Stuart Aken's Blog, page 259

Reading to Write

Writers need to read, in the same way that painters need to visit galleries, plumbers need to visit home improvement shows, computer programmers need to keep up to date with online developments and pianists need to listen to music. We gain our knowledge of what works best by soaking ourselves in the best that’s out there. But, if we don’t read the work of others, how can we know what is best, how can we understand whether our efforts are poor, mediocre, good or bloody wonderful by comparison? It’s very easy, and very lazy, to believe that we, as creative artists, can exist outside the work of others. That our work exists in isolation, untainted by contact with other creative minds. Not only is this lazy, however; it’s crap. All art is derivative. If you don’t think that’s true, you haven’t read enough.
There is a saying that there are only three, five, seven or nine plots, depending on which ‘scholar’ you consult on the issue. I think that’s an oversimplification, but the general idea is right. There are a limited number of ways in which a story can be told.
What each of us as individual writers brings to our own stories is our voice; a combination of experience, education, style, point of view, personality, location, and tone. Boy meets girl is, of course, the most frequently told story. But that basic premise is changed by each writer who approaches it. The tale told by a pessimistic, misogynist, right wing, catholic priest living on the edge of a swamp in Louisiana will be entirely different from the tale told by an optimistic, philanthropic, liberal brain surgeon living in a penthouse overlooking the River Thames. And that is so even if both writers are restricted to the same characters, settings and even incidents.
But, and this is where reading comes into it, the same story told by very similar people with similar experiences, even siblings and identical twins, will be different due to subconscious influences imparted by exposure to different authors. A writer who has dwelt in the world of the classics will write an entirely different story from the one who reads nothing but contemporary romance. Reading informs us in so many different ways. The best writing educates as it informs and entertains. Writing in the absence of reading, far from enabling originality and novelty, actually stunts the writer’s mind and leaves him wallowing in the false world of his own limited imagination. It might be a safe and exciting place to be; living inside your own mind, with your own ideas. But is it a place others will want to share? Is it a place that others will find enticing, exciting, enriching? You can’t know if you don’t read the work of others. Your judgement is inevitably skewed by your prejudice against anything that isn’t what you believe to be your own invention.
Many writers cite the fear of unconscious plagiarism as a reason not to read. This is understandable but mistaken. Unless a writer actually copies the words of another writer (and such does happen, though what these people hope to gain is uncertain) he is unlikely to plagiarise. He may take an interesting idea from another work. But his own voice will alter the tale and make it his own. He may discover a wonderful character, but his own experience will subtly alter that protagonist and, by placing the character within a different frame, the person on the page will be different from that first admired.
One other reason for a modern writer to read is, of course, the need to know what is currently being read in the field of interest or the genre in which the writer operates. It’s impossible to keep up with the multitude of books published daily, whatever type of fiction you produce. But it’s perfectly possible to gain a feeling for what is now being read, by reading what is now being written. I don’t mean the ‘latest’ or ‘best-selling’ books. I mean reading those works that are ‘of the age’, and that can include timeless works that have become classics as well as more modern works that have caught the imagination of the reading public. The timeframe for what is happening ‘now’ in any field will be wider than merely this year, this decade and, in some cases, even this century. Clearly, science fiction is subject to events that occur almost daily. But that doesn’t mean that a scifi story has to include the latest developments. It may mean, however, that a story on a given theme is no longer something that attracts readers. By reading, writers become attuned to what is uppermost in the minds of readers.
Theme is the aspect most affected by the passing of years. So, a modern writer would find it difficult to sell a piece that treated western women as goods and chattels, although the same story set in many contemporary Arabic cultures could be perfectly acceptable, since the customs and traditions in those lands remain locked in a past the west abandoned long ago.
But the single most important reason for a writer to read is that of judging the quality of his writing. Without the work of others with which to compare his output, the writer exists in isolation with only his own standards and limited knowledge and experience to filter his judgement. He must reach a distorted verdict on his own work; it’s inevitable.
So, if you want to write with a sense of certainty that your work is brilliant, with a confidence that will never be questioned by your own ego, don’t read the work of other writers. You’ll likely never sell much and only your family and friends will praise your work. But you’ll live in a falsely elevated state of self-delusion and will be forgotten by posterity, if you were ever noticed, that is.
If, on the other hand, you’d like real readers, real reviewers, real critics to enjoy your work and tell the reading world about them, you’d best read the work of others and learn from the excellent and the dire. Without such benchmarks, your inner critic has no reliable sources with which to make comparisons and you are destined to fail. Unless, of course, you really are a genius.
A great source of information about which books are worth reading, is the excellent online readers’ community, Goodreads. I recommend it to you all.
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Bedroom Farce, by Alan Ayckbourn, Reviewed.

Alan Ayckbourn, in Bedroom Farce, has written another in his series of very funny and insightful farces. A play, of course, is intended to be seen in order to be fully appreciated, but, as a playwright myself, I have an interest in reading the scripts.
This one is staged using three sets that appear together: three bedrooms, which allow the action of the interrelated couples to indulge in the farce of the title. However, what could so easily have descended into smut and exploitation of sexual mores, is instead a complex and well-observed comedy about English suburban life. Ayckbourn is a superb recorder of the idiosyncrasies of his family of English characters. He portrays them with love but doesn’t hold back in showing them for what they are. Often silly, sometimes selfish, frequently lacking in understanding, but never stereotypical, boring or trite.
He uses his sets to make points, giving the locations roles that place them as mute characters on stage to comment silently on the peculiarities, peccadillos, personalities and preferences of his flesh and blood characters. Imagination permits the reader to experience the text in much the same way as the theatre-goer might experience the performance. Though this is not to say that talented actors fail to raise more and greater laughs from the audience than the reader can develop from imagination alone.
Should this play be produced on a stage near me, I shall certainly attend and watch as the text is brought to life by performers who will undoubtedly enjoy the experience as much as the audience. And I’d recommend you to do the same. It’s a play full of laughter for the audience and brimming with under-stated and sometimes subtle asides at the characters. Well worth the reader’s and the viewer’s attention.
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Time Slips By So Easily.

On 7 June, I blogged about procrastination; probably the writer’s biggest barrier to success. In that post, I mentioned I was keeping a chart to log my activities and see where I really spent my time. That time chart ended when I’d completed it for 68 days. Why 68 days? I just felt I’d acquired enough data for the purpose and that it was time to evaluate it.
The first shock came when I realised how little time I devoted to actual writing-related activity. I have a part time ‘day’ job that allows me to put food into the mouths of my family and keep a reasonable roof over our heads. In common with 98% of writers, I have yet to reach the stage where my writing can support rather than supplement. The day job, including attendance and travel time, takes up about 25 hours per week.
Here’s the table of results I gathered:                                                                                                Hours   Per cent68 days                                                                                    1632    100%Sleep (about 7 hours per night)                                                   476      29%Domestic (eating, shopping, home maintenance, personal stuff,)   336      21%Office (attendance & travel to day job)                                       239      15%Relaxation (TV, music, films etc)                                                 189      12%Marketing (FB, Blog, Twitter, Pinterest,)                                       89        5%Emails (everything that’s not Twitter or Pinterest)                           74        5%Fitness (walks, bike rides, rests)                                                    66        4%Reading (novels, magazines & other books)                                   52        3%Editing (editing, formatting, submissions)                                 38        2%Artist (morning pages, photography, drawing)                                37        2%Technical (computer updates, security, internet research)               20        1%Writing (short stories, blog posts, reviews)                              16        1%                                                           
We go through life making certain assumptions. I style myself a ‘writer’; it’s how I visualise myself, how I aim to lead my life. It came as a shock to discover how little time I’d spent in actually writing. A salutary lesson, and one I’ve taken to heart already. I’d persuaded myself I spent much of my time in front of the keyboard and screen actually placing words in documents to produce new writing. If I tell you that the time chart revealed that I spent no more than 5%, that’s FIVE per cent, of my available writing time in actually writing, I think you’ll understand my shock and dismay.
This is the modified version of the table as it relates to writing activity:
Marketing (FB, Blog, Twitter, Pinterest,)               89        27%Emails (everything that’s not Twitter or Pinterest)  74        23%Reading (novels, mags & other books)                 52        16%Editing (editing, formatting, submissions)       38        12%Artist (morning pages, photography, drawing)      37        11%Technical (comp updates, security, int research)   20        6%Writing (short stories, blog posts, reviews)     16        5%
Total time for writing activities (34 hours per week) 326      20%

