Stuart Aken's Blog, page 264

An Apology to Those Reading the Novel Here

Although I scheduled a post to include the next chapter of the novel on here, to appear on 20 April, it seems not to have been posted during my absence. No idea why. It's listed in my posts as 'scheduled' with the right date and time, and this process has always worked in the past. However, for whatever reason, it didn't show up. So, rather than interrupt the weekly flow, I'll post Chapter 15 this week, on 27 April. Again, my apologies to those who are following the book on here.

Ancient Symbol Worship, by Westropp & Wake, Reviewed.

This is a modern version, not the one I read,
and may contain more information.Subtitled, Influence of the Phallic Idea in the Religions of Antiquity, this book came my way as one of a small collection given me by my brother when he was sorting stuff out prior to a move to a new house with less space. He used to work in a book store and has a number of fairly unusual titles in his library. This was one he hadn't got round to reading, but the title and subtitle intrigued me.This small volume, first published in 1875, sets out to examine the influence of the phallic, or male, component in ancient religion. But it takes this idea into modern religion, suggesting that the ancient beliefs, customs and rites have been absorbed and altered by modern celebrants in forms recognisable to those who wish to see. There's some Latin, untranslated, and a colossal amount of reference to often obscure issues that were, presumably, well known to scholars of the time. But, for a modern reader, these references remain unexplained and would require a great deal of research to track down and more time than most people have these days for such esoteric issues. Whilst those who already have a deep interest in the symbolism employed in worship will undoubtedly understand the references, the rest of us will remain confused. However, much is clarified by context and, having an interest in many subjects, I was able to apprehend a lot of what the authors allude to, though other items consisted of listings of arcane information lacking any hook on which I could hang it.That the book was written in the Victorian era, with its dreadful hypocrisy regarding all matters sexual, shows in the circumspection that rules the writing. Where, today, we would name the penis, testes, vulva and breasts without fear or embarrassment, the authors are constrained by the customs of their times and therefore have to express much of their ides in convoluted form or by the use of metaphor, much of which is couched in classical references that will be lost on many modern readers.A second factor in preventing the authors expressing themselves frankly and with clarity is their sensitivity to the feelings of those who profess a faith. Again, today, such sensitivities can be dealt with more openly, showing respect rather than reverence. In the time the book was published however, such frankness, leading to real clarity, would have probably prevented publication.So, an already difficult subject is made more obscure for reasons that are no longer valid. As the ideas and information explored are still valid and in need of wider publicity, I'd love to see some modern scholar produce a similar volume for today's reader with a much clearer text. Perhaps it's been done and I simply haven't come across the book.As it is, this book can really only be read by the general reader as a partial glimpse into the subject. Those with a good knowledge of ancient history, religion and symbolism will glean a good deal more, however. Many of the ideas expressed as certainties have, of course, been placed in doubt or even refuted by more recent discoveries of texts from such sources as the Dead Sea Scrolls and other ancient records and parchments retrieved from many different sources by modern archaeologists.Members of religious organisations will no doubt be outraged by suggestions that the roots of their current dogma and rites grew from ancient forms of worship that were definitely based in reproduction and sexuality, often in very explicit acts of devotion, sacrifice and propitiation to the early deities. But a dispassionate and disinterested examination of the rites, customs and beliefs of such groups quickly establishes their ancient links with many practices and myths no longer considered either right or sensible.A demanding read, not for the faint-hearted.

Just to Keep You Informed

If you comment on any posts here for the next week, you 'll have to wait for my response. I'm taking a sabbatical week away from all things digital. There are new posts already scheduled, so they will appear automatically during this period, but I won't be around in person again until 22 April. See you then.

Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 14.

