Stuart Aken's Blog, page 263

The Absolute at Large, by Karel Capek, Reviewed.

Photography of the Czech author Karel Čapek. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Karel Capek is, of course, the author credited with the invention of the term 'robot', but this story isn't concerned with artificial intelligence in any way. He was a philosopher. The book first appeared in Britain, in translation by Thomas Mark, in 1927. The style and language reflect this period and the version I read had been edited by Damon Knight, the anthology editor, to remove certain chapters he described as 'nearly half the book - (chapters) that go nowhere and contribute nothing to the story.'This is a story told for a purpose. The theme of man's mistaking religion for respect for God is transparent and boldly exposed throughout. The author was clearly troubled by this artificial confining of a force he considered too complex and ineffable to be so defined. It's an element of my own beliefs on the subject so, naturally, I was in sympathy as soon as this theme became apparent.The story concerns the activities of a businessman, Bondy, who encapsulates all that is abhorrent in those who consider profit the only worthwhile pursuit, and his one-time friend, Marek, an engineer and inventor who is sensitive to the terrifying device he's created. The Karburator, an imaginary nuclear device capable of destroying matter and converting it to pure energy, is initially seen by Bondy as a way of making vast profits. In spite of Marek's demonstration and warning of its underlying spiritual capacity, Bondy is so taken with the opportunity to make millions that he manufactures these devices in large numbers, causing a crisis in the economic structure that leads to war, famine, death and disaster.I will give no further description of the plot, but the ending is less inevitable than might be supposed, although Capek's attempt at a warning for mankind is achieved at the expense of what might be considered the natural conclusion to the tale. This author intervention is acceptable, however, in that it allows the central message to be sounded loud and clear. It would take a fairly dense reader not to understand the meaning behind this story. This is not the version I read, which was from an anthology,
but an image taken from Amazon, where it can be bought.Can the book be read on the surface level, as a simple tale of greed overcoming judgement? I suppose it can, and probably will be by those without any real knowledge or interest in the philosophical questions posed. I was unable and unwilling to read it at that level and the story was therefore more accessible to me than it might be for the more casual reader. Don't misunderstand me, here. I'm not suggesting any sort of superior understanding on my part, merely trying to point out that the book will be a different experience for those who read it without reference to the deep philosophical issues it raises.Had I approached this as a simple story, I doubt I would have put up with the long passages of authorial comment. But these are fairly typical of the age in which the book was written, and we tend to forgive them in the classics of that era. The characters are surprisingly well drawn and even minor roles are played out with conviction so that the reader is able to identify and empathise with certain people in the book. Bondy, in spite of his irredeemable materialism and inability to separate truth from his superficial, but commonly held, belief in a superior power, is nevertheless a real character and not the cypher he might so easily have become in the hands of a lesser author. There is much humour in the story and a great deal of it is told tongue-in-cheek. I suspect that some of that humour is lost in translation, but enough remains to make the read enjoyable.I recommend this book to serious readers but think those who prefer simple tales simply told would be best advised to give it a miss.

Research? What's That, Then?

The three biggest web search engines (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
For many people, researchis a task fraught with difficulty. For others, it can become their raison d'être. I'm talking about writers here, of course. Are you someone who enjoys research, do you fear it, is it a mystery, or is it your prime reason for setting yourself a writing project?
The first thing I'd like to point out about research as a writer is that it should be a means to an end, not an end in itself. If you fall into the trap of doing research simply for the love of the knowledge, the fun of the chase, the thrill of discovery, that's fine for a researcher but it's not good for a writer. If this is your experience, that research is more fun than writing, then perhaps you should consider taking up an occupation where research is the aim and end rather than the tool it should be for a writer.
If you're frightened by the very idea of research, or if it's simply a mystery to you, I hope to allay some of those fears and demystify the process for you here. I'm not writing a book about research for writers; there are plenty of those on the market. This is intended as a taster, a short guide, a finger pointing in the right direction, no more.
Fear is generally the result of ignorance, of not knowing what might be involved. So, let's determine what research means for a writer. Do you watch people, listen to them, observe their interactions?  Yes? You're doing research. Watching people and all that entails, is a way of learning how people work, how they appear, how they sound, what they say. And all this is vital information to enable you to draw believable fictional characters. So, you're already doing it.
Do you read fiction? (If you don't, then you're making your job as a writer infinitely more difficult than you need. Reading the work of other novelists, short story writers, et al, is a vital part of the learning process in becoming, and improving as, a writer). As you read, you're picking up pieces of information on how language is used effectively, how plot works, how characters drive story and all those other factors that determine the quality of the fiction you'll eventually write. This is research on the writing process.
Do you visit potential locations to get a feel for place? Failing that, do you use Google maps and Google Earth to discover as much as you can about places you wish to set your story? Of course, this is fairly basic research, but it can lead you to other areas of knowledge gathering. Google the name of your town, country, island or whatever and read up on the place, look at the pictures others have provided, absorb the mood and atmosphere generated by those who have been there and reported on their experience.
I hesitate to mention books in the context of research, since the vast majority of people seem to think that the internet is the place to search. Books are old technology but they're well-tested and can often provide more in-depth information than a search on the web can give you. Your local library is a mine of information and a good librarian will be only too willing to help you with the topic, setting you off in the right direction and even guiding your choice of suitable books for study.
You watch TV and films? It's amazing what you can glean from such sources, even when you're not actually pursuing a specific topic at the time. I have a love of documentaries on many different subjects and, although I haven't written on many of the subjects covered by such films, I've often found bits and pieces of information that have been useful as background material or as nuggets of gold to place in the minds of characters to make them appear clever, informed or intuitive.
You talk to people? I hope you do. It's amazing what you can learn from those with specialist knowledge. I once wrote to a Coroner for information about aspects of law and procedure relating to corpses found in suspicious circumstances. He invited me for an interview and I learned far more than I even knew I needed to know. Useful for that story and for subsequent tales.
So, you see, research doesn't have to be that dry, dusty task you might've thought it. It doesn't have to be intimidating. It doesn't have to be formal. As a writer, most of your non-writing life can be considered as research, especially if you're writing fiction. Every experience, every encounter, every trip is more grist to your mill. Use it, gather it, harvest it, store it; but, most of all, enjoy collecting and using it.
A final point about using the internet, search engines, for research. First, always use more than a single source if you want to be sure of accuracy. The internet is notorious for inaccuracies by people who purport to be experts. Second, find a search engine that you're comfortable with; it'll save you a lot of time. And, third, learn how to use the search tools. Experiment.
You'd be amazed at the difference you will find if you use the advanced features of search engines to narrow your searches. For example, searching for models on Google produces 1,300,000,000 results. That's an impossible number of sites to trawl through. Model of the solar system reduces that number to 23,900,000, still huge. Placing the same words in quotes, "model of the solar system" reduces the results further to 2,280,000. Better, but by no means efficient. Include the word scaleand use a minus sign to exclude the words -scales, -weigh, -energy to remove more extraneous information and you reduce the results to 258,000. Now, I'm not suggesting you can trawl through all these, but a search of the first dozen is likely to give you what you need. You'll only learn how to make use of these tools by using them. Try it. Experiment. You're not going to break anything. And you may learn a great deal along the journey.
Good luck with your research and have fun. It's great to learn something new and even better when you can employ that new knowledge in your writing to bring it to life.

Abhorsen, by Garth Nix, Reviewed.

This fantasy was recommended by readers on Goodreads. Had I realised, before I started to read, that this book is aimed at young adults, I probably wouldn't have bothered. And that would have been a real shame, because I thoroughly enjoyed this yarn of good versus evil.The book is the third in a trilogy, so certain aspects only grew clear as this section of the tale unfolded. But the author has woven the fabric of his fiction with such skill that I was prepared to put up with references that initially meant very little. It wasn't long before I was absorbed by the characters and their adventures. The imagined world, with its division into a magical realm and one of technological progression, worked well, especially highlighting the prejudices, distrust and suspicions harboured mutually on each side of the dividing wall. I've no doubt that this could be read by some as an analogy on divisions currently experienced in the Middle East, but I was happy to read the story simply as an escapist romp through a well-drawn landscape.The characters, including the animal personalities, are all well-rounded individuals with their hopes, dreams, quirks, faults, gifts and positive attributes. I found them all credible and felt they avoided the stereotypical so often found in fantasy of lesser quality. The plot is clever, sufficiently convoluted to hold mature attention, and unusual enough to sustain the story. The imagined world is similar enough to our own that it requires no lengthy descriptions but unusual enough to require its own maps for guidance. That strikes me as a good balance between imaginative creation and reliance on existing experience to satisfy both the reader's quest for novelty and the need for familiarity. The denouement begins a good way from the actual end and the author skilfully builds the tension, making the book a real page-turner. My reading of this book was interrupted by a trip away from home and visits to various family members, which made it impossible to sit down and read it through without interruption. Had I had that opportunity, I've no doubt that I would have read it from cover to cover in one sitting, however.If you enjoy your fiction with originality, adventure, and wholesome companionship (there is no sex or even romance in this volume), you'll enjoy this. The quality of the writing is good throughout and there is enough action and emotion to satisfy the reader. I recommend it.

Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 17

Still here? Is that stubbornness or are you actually enjoying this process, this story? I hope so.
I posted Chapter 1 on 13 January. Following chapters appear each Friday. Find them via the archive.
Missed the start? Find it here: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html
Read, enjoy, invite friends to join us.
Chapter 17
Monday 19th April
She gathered up her letters and put them in the box. With a fingertip, she touched her swollen lips then brushed it lightly against my mouth before going to bed. Her gesture touched me and I wondered where she’d learned it.Her eye re-opened and her mouth was able to smile properly after a few days. She was almost back to normal by the time they released Heacham on bail. Now convinced she knew nothing of Hope’s rapes, I was surprised when the coppers came to interview her.She emerged tearful and shamed from those two long hours. I hadn’t been allowed to witness the interview but heard occasional raised voices and, just once, Faith’s loud protestation of her innocence. They preferred no charges. I wanted to tell her it was okay and to comfort her but Paul’s warning held me back. I risked harming her if I allowed us to get too close so soon after her trauma.Instead, I sent her for a calming coffee with Ma. Ten minutes later, she was in the office, smart, professional and ready for work. Merv came in with an order and leered at her. He took a more carnal interest in Faith now she lived at Longhouse and was fleshing out her bones. He nodded at the disappearing police car. ‘Dunno what all the fuss is about. Old sod onny shagged ‘er. Not like he killed ‘er or beat her up, is it? Onny sex, innit? So what, I say.’‘Thanks, Merv, for your considered and erudite opinion. Those of us who have a spark of morality think it’s inexcusable for a father to rape his disabled daughter. I do, of course, respect your right to an opinion. Just don’t express it in here! Get out, now!’Faith struggled hard to contain tears that were close to the surface. She gave me a faint flicker of a smile as Merv went. ‘Thank you, Leigh.’I gave her what I hoped was a friendly smile without too much encouragement. It was hard to strike a balance between the role of friendly boss and potential lover. My relationships with women had always been straightforward and the questions of sex were only ‘when?’, and ‘how often?’ The new territory was difficult terrain for me but I was determined to travel it if it brought Faith to some sort of normality. On the surface, she seemed much recovered and I had to keep reminding myself of Paul’s injunctions to prevent kidding myself all she wanted was for me to show her I cared and wanted her.Faith broke into my thoughts. ‘You haven’t forgotten Marilynn’s due this afternoon?’‘The waitress from York.’‘Will you need me?’‘No idea until she arrives. I’d like to continue the series for the book on housework if she’s game. And I’ll probably take her into the studio for a couple of hours. I’ll need your assistance if she feels more comfortable with another woman about. You okay for that?’‘Why shouldn’t I be? I don’t suppose you’ll be alone in bed tonight.’‘No idea, Faith. Depends on her. Don’t know why you’re so arch about it when you’re in the best position to ...’ I was growing tired of her digs at my sex life, but this wasn’t the reaction she needed.‘Will she be staying for the weekend?’‘No idea. Why?’‘I just thought I might invite my mother and Charity… Netta over and I was hoping...’So, perhaps I’d been mistaken. Perhaps it wasn’t jealousy, after all. I felt sorry for my misjudgement and tried to make it up. ‘Invite them. I’ll make sure Marilynn’s not here if they accept.’ To be honest, I was doubtful she’d stay that long anyway.‘Not expecting her to stay, then.’I intended a stinging reply because she’d guessed too accurately, and found myself instead attracted by her gently mocking smile, captivated by her growing beauty. Her face was now unmarked and her hair hung loose in soft waves that dropped over her shoulders. It was a pretty face; serious and contemplative much of the time, with a generous mouth and lips that promised much, especially when she smiled. Her eyes had always affected me, right from the first meeting; those deep, dark, sparkling orbs. And such a pretty shape to her face; the small, strong jaw, high cheekbones and slender nose. She hadn’t yet learned to pluck the weight from her dark eyebrows but their natural curves drew attention to those lovely eyes.Her high forehead spoke of intelligence and, except at times of deep anxiety, was unmarked by furrows. Tiny ears hid amongst the dark tresses, unpierced and undecorated by jewellery. She wore no makeup but her natural colour was soft peach and her lips a healthy, inviting red.A very attractive woman and one who would be capable, did she but know how, of twisting me round her little finger.‘That attractive?’I hadn’t realised I’d been staring at her so obviously. For some extraordinary reason, I blushed like a schoolboy caught at some forbidden act.She rose quickly and put her arms around my neck, kissed me softly but briefly on my mouth. ‘Leigh, you’re amazing. A really lovely man.’ Then she sat down again and continued with her work.I felt outsmarted, somehow; outmanoeuvred, as if I’d been playing a game I should win but had been caught out by a change in the rules. Ma called us for lunch, removing my need to find an excuse to leave the office so I could compose myself.Marilynn arrived almost immediately after the meal and proved willing to do more or less what I wanted and was happy to work without a chaperone.Afterwards, I watched her saunter to her battered old car and drive off, leaving the gate wide open behind her. Once I’d seen the results, I would decide whether to invite her for a return trip. I wouldn’t be inviting her back for the sex alone; she’d been okay for the night but with a tendency to sexual selfishness I found unattractive. In the meantime, Faith’s mother and sister were due on Saturday and I was looking forward to meeting them almost as much as she was.Ma was sixty-five the day Marilynn left. She did her own birthday tea, in spite of my protests and Faith’s offer to do it for her.‘I enjoy cooking. I like preparing food and keeping house for you, Leigh. And now I’ve got Faith here as well, it’s like having a proper family. I’ve got a son and a daughter to care for. No. You get on with your work the pair of you, and let me do mine.’I never knew what to buy Ma, and Old Hodge was no help, declaring she only ever wanted his body. Faith, however, seemed to know exactly what Ma wished for and delighted her with a gift of Belgian chocolates.‘When and how did you manage to buy those?’She just grinned. It must have been the trip into Hawes the previous weekend when I’d taken her to buy some new clothes, but I didn’t recall seeing them myself. For someone as inexperienced at shopping as she was, Faith had developed a remarkable nose for finding the right gift.We opened a couple of good bottles, Ma’s choice, and had a quiet but enjoyable family birthday. I did insist that she and Old Hodge leave earlier than usual and promised to load the dishwasher myself for a change.On Thursday night, I stayed with Abdullah after one of my regular sessions at his factory. His attitude to women appalled me but I couldn’t help liking the bugger.He rarely left me alone to do a job, but hovered in the background. I’d made the mistake of allowing him to remain on site when I did my first job for him. That had been an advertising shot combining a glamorous model with the heavy machinery he manufactured. With no changing facilities, the girl had reluctantly changed on the set. Abdullah had been so entranced by the sight of her naked that he’d doubled her fee on the spot and in cash.I had to make it very clear that her body was not for sale for sex. She was a professional model; not at all like many of the amateurs I used for my own work. But Abdullah, in common with so many who don’t know the game, automatically equated her willingness to shed her clothes with a wish to engage in sex. It was a willingness she didn’t possess.I was half way through Thursday’s shoot, this one without the added glamour since the shot was for the Islamic market, when he asked me to take a few shots of his latest woman. I didn’t welcome the prospect as Abdullah had a penchant for women with ugly faces.‘For me? Yah, you do it for me, Leigh? Please, yah?’I nodded. The machinery was going nowhere. A half hour break for his girl would keep him sweet as a client with plenty of spending power.He brought her in. Tall, willowy with large firm breasts that seemed too big for her slender frame to support. She was slim hipped and walked elegantly on slender shapely legs that went up to her armpits. The face, however, belonged to a donkey and was a cruel jest played by a Creator who I had long judged uninterested in what was created. She was holding something in her hand and, once she’d shed her clothes, she slipped a brown paper bag over her head.I could have wept for her but the pathos was lost on Abdullah who saw this as a huge joke and urged me to picture her as she was. She went along with his wishes, weaving her sensual body into erotic and pornographic poses. I colluded, shooting the variations on this sick sideshow. When I’d done, she removed the bag and curtseyed with extraordinary dignity. I caught the deep sadness in those grey hooded eyes and, for a brief moment, communed my sympathy in silence. She nodded just once, dressed quickly and walked from the room with her paper bag in one hand.‘Don’t dust the mantelpiece as you stoke the fire, eh, Leigh?’It was all I could do to nod briefly before returning to the machinery. I wondered at the hypocrisy that allowed him to view such pictures whilst insisting on everything being correct for the advertising in his homeland. Money, of course, was what drove his public adherence to cultural and religious rules he ignored in private.That evening, she was in his home in diaphanous gold over skin and playing the perfect hostess, without the bag. The woman he’d obtained for me wore a red microskirt and transparent white blouse. She had an adequate body and a face to match and did her best to provide the service she thought I desired. It was professional, enthusiastic even, but without warmth and left me feeling unclean. I was happy to escape the house early next morning to return to Longhouse.I walked into the office to discover Faith on her feet, red in the face, shouting at Merv who was lurking in the doorway from the studio. He was too slow to cover the object that had caused Faith’s anger and I knew I had stormy waters to calm.I clouted his ear. ‘Idiot!’ And pushed him out of earshot. ‘You know how easily offended she is. What are you trying to prove?’‘Asked for it. Called me a pervert, it did. Said I was no use for nowt. I were just offerin’ to show it what I could do if it liked.’I shook my head. He would never accept that women found him repulsive and his behaviour made them loathe him.‘Why’s it think it’s for if it ain’t for fuckin’? It’s got that; I got this to stick up it. Why’s it think it’s any different from the rest?’It was pointless even attempting to argue. If he hadn’t been so good in the darkroom, I would have ditched him the day I took him on. ‘Just don’t do it, Merv. Whatever your reasons, don’t do it. Okay?’‘Yeah. Don’t know why it’s so up-fuckin-tight, though.’‘No, I don’t suppose you do, Merv.’Faith had calmed by the time I returned. Keen to get past the incident with Merv, I told her I’d given him a rocket and moved swiftly to a topic I knew would engage her. ‘Ready for this evening?’‘Terrified.’I hugged her and she fell willingly enough into my arms. The difference between that warm, chaste embrace and the professional efficiency of the previous night was astounding. I wondered, again, what the key might be to freeing her up enough to take her that one step further. And then remembered I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about her in that way just yet. I went to change. Her mother and sister should be women I could enjoy straight away and I wanted to meet them at my best.
###
You've come so far it's unlikely you'll stop until the end. But, just in case you're impatient for the next chapter, you know where you can buy the book. If you do, please write a review and post it wherever you can - Amazon, Goodreads, any other bookish site. Reviews are what 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/stuartaken