(sorry the tables aren't aligned - Blogger uses different code from MS Word and I'm damned if I know how to correct this!)
So, my total working week involves 59 hours; hardly that of a sluggard, I think.
I was completing Julia Cameron’s course, The Artist’s Way, at the start of the measuring period; in fact the course was a material influence on my decision to carry out the assessment. So, thank you, Julia! She suggests a series of writing exercises, called ‘morning pages’ and also says all creatives should make an artist’s date with themselves for at least 2 hours per week, which is why those activitiesare included in the table.
I don’t need to explain the rest; it’s patently obvious. But it seems I had fallen into that trap so much lauded on the internet by various groups, organisations and ‘experts’: A writer must develop an ‘Author Platform’ on the web in order to become visible.
Most of my valuable writing time had been spent in building that platform, using social media such as Twitter(3,570 followers), Facebook Author page (244 ‘likes’), Facebook itself  (1,524 friends), Goodreads (1,491 friends), LinkedIn(1,926 connections),  and, more recently, Pinterest (278 followers). The activity to sustain a presence on these sites is time-consuming and some, especially Pinterest, can be addictive (be warned!). Had this time resulted in substantial book sales? The simple answer is, ‘NO’. Add to this, my other activities on such sites as Digg, a site under significant re-development, StumbleUpon (242 connections), and Klout a system intended to measure influence on the web, but one I find confusing and not at all user friendly, and where I have a score of 50 (the average is 20, apparently).  I’m also involved in Foursquare (12 friends) and Tripadvisor (970 friends). Enough said!
So, to the outcome. It’s always been my aim to write something new every day. Not always easy, as I have to rise at 06:30 Monday to Wednesday in order to get to the day job on time, and mornings are by far my most creatively productive times. I suffered from ME for 8 years and am still in the recovery phase, so I need to rest after physical activity, and that includes attendance at the office. So, I’m occasionally restricted. But that’s no excuse for not writing as a priority. What’s happened is that priorities have become distorted by activity undertaken to build a presence on the web.
The solution?
I’ve developed a new time chart, measuring only those activities to do with writing, so that I can keep a constant eye on where my time goes. I’ve decided, and this post is an example, to make writing my first activity every day that I enter my study. So far today I haven’t looked at my emails and my only activity online has been to obtain links for this post. Will the discipline, combined with a new awareness, allow me to spend more time on those writing activities that really matter: creating, editing, submitting and reading? Only time will tell. And I’ll let you know in a couple of months how I’m getting on. I invite you to undertake a similar assessment and see whether you’re using your available time to best advantage. It might surprise, shock or delight you; who knows?
Those uninterested in the technical aspects of the exercise can stop here. For those who want to emulate the process, however, please read on:
I’d set up my time chart on MS Excel, with columns for date, activity name, activity code, start time, end time and, using a simple formula, time spent. This allowed me to modify the spread sheet so that I could create totals for each of the specific tasks I’d nominated. I had headings to cover Domestic, Office, Marketing, Email, Fitness, Reading, Editing, Artist, Technical and Writing. These were ‘group’ headings that allowed me to include all those various jobs we undertake in our daily lives. I’ve attached a sample below to indicate what this actually looked like. If you decide to do something similar, and I strongly advise you to do so, this might act as a guide for you.
I’m no expert with MS Excel, so it took me a little time to understand how I could use formulae to work out how much total time had been spent on each of the specified tasks. But the Help menu actually came to the rescue on this occasion (it appears that, when trying to total ‘time’ the straightforward ∑ autosum function won’t work, it merely returns a value that states a time of day. To arrive at the total time, you use ∑autosum and then right click on the cell where the total will be created, select ‘format cells’ then ‘custom’ from the drop down ‘number’ list and pick ‘[h]:mm:ss’ from the list presented.  I hope that helps!
Dissecting and evaluating the data was a little tedious, but worth the effort, I think. And here’s the promised sample of my original spread sheet.  Good luck.



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Read my Romantic Thriller, Free: Chapter 29