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 14
Thursday 1st April
Father all but dragged me in and closed the door as Leigh turned his back. He was rough with me; such a contrast to Leigh’s gentle touch. He stared at me with a look I hadn’t seen in his eyes before and refused to recognize. I heard the car start and knew Leigh had gone.Only then did Father start on me. ‘Whore! Jezebel! Showing the world your nakedness. Get those whore’s rags off. I’ll show you the penalty for such wantonness. Take them off before I rip them from your sinful flesh!’I was proud of myself that night. I stood my ground, for the first time ever. ‘Father, I’m going to my room where I shall close the door and get ready for bed. You will not come in. Good night.’He was apoplectic. He grasped my wrist and held me as he raised his other hand. ‘Don’t talk to me like that, idiot girl.’‘Strike me and I’ll walk out of here now, Father. Forever.’He hesitated, and doubt clouded his face.‘I will. I’ll leave you to cope; without my help and without my earnings.’‘You’re a wicked, ungrateful child. Up to your room and prepare for the beating you deserve. I’ll grant you privacy to put off those devil’s rags before I come in with the strap to save your soul with pain and sorrow.’‘I do mean it, Father. Touch me and I’ll go for good.’ I pulled my hand free and took the carriers from the floor. I walked upstairs slowly, without a backward glance. Hope was uncovered, with no nappy for protection. ‘If you leave her like that, Father, you’ll have her mess to clean up in the morning.’In my room, I closed the door and pushed the chair against it, moved the bed against the chair and then sat down before my trembling legs collapsed. It was the first time I’d defied Father. And I’d done it because Leigh had shown me I was a person, a person worthy of respect. That I reacted to the situation with fear on top of my courage simply showed me how wrong Father was in his attitudes and behaviour. I would have something to say about that in the morning.There was no mirror in my room. Nothing but a small chest of drawers to hold my clothes. I sat on the bed and thought about my joyful, extraordinary day and the miserable contrast of my homecoming.I thought about leaving home and finding somewhere else to live. Hope would miss my care. Father would have a hard time without my help and my income. Perhaps in my talk with Father I could explain that I was no longer a child, but a woman needing to be treated in a different way. Perhaps I could get him to see that I’d changed, get him to agree to a new, more liberated way of living. That way, we could both have some of what we needed out of life.Father stomped up the stairs and tried my door. I was too tired to reason with him just then and pretended to be asleep. I heard him, hovering on the landing for a while before he went into the bathroom. Then the house was silent and I sat in contemplation for a long timeAt last, I removed Leigh’s gifts with care, folding them in a pile on top of the chest. I’d never considered my nakedness at bedtime as other than a normal state before. The cold was something I lived with but I hadn’t felt exposed or vulnerable. At the door, I stood and listened and heard only silence from the house. Father was asleep.I moved the chair quietly and opened the door wide enough to view the narrow landing. It was clear. I crossed the landing, cleaned my teeth and splashed my face. All the time, I was conscious of some unspecified risk, an anxiety I’d never felt before. But shrugging it off as tiredness, I slipped silently down to the toilet.It was cold outside, the stars sharp and glittering against a black as deep as velvet. Cold for that short time was nothing to me. I’d done this autumn, winter, spring and summer for years.When I returned to the back door, I discovered my punishment. Father had locked me out. I hammered on the door, shouted, threatened and pleaded. But I could shout and scream all night and no one would be wiser. Our cottage was half a mile from any other habitation. ‘Think you’d defy me, girl? The night will cool you.’‘Let me in, Father. I’m not a child any more.’‘You’ll stay out there all night and cool your unnatural passion.’‘I think it’s you who’s unnatural, Father. Let me in.’He was silent at that for a moment.‘I shall destroy those rags so you cannot sin in them again.’‘Leave me out here if you will, Father. But damage those clothes and I swear I’ll leave here tomorrow and walk all the way to Longhouse, through the village, stark naked.’He was silent but I knew he was still behind the door.‘I mean it, Father. I swear I will, on the Bible.’ I knew he wouldn’t destroy them after I made an oath like that.‘May God save your wicked soul.’‘Let me in, Father.’But he had gone.I returned to the small stone-floored room and sat on the cold wooden seat and waited for the night to end. The long, black night of retribution.So cold. The seat was cold. The walls were cold. The stone flags of the floor were cold. The very air that wrapped my skin was cold. I ached with cold. I hugged myself and shivered through that endless night without sleep.Dawn crept slowly up the sky and pinked the tiny, frosted window. Father wouldn’t leave me outside, where prying eyes might see me, once daylight announced the start of my working day.I found the back door unlocked and I stepped into the kitchen, grateful for the relative warmth.Father had gone back to his room. He wouldn’t dare beat me after my threat, knowing his punishment of a night outside was risk enough. I would go upstairs, put on my lovely soft underwear and new trouser suit, take breakfast on my own in the kitchen and then set off for Longhouse, meeting Leigh as he came to collect me. He would be surprised and pleased to see me and we’d kiss before I sat in the car beside him. After that, I was unsure what might happen, I had no experience of what lovers did together. But life was spread before me in splendour and bright colours of joy.I went through the sitting room toward my bedroom and Father stepped from behind the door and grabbed me. He dragged me across the back of his armchair. Grasping me with one strong hand in my hair, he lashed my back, my buttocks, my thighs, my shoulders and my flailing arms with the buckle end of his leather strap.‘Think you’d escape God’s punishment? You’re a fool. Always been a fool. Born a fool. Grown up a fool. And now a whore as well. Whore again and next time I’ll do the Lord’s work with a stick to break your bones and spill your blood for your sins. Evil, wicked girl. Loathsome Jezebel. Vile, ungrateful whore!’He stopped only when his arm was tired. I struggled to escape and to defend myself but made no sound. He tore his hand from my hair and brought the back of it across my face, back and forth, as I rose up. My teeth cut through my lip and the tips of his fingers slashed across my eye.Unsteady from the beating and my night outside in the cold, I stumbled away without a word and clambered up the stairs. The clothes were scattered on the floor, trampled and creased but not cut or torn, as I’d feared. Anxious that blood from my injured mouth and bleeding nose might stain my fine new clothes, I dressed in what I’d worn to travel to York the previous day. In the bathroom, I staunched the bleeding with cold water, cleaned my teeth with difficulty and untangled my hair as best I could without a mirror.I took my few possessions out of my chest of drawers and piled them on the bed. With a belt and woollen scarf, I tied them into a bundle, which I left on the bed. Leigh’s gifts I folded and took with me in the carrier bags.Downstairs, Father was still breathing heavily. I heard but did not look at him. ‘Where do you think you’re going, girl?’I stared at him as he sat so confident of my defeat and subjugation in his chair by a fire that was dying, waiting for me to rebuild it and rekindle the flames. I couldn’t bear to be with him a moment longer. I had to go. I had to leave that house with all its memories of sorrow and pain. I took my coat from its peg by the door and, from the corner of my eye, saw him move.