11 May 1997 - Gary Kasparov, World Chess Champion, was beaten by an IBM computer. Was this the first stirring or artificial intelligence?

Does Indie Book Publishing Let Authors Write in Multiple Genres?

Caxton Showing the First Specimen of His Printing to King Edward IV at the Almonry, Westminster: With Edward are his wife, Elizabeth Woodville, and their children, Elizabeth, Edward, and Richard. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Publishing is an ancient industry. Ever since Caxton ran the first press, publishers, in many and varied guises, have intervened in the process of the author getting his book to his readers. In the early days, such intervention was necessary. It wasn't possible for an author to write and to get to know all those people who would be involved in the complex machinery of designing, producing, marketing and actually selling a physical book.
In those early days, and right up to the turn of the 21st century, the traditional publisher was seen as a vital part of the process. In fact, in many cases, books were actually initiated by publishers; authors being employed as jobbing writers by the book producers. For most authors, the prospect of getting their book into print was daunting and often became no more than an impossible dream. It's unknown how many great books never actually got published, but history is full of examples of those books that publishers, often in large numbers, turned down on various grounds, only for them to become best-sellers or even classics once a publisher with vision got hold of them. For the author in those not so long-gone days, it was generally the publisher who dictated what the writer would produce next. Genre was everything and woe betide the crime novelist who wanted to turn his hand to mystery, science fiction or, heaven help us, fantasy! Women were shoehorned into writing romance even when they had talent that developed character and story in a way suitable for literary novels. Men were forced to turn out series of adventure stories, even if they had a gift for displaying relationships and emotions.
Okay, I know I'm generalising, but this was more or less the state of the industry for all but the most fortunate and talented of writers. Many very good writers never had a book published. Some didn't even get as far as submitting their work because the process was too daunting for many sensitive souls. And when an author was fortunate enough to be recognised as having some talent by a publisher, often they were required to abandon their hopes of telling their own stories and made to turn out books that fitted into the narrow confines of the publishing house's list.
Nowadays, with the advent of both POD and digital book production, the publisher has become irrelevant for many writers. Not only does the lack of that publisher give greater freedom of expression but it also allows many writers to make more money from their creations than was possible in the past. One straightjacket from those early days, however, seems to persist into the modern field of writing. It seems that many authors continue to be caught in the genre trap. They believe they must write a series of books that all fit into a particular pigeonhole otherwise readers will be confused and won't know what they're buying. But is this true?
My belief is that readers, as a bunch of individuals, are generally amongst the more intelligent of human beings. I think they're perfectly capable of examining the blurb, character, and selling points of a book and determining whether they're looking at a murder mystery, a soft romance, a spy thriller or a historical romp where bodices will be ripped with gay abandon.  In other words, readers do not necessarily expect authors to write in only one vein. Publishers and their literary agents did expect this, because it made life easier for them, not for the reading public.
But is it true that an author can write in various different genres, under the same name, without confusing his readership? I believe it is. And I intend to prove it by doing precisely that. I've already published a romantic thriller, a sci-fi novelette, an anthology of dark speculative fiction, a collection of soft love stories and a short comic tale, all under the same name. The next book will be a collection of erotic stories and that will be followed by a comedy thriller and then, probably, an epic fantasy trilogy. I don't intend to alter my name or online presence in any way for these books, relying instead on the intelligence of readers to decide whether they're interested in the subject of the stories. The writing quality will remain the same throughout, i.e. the best I can possibly produce. The style of writing, however, will naturally suit the subject and the type of story I'm telling.
No one expects a painter to specialise entirely in one field, or an architect to design only sheds, or a musician to play only rock or pop or classical jazz. The whole point of being a creative artist is to produce and create those things that matter most to you as an artist. So, that's what I intend to do. I'd love your company as I travel this road. But whether I succeed commercially or not, I'll continue to do my own thing. Otherwise, what's the point in being creative? Oh, I know I could probably make a lot more money if I was willing to write formulaic fiction to fit in with some preconceived idea of what a good story should be, but it wouldn't really be my story, would it? In any case, I've spent my life going my own way, often rejecting opportunities to make more money simply because I refused to compromise along lines set by men who had no idea of my personal priorities and goals. If being a creative artist means anything, it means being true to yourself, doesn't it?
So, I invite you join me on my journey and, hopefully, to inspire you to do the same yourself. Let's show those who fear to take a step beyond the boundaries of convention that such steps often lead to the greatest adventures. Are you with me? Let me know what you think. Commenting is free and easy, you know.

The Writing Week

An odd week all in all, but fairly positive. I've written 2,600 words of a new short story, edited 4 chapters of the current WIP novel, updated the blog, including the gallery and the Writing Contests page, and joined a new photography community online.
Took a break to collect my daughter from university, where she has now completed her first year (somewhat early, as the course she is doing requires no exams, but a dissertation and a full blown photo exhibition in her final year).
Been in the garden, when the weather allowed, and entered more photographs on my Facebook page.
The writing course, under the title The Artists Way, by Julia Cameron, continues to go well, with new thoughts and insights occurring more or less daily. 7 weeks of the 12 done so far. I'd recommend this for anyone who feels in any way blocked creatively.
My birthday on Wednesday, so some small celebrations planned. One more year and I take retirement from my day job and gain the time to work full time on the writing.
Also, the annual tax return must be done next week.
How goes the writing and reading with you out there?

Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 16

Great! You're still here. Thanks. I hope you're enjoying the read.
Missed the start? Find it here: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html
I posted Chapter 1 on 13 January. Following chapters appear each Friday. Find them via the archive.
Read, enjoy, invite your friends.
Chapter 16
Saturday 3rd April
When morning brought consciousness, my first thought was that I must face him again, must go back, apologize for my behaviour and beg his forgiveness. I was not sure I was up to it. I wasn’t even certain any more that I felt as sorry as I should, or had been as wicked as he accused.There was a knock on my door.‘Come in.’ I had to pull the cover up quickly as Leigh entered, carrying a tray with breakfast on it. He grinned at me, placed the tray on the cabinet beside the bed and unhooked a housecoat from the back of the door.‘Modesty returns, eh? Pop this on. I’ll wait on the landing ‘til you’re decent.’I slipped the towelling robe over my aching limbs and body, wrapping it protectively across my front, wondering what he meant about modesty and surprised by his cheerfulness. ‘Okay.’He sat on the edge of my bed as I ate toast and drank tea with difficulty through my swollen lips.‘I thought you’d be at work.’‘Saturday.’It should have been Friday.‘You slept through most of yesterday. How are you feeling?’I felt physically drained and my back and legs were sore. My mouth felt more uncomfortable than painful. ‘All right.’‘Paul thought you might be a bit tearful. I don’t have the usual male fear of women’s tears, so don’t worry if you suddenly feel the need to weep.’‘I don’t feel like crying, Leigh. I feel quite normal, really. Who’s Paul?’‘Sorry, the doctor.’‘Doctor?’‘He examined you on Thursday; gave you something to help you sleep. Don’t you remember?’I shook my head. Thursday was mostly blank. I recalled my return to the cottage and Father’s beating, but beyond that, nothing concrete.‘Perhaps that’s just as well.’Leigh had something on his mind, wanted to tell me something. ‘Out with whatever it is. I’m strong enough.’‘You amaze me. I think I’ve got you sussed and then you go and surprise me again.’He expected me to respond but I could think of nothing to say.‘There’s no easy way of saying this, Faith. Your father’s in police custody.’He let that sink in. At first, I thought I had misheard him but repeating the words in my head made no difference. ‘Because of me?’‘No. Though you ought to charge the bastard with assault. No, not because of you, Faith, because of what he did to Hope.’Now I knew I was hearing things. ‘Hope? Father would never harm Hope. He adores her. She’s his little angel, his piece of Heaven on Earth, his innocent amongst the sinners. He would never hurt Hope. You must be mistaken.’‘I don’t know how to say this, Faith. I thought you must at least have some suspicions but I’m beginning to think, unlikely as it seems, you might not have known after all. I sincerely hope you didn’t…’‘What? What’s happened to Hope?’He leant forward and took my hand, squeezed it in such a way that I went cold at the prospect of what he might say. I wanted him to speak but did not want to hear the news of her death that I dreaded.‘Your father’s been repeatedly raping Hope, since she was about twelve.’Madness.‘No.’I could find no way to express my disbelief.‘No!’‘I’m sorry, Faith. I caught your father in the act, on Thursday, when I went to tackle him about you.’‘It’s a mistake. Somehow it looked like that but he was…’‘I didn’t knock, Faith. I walked in and he was raping her in the kitchen. She was making a high, keening sound each time he….’‘Hope never makes a sound. She’s mute.’‘I know this is hard for you, but I actually separated him from her. There’s no doubt he was raping her. In any case, he admitted it to the police and social services.’I stared at him for what seemed an age whilst my mind tried to absorb this impossible news. Leigh watched me intently, his eyes never leaving mine. ‘Father was…? How could I not…? No. It doesn’t ... I can’t believe… I need to think. Can I be alone?’He stood, gave my hand a gentle squeeze and bent to kiss my forehead. ‘I’ll be downstairs when you need me.’I moved as soon as he left the room and went to look out of the window for no better reason than I needed to move.Father was my rock, my foundation. Everything I was and everything I believed was based in him. If he was this evil creature that Leigh had described, what did that make me?‘Leigh? Leigh!’He was back in the room in an instant.‘What about Hope? Is she hurt? Is she...? Where is she? Not still …?’‘Hope seems unhurt, a little sore. But no real damage. I suspect because she couldn’t resist, she escaped the violence a lot of rape victims suffer. She’s fine, and safe. They’ve taken her to a residential home. Your father’s in the police cells for the moment. I hope he rots there.’His face expressed utter disgust and contempt for the man who had brought me up. He expected me to challenge him in some way.‘You think I knew.’He was silent for too long for his denial to be true.‘Oh, Leigh, I didn’t know, I promise you I didn’t. I don’t know what to … I’m so angry and hurt and unhappy and confused. My father. My own father.’ I turned back to the window and willed him to leave me to my shame and pain. I felt the softest touch on my shoulder and then he was gone.I wept. Words punctuating my tears were random thoughts my mind gave out. Confusion mastered me as I wallowed in a quicksand of emotion, doubt and betrayal that threatened to drown and consume me. I could find no solid ground. There was nothing I could grip and hold for support.‘I think it’s time we dried those tears.’He was there, helping me up so I could sit on the floor. He knelt beside me and dabbed my face and eyes with tissues. I held onto him; he was the only solid in my fluid world and I would not let him go.I had rarely wept before, even after he had beaten me. Father discouraged such displays and I had striven hard to please him.Leigh eased me to my feet and to the edge of the bed. He dabbed softly at the last silent tears, cupped my chin gently in his other hand. ‘Better?’I nodded.‘I’ve brought your clothes to Longhouse. Do you want to dress for the evening meal, or are you more comfortable as you are?’‘May I have a bath?’‘Bath, shower. Help yourself. Treat Longhouse as your home, Faith. Once you’ve had time to collect your thoughts and work things out, you can decide whether you want to stay here or find a small place of your own. Your toothbrush and other toilet things are in the bathroom across the corridor. This can be your room for the moment. Later on, you can have a look at the other rooms and see if you’d prefer one of those.‘Don’t be too long, now. Ma’s got the meal on and you know how she is about punctuality at the table. You’ve got about half an hour.’He left me to it and I considered all he had said. There were too many new ideas there. I wanted no more questions for the moment, no more doubts, no choices. I must accept what he said as the reality of my situation for the moment. Later I could give it some thought and decide what I should do. For the moment, practicality was what I needed. And I must not be late down for the meal.I discovered my clothes, both old and new, hanging in the wardrobe and folded in the drawers, all the creases of Father’s abuse ironed out. In the bathroom, I examined the shower but decided to work out its mysteries later. The bath water was deliciously hot. I could close the door and even slide a bolt across for privacy, if I wished. The bubble bath smelt of flowers and left me feeling soft and sweet skinned. There was a soft, clean, fluffy towel. The floor was carpeted and there was a soft rug beside the bath to step on whilst I dried myself. A radiator heated the room and a hot rail dried the towels. I realized what simple luxuries I had missed in Father’s house.As usual, the table was heaving with food. Ma always cooked to feed a regiment and I suspected she was trying to fatten me up and put some flesh on my bones. They all smiled at me as I entered. I had put on the dress Leigh had bought me in York. But wore it with my shoulders covered this time.‘You look very nice, Faith.’I tried to smile at Ma.‘Smashing.’A nod at Old Hodge.‘Very pretty.’ Leigh still seemed slightly distant and I guessed he was either ashamed of me or still not convinced I had been completely ignorant about what Father had done to Hope. I shrugged and sat at the table opposite Old Hodge, with Leigh to my left. They gave me a couple of minutes so I could say my private grace before the meal. Somehow, the words rang hollow in my head and I stopped half way through, unable to continue with sincerity.After the meal, Leigh took me into the sitting room for coffee whilst Ma fed the new dishwasher before going home with Old Hodge. We listened to quiet piano music that Leigh identified as Chopin Nocturnes. He drank scotch with his coffee and poured a small measure of some sweet and pleasant liqueur into mine without asking. The fire roared in the grate, casting flickering shadows across the room and warming me inside as well as out.Leigh moved from his chair to the sofa and patted it for me to sit beside him. I had no idea what he intended but joined him. From the floor, he picked up a small wooden box, from the cottage, and placed it on his lap. There was a single envelope on top addressed to me in neat purple handwriting.‘Recognize the box?’I knew it at once. ‘Father said…I don’t want to call him that now. I don’t know what to call him. I don’t want to swear.’‘Compromise. You want to refer to him as “that bastard” or something similar. Just use the initial.’I could do that. ‘The B said I was never to touch that, on pain of a severe beating every day for a week.’‘Bastard. I’m not surprised. It reveals what a liar and a shit he really is.’‘What’s in it?’‘The same as this. Except this one’s addressed to you here and those in the box are addressed to the cottage.’‘From my mother?’‘From your mother. I’ve read some, Faith. I wanted to be sure there was nothing to harm you. Are you up to another weep; for different reasons?’He was as different from my ... from the B as it was possible to be. He cared about me, cared about my feelings, consulted me, was considerate. So why was he still being distant? Why was he different from the way he was in York? I wanted him back like that. I wanted him warm and friendly with sparkling eyes that looked at me with wonder. Somehow, I had to find a way to make him see me as he had that day. Somehow, I had to regain the respect and affection he had shown me. I had to become worthy of him again. But I had no idea how.‘Yes, I’m ready.’ I wanted to know why my mother had abandoned me and never come back.I put out my hand and he handed me the most recent letter first. It was still sealed. He trusted my mother to write what would not hurt me. The other letters must have told him a good deal about her.I had never received a private letter before. Leigh handed me the letter opener from the mantelpiece; a silver knife with a naked woman forming the handle. I weighed it in my hand for a moment and Leigh silently accused me of condemnation whilst I was actually considering the beautiful workmanship. The blunt blade slipped easily into the flap and opened the envelope. Three sheets of thick note paper nestled within and I drew them out with trembling fingers.
‘Dear Faith, Letters don’t come naturally to me. I speak better than I write on personal issues. It’s so important I get this right. I just hope you’ll be able to hear my voice as you read it.First of all, I did reply to all your previous letters and posted them to the cottage where you live. I can only assume your shit of a father never let you read them.I was intrigued to learn that you’re now working for Leighton Longshaw. I know of him and gather he’s a real ladies’ man. I hope you’re taking full advantage!It’s so hard to know what to tell you and where to begin. Why don’t you know when your birthday is? Anyway, you’ll be 21 on 5th August and I’d love to be able to see you before then, if I could.I don’t know what Paul Heacham has told you about me and your sister, Netta, except that he probably still refers to her as Charity, a name she hates. She’ll be 18 on 11th July, by the way. Mind you, she’s been acting like a mature woman for years, so her birthday just means she’ll be doing more things legally.I do love you, Faith. It broke my heart to leave you when you were just six but I had no choice. Paul Heacham’s a vicious and brutal man and he threatened you as well as Netta and me with violence if I made any trouble. That’s why I’ve never been back. He said he’d make sure you were hurt if I tried to see you. Hope, of course, was always safe because he knew she was his.I expect life has been hard for you, living with that cretin and a younger sister who will still be a baby. I bet she’s huge, like a beached whale, isn’t she? I was encouraged when your letter came and told me you were working, especially for that wicked, lovely man. I hope he’s giving you as much as you can take. I admit I’m jealous. I saw him once and he’s a real dish. Still, I’d better not say too much on that score or you might not let me meet him!Look, it’s really too difficult trying to explain so much to you, after all this time, by letter. My phone number’s at the top. Give me a call and, if you like, I’ll drive over with Netta, and perhaps that lovely man would let us all meet at Longhouse? I really daren’t go to Heacham’s cottage; I think he’d kill me, and I know Netta wouldn’t be safe either.Call me soon. I’m dying to meet you.All my love,Matilda, oops, sorry, Mum!’
I read it through four times. It said so much and so little to me. I felt elated, frightened, embarrassed, curious, impatient and confused. Leigh sat silently beside me, watching and waiting. I handed him that letter and turned to the box to read the older ones.Leigh had opened only three of them, almost at random, it seemed. The B had clearly not even opened them before he had hidden them in the box. I wondered why he had kept them, knowing I could have stumbled on them at any time. And, that, of course, was the reason: he was so certain of his hold over me that he knew I would never disobey him by opening the box. It must have given him a sense of great power to have that box under his bed, knowing I could open it each time I cleaned his room and knowing, with absolute certainty, that I would not. How blind had been my obedience to that monster.The letters, nearly two dozen, were mostly included with birthday cards and most held money, a lot of which was no longer legal tender since decimalization. But my mother had been generous and I counted enough from the later letters to buy me a couple of new outfits. The letters told of her love and her wish to meet me but they told me little more about her than the first letter I had read. There was a lot in them about my sister who she described as beautiful and, in the later letters, as a very popular girl with the men.I heard Leigh chuckle beside me and knew he had reached the part about him and my mother’s advice to take advantage. It highlighted her ignorance of the reality of her eldest daughter. I realized she had no idea how the B had raised me. It was disturbing to learn that she was the exact opposite of him as far as I could tell from her letters. She loved men and sex was obviously a favourite pastime for her. She was wise to suspect my caution over her meeting Leigh.‘So, when are we to meet this interesting lady and her other daughter?’‘You think I should meet her?’‘Of course you must! Don’t you want to?’‘In some ways I’m desperate to know her but in others I’m not sure she’d be good for me.’‘You need the sense of fun and love of life she clearly has. She’s responsible for half of your genes. Your looks must have come from her since Heacham’s such an ugly, sour-looking bastard. Don’t you want to know what she looks like?’‘You want to know what she looks like, Leigh. I’m more interested in what she’s like as a person.’‘She sounds fascinating to me. I know I’d like to meet her.’‘She’d obviously like to meet you. It might not be sensible for me to encourage that.’‘Not jealous, are you?’ Leigh put his hand to his mouth very briefly as if he regretted his words.I wondered what was behind his gesture, when he would previously have made a joke about it, but let it go. ‘Jealous? No. I don’t really understand that emotion. But I do know I’d be in danger of paling by comparison with her and, by all accounts, my youngest sister. And I’m just learning how important it is that you see me in a positive light. I have feelings about you that I don’t fully understand but I know I’d like you to feel the same way about me. It might be harder for you to see me if there were other attractive women about.’On the other hand, I felt an overpowering need to impress Leigh as soon as I could in some positive way. My mother and sister might make up for some of my missing qualities and I could see no real reason to keep them away. They were hardly likely to do anything to hurt me, after all.Leigh looked seriously bemused. I tried a smile but my lips refused to co-operate so I had to resort to stroking his face as a gesture of my affection. ‘Poor, Leigh, so confused. I suppose you’re going to meet them some time, so I might as well make it sooner than later. May I invite them here for my first meeting, please? I don’t really want to go out anywhere looking like this.’‘Invite who you wish, when you want, Faith. For the moment, this is your home. But, if you’ll follow my advice, you’ll wait a little while before you meet your mum and sister. You need time to adjust to your new situation, time to get better. I think both of you would be better off meeting once you’re fully recovered.’‘But I can invite them whenever I like?’‘This is your home, Faith. And, at home, you may do as you please. I know you need some guidance, so I’ll lay down the ground rules of life at Longhouse: there are only two: Treat my things as you’d wish your own to be treated. Allow people the privacy they prefer in their bedroom and the bathroom. Otherwise, there are no rules. If you want to listen to music, listen. If you want to watch telly, watch. If you want to dance naked on the kitchen table… well, anyway, do what you please. This is now your home and I know I can trust you to treat it with respect and me and my friends with consideration. And I know you’ll accord me the same freedoms. A word of warning. I wear nothing in bed and I don’t bother to cover up on the way to and from the bathroom.’That no longer mattered; I had seen him naked with models more than once. ‘I don’t wear anything in bed either. Seems an odd thing to do if it’s not cold. But I will be covering myself on the way to the bathroom.’‘Faith, you’re a singular woman, a living contradiction; confusion manifest and I’m in serious danger of ... It’s high time you were in bed. I want you well again as soon as possible.’I silently wondered why.