If you’re a visitor to this blog who hasn’t started reading Breaking Faith, perhaps looking at the reviews on the 'My Books' may persuade you to give it a try.
To those continuing the journey, I say, ‘Enjoy the ride.’
I posted Chapter 1 way back on 13 January. Subsequent chapters have appeared each Friday, and will continue to be posted until all 50 have appeared 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 to join us.
Chapter 29
Thursday 3rd June
I couldn’t hide my shock at his appearance. Greyish yellow skin was drawn like parchment over his facial bones to make him gaunt. His hair was patched grey with baldness between.He smiled in spite of my open horror and beckoned me to him.‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to …’‘It’s okay, Faith. Leigh explained. It’s refreshing to have an honest opinion. I’m only sorry I frightened you.’I knew at once I could love this man. Generosity shone out of him and he meant what he’d said to me.‘Not frightened. Appalled by your suffering.’His smile broadened. ‘No prizes for diplomacy. Top marks for directness. Faith, I’m heartily pleased to meet you.’He patted the bed and I sat close enough to him that I could smell the pain in his sweat, see the open welcome in his eyes. ‘I can’t call you Mr Lengdon, and David seems all wrong to me. May I call you Dad? Father is the term I used for Heacham and I can’t fit it to you at all.’‘It’s what I am, apparently. Dad sounds every bit as wonderful as it is unexpected.’‘Mum wanted to come, but she and Leigh said I should come on my own the first time.’‘Matilda. Oh, would that she had told me. How different it would have been. How infinitely better would’ve been my life, and perhaps yours.’That this man might have raised me, in tandem with my Mum, instead of Heacham was too much to contemplate. I had to ignore that unlived life for the moment. ‘She thought your career would suffer if you knew she was…’He started to laugh and the dry croaky sound quickly changed to a hacking cough that shook his body and had him gasping for breath. The dog stood and looked at him with alarm. I found myself unable to do anything to stop his suffering and felt so frustrated by my helplessness. Eric came and held him, rubbing his back and slowly calming the fit. He glared at me accusingly.Once he was back in control, he waved a dismissive hand at Eric and nodded his recovery. Eric left us, but Dad remained silent for a long time. The dog sat again. I put out my hand to stroke him. He raised his head and looked at me with those big brown eyes before sticking his nose into my outstretched hand. I stroked his head gently and he relaxed and lay down. When I turned to face Dad, he was ready to talk again.‘Sorry I alarmed you. Laughter’s great medicine for the living but poison for me. It was your reference to my career, Faith. You see, I abandoned it within weeks of reaching the States. I’d had a burning fascination for literature all my life but the professors in the university I attended, were pseudo intellectuals who made an easy living from shallow analysis of creative works. They reduced the art and mastery of writing to a set of predetermined categories, and woe betide any work that defied their definition or refused to be confined within the limits imposed by their narrow minds. Sorry, I’m waffling. I discovered I wanted no part of the modern literary scene across the pond and I was particularly anxious not to spread the infection to this side of the water.‘When I returned, I worked out my contract at the college and left education. Eric provided me with work and later with a partnership in his business. I found building walls more satisfying than stringing words together for fools.’‘Disappointing. Mum says you were talented, and I think your poetry is evocative and relevant. She expected you to become a great writer. I think it’s very sad that you abandoned a promising career as a writer who might breach barriers to understanding just to become an anonymous builder of boundaries.’He looked at me with such pain in his eyes that I knew I’d touched something raw in the very centre of him and had opened my mouth too literally again. I leant forward and hugged him as best I could whilst he lay against his pillow. ‘I’m so sorry, Daddy.’ My tears of sadness, pity, love and utter confusion trickled onto his cheek and his shoulder and I felt his arms embrace me, his hands stroke my back with such tenderness I sobbed uncontrollably.Soft words reached my ears and I knew I was forgiven and he was chastened and somehow made more whole for my accusation. I came to stillness and wiped my eyes dry, blew my nose and made a rueful smile. He shook his head at me but there was generosity and forgiveness where Heacham would have punished me with pain and cruelty.‘Truth is a weapon that can kill, a lance that can drain the poison from falsity, a light that can illuminate the darkest cave of self-deception. But truth is rarely comfortable and certainly never kind if unrestrained by compassion. That’s what you’ll learn, Faith, as you experience your life. Leigh gave me some clues about your forthright nature and the reason for it. But you are, of course, right. It was a sort of cowardice against a force I felt was too enormous to battle alone. Perhaps if I’d had Matilda…. As for the walls I’ve built, sometimes it’s necessary to fence one thing from another, for practical reasons of animal husbandry as well as the more philosophical demands of warring neighbours. I hope my walls have been positive rather than divisive.’I wanted to know this remarkable man. I wanted to gather as much information about him as I could. ‘How old are you, Dad?’‘You don’t know how good it is to hear that, to know that I’ve given something more to the world than dry stone walls and a thin folio of second rate verse. I have a daughter to leave behind when I’m ash blowing in the winds, a beautiful daughter of whom I can be proud. I’m fifty-nine. Matilda will be forty next January. She was still a teenager when I seduced her, but Matilda was a woman well before I knew her. I was not her first, though she was mine, and I was not her last, though she was mine in that also.’‘But you were the only one she ever loved; still loves, in fact. And I doubt you did the seducing. I’ve watched her with men. She’s very beautiful, you know. Netta takes after her in looks but her father gave her her colouring. Hope, of course, is pretty enough but you can’t really compare her in all fairness.’‘What happened to Charity?’‘Sorry?’‘Faith, Hope…?’‘Oh. Netta’s first name is Charity. She uses Netta because she prefers it; it’s short for Bernadette, her second name.’‘So, Matilda married a pious man. Was he the only one she could persuade to marry her in her condition?’‘A hypocrite of the worst sort. And a fool; though I’ve only come to realize that very recently. Matilda got him to believe I was his child even though she was already two months pregnant when she first had sex with him. Hope’s the only child he actually fathered and she has the mind of a baby in the body of a woman. I nursed her all my life whilst I lived at the cottage with Heacham. Netta doesn’t know who her father is; Mum won’t tell her. But she told me about you and gave me enough information to start a search for you. I’m glad I did.’‘So am I. Have you abandoned your disabled sister?’‘He was raping her whilst I was out at work. They’ve put her into residential care now. He’s in the police cells again. He beat Netta when he was out on bail. They’ll keep him locked up until he comes to trial for raping Hope.’‘Unlikely, the judiciary and police are not noted for their protection of women against such men. He’ll be back on the streets soon enough. Make sure you’re not in any danger from him.’‘I’ve had my last beating. Leigh threatened to castrate Heacham with a blunt saw if he touched me again and I imagine the B believed him. Leigh can be terrifying when he’s angry. In any case, I don’t wander the fells wearing almost nothing or pose naked for Leigh’s camera, so he’s no real cause.’‘Did he ever have real cause to beat you, Faith?’I hadn’t thought about that recently; too many other things had been happening around and to me. ‘No. Now I look back at my life, he never had good cause. Never.’‘And this is the man who reared you?’‘He kept me from school once Mum left, when I was six. That’s when he realized Netta wasn’t his and threw them out. I looked after him and Hope until I was old enough to work and then I looked after them both and worked. Leigh may be a wicked, shallow, philandering pornographer, but he’s given me a home, a job, security, self-respect and education. And he’s never once tried to do anything improper. Not that he needs that sort of thing from me; he’s no shortage of female admirers ready to give him all the sex he wants and to pose for his photographs.’‘Is Leigh a pornographer? He struck me as too much of a lover to work in such a field.’‘He takes pictures of women without their clothes, sometimes in underwear, sometimes completely naked. That’s mostly pornography, isn’t it?’‘Simple nudity and certain types of partial clothing doesn’t, on its own, render a woman the object of the pornographer’s errant desires. Sometimes it simply makes the depiction of the woman an example of erotic art. But, who knows? One man’s’ pornography is another’s eroticism.’‘You sound like Leigh, but a bit more cultured. I suppose, for all men, pictures of naked women are just echoes of their desires for sex. They don’t understand how they make women into objects most of the time. Just another example of the way society’s skewed in men’s favour.’Dad and Eric exchanged glances and I realized I’d said too much again. I had to change the subject and get him talking about himself again. ‘How did you meet Eric?’Eric nodded at me. ‘David’s weary, lass. He needs a rest for a while. Come into the kitchen for a cuppa and I’ll tell you what you want to know.’I looked and saw the tiredness on Dad’s face. I bent and kissed his forehead. ‘Have a sleep, Dad. I’ll talk with you again before I go.’He made no protest, simply smiling his assent.Eric pottered in the small, homely kitchen as he prepared a pot of tea for us. ‘You’re a modern lass, Faith, even if you’re not a woman of the world. You’ll hear it soon enough from other folk, so let me tell you myself that I’m not like your Leigh or your dad. I’m the sort of man who can’t love a woman. A homo, bumboy, queer, fag or any other name you can shout from fear and prejudice. ‘Cept I don’t practice my perversion. I am, and always have been, celibate.‘But I love your dad. He doesn’t love me that way, of course, but he’s fond of me and values my friendship. I’m telling you this because you’ve little enough time to get to know David and I want no misunderstandings between you. I can see you’re a fair minded lass, even if you are brutally honest, and I trust you’ll not judge me too harshly for my deviant nature.’‘I don’t judge. One of the few things of value I learned from Heacham was that judgement requires wisdom. Since I don’t have that, I don’t judge. I don’t understand your deviation, Eric; it seems to me to have no biological or evolutionary function. But I don’t condemn you for what you are. When I think of the way Heacham behaved with Hope and the way Mervyn was with Netta, I have to conclude that your way of loving is more wholesome and less destructive than some so-called normal relationships.’‘Leigh warned us you was outspoken. Knew I was right to confide in you, though. Thanks, lass. Your dad and me met when I was demonstrating of dry stone walling at Kilnsey Fair. He had a go and I could see he had talent. He was strong and tanned at the time and he was out of work so I took him on as my apprentice, in spite of his years. He’s quick, David. Just a few weeks and he was skilled enough to work on his own. By the end of the year, he’d enough knowledge and experience to do even the difficult work and I offered him a partnership. Course, I’d not have done that if I hadn’t fallen in love with him by then. He moved in with me and we worked as a team with a couple of young lads as labourers. When David fell ill and it was clear he wasn’t going to recover, we sold the business to the lads and I devoted myself to caring for him. That was just over a year ago.‘I love your dad, lass. Never had no children and he’s like a son to me. If he hadn’t fallen ill, everything I own would’ve become his on my death. I’m an old man and it’s only David has kept me going these last few years. I’m weary, to tell the truth. When your dad goes I’ll not be far behind.’It was pointless to argue with him. Everything he said and did illustrated his point. I knew I should make some sort of protest, encourage him to be more positive, but I also knew he neither wanted nor expected such false comfort.‘Thank you for your honesty and trust, Eric. I appreciate it.’He buttered thick slices of uncut brown bread and put a slab of cheese on the table with a jar of pickled onions and some tomato chutney. ‘Help yourself, lass. Your dad’ll have a bit of soup when he wakes.’‘Does he sleep a lot?’‘In the day. There’s times he can get up and walk about for a couple of hours; even go out onto the fells, weather permitting. But most of the time, he’s in his bed. Nights are worst. It’s like the blackness seeps into his soul and he gets right depressed. I’m hoping you’ll relieve that a bit. Give him something positive to think on.’‘Eric, I have to ask you this, knowing how you feel about him, and I don’t want to hurt you. Mum wants to see him again. Can you bear to have her visit?’‘You’re a sensitive soul, Faith. You mean; can I bear him to be with the woman who has that part of him I can’t have? Can I sit and watch him with her, let her touch his skin and kiss him? Knowin’ what I’ve gathered of Matilda, maybe even have sex with him?’ He became silent and I waited, the slice of buttered bread slowly drooping in my fingers.‘Yes. I can bear it. For him. You see, lass, I love him. And that means I want what he’d want for himself, I want for him to be happy. Matilda’ll make him happy. I saw how he was with you and I know he’ll talk about you endlessly when you’ve gone. He’ll gain that pleasure from your company; from having you as a daughter and knowin’ there’s someone who’ll still be part of him when he’s gone.‘Matilda, though, he’ll not mention to me when she’s been. He’ll not torture me with tales of tenderness and longing, passion and lust. He’ll not make me suffer by describing things I can never share with him. So, Matilda’ll give him the physical love I can’t, you’ll give him a sense of family and the devotion of a good daughter. I’ll give him chaste and spiritual love that serves and sacrifices and cares without expectation of reward. In our ways, we’ll all gain a bit of happiness along the way. It’s more than I expected of his last days and much more than I could’ve dreamed possible.’We stayed in the kitchen for a couple of hours until Eric told me Dad was awake again. I’ve no idea how he knew. We returned to the front room and I spent the last part of the afternoon with him, learning more about his love of reading and his joy in things natural. When Leigh eventually arrived to collect me, I had no idea he was late.‘Has this young angel told you she’ll be twenty one in August?’Dad shook his head.Leigh glanced at me. ‘She’s no idea, you know. Anyway, there’ll be a party at Longhouse for her. Are you up to attending?’‘He’s not up to gadding about…’‘I think David’s capable of answering for himself, Eric.’Eric was seething and would have said more but Dad raised his hand in supplication.‘If I’m still around and if I’m still mobile, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’‘Good. That’s settled then. It’s a date. And the pair of you can stay overnight so you don’t have to make the journey both ways in one day.’I kissed Leigh for his generosity and Dad watched me with interest, speculation rife on his face.‘Don’t know what you’re so pleased about, Faith. Your Dad’ll be having your bed so you’ll probably have to kip on the sofa.’‘Tell you what, since it’s my birthday, Netta can have the sofa, I’ll have the spare room Mum normally uses and she can sleep with you.’Their faces told me I’d said the wrong thing. It took a little while to sink in and then I blushed to my hair roots. They all grinned then, at my discomfort, but I knew I’d made a serious mistake.‘Home, wench, before you commit any more faux pas.’‘You’ll bring her again, soon, Leigh?’‘If he doesn’t, I’ll walk.’My dad hugged me.‘You think she’s joking. She would walk, all thirty miles, over the fells, if she had to. But I’ll bring her. Sunday?’‘If she wants to come Saturday, she can stay the night.’I thanked Eric for his offer and Leigh nodded his agreement. ‘I’ll bring Matilda, stay for a couple of hours, then take her back and leave Faith with you. How’s that?’‘Sounds like heaven to me.’‘Grand.’ Eric gave his assent willingly, matching his earlier words with his actions.
###
If you're impatient for the next chapter, you know where you can buy the book in paperback or ebook format for whatever ereader you use. If you do, please write a review and post it wherever you can - 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/StuartAkenMy website has links to 100s of other sites of interest: http://stuartaken.co.ukRead on Goodreads:  http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4234877.Stuart_AkenStumble with me: http://www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/stuartakenCome Digg with me: http://digg.com/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)         
Related articles Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 26 Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 25 Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 24 Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 23