‘Touch me again and I’ll never come back. Ever. I promise you.’He remained where he was, half in, half out of his chair. Something in my tone stopped him coming closer.‘You’ll be back, my girl. Come crawling back, begging my forgiveness once he’s had his way with you and tossed you aside like all the others. You’ll come back. And I’ll have you. But you’ll regret your whoring till your dying days. You’ll beg me to save your soul and I’ll beat the Devil from your worthless hide each day until you know what sorrow and repentance mean.’I left, determined not to return to that house except to collect my few possessions.It was far too early for Leigh but I began to walk to Longhouse, keeping on the road I knew he would use, instead of trekking over the fields. I was slow because of the cold night, the beating and the lack of breakfast.As soon as I was on the road and the first elation of escape began to fade, the familiar and habitual feelings of guilt and shame came abruptly to swamp the relief. A lifetime of obedience and correction cannot be so easily defeated. I was filled with self-loathing at my behaviour. I had questioned Father. I had disobeyed him. I had fallen far short of his standards. I had let him down. I was wicked.After all he had done for me, I had abandoned him. Left him to fend for himself and care for Hope alone. How could I do such a thing? How could I even begin to think I knew better?But, in spite of everything that my mind declared, my battered, tired, pain-filled body moved me instinctively away from him and toward Longhouse.I would return. I would beg his forgiveness and accept the beating I deserved for my disobedience and wickedness. Father knew best, as he always had and always would. I was a fool, a simple girl with no knowledge of the world and its ways. He would guide me into the right paths, save my soul from damnation and set me on the road to salvation again. Pain and shame and suffering were all part of God’s plan, all measures to bring us back into the fold when we strayed and lost our way amongst the pleasures of the flesh.I would return Leigh’s gifts and explain that I must not wear such devil’s rags. And, as penance, I would work naked and shamed in the cottage so that God could see the stripes of my wickedness and Father could correct me at once should I transgress again and thus save my soul and purify my flesh.Leigh met me a mile from Longhouse and the look on his face as he pulled up, confirmed my doubts. He was all scorn and contempt, in spite of his offers of help. Father had been right, as he always was. When Leigh asked, I shook my head and asked him to take me to work. I had no energy to explain or to walk the rest of the way, as I should.I had disappointed him as well. He said nothing against me, but winced every time he looked at me. Once at Longhouse, I went into the office and took off my coat as he yelled for Ma. I had lost Father’s small respect and now I had lost Leigh’s as well. I was worthless and wicked; a sinner of the worst kind. Of no value to Father, unworthy of Leigh’s kindness, unloved in the sight of God. Something inside me crumpled and left me hollow and without a shred of energy.Ma came in a stared at me; obviously disgusted by what she saw. ‘What the Dickens?’I stood before them; a worthless, useless girl. I had no emotion left. I hurt and I was shamed and, even though I understood it should not matter, I knew I had lost all the sweet affection Leigh had shown me the day before. It should not matter, but it did.‘Are you hurt anywhere else?’ Ma’s concern seemed oddly genuine.I shrugged and winced as the coarse material rubbed on the welts and wheals left by Father’s strap.‘Let me see, love.’She was too kind. I deserved only censure and scorn. I was a Jezebel, a whore. What did it matter if I became naked in front of him now? I had lost any dignity I might have had and deserved no consideration. I undressed completely and let them see my punishment; let them see how wicked I was and how my righteous father had striped me with God’s justice.‘Jesus, Ma. Think she needs a doctor?’Ma led me up to the bathroom where she tended my wounds with cotton wool and dilute disinfectant that stung. She was gentle and I tried not to cry, but the tears came anyway as if I had no volition. I know I did not sob or weep with noise, but my eyes leaked water down my face and I could not stop them.Ma dabbed me dry with such gentility, all the while muttering about the brute under her breath so that I understood she was mistaken and thought Father was in the wrong. She sat me on a spare bed as she examined my face.‘There’s nothing I can do there, love. The Doctor’ll know if you need stitches in that lip. You’re going to have a beautiful shiner. Lie on your front and I’ll put some ointment on those stripes.’I did as I was told; obedient now I had been punished for my wickedness, reminded of my place. How could she be so kind when she should despise and scorn me? I had deserved my beating. Father had warned me often enough about loose behaviour. I had acted scandalously and dressed in a provocative way. I had even asked Leigh if I could spend the night with him. I thanked Heaven he had been so disgusted at me that he had not taken advantage.As always, I was wrong. My false pride and earlier conviction that I was right had kept me going through the cold night, had sealed my lips against the screams of pain and anger, indignation and shame that wanted to burst from my lips as Father beat me, and had given me strength to leave the house without feeding him. But I had been wrong. Father, as always, had been right.‘Lie there and try not to turn on your back, love. I’ll find something light to cover you and keep you warm.’‘I’m warm enough.’ A direct lie in a good cause. I must suffer to save my soul, or be damned for eternity. Father had born the pain of punishing me so I might be spared the eternal fires of Hell. The least I could do in return was suffer a little without complaint.‘You sure, love? It’s none too warm up here.’‘I’m fine, really.’‘Doctor’ll be here some time later. Try to sleep until he arrives.’‘I ought to work, really, Ma. I’ll be…’‘You’ll do as you’re told, young lady! You’re to rest. A beating like that can’t be shrugged off so easily. Your poor body needs time to recover. Now, you lie still and sleep, there’s a good lass. I’ll pull the door to, so you’re not on display if Leigh comes up. Sure you don’t want me to cover you?’‘What’s it matter? He’s seen all there is of me to see. I deserve only contempt and disgust.’For a while I could detect her standing there, looking at me with that same loathing they must all feel. Then she left and pulled the door closed. My tears were still falling and wetting the pillow but, for some reason, I could not stop them. The doctor would come and tell me to get back to work and I would go down to the office and get on with my job in spite of Leigh’s silent disapproval.Later, I would go back to the cottage and beg Father’s forgiveness and hope he would not be too disgusted with me, would not scourge me again until my skin had healed. I would kneel before him, show him my shame and confess my guilt on my knees at his feet so he might think me worthy once more.