###
You've come so far it's unlikely you'll stop now. But, just in case you're impatient for the next chapter, you know where you can buy the book.
Web site: http://stuartaken.co.uk
Tweet with me: http://twitter.com/@stuartaken
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/StuartAken

4 May 1972 - Make a Wave Committee changed its name to Greenpeace. I joined the organisation a year or so after it made its first faltering steps into the UK, in the late 1970s as I recall. It's made some mistakes but its heart has always been in the right place and it's an organisation I'd recommend to all those who have any sense of concern for our wonderful planet.
4 May - Star Wars Day - May the fourth be with you!

Books About Writing Books

Check out the Thesaurus' sibling, Dictionary. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
As writers, we all need to read; it's an essential part of the creative process. Anyone who tries to write but doesn't read will fail unless they rank amongst the geniuses.
But it's not the books you read for comparison, pleasure, or general information I want to discuss today. I want to introduce you to those books I use when actually engaged in the process of writing. I've never been a particular fan of the 'How To…' approach, although I do have a couple of titles, which begin with those words, on my shelves. I find myself drawn more to two distinctly diverse sets of books on or to do with writing.
First there are what I would define as the essential reference books; the dictionaries, grammar guides and others to do with the mechanics of setting words down on paper.
I once met a man, who styled himself an author, and discovered he didn't own a dictionary and never consulted one, even online. I was puzzled how someone dealing with words could be so uninterested in their true meanings, how an author could work without something as basic as a guide to what words actually mean. And then I had the misfortune to read one of his stories. It was, mercifully, short. Something like ten per cent of the words suffered incorrect spelling, another five per cent were simply the wrong words in the wrong places and, in a couple of cases, the words he'd used actually meant the exact opposite to what he had intended. I gently pointed out these facts to him. 'Just because it's in a dictionary, doesn't make it right!' was his first retort. I was tempted to use logic and reason on this poor arrogant and misguided fool but saw at once I'd be wasting my breath. He hasn't sent me any more of his writing. Although that wasn't my aim, I have to say I'm pleased. I hate cruelty, and the way he tortured English must have contravened some Article of the Geneva Convention. In fact, I believe he's stopped writing and is now expressing his talent through rather poorly executed  drawings. And, no, he's never had a drawing lesson or taken the trouble to visit an art gallery or read a book to see how an accomplished artist does the job.
I've used a number of dictionaries over the years, but my favourite is undoubtedly the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary , which I have in the 2 volume version in print and on a CD Rom. It probably says much about me that I prefer to rifle through the printed books when looking for meanings and/or spellings. I also have Partridge's A Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional English , which is an excellent piece of work, though rather pricey. The Oxford Dictionary for Writers and Editors has a place on my shelf and is consulted for those small technical issues not covered by other tomes. Then there's Laurence Urdlang's A Dictionary of Misunderstood Misused Mispronounced Words, which is a great source of fun as well as reference; good for 'dipping'. I gathered Julian Franklyn's A Dictionary of Rhyming Slang one day when I came across it in a book shop at the time I was developing a cockney character for a story; a useful addition, if a little specialist. And Hugh Rawson's A Dictionary of Euphemisms and Other Doubletalk is a source of as much amusement as it is of information.
Some time ago, after suffering torture at the hands of a manager delivering a course on management techniques, I came across Kenneth Hudson's The Dictionary of Diseased English and knew I must have it. It's a useful defence for those moments when I'm tempted, by that devil sitting on my shoulder, into using the current jargon and management speak; its caustic and often sarcastic definitions of such language are enough to keep any writer on track and out of the quagmire. I particularly enjoy his comments about many of the terms used to describe wines.  My final dictionary dealing with words rather than other research subjects, is the Penguin Rhyming Dictionary; a cheat's aid for those occasions when you want to write some rhyming poetry but the muse fails to deliver.
Then there are those volumes that deal with how we actually use language. Here I'll simply list those I've bought because they each have something useful and pertinent to say about English usage. Fowler's Modern English Usage - considered by many to be the ultimate authority.Oxford Dictionary of Current Idiomatic English - occasionally useful for resolving issues at doubt.Hart's Rules for Compositors and Readers - a handbook to help in the editing process (especially of galley proofs).Eric Partridge, Usage and Abusage - a great book for dipping into or for trawling when some serious matter of grammar arises.The Oxford Manual of Style - a book which does what it says on the spine.And, of course, Thomas Parish's The Grouchy Grammarian, which addresses the 47 most common mistakes in English in a humorous manner.
Next are the other word books no self-respecting writer should be without: the Thesaurus. I have a selection, since each of the collection has something different to add to the lists of alternative words. A word of caution about these handy aids, however; they should be a last resort, following your own hard-thinking process, only when the elusive fails to materialise in your own imagination.My favourite is the older edition of Roget's Thesaurus , rather amusingly subtitled 'New Edition', which it undoubtedly was when published in 1987. I prefer its layout and method of selection.I also have the Oxford Compact Thesaurus, a real tome - heaven knows what the comprehensive version looks like!Hartrampf's Vocabulary Builder deals with the subject in a slightly different manner and is now out of print. I purchased mine through an online second hand book dealer and use it from time to time when one of my others fails to quite satisfy.The New Nuttall Dictionary of Synonyms and Antonyms serves well for those occasions when you know the word that means the opposite of what you actually need; a valuable member of the club.
So much for technicalities. What about inspiration and instruction? I long ago bought Dorothea Brande's Becoming a Writer. If you buy no other book about the art of writing, buy this one. And do the exercises. It will help you immensely in your development as a wordsmith. The book has been in and out of print since it was first published in 1934. I obtained my 1984 reprint by chance from a second hand book shop. I did all the exercises and return to some of them from time to time to refresh my creative spirit.Stephen King is a master of his craft and his On Writing is another source of inspiration. I recommend it.And, to end this section, I'm currently part way through Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way, a book form of her 12 week course on creativity. If the rest of the book proves as valuable as the portion I've so far completed, this could well be the most important book on writing that I've ever read. Watch this space. (You should know that this is subtitled A Spiritual Path to Greater Creativityand she uses the concept of God as a generic term for the external creative force she exhorts her students to connect with. As a committed agnostic, I initially struggled with this concept, but, having understood what she really means by it, I've managed to get over what could have been a block to learning some extraordinarily valuable lessons about myself and my creative spirit).
And, finally, for the purposes of this article, I've a selection of small books dealing with the vagaries of English as she is spoke or writ from across the pond.American English English American is a small softback that lists the different words that are used for the same things in both versions of our common language. Useful when writing for the US market if you're from the UK, and vice versa, of course.Christopher Davies' Divided by a Common Language deals quite comprehensively with the differences and similarities of the two versions of the language and is definitely worth a place in your library if you want to write for both sides of the pond.The Little Red Writing Book, by Brandon Royal, expands on a list of 20 powerful principles of structure, style and readability as understood by US standards.And, to end this list, The Elements of Style, by William Strunk Jr and E.B. White must be considered an essential guide for good writing aimed at US readers.
I haven't listed the many other reference books I've collected over the years, dealing with topics as diverse as symbolism, natural history and superstition, in more detail and allowing me to write with confidence on a wide range of subjects. I hope that simple enthusiasm for the subject is enough to ensure that writers will always arm themselves with such information.
So, these are some of the books that help me create my books. I'm sure writers and readers have their own lists. Perhaps you'd share your ideas here, by making a comment, so others can share and profit from your experience? Thank you.

Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 15

It's great you're still here. Thanks. Enjoy the read.
Did you miss the start? Here's the link: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html
I posted Chapter 1 on 13 January and following chapters appear each Friday. You'll find them via the archive.
Read, enjoy, invite your friends.