Writer’s Block; What’s That?

Cover via Amazon
The following piece was written in a single session, using techniques taken from Dorothea Brande’s Becoming a Writer and Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way . The modern tendency toward scepticism will prevent many believing that I present this piece exactly as it was first written. Nevertheless, that’s the case. I haven’t edited the piece in any way. It remains precisely as it came from the ends of my fingers. I don’t present this to illustrate anything other than the assertion that it’s possible to sit down in front of a blank piece of paper with no idea what you want to write and come up with something that is, at least, a basis for some better, more polished and edited piece. It was started to get my own creative juices going. That it turned into this illustration is a combination of good fortune and my determination not to allow the inner policeman to place barriers in my way whilst creating.
I have subsequently read through the piece, but I’ve made no alterations at all. None. If you have ever suffered from any form of writer’s block, I urge you to read on. It shows, demonstrates, the reality of the process of enabling your inner artist. Oh, and by the way, I note that at one stage it says it took about twenty minutes. That was a guestimate, written at that point in the piece. It actually took forty six minutes in total. I know this because I’m currently keeping a time chart of my activities so I know how I really spend my time.
####
Sometimes it’s necessary simply to place words on paper, with no knowledge of where they will take you. Being blocked, lacking ideas, is often no more than a failure to be brave. That blank page can become a barrier. Filling it with words, no matter what they say, can break that barrier and set off the writer on a journey of adventure, romance, fantasy, or whatever direction the subconscious decides to take you.
The point is not to be afraid, not to allow the unknown to govern your creativity. Allow that inner creative voice its head, give it freedom. Ignore all the rules and laws and advice about sentence structure, planning and genre. This is a way to free your spirit and allow the creative artist inside you to soar.
Sometimes, faced with such a blank space, you will indulge in utter rubbish for a while. The words will mean nothing, even when you look at them later, and especially as you place them in lines on the page. But that isn’t important. The very act of writing results in more writing. If you’re a writer, if you’re an artist, a creator, the ideas will eventually come to you. They’ll sneak up when you’re not looking and suddenly you’ll have the germ of a story. I don’t know how this will work for everyone, I only know that it does work in varying degrees for all those who have any creative urge.
For me, it’s possible to sit down at the keyboard with absolutely no preconceived ideas, no knowledge of a character, no story thread, and end up with a short story at a single sitting./ Sometimes, I need longer, more sessions, but I frequently end up with a story at the end of the process. The important thing is not to think about what you’re writing, not to allow the search for the right word to get in the way. If this means that you put down the same word seventeen times in a row, it’s not important. The exercise is about getting over that block that’s preventing you from creating. Ignore grammar, spelling, syntax and appropriate language. If expletives come to you use them, or, more accurately, allow them space on the page. You can always remove them when you go back to do your edit.
And that’s the real point here. What you’re doing is allowing the creative side of your brain to play without that irritatingly perfectionist editing policeman to look over your shoulder with his corrections and insistence on proper sentence formation. If you seek perfection at the moment of creativity, you’ll never create a thing. Do you suppose Michelangelo produced his works without error, Did Da Vinci make no mistakes along the path to genius? Were Shakespeare’s first drafts the works you now see performed on stage and screen the world over? Of course not. You see the finished article, the polished piece, from all published artists. What you don’t see is the stumbles and wrong paths, the mistakes and glaring errors of grammar they made along the route to that brilliant perfect work. If you insist on comparing your fledgling work with the final output of an accomplished master, you’ll always be poor by comparison. Wait until you’ve finished the piece before you start to make comparisons, if you must.
This piece started off as an exercise to write a new story. Seriously, that is what I had in mind when I sat at the keyboard. That it turned into this piece is simply an illustration of my point. That allowing your creative self to take ascendency will eventually produce a piece of written work with some value. It may need some work; it may need completely re-writing. It may be no more than the germ of a story that you can later turn into the work you envisaged at the start. But it will be a piece of writing that has carried you over the block. It’s because I’ve used this technique almost all my writing life that I’ve never actually suffered writer’s block. There have been odd times when I’ve turned out something like this rather than a piece of fiction, but I’ve always been able to place words on paper.
It’s about taking the plunge, being brave. It’s about ignoring that ingrained school lesson that everything must be right. It’s about trusting your inner artist. As Julia Cameron says in The Artist’s Way, you need to treat your inner artist as a child. Allow it to play. Give it the freedom to make mistakes, we learn from such mistakes. And, in the end, when it comes to writing, what has been lost if you produce a page that’s mostly gobbledegook? A few moments of your time? Nothing more. But the gains that are possible form such an exercise are enormous.
I set out with a blank sheet this morning. These words, exactly as they are now, took me about twenty minutes to write. But only because I deliberately refused to allow my inner policeman to interfere as I produced the idea. Of course, I did correct the odd typo as I went along, but I’ve been doing this for years. If it’s your first time, I suggest you avoid even looking at the screen or the piece of paper, if you’re writing by hand. That way you have no reason to backtrack. I have the excuse that, as time went past, I realised I had a piece for my blog. But, I want to be as honest as convention permits. So, I’m making the decision now not to edit this piece, but to publish it as it came from my finger ends. If I can do this, knowing that it will be read by many people, surely you can do it, knowing you can go back at a later date and make your words perfect, correct any syntactical or grammatical errors, remove any repetitions.
So, that’s my challenge to you. Start off your day with that blank sheet of paper and just write those words that flow, regardless of order, grammar, syntax, spelling or even sense. These are words to get your creative spirit out into the open. Consider them the same as those first strokes of preparation painters make on their blank canvass. But remember that, for most painters, they have the advantage of a subject actually before them. You, as a writer, may have no more than the accumulated experience of your lifetime and the words you’ve read from others. By allowing your inner artist to overcome the inner policeman, you might just turn out the foundation of a piece that you can turn into that work of genius.
So. There you have it. I’ve probably repeated myself, used inappropriate words, missed out words here and there. But, truthfully, this piece has not been edited. It would be worthless if I’d done that. It is, after all, intended as an illustration of what can be achieved by getting that damned policeman off your shoulder and letting your artist out to play.#### Cover of BECOMING A WRITER
I blush at the errors in the piece, but I hope this has been useful for you. I’d welcome your comments. Thanks for reading this.
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Treasure of Khan, by Clive Cussler, Reviewed

