposed dogmatic religion and the worship of money.

As ever, this is my personal response to a piece of writing. I’ve made no excursions into the multitude of critiques and literary analyses that must have been written on this play. This review is the result of my own experience of reading the text, and probably says as much about me as it does about the work itself. 

Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 33

Not reading Breaking Faith?  The reviews under the 'My Books' tab may persuade you to give it a try.
To those continuing the journey, I say, ‘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. And, 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 33
Saturday 10th July
‘Christ, I’m sorry, Faith. You’re soaked to the skin!’‘That’s right, Leigh, to the skin. See, my blouse is transparent? Almost as if I’m naked. You can see my breasts and my nipples. Isn’t that nice?’I deliberately looked her in the eye, determined to resist the temptation her heavy irony amplified. ‘I know. I should’ve been here and waiting for you, but…‘Oh, it’s not important. You and Netta had extra time for sex, so it doesn’t matter.’‘I really am sorry.’‘No, please don’t upset yourself. If Netta wants sex, well that’s infinitely more important than getting here on time to meet boring Faith from her first ever stay away from home, especially when she was so looking forward to seeing you. I do understand.’She was angry and hurt and I had no excuse. It irked me that she was right about the reason as well. ‘I said I was sorry.’‘Oh, well, that’s all right then, if you’re sorry. That’ll dry my clothes and my skin and make up for my embarrassment at walking half naked down the station. That’ll even make up for my disappointment when I was full of the anticipation of seeing you waiting for me. Everything’s fine if you’re sorry.’I made a determined effort not to look at her lovely breasts pushing against the transparent fabric and looked instead into her eyes that were full of justifiable anger and hurt. ‘Shit! I deserved that.’‘Of course, if my breasts aren’t worth looking at, I might as well fold my arms over them.’‘Don’t you dare!’ I looked, long and hard and they were lovely. ‘You’re very beautiful, Faith. You have a lovely body. Let me get you home, dry and warm again and I’ll put the kettle on and make you a nice hot cuppa. So, did you pass?’She looked at me as though there was another diatribe waiting to explode from her, and then, as if all the rest had been an act, she burst out laughing. ‘I passed, I passed, I passed!’‘Brilliant! I knew you would, of course. Brilliant! Well done, Faith!’ I pulled over and stopped the car, leant across and kissed her mouth and hugged her as close as the seats allowed. She was wet and chill, the cold rain firming her nipples as if in the height of arousal. I longed to cup those gorgeous breasts but I wasn’t sure she was ready for that. I made do with another look at her, this time at leisure. She made no effort to hide and there was no condemnation in her eyes. ‘You’re a marvel. I’m so pleased and proud of you. Your dad’ll be over the moon.’‘How is he?’‘Haven’t you phoned?’‘Only to let him know I arrived safely. He’s all right, isn’t he?’‘As well as when you left, yes. God, I’m glad to see you, Faith. Bugger me if I haven’t missed you.’‘A lovely sentiment oddly expressed. I wouldn’t perform that particular service, even if I were equipped to, but I think I’m flattered.’‘You’ve learned something.’She smiled with all the enigmatic force of a sphinx. ‘I suppose I might have, yes.’ But she would say no more; I was being punished for my late arrival.Netta raised her eyebrows at her exposure but hugged her in spite of the wetness and welcomed her home. ‘Well done, Fay. I knew you’d do it.’‘How did you know I’d passed?’‘Failures don’t usually grin so wide that their faces are in danger of falling into two halves.’‘Come upstairs with me, Netta, I want to ask you a few questions whilst I get dry and changed.’‘I think Leigh was rather hoping you’d stay down here wet, Faith.’‘Oh, I think Leigh’s had more reward than he deserves in the circumstances, don’t you?’I went to fulfil my promise of a cup of tea for Faith as they went upstairs. How alike and how different they were; sisters who might’ve been strangers. I knew a time was approaching when I would have to choose between them, and Netta’s charms and experience no longer made her the obvious choice. There were things in Faith that spoke to me, touched my soul. I found her invading my thoughts with increasing frequency. That she was now as physically appealing as any woman I’d known, made her all the more attractive.She drove herself to see her dad on Sunday, in my car, of course. It left me free to continue the undivided attention I’d been able to lavish on Netta during her absence and gave me a weekend without the irritation and anxiety of Netta storming off in a huff of pique or jealousy.The car drew up around teatime and I waited for her to bring me the latest on her dad. As soon as she entered the room, I knew something was wrong. Her hand covered her mouth and her face bore signs of real anxiety. ‘Leigh. I don’t know how to ... I… I’m ever so sorry, but I …’‘She’s smashed your car up!’ Netta’s conclusion was so triumphant, I thought she must have somehow seen the damage. I wondered what the repairs were going to cost.‘You’re not hurt…?’Faith grinned, impishly. ‘I forgot to put any petrol in and the gauge is just above empty. Sorry.’ She stuck out her tongue at Netta and laughed at us.I had to join her. It was the first time she’d ever played such a trick and it marked another major change in her.Netta, however, wasn’t amused. ‘Bitch!’The following day was her eighteenth birthday. I couldn’t accept she was so young. She behaved in so many ways like a mature woman and looked the part, though her tantrums and sulks were much more symptomatic of her real age.I had the day off for her. Ma, reluctantly, catered for a party. Netta didn’t to want the guests from my party to attend hers.‘Too many women.’Matilda brought some of their mutual men friends who seemed uncomfortable in the house until drink settled them.As was to be expected, the night was Netta’s.To Netta’s amazement and mine, Faith had bought her the most extraordinary dress whilst she’d been away. The fabric was sheer black gauze that, on its own, would have left nothing to the imagination. A wide gold lame snake looked over one shoulder with red eyes of sparkling sequins, its forked red tongue licking at the nipple beneath. It draped across that sleeveless shoulder around her back and then spiralled her body, crossing her other breast and then her mound of Venus to end in a tail of red and black beads on one leg. The hem echoed the diagonal of the twisting snake so that it hung to her knee where the tail fell but rode just under her hip at the other side. Faith had bought a skimpy gold bra and thong to go underneath as well as a pair of gold stiletto sandals. Netta was entranced by the gift and wore it for the party, with the sandals, but without the underwear. She looked sensational.Inevitably, she talked the other men and I into a photo session along the lines of that held on my birthday, with similar group photographs but with herself as the only woman, of course, amongst the men.Before the evening was over, she’d removed her dress publicly, dancing to Dion singing The Wanderer and privately, when she vanished for portions of the night with different young men.I made up for her temporary desertion by spending a pleasant interlude with Matilda. Faith remained her usual chaste self during all of this, though her previous moral superiority seemed to have given way to a careful curiosity.I watched my protégée that night and wondered what she’d learned during her week away. I was convinced she remained virgin, yet the lesson had been sexual; her demeanour was so markedly different regarding sex. It was as if she’d discovered some of its delights without being in any way marked by it.Faith dressed that night in a white cotton dress, sleeveless, with a wide scoop neck that revealed as much as it concealed of her breasts. Gathered at the waist, the skirt fell in soft rounded pleats to mid thigh. Simple white sandals displayed her small feet and she looked altogether lovely. The men certainly found it impossible to keep their eyes off her even with Netta cavorting naked amongst them.There was a slightly sour interlude mid evening when one of the young men lit up in the sitting room and refused Faith’s firm but polite request to stub it out or to go outside. Fortunately, I was close at the time and gave him the choice of putting it out or leaving. When the early hours took me to bed, I found Netta beside me, eager for my body. I let her have her way and she reached a climax so rapidly I knew she’d been primed by another man unable to take her all the way.‘You’re still the best I’ve ever had, Leigh.’I kissed her breasts and drew her head toward me so I could reach her lips. She resisted for a moment.‘That’s why I did it, you know. I wanted to be absolutely certain I hadn’t made a mistake. Tonight told me how right I am to stay with you.’ Satiated and exhausted, she relaxed and slumped exactly where she was.I gently lifted her away and lay her to sleep. It was a while before I was relaxed enough to join her, but it was her birthday, after all. Her words disturbed me with their promise of a permanence I neither sought nor desired.As sleep at last crept over me, I was aware of Faith making her way softly up the stairs and I wondered where she’d been and what she’d been doing until now.