Chapter 15
When I saw her stumbling along the road toward me, I thought I could guess what had happened. Her previous hints should’ve prepared me for his cruelty but they hadn’t and contempt at what the bastard had done to her overwhelmed me. Sadly, even then, I underestimated the reality of Heacham’s brutality.I made no effort to hide my disgust at her father as I ushered her into the car. Only my immediate concern for her well-being stopped me going straight to that pokey cottage to beat the bastard to pulp for closing her beautiful eye and splitting her lovely mouth.Her silence in the car was ominous enough but her behaviour, once at Longhouse, was alarming. She stripped so carelessly, showing no emotion and none of her usual fanatical modesty, convincing me far more than those vicious stripes that I needed an expert for her. She was severely traumatized.Ma took charge of her. I persuaded Doctor Dohan to come over as soon as he could. Ma described Faith’s continued strange behaviour and I went up to see if I could get any sense out of her before Paul arrived.I knocked.‘Yes?’‘I’d like a word, Faith.’‘Come in.’I was amazed to find her uncovered, albeit face down on the bed.‘Let me cover you, love, you must be cold.’She mumbled something unintelligible in which I caught only the words, ‘Last night’.I found a light cover and pulled up the sheet to keep the softer wool from sticking to her wounds.‘Tell me what happened.’She continued to look away from me, toward the wall. ‘… punished for my sins. … you expect?’‘Your father…?’‘… else would?’‘Why?’‘… you don’t know, Leigh…’‘I don’t. Tell me.’It was difficult for her to speak, her swollen lips distorting her words but I persisted, determined to discover something of what had befallen her after I left.There was a rap on the door and Ma entered with Paul, who had evidently left his surgery and come straight away, at considerable speed.‘Paul, thanks. Can I have a quick word?’I explained what I’d discovered and gave him the background as far as I could. ‘But what worries me is she seems to believe she deserved what he did to her. As if she’s lost all pride and self esteem.’‘Knowing her background and her father, I’d say that’s hardly surprising, Leigh. I’ll be blunt. Heacham’s a sadist and a bully. Always has been. It’s a wonder the girl’s as balanced as she is. I’m amazed she hasn’t become the imbecile he tells everyone she is. Let me examine her. Of course, she might not let me; he doesn’t like doctors. But he might’ve damaged her internally, not just her skin. That’s why I came over in such a hurry.’I let him go to her and waited with Ma in the kitchen. He was up there for a very long time and he looked grave when he came down. Ma made coffee.‘Sorry, it’s difficult to make sense of her speech because of the swelling but I managed to piece it together. I don’t think she’s very impressed with me, but I had to get the facts. You’ll be relieved to know there’s no indication of internal damage and her skin should return to normal with some basic care.‘But I’ll be frank, Leigh. I know you love women and I know you’re a compassionate man, but I’m not sure you’re up to handling something as complex as that girl up there.’‘Tell me what you think, Paul.’‘She’s been brought up to have absolutely no self-esteem. All her thoughts are her father’s...’‘Were. She’s started to think for herself now she’s working for me.’‘Possibly. But her self-image is so poor it’ll take more than kindness and a few well-placed compliments to improve it. Her father has left her with no sense of self-worth. He’s told her she’s wrong so frequently that she really believes, regardless of evidence to the contrary, that she must be wrong.’‘I’ll kill that bastard, Paul. I had her happy and believing in herself yesterday, full of joy and confidence. Christ! She even wanted to spend the night with me. I wish I’d ignored the fact she’d had too much to drink and taken her up on her offer. At least she’d have been spared the beating and this… this relapse.’‘As I said, Leigh, this isn’t simple. She may require professional help. If you’d bedded her last night, and I don’t doubt she’d have let you, as you’re in the strongest position to supplant her father, as a male figure of authority, she’d have woken up this morning hating both you and herself. No, the beating has hurt her body but at least she’s no additional cause to feel ashamed.‘Listen, you need to know something else. I’ll have to trust you on this, so don’t let me down, Leigh; patient confidence and all that. Her father locked her out of the house stark naked. She spent the whole of last night in the outside loo.’‘I’ll kill that shit...’‘Not helpful. She came to you in the early stages of hypothermia. That, together with the beating, put her into a state of shock that shielded her from the emotional aspects of her actions. I doubt she’s fully aware of how she behaved this morning. Be careful, she may feel deep resentment of you and real shame when she understands you’ve seen her body. Her mind is remarkably strong, I don’t really fear for her intellectual sanity. But I’ve serious concerns for her emotional stability. She desperately needs a place where she can learn to be herself, away from the destructive influence of her father.’‘A flat, on her own, you mean?’‘Absolutely not, Ma. She needs to have people near to consult and guide her when she’s lost. What she needs, more than anything else, is love and an environment of trust.’‘There’s plenty of room at Longhouse.’‘It won’t be easy, Leigh. She may alternate between loving you and offering her all without reservation, and hating you for either rejecting her or for taking advantage of her vulnerability. She knows, deep down, that her father’s responsible for the way she is. If you become the substitute figure of authority in her life, there’s every chance she’ll blame you instead until she’s really found her way.‘If you love her, Leigh, if you’ve ambitions to have more than a simple sexual relationship with her in the future, it might be best if you don’t take on the role of guide. I’ve no doubt, once she’s found herself, she’ll be willing and able to share your bed. Whether that’ll be good or bad, I can’t tell. But any longer term, deeper relationship is going to require an enormous effort from you and a fair amount of good luck along the way.’‘You’re so full of good news and easy answers, Paul.’‘You do love her, then?’‘I could. I very easily could. She’s by far the most remarkable woman I’ve ever met. Not the sexiest or most beautiful, but something else. She’s quite extraordinary.’‘Oh, she’s that all right. So, what’s it to be, Leigh? Whatever we decide, we can’t let her go back to that cretin of a father.’‘Can you cope with Faith as a live-in guest, Ma?’‘She’s not going back to that cottage after what that bastard did to her. And where else would the poor love go?’‘I’ll take that as a “yes,” then.’‘You’re sure about this, Leigh? In spite of my concerns?’‘Positive.’‘One last warning, then. Have no illusions about what you’re taking on here. If you love her, Leigh, as opposed to simply wanting her in your bed, you’re likely to be in as much emotional danger as Faith if things get out of hand between you. Take your time and play it gently. I don’t want to have to refer the pair of you for psychiatric treatment in a few months time.’Paul turned to Ma. ‘Leigh’s going to need considerable support from you and Old Hodge, Ma. And I need a favour. Until you’re certain that Faith is absolutely ready to have Leigh in her bed, for her own reasons and not just because she wants to please him, I want you to make it your sacred duty to prevent them having sex. Will you do that?’‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Doctor Dohan. This is one maiden he won’t be bowling over without my express permission.’‘Excellent. Thanks for the coffee.’I sat for a while after he’d gone. Ma asked me about the job I was supposed to be doing in Bradford but I wasn’t in the mood. I rang and re-arranged it.Faith was still awake when I knocked on her door, but she was at least covered and lying on her side, facing the door as I entered.‘Like a cuppa?’She tried to respond with words but they were so slurred by her swollen lips that I had to make do with the accompanying nod. Judging by the pain that flashed across her eyes as she moved her head, I guessed she had a splitting headache as well.I arranged tea, and some of the painkillers Paul had left, by shouting downstairs to Ma. Back in her room, I sat on the edge of the bed and managed to take her hand in mine. Tears trickled from her open eye and I passed her a tissue. ‘I won’t make you talk, Faith. Just listen and squeeze my hand once for yes, twice for no. Okay?’She squeezed once.‘First of all, you’re safe and in the hands of people who care about you here at Longhouse, so...’ Two squeezes.‘Who doesn’t care about you?’She tried to say something but it was unintelligible. I wondered how Paul had gleaned so much information from her and recalled the amount of time he’d spent with her.‘Okay. Merv?’Two.‘Ma?’One.‘Old Hodge?’One.Last, and the one I was dreading, ‘Me?’One, two.‘I care. I care more than I can say. You’re very special to me.’No response, just that wet, wide eye staring and full of misery. Paul had said it wouldn’t be easy.‘I’m going to the cottage to collect your things.’Two squeezes.‘I am. It’s not a request; I’m just letting you know. And, until you decide where you want to go, you’ll be living here.’One. Two. One.I got the message. ‘Okay, three for “don’t know,” okay?’One.‘I’m off for your stuff now, as much of it as I can find. When you’re better, we’ll go back together and collect the rest. Okay?’Two.‘Why not?’She made a desperate effort and I caught on. ‘You want me to go to the job in Bradford?’One.‘I’ve postponed it. I’m going next week. Okay?’One.Ma came in with tea and painkillers and took over whilst I went to her father’s cottage.There was no sign of life as I walked up the steep track. Only the wind sounded in that isolated spot. Outside the door, I hovered, aware I felt so violently disposed to the bastard that I might kill him if I were to lose it.An odd noise came softly through the door. A strange, regular keening that seemed full of distress. I was about to knock but I thought the coward might run for it if he saw me. And that sound reached into my subconscious and told me something was seriously wrong.I opened the door into a nightmare. Across the sitting room, through the kitchen door, Heacham stood naked with his back to me. Face down across the scrubbed wooden table, Hope lay with her legs spread wide, Heacham’s hands gripping her hips. She shuddered with each thrust into her limp unresisting form and, as he shoved, the girl emitted her keening whimper of distress.I crossed the room and dragged him out of her before I had time to think. He almost fell with the force of separation and his hands went instinctively to guard himself. I kicked viciously, displacing his hands and feeling the satisfying thud as my shoe crushed his balls. He screamed and bent double. I brought my knee up into his face, knocking him to the floor. He lay there moaning. I used his hair to yank him to his feet and smashed a straight left into his face, cracking the line of his nose. He fell against the door of the ancient cooker, smacking his head. The handle scored down his back. I hauled him up by his throat. Kicking, shoving and punching the bastard, I forced him to the back door until he crashed into the woodwork.