Cover of Treasure of Khan (Dirk Pitt)
As a writer, I don’t read in the same way as a general reader, so my comments here may not be as helpful as they might otherwise be. Clive Cussler is, of course, a well-known thriller writer with a large number of sales to his name. If Treasure of Khan is representative of his style, however, I have to ask the simple question; why?
In common with most people these days, I have a limited amount of time, and my reading choices are therefore important: I’ve no desire to spend time reading something which is poorly written, when there’s such a wealth of well-written work out there. This book is supposed to be a thriller. The genre has the reputation of racing the reader through events, using action to drive interest. Character is, understandably, a less vital part of such books and I took up this book knowing such would be the case.
The story starts in 13th century Japan, moves in the next chapter to China during its war with Japan and then travels to Siberia in 2007. In 3 chapters we have travelled a vast region of an area with which most readers have no connection and little knowledge. There’s no apparent link between the events described in these opening chapters, but, hey, this is supposed to be an adventure story and, eventually, the back story will hopefully appear relevant. I’ll never know, however, because, although the action has already started by this point, I’ve lost all interest. I’m not hooked. I don’t care about what might or might not happen next. I have better things to do than invest more time in this particular pot-boiler.
There will be Cussler fans who will, no doubt, accuse me of blindness or some unspecified bias. But the simple fact is that this thriller failed to thrill, in any sense of the word. I was bored by the multitude of apparently unlinked facts, uninterested in any of the characters, confused by the apparent lack of any actual story thread and unmoved by the action scenes. These, the very essence of the thriller, were tedious and written in a style more suited to a factual report than to the presentation of exciting fiction.
I expected the characters to be two-dimensional, but not as cardboard as I found them. I expected to be moved to the edge of my seat and not bored into lethargy and total indifference, as I was. In defence of Cussler, I gather this is the umpteenth volume in a series starring the same major character; that, however, doesn’t excuse inadequate characterisation for those new to the series. Certainly, on the evidence of this book, I shan’t waste my time picking up another by the same author.
Ironically, this was one of four novels enclosed in a single volume I received free as a sampler from a book club. The other three books were excellent, so this piece stood out like the proverbial thumb; sore and in need of amputation.
So, sorry Cussler fans, I shan’t be joining your ranks. I hope you enjoy your fiction by this author but I seriously hope he, in turn, rewards your devotion by producing books of a far better quality than I found in Treasure of Khan. Unless someone tells me, I shall never know what that treasure was, and, to tell the truth, I really couldn’t care less. Need I say more?
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Read my Romantic Thriller, Free: Chapter 28

