Stuart Aken's Blog, page 257

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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Related articles Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 35 Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 34 Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 33 Read my Romantic Thriller, Free: Chapter 32

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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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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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 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.
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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