‘Open it or I’ll kick you through the fucking door!’He scrabbled for the handle as I thrashed him with fists, feet and knees. With the door open, I launched him into the garden with a final vicious kick. He stumbled barefoot over rows of growing cabbage and landed face down in the carrots and potatoes and stayed there.A dry-stone wall some five feet high surrounded the back garden. A wooden gate beside the outhouse gave access to the lane.‘Don’t even think of moving, Heacham. If I have to come and get you, I’ll nail you by your prick to the coal-shed door! Stay there or you’re fucking dead.’I locked the door, washed my hands under the kitchen tap and paused to catch my breath. Hope lay quiet on the table, her keening done.I made her bed ready. As gently as I could with her dead weight, I picked her up and lay her on the mattress before covering her with the light quilt. I thought of Faith, so small and fragile, lugging her in and out of the house twice a day and marvelled at her strength and dedication. Hope was so vulnerable, helpless, I could have wept at the way he’d violated her.I looked for something to bind him and took the belt from his abandoned trousers, the respectable tie he’d removed so he could be naked as he raped his helpless daughter.Fortunately for him, he was still on the ground, though face up, when I returned to the garden. I kicked him back onto his face without a word and bound his wrists together, tight as I could, with the tie. I thought of leaving him on the lawn but, instead, I opened the loo door in the outhouse. It was where he’d made Faith spend the previous night and seemed an appropriate makeshift prison. The thought of her shivering in there had me smacking Heacham’s face again.‘You filthy, fucking shit ball!’ I discovered I couldn’t lock the door securely so I shoved him in the coalhouse and tied it shut with his belt. I wrenched the rusting washing pole out of the grass and wedged it against the door as insurance. From within came the satisfying sound of Heacham vomiting.Mrs Greenhough let me use her phone. I didn’t attempt to hide my words from her or the two middle-aged women customers. Heacham’s rape would be the talk of the village before the end of the day.Social Services said they would send someone when they could, though they weren’t sure they had a vacancy at a place suitable for a quadriplegic in Hope’s condition. I told them he’d rape her again if she remained in Heacham’s care and the newspapers would be interested in the story. They decided to send someone straight away. The police offered to meet me at the cottage within the hour.It was all remarkably simple and, by mid afternoon, Heacham was on his way to the cells and Hope was en route to a residential care home in the Harrogate area. Heacham signed the release papers there and then. The police were happy for me to have the keys to the cottage when I explained about Faith. They mentioned my assault but thought, on balance, self-defence would rule out any charges. The fact that one of the coppers had placed his size twelve boot on Heacham’s already swollen balls whilst his other had unaccountably made contact with his head, probably had something to do with their lenient view of my attack.‘You’d be amazed just how much damage can occur to a naked man who accidentally falls down the stairs and then trips and falls against the kitchen table whilst trying to resist arrest.’‘Amazed, I know.’‘Child abusers and rapists; have this thing about the bastards, you know?’I knew. ‘I’ve always wondered why we accord the same rights to criminals, who put themselves outside the law, as we do to those who remain within the law. It’s their choice to cross the boundary; I don’t see why they should expect to be protected by the laws they’re so willing to break themselves.’‘Couldn’t agree with you more, Sir. Shame the wimps in government and the courts don’t see it that way. Make our job a good deal easier, I can tell you.’They left and the house fell into an unnatural peace that provoked me to action. I gathered the bundle of clothes from Faith’s bedroom and realized she’d clearly intended to leave home after her beating, regardless of what had happened afterwards. That, at least, was encouraging. I realized that her defiance dissolving by the time I met her on the road, illustrating Paul’s assessment of her as a complex case.There was nothing else identifiably Faith’s that I could find. A quick search of the other rooms, once the police had left, revealed a pile of singular pornographic magazines devoted to female bondage and pseudo-rape, imported by post from Scandinavia, in his wardrobe. They were opened but stored in their plain brown envelopes. I burnt them in a corner of the garden, wishing I could have the bastard’s balls to roast on the flames.Under Heacham’s bed, I discovered a large suitcase and opened it to disclose a large amount in bank notes. I was unsure of the legal position regarding that so I left it where it was. A small wooden box next to it got the better of my curiosity. When I discovered it contained letters to Faith from her mother, I wanted him back for another hiding.Back home, amongst the mail, I found a hand-written letter for Faith. It was a nice coincidence, a touch of serendipity balancing some of the distress, and I put the new letter from her mother with the collection of older ones from the cottage.‘How is she?’‘Sleeping.’‘Good.’‘You look shattered, Leigh.’I poured myself a large Glenlivet and sat at the kitchen table as Ma prepared the evening meal. Old Hodge came in and I poured one for him as he was taking off his boots in the utility room.‘What’s up wi’ your hand, Leigh? It’s swollen and skinned.’I told them what I’d found at Faith’s home. They listened in stunned silence until I’d finished.‘Can’t have been an isolated incident, too much of a coincidence, you walking in on the beggar like that.’‘When we brought him in from the coalhouse and questioned him with Social Services and police present, he just collapsed. All pretence went. He’s been at it for years, since the girl was about twelve or thirteen. When Faith was home he just waited till she was asleep or sent her out into the hills for a walk. It’s why he insisted on Hope sleeping naked downstairs.‘Said it started when he thought he could “inspire” her to come out of her vegetative state by stimulating her. Once he’d begun, it became an obsession and he couldn’t stop himself. Like fuck, he couldn’t. Obsession! The man’s a filthy shitball pervert. That’s why he sent Faith off to work. So he could rape Hope all day every day without the danger of discovery.‘I asked him if he’d ever tried anything like that with Faith. He swore he’d never touched her. But he admitted bringing her up without privacy and making her walk around half naked because it turned him on to have her in his power like that. Can you imagine? His own daughters.‘There were six of us; men and women, in the room with that bastard and not one of us would’ve stopped any of the others killing that shit.’The following day, Faith slept through, helped by the medication Paul had left. She was still asleep in the afternoon when I returned from a job on a local farm. Ma and Old Hodge raised the issue of Hope again and we all expressed our disgust at what had happened.‘God alone knows how I’m going to tell Faith.’‘Don’t tell her. She needn’t know.’I shook my head at Ma and reminded her about Mrs Greenhough at the Post Office.‘Whole village’ll know by now.’I agreed with Old Hodge. Somehow, I had to break the news to Faith.‘Think she knew?’I wished Ma hadn’t raised a question I’d been avoiding. ‘I hope not. But I don’t see how. I mean, the signs must’ve been there. She looked after Hope; washed her, cleaned her. How could she not know?’Old Hodge shrugged. ‘Mebbie. But this is Faith we’re talking about. Faith; not some normal young woman brought up in a normal family. Lass ‘as no idea about most of life. Knows nowt about sex. Happen she might’ve seen the signs and not understood.’‘I’d like to think that was possible.’ But somehow, it seemed unlikely she could have remained ignorant, in the same house, whilst it was going on. ‘Even if the bastard had gagged Hope whilst he raped her, how come she never found out? There must’ve been some residue, some soreness…’‘Personally, I’d give Faith the benefit of the doubt.’ Old Hodge faced me as he spoke but his eyes flicked to the open door behind me.I turned to discover Faith standing there, dressed in a towelling robe one of my models had stolen from a good hotel and left behind.With difficulty, through lips that had lost only a little of their earlier swelling, she managed to make herself understood. ‘Benefit of the doubt about what?’‘Not now. I’ll explain later. I promise.’ But it wouldn’t be that easy.She wanted to know what we’d been discussing, why there should be any doubt at all about her, I suppose. ‘Tell me now.’‘We were just wondering how much of a fight you were able to put up against your father, that’s all.’‘He’s bigger than me. Stronger; for all his bad back. And, when he loses his temper, he seems to have the strength of three men.’‘Bad back, my foot. Not bad enough to stop him...’I glared at Ma and she immediately regretted her comment. ‘Anyway, love, how are you feeling?’‘Pretty much as I look, I suppose. What do you mean, Ma?’‘I just… never believed your father had a bad back, that’s all.’‘I always thought you were above the village gossip, Ma.’Ma struggled against the urge to defend herself. ‘Perhaps. Anyhow, it’s not important. Come an’ sit and have a bite of supper. You’ve had a deal to cope with and we’d all be better off discussing happier things.’It was obvious that talking was a real effort for her. She started to protest again and then gave in and sat silently at the table between Old Hodge and me.The meal was awkward with extended silences and half-expressed sentences; all of us aware how easy it was to say too much. I found myself considering Faith and wondering again, what she knew of her father’s treatment of Hope. Clutching at straws, so that my picture of her could be left as unstained as possible, I recalled her protestations that her father couldn’t even carry a bucket of coal, let alone lift Hope. How she’d been genuinely shocked that I could suggest he might’ve touched her sexually. Perhaps she really was ignorant of the rapes. But how could she have avoided the physical evidence, the redness I’d witnessed and the residue of Heacham’s ejaculations? Hope had no pubic hair to hide either piece of evidence and Faith, I knew, would be fastidious in her care of the girl. How could she fail to recognize such glaring signs?She sat with me in the sitting room after the meal. Old Hodge and Ma returned home to their cottage, on the other side of the garden, after the meal and left us alone in the house. Faith’s injured mouth made conversation too difficult and I was weary.I resorted to the idiots’ lantern and sat beside Faith on the sofa watching Morecambe and Wise and finding they had the power to raise laughter even under those circumstances. Faith gurgled a few times as well and we went to our beds feeling just a little lighter.I knew, however, that morning would bring its own trials when I told her of her father’s arrest and explained how and why it had come about. It was only as I lay my head on a pillow, devoid for once of feminine perfume, that I recalled the box of letters sitting on my desk.
###
You've come this far, so it's unlikely you'll stop now. But, just in case you're impatient for the next chapter, you know where you can buy the book.
Web site: http://stuartaken.co.uk
Tweet with me: http://twitter.com/@stuartaken
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/StuartAken