If you’re a visitor to this blog who hasn’t started reading Breaking Faith, perhaps looking at the reviews on the 'My Books' may persuade you to give it a try.
To those continuing the journey, I say, ‘Enjoy the ride.’
I posted Chapter 1 way back on 13 January. Subsequent chapters have appeared each Friday, and will continue to be posted until all 50 have appeared 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 to join us.
Chapter 28
Wednesday 2nd June
‘Faith, for you.’Zizi handed me the phone that had woken us. She sauntered onto her narrow balcony for her first fix, overlooking the crowded street below and the office block opposite. She inhaled her chosen poison in a deep, shuddering breath as I brought the handset to my ear.‘Hi, Faith, how’s things?’‘Heacham’s beaten Netta broken her skin badly hurt her you’ve got to come home right now she’s been crying for you Leigh I tried to get you but there was no answer and Ma said I had to wait ‘til this morning before I tried again she’s badly hurt she needs you you should be here.’All in one breath and without a pause. It took a while to get through. Zizi, using her free hand to raise her tee shirt, took some of my attention. ‘What?’‘Listen, Leigh! Netta’s been badly hurt. Heacham’s beaten her. Mervyn sent him some of your pictures. She needs you here, and she needs you now.’‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m on my way.’Zizi turned back, as I replaced the handset, and crushed the fag against the wall before dropping it to the balcony floor. She peeled the tee shirt over her head and came back inside. ‘You promised me all of Thursday, Leigh.’‘I can give you another hour or so, Zizi.’I told her what had happened and she shelved her interest in sex with me. Without persuasion, she pack for me and made some breakfast as I showered. She accompanied me downstairs, wrapped in peach silk that left the length of her wonderful legs uncovered.Two male students in the flat below saw her pass their open door. ‘Our balcony’s in full sun if you want to work on that all over tan, Zoë.’‘Depends what you’re charging, boys.’‘Just the usual.’‘Tempting.’She left me to wonder whether she’d accept their offer when I’d gone. I hoped she would; I was sorry to disappoint her by leaving so soon. At the door, she slipped the knot in the belt to remind me what I was leaving and then embraced me with love. ‘See you soon, Leigh?’‘I hope so, Zizi, my love.’‘Tell Faith to hang on in there for me. And to keep her promise, no matter what.’Another mysterious message; passed from one woman I loved and couldn’t have to another I was beginning to love and wasn’t sure whether I should have or not anymore.Zizi stayed shaded by the doorway as she waved goodbye, a shadow promising all and reminding me of what I was missing by leaving.Faith was in the office watching for me. She ran to the gate, fresh and lovely and bright in the sunshine as she opened the gate. A promise of things to come, provided I treated her with the circumspection and patience Paul had advised. But her expression of concern flickered only briefly to pleasure at seeing me again; at least I hoped that was the cause of the fleeting smile.‘Leave your bags, I’ll take them. She’s in the spare room opposite mine.’I kissed her lovely mouth and held her longer than the simple greeting required and was gratified that she relaxed and responded quite naturally. ‘And I’m please to see you, too, Faith.’She gave a little moue of apology. ‘She’s hurt, Leigh. She needs you.’ And she dived into the car for my things as I went into the house.Netta rose unsteadily as I entered and turned so I could examine her wounds, many of them dressed in bandages. I took her hand and kissed her ear to avoid the bruised and broken skin. It was an amplified echo of Faith’s beating and it was clear who’d done it. Why, however, was less obvious.Matilda and Ma expounded their theory as Netta slept beneath her narcotic blanket later that evening. I was inclined to believe they had it about right but determined to discover as much of the truth as I could for myself. In the meantime, since I could do nothing for Netta that night, I made a secret call after dinner and then passed some news to Faith.‘What’s on tomorrow, Faith?’‘Nothing for you, since you were supposed to be travelling home. I was going to do some printing, why?’‘Good. Sort out some glad rags. I’m taking you to see your father in the morning.’ Anyone would think I’d announced her forthcoming execution.‘God, Leigh, for a man who knows women, you sometimes show precious little understanding of our fears. Why the hell are you taking her to see Heacham after this…?’I frowned at Matilda. ‘Heacham? I’m taking her to see her father, her real father; David Lengdon. And, naturally, I thought she’d be pleased.’‘I am pleased. And stop talking about me as though I wasn’t here. I had enough of that in my village idiot days. I’m just terrified, that’s all.’‘He’s a gentleman. You’ve nothing to fear.’‘You’ve met him?’ Her eagerness almost undid me.I very nearly confessed the whole of it to her. But Matilda was suddenly more than just interested and she stopped me ruining the surprise for Faith. ‘How? How did you find him? When? Where is he?’‘You never told Matilda you’d discovered his address?’‘I didn’t want to raise her hopes. Not until I knew the situation. He might be married and have a family…’‘Is he? Has he…?’I told Matilda of Faith’s search and then told both of them about my meeting, barely hinting at the man’s sickness. I had no wish for Faith to spend the night worrying about his health when there was nothing she could do about it. Time enough for that in the morning. I left Faith to explain to her mother exactly how she’d discovered his whereabouts and went up to spend a short vigil at Netta’s bedside.I kissed Netta’s sleeping forehead as Faith came to take over; Netta was still showing signs of fear in the night. Matilda had gone to the bathroom earlier and I called a soft goodnight to her through the open door of her room but received no reply. I assumed she must have gone to bed so I showered quickly and went to my own lonely bed.‘I’ve set the alarm to wake me at three so I can relieve Faith. But I’m hoping not to get much sleep, Leigh. Can’t have you sleeping alone when there’s willing woman free, can we? In any case, you deserve a reward for what you’ve done for Faith, and for me, you lovely man.’Matilda was absent when I woke around seven. I found her sitting beside Netta’s bed reading in the soft light from the window. For a woman who hadn’t slept, she looked remarkably fresh.‘Amazing.’ I kissed her.‘You certainly are.’ Her voice was a whisper to protect Netta’s sleep.I went to shower, only to discover Faith in there, washing her hair and looking so tempting with the suds running down her skin. ‘Sorry.’The house was becoming full of women. It was time I considered a second bathroom.Breakfast was full of anticipation and eager speculation. I let them talk, unwilling to spoil their dreams with reality at this early stage.Faith’s eagerness continued in the car. ‘Matilda really wanted to come with me, you know, and I said she could.’I concentrated on the road for a few seconds, putting off the moment I’d have to impart the bad news. ‘She was wise to give you this chance to meet him on your own first. Her own meeting may be less happy than she imagines. There’s something you need to know and there’s no easy way to tell you, Faith. I won’t treat you like a baby because I know how brave you are.’She stiffened, waiting for the shock.‘David has cancer.’ I let that sink in.‘He’s dying, then? How long; do you know?’I should have expected her matter-of-fact bravery but she continued to surprise me with her ability to overcome her emotions with practical considerations.‘Maybe a few weeks, perhaps as long as eighteen months.’She remained silent for the rest of the journey until we reached the cottage. I stopped the car.‘I could just say I won’t meet him, I suppose. And risk breaking his heart.’‘Or you can meet him, knowing for certain that you’ll break your own.’‘So. No choice at all. Are you coming in with me?’I walked her to the cottage where Eric was already waiting. Bruce, beside him, made no sound this time, but looked up at me through soulful eyes before giving his attention to Faith who scratched behind his ears.‘I’ve an errand after all. Be back about four, if that’s okay?’Eric nodded and appraised Faith’s clothes rather than her body and I suddenly understood. The thought initially fed my subconscious conditioning and I was momentarily revolted. Then I saw that David wouldn’t reciprocate and I was visited by the pathos of such love unrequited for so long. Eric must be a sad and lonely man. I shook his hand in a gesture we both only partly comprehended and then left him to discover Faith and to care for the man he loved.It was not the most fitting way to begin a journey I expected to end in violence. Too tender by half. But, driving over the fells, I recalled the stripes and cruel wheals that marked my gorgeous Netta’s skin, the damage to her beautiful face, and my anger rekindled.The hot dry weather had continued and the track leading to the farm was no longer the usual muddy path but a narrow road littered with hard ridges and deep, dry dips. I drove carefully and parked at the edge of the filthy farmyard. There was animal muck everywhere. Rusting machinery lay abandoned where it had been left. Barbed wire tied rotting fence posts to rails, forming inefficient and dangerous barriers.‘Merv!’My voice carried only a short distance, deadened by the heat and the muck that seemed to overlay the whole place. The back door was ajar. Beside it, a small pile of fresh cow muck steamed and buzzed with flies and cleggs. I pushed the door and a Rhode Island Red jumped off the kitchen table and fluttered, clucking in panic, further into the house.‘Merv?’No reply and no sign of life.I knew they had an ancient Land Rover but there was no sign of it. I toured the cowsheds and barns but found no one. As I turned back toward the house, my eye caught a movement through one of the upper windows; a brief glimpse of a body that could belong to only one man.I pushed the back door fully open and walked through a kitchen fouled by farmyard birds and stinking with uncovered food and unwashed crockery. There was chicken shit on the floor of the next room and at the foot of the stairs, staining the threadbare carpet. I stopped to listen. The stairs were stone and made no sound as I ascended.There were three single beds in the room. Merv was lying on the one in the far corner, adjacent walls plastered in pictures stolen from Longhouse, pictures I had taken. His hand stopped abruptly as I entered and he tried to cover himself with the filthy sheet under him. It suited me to have him vulnerable and I pulled the cover from him, tearing it with a satisfying ripping sound. He cowered, huddling into a foetal position and staring up at me in fear.‘Why?’He pretended not to understand. I was out of patience and the room stank. ‘I asked you why, Merv? Why send pictures of Netta to Heacham? Did you hope he’d get your revenge for you?’‘Did, didn’t he?’‘And you told him where to find her, and when, because you’ve been spying on her ever since she got you sacked.’‘Twat deserved a fuckin’ thrashin’ after what it did to me.’‘Refused your advances, you mean?’‘It said it wanted a proper shag an’ I could if I wanted. An’ when I were goin’ to screw it, it screamed its fuckin’ ‘ead off.’‘You think she deserved to be beaten black and blue?’‘That twat got me sacked for nuthin’. I never did nuthin’ to it! I ‘ope Heacham skinned the fuckin’ twat.’Maybe because I suspected there was some truth in his allegations, and I was in no mood to admit it, I lost it. Before I knew what I was doing, I had the bed tipped over and Merv on the floor at my feet. He tried to scrabble away but I grabbed his throat and lashed at him with my spare fist and my feet. He’d damaged my Netta just as surely as if he were Heacham and I made the bastard pay. He was begging me to stop before I got control back again. I gave him one last kick and left him bleeding and sobbing on the floor, naked and shamed.I cleared the walls of pictures, pausing to stare at a single shot of Faith amongst the other girls who’d willingly and trustingly posed for me. I shuffled the pictures into a pile, my turmoil turned to utter confusion by that single picture of innocence corrupted.Downstairs, his brothers and father faced me in the yard. They knew me, of course. I was in the mood to deal with them in the same manner, in spite of their number, and it must have shown.‘Had to have a word with Merv.’They parted and let me through. In the yard, I turned to face them. ‘He has a little story to tell. It might amuse you.’They stared at me with what amounted to incomprehension and I realized the rumours about Merv’s mother were probably true after all. Poor woman. Faced with that brood, there was no wonder she jumped off the crag.Their Land Rover was badly parked, but I got past it. Flies followed me the full length of the track and I felt contaminated and fouled by my contact.At Longhouse, I showered immediately.‘Where’s Faith?’ Matilda stood in the doorway and watched me towelling dry, a knowing smile on her lovely face.‘Picking her up later. Is Netta awake?’‘Sleeping like a baby.’I was still coming down from the height of my anger and I wanted a word with Netta. I wanted to know if Merv’s accusation was true.‘You look as though you could do with a drink. Or something.’I nodded. ‘Nothing to drink. I’m driving in a couple of hours.’‘Something else, then.’She took my hand and led me to my bedroom where she urged me onto the bed, face down. There was a brief pause as she studied me before sitting astride me, her skin in contact with mine. Her hands and fingers worked magic on my muscles as she loosened the knots of tension and anger. She worked all the rage from me, relaxed me into a mellow state and then gently urged me onto my back.I hadn’t been aware of her removing her clothes but she brushed my chest with her breasts and used her lips to ready me. It was the perfect remedy and I surrendered to her completely, allowing her to take complete control. She repaid my trust by playing the ministering angel and left me satiated and utterly relaxed.At half past five, I recalled I hadn’t collected Faith.
###
If you're impatient for the next chapter, you know where you can buy the book in paperback or ebook format for whatever ereader you use. If you do, please write a review and post it wherever you can - 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/StuartAkenMy website has links to 100s of other sites of interest: http://stuartaken.co.ukRead on Goodreads:  http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4234877.Stuart_AkenStumble with me: http://www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/stuartakenCome Digg with me: http://digg.com/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)         
Related articles Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 26 Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 25 Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 24 Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 23

A Plea for Uniformity in the Presentation of Writing for Editorial.