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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

The Challenge for Writers.

Allerthorpe Woods.For those of us who like, want, need or arecompelled to express ourselves in writing there are a number of challenges tobe faced. These vary according to the nature of the writer and the type ofwriting pursued.So, if you're a writer, what are your challenges?I'll start you off with my own.
My most basic challenge is one I impose on myself bya quirk of personality: I feel strongly about many topics; passionate, even.But I used to allow this strong emotion to overwhelm my writing, so that I becamea proselytising missionary, spreading my beliefs and opinions at the expense ofreadability.
I prefer to write fiction, being a natural teller oftales, rather than an essayist, but my need to teach and preach (I should pointout here that I'm a committed agnostic who views all organised religion withsuspicion - there I go again, you see?) overwhelmed my story telling and turnedmy work into thinly-disguised evangelical tracts on one subject or another. Ofcourse, this isn't attractive to readers. Why would it be? I mean, who careswhat I think? Readers are looking primarily for entertainment. If they want tobe harangued or beaten about the brain with someone's opinion, they'll go thelocal debating society, attend a political rally, visit a church or join somesociety or other. What they want from novels is story.
So, what to do about this unattractive habit ofmine? Well, I wondered if I might dilute the urge to put the world right byallowing myself the luxury of joining serious debates taking place elsewhere,thus allowing that part of my brain to feel it's had its say. That way,perhaps, I could then write instead of 'right', if you see what I mean. So, I'vebecome a member of Digg, StumbleUpon, AllVoices and the HuffingtonPost sites. Here I can indulge my missionary self whenever I feel the urgeto attack some injustice that heats my blood. And there are many, I can tellyou. I've always loathed injustice in every form. I also hate hypocrisy, andlies, and conflict politics, and waste, and environmental denial, and religiousdogma and brainwashing of children and… well, you see where I'm going withthis, don't you? But, by joining these arenas for serious debate, I can get thefrustration out of my system and leave my imagination free to tell stories withoutreference to the passion of that reforming zeal.
Oddly, what I've found is that I now write free ofthe need to teach, but that my work is still influenced by my beliefs andconcerns. However, this now forms themes rather than being the meat of thepieces. So, I'll write a story ostensibly concerning the relationship betweentwo potential lovers but the perceptive reader will recognise the strand ofgender inequality lurking under the surface. Or I'll write a futuristic pieceapparently about the erotic adventures of a couple of 'eternals' but the readerwho sees beneath the surface will detect the thread of debate on the poverty ofrelationships based entirely on the joys of sex and the danger inherent inallowing technology to develop unchecked by common sense. But the stories willbe damn good reads without authorial intrusion. (Those who've read Breaking Faithand The Methuselah Strain may see parallels here).
There's some suggestion that our challenges aswriters may be based in our challenges as human beings and I wonder how truethat might be. I left school early in life, due to a combination ofexternal events over which I had little control (see my previous post on Motivating the Writer if you want more detail.) ButI'd been brought up as a confirmed Christian and, following a crush I developedon the local curate, as a young man, I'd decided on the Church of Englandpriesthood as my future role in life. Events soon knocked that out of me,however; events and a growing sense of the hypocrisy rampant in organisedreligion. But my need to 'preach', to 'evangelise' was clearly alreadydeep-rooted even then. Later, when I re-examined my options and looked back atmy life and varied career, it became clear that I might, as I'd often beentold, have made a good teacher. It's clear that these aspects of my personalityhave come to the fore in my writing. So we can see where personal challengesbecome parallels of writing challenges.
As for injustice and my other long-held passions, Ithink they've developed alongside my self-taught awareness of the wider world.I've quite deliberately exposed myself to those issues that seem important,rather than dive under the covers of simple entertainment or drown myself inthe froth and inconsequence of the celebrity culture that now engulfs so manyadults.
I've always had what many have described as anunhealthy concern for truth and honesty, perhaps inherited from myextraordinary mother, who was a well-loved local confidante of more people thanI realised at the time.
As for my interest in other subjects, my step-fatherwas fascinated by butterflies and moths, by the night sky, by the tales ofRyder Haggard and the poetry of Omar Khayyam, whose work he could quote atlength. So, I suppose I developed similar interests more or less inevitably.Though my own interests in science, natural history and fiction are far widerthan those I was initially introduced to. But my step-father's passion didspill over and infect me.
So, it would seem there's some evidence to supportthe view that our personal challenges can become our writing challenges.
I've exposed mine here for you in the hope that suchconfession might be helpful for my readers and visitors. The refusal to acceptor face those challenges that get in the way of good writing are often thecause of blocking of the creative channels. They must be faced and acknowledgedbefore they can be defeated or at least diverted. If you want to write well,you need to discover what your personal challenges are before you can doanything to reduce their influence on your writing. So, whether you'reafflicted with something as basic as a lack of grammatical discipline andknowledge or something in the way of a more complex psychological problem, thefirst step seems to be acknowledgement of the possibility. Once you reachrecognition, acceptance is not far behind and it is then that strategies can beput in place to reduce the influence of these challenges on your output.
Up to you. You can either share your own challengeshere or keep them private. Either way, a bit of work on them may well result ina more rounded and deeper development as you as a writer. I hope so,anyway. 
Silly and irrelevant question, just for the smile: Whydoes Superman stop bullets with his chest, but duck if you throw a revolver athim?