What and Who do You Admire Most as a Writer?

Cover of J.K. Rowling
Most of us have heroes we look up to in one way or another. Sometimes it's simply the creative output we admire, sometimes it's the person rather than the work, and sometimes, just occasionally, it's both.So, who do you look up to, whose work do you admire?I'll start the ball rolling with my own listing.
I grew up long before the Harry Potternovels were written, let alone published, but I admire the story-telling, imagination and range of language used by J.K.Rowling in these adventure tales aimed at young people. I started out reading them to my daughter as she grew up and ended up reading the last three because I was hooked on the adventure. I also think JK is an admirable person; her struggle to get published under very difficult circumstances and her generosity, once she was established, both make her someone for me to admire.
The work of William Golding is something I've enjoyed since I was introduced to it with The Spire when I attended evening classes during 1983 to take my English Literature A Level (which I passed with a grade A, I'm pleased to say). Having discovered the multi-layered story and accessible literary elements in The Spire, I went on to read the rest of his canon, finding I enjoyed the lot and learning a great deal about writing in the process. I particularly like The Pyramid, one of his works that's rarely mentioned.
Several of William  Horwood's books have impressed me. I enjoyed the pure fun and adventure of Duncton Wood and it's following episodes. But it was The Stonor Eagles that most resonated with me. I felt real empathy with the sculptor who is the human protagonist in this novel. The book details the struggles of Sea Eagles in and around the Norwegian coast and the Scottish Islands, and contrasts their lives with the problems faced by the artist commissioned to produce a sculpture of them to commemorate their re-introduction to the UK. A book that was definitely a powerful influence on my writing. The author's ability to enter the 'minds' of his flying characters as effectively as he does the humans in the story is most impressive.
Graham Greene's work has been influential in my reading and writing, as has that of Neville Shute. I've also enjoyed the work of Louis de Bernier. And, for reasons I don't fully understand, I have a particular soft spot for Richards Adams' Shardik and, particularly, Maia.
There are, of course, hundreds of other writers who have entertained and educated me during a life of reading. Attached to this blog is a list of some of the books I've yet to read. You'll find them on the tab, My To Read List' above. If you're interested in other books I've read and enjoyed, or otherwise, you'll also find a list of those I can actually remember on Goodreads, an excellent site where readers can exchange information about their reading experiences. There, you'll find a list of the 817 titles I've so far recalled, along with reviews of 89 of the books. I estimate I've probably read in excess of 3,000 books but so many are from the past and no longer held on my shelves (I was forced to abandon a large number of my books when I divorced my first wife, unfortunately) that I can't recall them now. All, however, have played their part in developing my language skills, facility with the written word, and my knowledge of the human story.

So, there's an idea of the work and writers I admire. Perhaps you'll share some of your own influences here?Thank you for reading this.
Silly question to amuse: Why do Kamikaze pilots wear helmets?