Typographic quotation marks (top) versus straight quotation marks, or "dumb quotes" (bottom). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
If you’re a writer, you’ll understand my frustration at the multitude of different formats we’re required to adopt in presenting our work to various different organisations, I’m sure. You may even share it.
You write a story and want to send it to a British magazine. So: wide margins, double spaced lines, double, curly quotes for speech, indented paragraphs without space between, a standard proportional font like Times New Roman or Ariel, and, of course, British English spelling and idiom. The latter two are understandable; though, more on that later.
You then decide to send it to an American magazine. So: wide margins, double spaced lines, single, straight quotes for speech, no indents for paragraphs, but each separated by a line space, a non-proportional font like Courier, which makes the piece look as though it’s been produced on an old-fashioned typewriter, and, depending on editorial policy, either your original or American spelling and idiom.
Next, you wish to produce it as an ebook. So: strip out all formatting, reduce margins, single line spacing, use straight quotes and avoid any ‘special’ characters, paragraph formatting again requires an indent, but a smaller one than for the printed text, and a proportional font again. Here, it’s a personal choice which linguistic idiosyncrasies you choose to adopt, though consistency throughout the work is advisable, of course.
These are just three of the varied styles we’re required to adopt. There are many small variations, dependent on the house style of the publication chosen. And, as the writers, we’re expected to adapt to each individual set of requirements. The fact that we are the creators, the originators, of the material is immaterial as far as the publications are concerned. It is we who have adapt to their specific peculiarities.
Almost without exception, the reasons for these idiosyncrasies of presentation are based on simple tradition. The publishers have always done it this way; therefore, that is the ‘right’ way for it to be done. I’ve argued, in a previous post, that tradition is not always a good thing. In fact, it can frequently be a very bad thing. It’s tradition, after all, that maintains the custom, prevalent amongst certain ill-educated and socially backward clans, of violating their women by the horrendous imposition of female circumcision. I doubt there’s a single modern individual who would uphold such a tradition.
Is there, in reality, any reason why there should not be a single, straightforward style of presentation that could be used for all manuscripts submitted to journals, publishers and ebook producers? I can think of no technical reason. The oddities of ebook formatting requirements are largely down to lazy and/or non-standard software programming; something that could so easily be changed. Such standardisation would be of benefit to readers as well, since it would make it very straightforward for them to read their purchased books on any given ereader.
All the individual publishers, publishing organisations, national bodies and organisations would no doubt come up with reasons why their particular style should be the one adopted, of course. Such is the nature of tradition and habit. But such objections could be negotiated into a sensible solution and, in reality, once a standard form of presentation was adopted, users would very quickly become familiar with it. We, the writers, the creators, the originators, would then be left free to get on with our job of making instead of having to mess around with all the variations we’re currently required to deal with.
The linguistic elements I alluded to earlier represent a more difficult area of change. However, it’s clear from current developments that English will be the language most widely spoken (and, perhaps, written) for the foreseeable future. Perhaps, instead of allowing it to deteriorate organically into the more or less incomprehensible Panglish that is the predicted outcome, we should organise ourselves into a guiding role and consciously modify the language to make it more understandable by the majority? Clearly, the use of phonetic spelling would help non-native speakers to learn and use the language; a plus in the spread of our means of communication. There will always be a need for irregulars, of course. But, surely, we could determine that plow is a more sensible version than plough. I’d even argue for the more sensible thru to replace through.
I know the purists will hate the very idea. But we live in a world with a growing population and shrinking borders. Surely it makes sense to help our decedents get along with each other and remove one of the many barriers to cooperation and mutual understanding. It’s been said, with some justification, that wars have been started because of linguistic misunderstandings. Let’s actually do something to avoid future incomprehension rather than allow events and tradition to dictate ever increasing chaos in our methods of communication. Language is how we swap ideas. Let’s work to make the exchange easier, rather than increasingly difficult.
Or am I being idealistic here? What do you think?
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Silver Bay by Jojo Moyes, Reviewed

Jojo Moyes has produced a superb piece of modern fiction in Silver Bay . Set mostly in Australia, with some action taking place in London, UK, the story deals with the effects of threatened development on the tranquil eponymous location of the title. But it is the relationships and interactions of the protagonists that drive this story of tragedy, romance, coming of age and redemption.
Presented in 3 parts, with a short prologue and epilogue, Jojo uses first person narration by five of the major characters, four female and one male, to explore emotional, motivational, mental and spiritual aspects of her protagonists. Her research has clearly been thorough and the novel displays the author’s deep knowledge of the subjects she uses for theme and background. The book starts slowly but builds relentlessly until the denouement is reached in a way unflagged and unexpected.
This was a book I would have read at one sitting, had I been able. As it is, my life being a little hectic at present, I was obliged to fit in reading between many other commitments. It’s testament to the quality of the writing and storytelling that I found myself looking forward to my occasional bus journeys, as they are opportunities to read. Normally I dislike this necessary part of my working day, but I was eager to get on that bus and have the chance to read. In fact, had I not finished the book shortly before the end of my journey, I suspect I’d have missed my stop.
Jojo has drawn her characters with skill, care, and love. This is appropriate, since the love stories that run through the narrative form a major thread of the tale. Each passage is in the voice of the chosen character and the author manages to make each unique and totally credible. She has managed to get as squarely inside the mind of her male characters as she has her females.
The main setting for the book, Silver Bay itself, performs the role of an additional character and the reader is immersed in the tranquil location to the extent that he feels all the anxiety, fear, resentment and disgust at proposals that will alter the place beyond recognition. Wales and dolphins, and the occasional shark, play interesting and informative roles along the way.
I thoroughly enjoyed this moving novel and have no hesitation in recommending it to readers of all types.
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Read This Romantic Thriller, Free: Chapter 27