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If you're impatient for the next chapter, you can buy the book in paperback or ebook format for whatever ereader you use, just click on the cover picture or visit ‘My Books’. If you do, I’d appreciate a review, posted wherever possible - Amazon, Goodreads, Smashwords, or any other bookish site. Reviews get indie published books noticed, you see.
Tweet with me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/@stuartaken
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Related articles Read my Romantic Thriller, Free: Chapter 32 Read my Romantic Thriller, Free: Chapter 31 Read my Romantic Thriller, Free: Chapter 30 Read my Romantic Thriller, Free: Chapter 29

‘Work Hard And You’ll Succeed’; The Biggest Lie?

From www.victorianweb.org/history/ashley.html, a educational site offering free info on the victorian age. Image is a copy of one from an official report of a parliamentary commission done in the mid 18th century. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Almost from infancy, we’re brought up to believe this mantra. It follows us through school, reinforced by loving and caring parents, and is ingrained in our very personas through repetition and, often, a form of example. The successful, in the terms of our current society, are held up as models of what hard work will bring us. We will be rewarded with wealth, status, respect, power and all the associated glamour. The prize is, indeed, worth the effort.
It is, of course, a lie.
Okay, so I’ve now lost those of a right wing mind-set. These are people who, research has shown, are not simply unwilling to listen to new ideas but are actually not capable of understanding anything that doesn’t accord with their own view of the world. As a group, they hold enormous sway and disproportionate power, but we will have to continue our journey without them.
Why is it a lie?
I could be philosophical, ingenious, clever; I could employ numerous charts and lots of statistical analysis to illustrate my answer. But it’s simpler than that. I ask only that you open your eyes and look about you at the evidence.
Do you know wealthy miners? I mean the ones who spend 12 hours a day at the coal face, or sweat for 16 hours in the impossible heat and danger of the South African diamond, platinum and gold mines? Are you friendly with the wealthy neighbourhood carer who works 12 hour shifts to minister to the needs of demented pensioners, disabled children, insane wrecks, wiping shitty arses, cleaning up piss, feeding unresponsive faces in exchange for insults and occasional violence? Perhaps the guy who lives at the end of the street and spends his days running the pavements to empty your rubbish bins in record time is really a millionaire? Or, much more likely, the child who spends 18 hours a day clawing through the mixed waste of her neighbours in order to find enough plastic or metal to recycle and pay for her day’s single meal; she, of course, is wealthy beyond our wildest dreams, isn’t she?
Yet all these people can be described as hard workers. So, sorry to labour the point but it’s important you get this, the mantra is demonstrably false. Why, then, is it so universally accepted?
Why do we believe this mantra, this persuasive urge to reward in exchange for hard labour, if it so clearly isn’t true?
You won’t be surprised to learn that I have a theory. Those who know me, either personally or through my work, will know that I don’t have much time for conspiracy theories. That doesn’t, of course, mean that I treat all such ideas with equal scorn; merely that I’m sceptical enough to weigh the probabilities before I decide whether to investigate further.
But, in this case, I’m inclined to the view that there is a sort of conspiracy at work here. Not something formal or defined by a set of rules and conditions. No; this is something far more subtle, and it’s been developing over centuries.
To whose real advantage is the mantra?
Who has most to gain from a work force indoctrinated into believing that their hard labour will bring them rewards? Certainly not those who actually invest their time, energy and skills in those long hours of work. They are generally rewarded with job insecurity, poor working conditions and the wonderful incentive of ‘extra’ pay once they’ve done their prescribed hours.
So, if the actual workers don’t gain, who does?
If a worker gains an extra 10 percent by working harder, that’s his reward. But the person in charge of that worker, the boss, director, owner, creator; however you want to describe the individual or group at the top of the hierarchical pyramid, gains a percentage from each of those individual efforts. The rewards for those at the top are disproportionately increased because of the way our society is structured. If the ‘boss’ has a workforce of 100, for every 10 percent extra each individual worker achieves, the boss will generally gain an equivalent equal to the sum of their efforts: i.e. 10 time 100, which is 1,000 percent. (oversimplification, but it’s a general principle and illustrates the point). I’m not suggesting those at the top don’t work hard, merely that their efforts can never be so much greater than those they employ. So, the mantra results in a real increase of wealth for those who are already rich, but fails to do that for those who actually produce the increase. Clever, eh?
So, what rewards are there for those who accept and apply the mantra?
You’ll have noticed a relatively recent development that has effectively reduced the value of overtime working. Shop workers and the like were once rewarded for working unsocial hours that included weekend working. Certain workers were given better pay for working evening and night shifts (bar staff, hotel, hospital and factory workers, etc.). Some whose work could not be fitted into the normal working day (teachers, middle managers, etc.) were rewarded for continuing to work when they arrived home. But most of these apparent advantages have been eroded over time so that what was once regarded as ‘unsocial’ has become ‘normal’ in our 24/7 society.
Those who make policy will assure you that this is to the advantage of all of us. We must remain competitive in order to sell more goods outside, and inside, our given communities. And, of course, it is heresy to suggest that this may not be the case. Whether we actually need the increase in such goods is a whole new argument and beyond the scope of this short piece.
Examine the facts: the vast majority of economic activity is actually controlled by corporations and companies that operate on a global scale and that have investors from all over the world (or, at least, the parts of the world society where wealth is common). If an organisation is global, it necessarily has the means to determine both global and local economic conditions. It is the multinational corporations that set standards of wealth or poverty within the nations in which they are active. Governments have long been little more than regulatory authorities allowed an illusive power in order to keep both politicians and populations under control. So, the excuse that a British worker must work harder, at a ‘higher’ level of pay, in order to make British goods more competitive than the equivalent Taiwanese products, at a ‘lower’ level of pay, is actually a manipulative device to maintain control of the market place.
This short piece is intended as a post to induce thought and question, so I’m not going to develop my arguments fully here. My intention is merely to invite readers to consider and question what they’ve been told over the years. I’d like to start a discussion of the real merits of this mantra.
My assertion is simple. ‘Work hard and you’ll succeed’ is a lie, which should more properly be expressed as, ‘Work hard and you’ll make those in positions of wealth and power wealthier and more powerful’. I believe the evidence to support that viewpoint is there for all to see, if only they can persuade themselves to take the risk and question accepted dogma.
Of course, there are those who will demonstrate, superficially, that hard work can result in wealth. But the assumption that they can do so unsupported by all the many others in society is patently false. That, however, is a different argument and one I intend to pursue at a later date. For the moment, I ask you to look at the majority result of hard work and accept that, for the vast bulk of participants, simply working hard is not, and never has been, a route to wealth and power for that individual.
I invite your comments, questions and observations. Please, let’s make this a useful and positive discussion. My mind is open; is yours?
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The Father, by August Strindberg, Reviewed