As it Seemed to Me, by John Cole, Reviewed.

This political memoir examines the journalist's thirty-odd years in thetrade. It covers a period through which I lived, not quite contemporaneouslywith the author, who's senior to me by twenty years. Nevertheless, I watchedhis television reports through the period and, in reading this work, I couldagain hear the tortured vowels of his Ulster accent.
I always admired the man as a political commentator and reading thebook only serves to increase that admiration for someone for whom honesty and pragmaticrealism were clearly guiding principles. His neutrality continues, as it didduring his long and illustrious career in a field for which he was trulyfitted. Moving from his native Northern Ireland to England early in his workinglife, he served on such august bodies as the Guardian, the Observer and, ofcourse, the BBC in various roles from reporter to editor, ending up as the seniorpolitical commentator for that broadcaster.
The book is written very much from the point of view of the observer ofpolitical life and there are places where the author's assumption of thereader's knowledge and interest in some of the minutiae is taken for granted. Inever reached that level of absorption at the time and so certain passagesbecame less clear to me and there were a number I skipped completely. But thereare over 400 pages of dense prose here, so some skipping is, perhaps, excusable.
John Cole's delivery is clearly that of the experienced andprofessional journalist, with never a word wasted. He packs a great deal intoeach sentence and the writing can hardly be faulted for its presentation of acomplex period of British history.
That I find myself in sympathy with his misgivings about many eventsand the attitudes of some politicians, particularly the imperious andoverbearing Margaret Thatcher, obviously makes me more sympathetic to what hehas to say. It's encouraging to know that my impression of our first femalePrime Minister as an inflexible martinet with fixed ideas based on ideologyrather than pragmatic reality is reinforced by this man who lived close to theaction.
This is a book I read initially because it was on my shelves and I'dpromised myself I'd read all such volumes before I bought any more. I can'trecall how I came by it. Probably, it was one of a package offered by one of themany book clubs I've belonged to during my lengthy reading career. I'm sure Ididn't buy it as a separate and targeted book at the time. But I'm glad I'vegiven it the time it deserves, even if somewhat belatedly (it was published in1995).
It's reinforced some of my impressions of the period, repudiated others,educated me about many and filled in gaps I hadn't realised existed in myknowledge of the time I lived through.
For any reader whose idea of a good book is restricted to the fantasiesof fiction, there's nothing here for you. But for those interested in recentBritish history, the shenanigans of politicians or the profession of journalism,this is a damn good read and I recommend it to you.

Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 13.