Are you a new visitor, or even a regular, who hasn’t started reading Breaking Faith?  Looking at the reviews on the 'My Books' tab may change your mind.
On the other hand, if you're continuing the journey, I assume you’re hooked.
I posted Chapter 1 way back on 13 January. Subsequent chapters have appeared each Friday, and will continue to be posted until all 50 have appeared 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 to join us.
Chapter 27
Monday 31st May
‘I’ll be back when I’ve had enough. See you.’Netta sauntered out of the house and across the lawn to the private stile in the corner. Both of us enjoyed walking the fells, though I wouldn’t have ventured out dressed like that. My interests, apart from the joy of walking, were nature and the landscape. I wondered what Netta derived from her walks alone. She said she needed some exercise with Leigh away in London. Mum had stayed the night after bringing Netta back to Longhouse and I’d spent the evening learning as much as I could about my real father from her, without letting on that I’d found out where he lived.‘David was thirty-seven; I was eighteen and fell in love with him the moment I laid eyes on him. I liked clean-shaven men; David had a long, straggly beard. I liked men with short blonde hair; David wore his dark brown hair to his shoulders. I liked men of action; David’s only sport was a walk round the quad with a poetry book in his hand. But he reached me, Faith. He spoke to my mind and my heart and his eyes saw right inside me and touched my secret inner self.‘He was never a really accomplished lover. In fact, I was probably his first and taught him as much as he did me. But he was passionate and truthful and caring and full of a love for life and things creative and I adored him.‘He used to worry the authorities would discover us and split us up. In the fifties, romances like ours were condemned. He cared about me and loved me more than any man I’ve known since. I thought he should write; his way with words was wonderful. He would make up poetry as we walked together. Not just love poetry for me, but poetry about the world we lived in, about nature and death and life. He was a remarkable man and when I discovered I was pregnant, I couldn’t let him know. I couldn’t ruin him. So, I had to be cruel. I told him there was someone else. I asked him not to write back, even to that letter and he didn’t. I received that small book of poems with no note, sent anonymously, just two weeks before you were due and I wept all day and all night.’The unshed tears in her eyes warned me against further questions.When she left that morning, she hugged me and invited me to spend a weekend with her once Leigh returned from London. I looked forward to that.Netta was still out after Ma, Old Hodge and I had eaten on the lawn under the sun. With Leigh absent, Mervyn no longer a threat, and Old Hodge almost like an uncle, whatever Netta might say about him, I risked my new bikini to soak up some sun. As I lay on a blanket, reading on the grass, Old Hodge worked at a nearby flowerbed.He looked at me and grinned. ‘By ‘eck, lass, you look grand.’That remark, from an older man I respected, made me feel so good about myself. I smiled my thanks at him and turned over to tan my front. Movement near the stile caught my eye. A shape struggled to reach the top of the wall from the far side. I was up and running even as I recognized her.‘Netta!’Old Hodge came after me as quickly as his old legs would take him. She was in a dreadful state. Her dress was in shreds and her beautiful skin beneath was a mass of raised wheals and bleeding stripes. One eye was so swollen she couldn’t open it, the other was red and weeping, both her lips were split and her nose had been bleeding.I helped her down from the stile and she collapsed at my feet, exhausted. I sent Old Hodge for Ma and sat with her head in my lap, stroking her hair away from her wounds.The doctor arrived shortly after we’d carried her to the spare room. He examined her thoroughly whilst I remained in case he needed my help. We turned her very carefully onto her back and he examined her front where the stripes were less numerous and not as raised or broken. One crossed her left breast and marked her nipple, making me wince. I helped Paul apply ointment and dressings and noticed his frequent glances at me.We could make no sense of anything she said through her damaged mouth, but she seemed incoherent more with rage than with any other emotion.In the kitchen, with Netta asleep under the influence of a sedative, the four of us shared a pot of tea.‘I’ve seen this before. Almost identical, except that time it was only your back, Faith.’‘You think my fa... Heacham, did this?’‘I’m neither policeman nor forensic scientist, but this is the work of one man.’‘Why would he beat Netta? She’s not even his daughter.’Paul raised his eyebrows. ‘That, at least answers a few questions. As to “Why?” I’ve no idea. I hoped you might know.’‘I can’t imagine. Shouldn’t we inform the police?’‘That’s for Netta to decide, really. But I’d do it anyway. She can always withdraw later if she doesn’t want to prefer charges.’‘Not prefer charges? Why wouldn’t she want…?’‘I’ve dealt with more cases of domestic violence than I care to think about, Faith. Women frequently refuse to press charges because the men who bully them brainwash their victims into believing they’re worthless and therefore responsible for their own beatings. Did you press charges after the monster beat you?’I hadn’t. It was the first time I asked myself why that might be and I understood his reasoning and learned another lesson about myself.‘Yes, inform the police now, before she has a chance to prevent them at least knowing.’Ma examined the remains of Netta’s dress. ‘This is for the bin.’‘Save it for the police. Where’s her underwear? They’ll need it in case there was any sexual…’Ma explained and the doctor nodded as though he’d heard it all before.‘Do you really think he might’ve raped her?’‘It’s a possibility we have to face, in light of what he did to Hope.’‘Hope couldn’t fight back. Hope couldn’t even tell anyone, not even me.’‘I still wouldn’t rule it out. The man’s a brutal pervert. I’m just thankful you escaped that side of his exploitation, Faith. Netta will have to be asked when she comes round from the sedative. The more I consider, the more I think I should contact the police. May I?’I showed him the phone in the office. When he returned, he changed the subject abruptly to me.‘Are you well, Faith?’I told him I was. ‘And happy; Mum’s more at ease now you’ve given me the pill. She cares about that sort of thing, so I just went along with her wishes to keep her happy.’‘A wickedly personal question, Faith, but I have my reasons, and they are medical. Do you need the contraceptive pill?’‘Mum said I would one day and I should be prepared.’‘So, no change from when you first asked me to prescribe it? No mood problems?’I shook my head. I didn’t think my anxiety over Leigh had anything to do with taking the pill.‘And I can see you’ve only put on weight in the places it’s to be expected. No problem in that area. Good.’I wanted to get the conversation away from personal matters about me. ‘Should we call Leigh, do you think?’‘Not yet. There’s nothing he can do. But do call Matilda.’ He smiled at me and I felt there was more than professional concern in his friendly look as he left.There was no answer when I tried Zoë’s number anyway. Matilda said she’d be at Longhouse as soon as she could. I tried Zoë again in the evening but there was still no reply.‘Probably out on the town.’ Matilda suggested. She’d come down for a break from Netta’s bedside and was drinking coffee laced with Leigh’s scotch.‘Will they press charges, do you suppose?’‘No doubt about it. Bastard was on conditional bail. How did he know where to find her and why did he do it?’‘I should’ve said before, I suppose, but it was all done and over with and there seemed little point. Tell the truth; I was glad to see the back of him.’We waited for Ma to explain.‘Merv never tried to rape Netta. She tricked the poor fool to get him sacked…’‘She did what?’‘Sorry, Matilda, but I’m sure that’s what happened. She asked me what Leigh would do if Merv attacked a girl in the house. I told her he’d fire the young sod on the spot. You can’t tell me it’s coincidence Netta accused him of attacking her that very day.’‘Why would Netta want him sacked?’‘You’re still so naive, lass, for all your growing up. She’s your sister. She knew Merv upset and frightened you.’‘But that’s terrible. I never asked her to …’‘Of course you didn’t. You didn’t have to. It’s called sisterly love.’Matilda nodded. ‘It’s the sort of thing Netta would do, love.’‘Poor Merv! No wonder he swore to get us both. But this was Heacham, wasn’t it?’‘Merv would be too scared to do anything on his own. He’ll have sent pictures of Netta to Heacham, knowing the shit would do it for him because she threatened his reputation.’‘His reputation’s already ruined.’‘He still wouldn’t want the world thinking his own flesh and blood would pose naked for the world to see, Faith.’I thought of the pictures of me Merv had helped print and was thankful he hadn’t been able to take any with him. ‘But Netta’s not his flesh and blood.’‘He knows that, but the village folk don’t.’I was amazed at the way the pair of them had apparently worked out what had happened. ‘How did Heacham know where to find her?’‘Merv again. He’s a peeping Tom. Wouldn’t mind betting he’s been spying on this house ever since the day he left, in the hope of seeing you both without your clothes.’‘I’ve been in my bikini in the garden. Those horrible piggy eyes looking at me. Ugh!’‘You were feeling sorry for him a moment ago.’‘Not if he did that. Do you really think he’d go to all that trouble, Ma?’‘I’ve little doubt, to be honest. That lad’s got a strangely determined streak when it comes to spying on female flesh and to getting his own back.’‘What’ll happen to Heacham, do you think?’Ma shrugged.‘They’ll hold him for the night and charge him with assault. In the morning, he’ll be back out and free as air. It’s only a girl he’s beaten half to death, after all.’‘I thought you believed we were equal now, Mum?’‘There’s no fundamental change. And cops are generally right wing and chauvinistic. As are the courts, come to that. No, I love men and their company, but I hate what they’ve done and continue do with society. It’s still a man’s world; for all we burn our bras, take the pill and enjoy sex without fear of pregnancy. Women are still second class citizens. That’s why I use my sex to get what I can out of the little darlings.‘I’ve no illusions, Faith, so don’t look so scandalized. They don’t love me. They love sex and my body, even if I am nearing forty and I’ve had three kids. I keep myself in trim so they’re not disgusted when I take off my clothes. I can still excite them, still make their willies stand up and perform. But I make sure they pay; in pleasure for me, and clothes and food and other services. I’ve never paid a tradesman to do a job. And my little bungalow’s a palace with all mod cons.’‘I’d far rather my Old Hodge with his faults, than all your passing men friends.’‘Ah, but then you love Old Hodge and he loves you.’‘You loved David, Mum.’‘But I lost him. You can’t live on memories and dreams of what might’ve been. Anyway, I’d best get back up there. I don’t want Netta waking up alone.’‘I’ll take over during the night, Mum. Then you can sleep.’‘You’re a good woman, Faith. I’m very proud of you, proud to call you daughter. Proud to know such goodness has come from my love for David.’ Mum smiled at me and went back upstairs.‘What was that about?’‘Your Mum’s had a sad, strange sort of life, with lots of disappointment. But you do exactly the right thing at every opportunity. In you, she sees a sort of redemption for all the mistakes and badness there’s been in her life.‘Now, away with you to bed if you’re going to be up in the early hours.’‘I’ll just try Leigh once more.’‘You won’t. Leigh and Zoë’ll be in bed. There’s no point interrupting them with news he can do nowt about. Call him in the morning. Bed, now.’
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