This Swedish tragedy in three acts from the end of the nineteenth century is, of course, a literary classic. All three acts take place within the same, confined, setting, adding an element of claustrophobia to the narrow society depicted.
In its original Swedish, I suspect the language contains elements of poetic presentation that are lost in translation. Nevertheless, the dialogue is rich and complex, expressing a great range of emotions. The battle of the sexes that appears as the superficial theme of the play, is, of course, simply a literary device to carry the more contemporaneously dangerous theme of religious hypocrisy.
In the days before genetics was properly understood, the Father’s obsession with the question of paternity is understandable, vaguely pathetic but, at the same time, laudable. He wants what he perceives as the best for his child, but his motives are basically selfish, in that his reason for wanting her to be brought up with his beliefs is so that his own ‘spirit’ will have continued existence after his death. His concern, therefore, is not for his daughter, but for himself. Of course, this is the typical obsession of most religions: the safety of the supplicant’s soul being the driving force that’s supposed to make such followers into ‘good’ people.
A man of science, he’s plagued by doubts, and these uncertainties inevitably bleed into his faith. As more knowledge becomes available through scientific discovery, so the position of certainty that was previously held by the various churches rapidly becomes undermined. It’s within this world of change and its accompanying questioning of fundamental creeds that the play is set.
None of the characters in this play come out well. They are all driven by selfish motives and although love is recruited by the main players, it’s a false love, driven by selfish concerns rather than by care for those for whom it’s expressed.
Of its time in the way that women are considered less important than men, its employment of the Omphale myth demonstrates the Father’s ultimate feelings of emasculation by what he sees as his wife’s tricks.
This is tragedy in the true sense of the word; the flawed hero brought down by his inability to understand and modify his own character to deal with realities. Although not an entertainment, this is a play I would gladly see performed, were it ever produced at a theatre accessible to me.