You've come this far, so youdon't need me blethering about what you already know. Enjoy the read.
Missed the start? Here'sthe link to that: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html
Chapter 1 appeared on 13January and following chapters appear each Friday. You can find them via thearchive.
Read, enjoy, invite yourfriends.
Chapter 13
Leigh stopped in the doorway to the restaurant.'A waiter will show us to our table when we go in. Once he's brought the menus,pop to the ladies' and get changed whilst I order drinks, okay?'The ladies' room was plush and a woman assistantsat in the corner. I changed in a cubicle, folding my skirt and blouse into thecarrier bag and following Leigh's advice about the tights. When I began to tidymy hair in front of the long mirror, the woman came and stood behind me.'Mind if I make a suggestion, love?'I turned to face her, waiting.'Most men like a woman's hair worn loose ratherthan tied back like that. And, if my glimpse of the man you came in with is anyguide, I'd say he'd prefer you as free as possible.'I had always worn my hair in a ponytail, off myface, for ease and at Father's insistence. She helped me release it, thenbrushed it out so it fell in soft waves over my shoulders. 'That dress is lovely but I reckon it'd bestunning if you loosened the neck and let it fall round your shoulders.'When I tried it, my bra straps showed. But Iliked the effect and I felt glamorous without feeling exposed.'You're young enough not to need support, love.'She touched a strap.I thought about Leigh's face when he saw me. Andthis was a woman advising, she couldn't have any sort of sexual motives, afterall. I had to do it. He deserved at least that and I wanted his admiration. Shehelped, and my new bra went into the bag.The woman urged me to turn on the spot. I slowlyrotated and felt the soft floral cotton brush my feet, the caress of fabricagainst my nipples making them stand proud. I was half anxious that thesensuality was wrong and half delighted at the feeling of pleasure and freedom.The dress, gathered at the waist, fell in soft pleats down the length of mylegs. A thin leather lace fixed the width of the neckline and held the top firmagainst the tops of my arms. It was tied in a bow with the silver-tipped endsresting below the curves of my breasts. I felt free and liberated and just alittle afraid.'Have him eating out of your hand, love. He'llnot be able to resist you.'I thanked her and went before I could change mymind. She said something in a cross voice as I left, but I had no idea whatmight have annoyed her.Leigh stood up and stared as I crossed the floorto the table. The waiters turned to look at me. All the men in the roomfollowed my progress across the floor with their eyes. I felt both shy andproud. I had never put myself on display like that and those stares were all ofappreciation. I was confused: Father said such displays were sinful, but I feltgood. I was happy to be the object of their admiration. I was particularlypleased to have Leigh's undivided attention.'Wow!'I smiled for him.'You look stunning. Wonderful, Faith. Gorgeous.I'm amazed you dared the transformation. But I'm over the Moon that you did.'I confessed to help from the lady in the toilet.'Give her a tip?'I had no idea what he meant. He pulled out mychair and held it as I sat down and pushed it gently in beneath me. I felt sospecial.'No matter. I'll get a waitress to take hersomething'He signalled one of the young women, spoke toher and passed her something. She nodded and went off toward the toilets.'What's a tip?'He explained and I understood her complaint.'Ready to eat, my beautiful princess?'The flush that followed suffused me with purepleasure; so different from the discomfort of my usual blushes.'Ready, my handsome prince.'He gazed at me with shining eyes that were soproud and full of admiration. 'Faith, you're a joy to be with. I've rarely hadsuch company.'I wanted to hug and kiss him but I just took hishand and squeezed it gently.The menu was in French and Leigh translated. Thefood was fresh, hot and delicious. Leigh ordered wine but then drank only oneglass, as he had to drive back. I did not mean to drink the rest of the bottle,but it was so good it was a shame to waste it and by the end of the meal, therewas none left.In the ladies', after the meal, I apologized tothe lady. She waved away my concern. 'Your young man's a gem, love. I'm fine.Looking like that, you can't lose. When he pops the question, don't turn himdown will you? You'll regret it for the rest of your life.'I smiled, hoping my incomprehension did notshow, and went out to find Leigh waiting to take my hand.I floated beside him on the short walk to thetheatre, through mild evening air and under streetlamps that made everythingglow. Men in the street followed me with their eyes and I liked it. In thetheatre, the men were all polite and charming, the women distant or pleasant.All my life, men and women had ignored me or had insulted me and treated melike a fool without feelings.The wine and attention combined to intoxicate meso that I felt alive and joyful. I was a blind person suddenly gifted withsight, a deaf person suddenly hearing music. I was admired and liked andappreciated after so many years of being despised, ignored and shunned. It wasthe most wonderful evening of my life.The theatre was full of unexpected delights. Theamazing arcs of soft crimson seats, the huge curtained stage, the blue, goldand cream of the decorated ceiling. Leigh advised me how I should behave and Itook my lead from him, falling silent as the curtains moved away to reveal thestage. But finding it difficult not to comment on the inaccuracies of the storyuntil I realised this was a story, like a novel, not a truthful depiction ofthe facts.The show was amazing. Songs that gave warmth andfeeling to the cold familiar words of Father's teachings. Songs that removedthe emphasis on sin and retribution, replacing it with mercy and love. Thefigure I had worshipped all my life as a cold, hard symbol became a man with aheart and emotions. I saw Him with failings, and feelings and doubts anddesires, and I knew without doubt that both Father and his doctrine were wrong,wrong, wrong.At the interval, when they invited the audienceto join them on stage for wine I needed no urging. Leigh kept looking at mewith wonder. I think he felt unsure of me, felt as if he was with a differentwoman from the girl who'd climbed into his car that morning. That was how Ifelt.On the way back to the car park, he offered mehis jacket because the night had grown chill. But I felt alive and warm. Iwanted no encumbrances; nothing to hide the magic of my new attractive looks. Iwanted to move and run and dance and sing. I felt so full of wonderful joy andelation, so overflowing with new feelings.'Leigh, I've had the most wonderful day of mylife. I don't know how to begin to thank you. You've brought me life and joyand warmth and admiration and confidence and, oh, Leigh, I'm just bursting withgratitude.'I pulled him close and reached up and kissed hislips the way I'd seen Abby kiss him. His short beard was soft against my skin,his lips warm and gentle against mine. He held me close so that our bodies weretouching and his hands clasped my shoulder and my waist. I felt safe andprotected, desired and vaguely at risk in that embrace and I wanted it to go onforever. That contact made my whole body tingle, and deep within that privateplace where I was everywoman, I felt stirrings of delight that, even throughthe haze of my intoxication, were disturbing and full of promise.'Come on, little princess, let's get you intothe car before I do something we'll both regret.' He opened the door and helpedme into the seat.We drove with soft night music flowing inbetween us and I must have floated into sleep at some time on the journey.Before I knew it, we were at the bottom of thesteep track to Father's cottage and Leigh was softly waking me. I didn't wantto go home. I wanted to stay with him. 'Take me back to Longhouse, Leigh. Takeme home with you.''There's a light on in the cottage. Yourfather's watching through the window.''Let him. I don't care.''I think you might, in the morning.'I've no idea what persuaded me to go back to thecottage that night, the way I was feeling. Leigh seemed to think it would bebest and I was disposed to please him. He walked beside me, carrying a torch inone hand, my old and new clothes in carrier bags in the other.Father opened the door as we approached and Istumbled on the rough surface and had to lean against Leigh to avoid falling.He said nothing as we reached the door and Leigh handed him the bags.'She's tired and a little overwhelmed. Nothing agood night's sleep won't fix. You have an extraordinary daughter, Mr Heacham; atruly remarkable young woman.' He turned to me and, in spite of the danger, Iwanted him to kiss me there and then in front of Father. 'Goodnight, Faith. Andthank you for a wonderful day. See you in the morning, an hour later thanusual, I think, don't you?''You're the boss, Leigh. Whatever you say.'

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You've come this far, soit's unlikely you'll stop now. But, just in case you're impatient for the nextchapter, you know where you can buy the book.
Web site: http://stuartaken.co.uk
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Motivating the Writer.

Cover of All Quiet On The Western Front
We write for different reasons; our motivations aremany and varied. So, what drives you?I'll play the lead and tell you what drives me,shall I?Words have fascinated me since I began to understandwhat they were, their power, their beauty, their precision and duplicity. Iread from an early age and, with no intervention by television into my lifeuntil I was 14, I read voraciously. In fact, I exhausted my local library'schildren's section by the age of 11 and dared ask the fierce librarian if Icould borrow books from the adult section. I was a regular visitor, of course,and well known to this large and intimidating woman, so she allowed me thisprivilege on certain conditions: I was to pass the books I borrowed before herpersonal scrutiny and I could borrow only one at a time. My first title was All Quiet on the Western Front by ErichMaria Remarque. Anyone who's read this classic will be aware of its content,which includes incidents involving prostitutes as well as the necessarybrutality of the First World War. Looking back as an adult, I can find noreason, beyond ignorance of its contents, for this severe lady to allow me toread such a disturbing book. But, no matter, I did and thus started on a roadthat has twisted and turned its way through adult literature to include almostevery genre ever classified in both fiction and non-fiction. When I was in the Royal Air Force, and worked, as ateenager, for five men in their mid-fifties approaching retirement from theservice, I was often faced with empty days and took to visiting the camplibrary. By the end of my service at RAF Lyneham, I'd read every book on theshelves. Of course, I can now recall only a few of those titles but theinformation, imagination and content all wormed their way into my brain, tohelp form the man I've become.So much for my introduction to reading; something Ido now whenever I find the time.But what about my own motivation for stringing wordstogether and placing them on paper? At school I carried my love of languageover into my studies, so that English came to be my favourite subject, and theone in which I excelled. Most of the other stuff seemed no more than an attemptto fill my head with information I could easily glean from encyclopaedias and Ihad difficulty understanding why we spent so much time on remembering whatseemed to me irrelevant facts. If I needed to know the annual rainfall inArgentina, I could find it in a book: I didn't need to learn it by heart. Thisattitude, together with a singular intellectual rebellion that was leftunnurtured by my teachers, and coupled with the death of my mother two days aftermy 16th birthday and only weeks before I faced examinations that would determinemy future in the world of work, meant I left school at 16 with fewqualifications. But I did enjoy and was encouraged to develop English as ameans of communication and expression. I suspect that the attractive nature ofmy young English teacher and her habit of leaning forward over the desk,exposing her cleavage in the opening of her loose blouses, had some formativeeffects on a teenage boy. But, that aside, my first success at school was thewinning of a cup for an essay in a competition I entered at 14.I had always enjoyed writing essays, which were, infact, often opportunities for expressing imaginative ideas in the form ofstories. My mother would listen to my efforts when these were written forhomework and was always encouraging. With her loss and the poor exam results,coupled with the change in life at home, I decided to join the RAF as aphotographer. My mother was a painter and my father a photographer, so the moveinto the world of visual creativity was more or less inevitable. I did so wellin my first year at the school of photography that my writing was eclipsed as Itook to the expression of my creativity through photographs. This led, througha series of events and jobs, to a life largely spent dealing with photographyor those aspects in which it featured. Writing took second place, though I didregularly submit illustrated articles to the photographic press, and had manyof these published.Life often seems to come along with reminders of ourpurpose and, during a period when I was no longer employed but working as afreelance, I came across a contest run by the well-respected UK weeklymagazine, the Radio Times. The play I wrote for the entry came third. Secondplace was taken by Shirley Gee, wife of a professional actor and first placewas won by Willie Russell of 'EducatingRita', Blood Brothers' and much other fame.Thus began a long period of writing radio and, onceI was approached by a literary agent, TV scripts. I was another 'nearly man' inthis world. My skills and ideas, my characters and ability to frame a greatplot were never at issue. But my subject matter and the themes I espoused weretoo radical for the editors and gate-keepers of those organisations to which mywork was submitted. Several plays reached the 'round table' stage only to berefused the light of day by those in charge of subject matter deemed suitablefor public consumption. So, I never got further than the first play, broadcastin a truncated form that my inexperience permitted the producer to develop forthe airways. A shame. My second play was purchased by the BBC but got nofurther than commissioning as the producer, a man with whom I had littlesympathy or connection, left the drama department to go on to some othersubject. At that time, the BBC was structured such that no other producer wasable to take over the reins and the second play never reached production.I could, I suppose, have tried to conform to therequirements of the broadcasting authorities but I have always been a bitperverse: what I write, I write. It would be great to be published, broadcast,heard etc., but I refuse to modify my words to suit the preconceptions of menin grey suits. In fact, I did try to write a best-seller on one occasion. Longbefore the days of the electric typewriter (yes, I'm THAT old), I wrote thefirst 76,000 words of a thriller in longhand on lined foolscap paper. But Iread the thing through before I'd finished it and threw it in the bin indisgust. It didn't do what I wanted my writing to do, so I ditched it.Life came along and a troubled first marriagegradually impacted on my writing in a number of subtle and not-so-subtle ways.I produced a few stories and began the ground work for a fantasy, drawing adetailed map and gathering together the geographical, political, social andspiritual history of the tribes I would eventually include in this epic trilogy(I've written the first two volumes of that, but I'm not releasing any of ituntil I've started on the final volume).The necessity of earning a living is possibly thesingle most destructive element of our creative lives in current society, butit must be done. I wonder how many great works are denied us by thisinsistence. However, I ended the destructive marriage after 18 years and founda new soul mate; a woman who understands my creative needs even though shelacks such desires for herself. A loving, trusting relationship naturallybrought a child into our lives and for some years I gave over much of my energyand creative spirit to the development, education, amusement and care of ourdaughter.If the foregoing sounds like a series of excuses formy lack of commercial success, so be it. We each develop our own sense of whatmatters here and now and what can be left for the future. Suffice it to saythat my later years have been my most productive. I've written five novels andpublished one, had several short stories published, some as prize-winners incontests, and, of course, written the first two volumes of the epic fantasy. InNovember last year I took part in the NaNoWriMo challenge, which requires thewriter to complete 50,000 words of a novel during the month of November. Withtypical individuality, I set myself the target of completing an entire firstdraft of a novel in the same period. I managed 112,242 words and am currentlybattling with the editing, trying to find the right voice after several falseturnings. But, I think now that I shall allow the book to take the course itdirected during the writing and stop trying to turn it into something it is not.I allowed myself to be talked into the idea of making it a best-seller. I'mnot, and never will be, 'best-seller' material. My ideas and themes ofimportance are too off the wall to be generally accepted by the book-producingcommunity. Thank heavens for independent book publication!Have I told you what motivates me to write? Well, Imay have deviated here and there, but I think you'll get the general impressionthat I write to some extent because I'm driven to do so. But what I write about is largely motivatedby my need to dispel many of what I see as false beliefs and ideas that existin the world and cause most of its problems. I'm a frustrated teacher and agnosticpreacher, but hopefully without the arrogant zeal of those pastors andmissionaries who wish to inflict their set of religious values and beliefs,mostly unproven, on the unsuspecting and ignorant. But that will have to waitto be expanded. I've made enough of this post. Perhaps I'll develop those lastthoughts next week? Who knows?And now, as ever, I invite your comments, yourthoughts, your sparkling gems in response. Thank you for reading.

But Is It Art?

[image error] Virgin Mother by Damien Hirst (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Damien Hirst's first major retrospective has opened atthe Tate this week. I don't know about you, but I'm one of those philistineswho holds this odd belief that art should involve a mixture of creativity andskill. The presentation of actual animals in tanks of formaldehyde doesn'tqualify as art for me: biological specimens, suitable for exhibition in theNatural History museums, perhaps, but not works of art. Of course, the rich andcreatively gullible can so easily be conned into believing anything an artistproduces is necessarily a work of art. Emperor's New Clothes, anyone?The most irritating aspect of all this is that the man is a good artist, as evidenced by some of his other pieces.

The Week, Writing.

Traffic lights can have several additional lights for filter turns or bus lanes. This one in Warrington, United Kingdom, also shows the red + amber combination seen in a number of European countries. It also shows the backing board and white border used to increase the target value of the signal head. Improved visibility of the signal head is achieved during the night by using the retro-reflective white border. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)Another fractured week. Domestic duties vying with writing demands and wants. Still, it's been a positive few days in so many ways, and it's good to have Kate back home for a while. The walk with Valerie on Thursday took us into new country and the unseasonal sun baked us as we walked 6 miles through rural parts not previously explored. Managed to escape the fools queuing for fuel and draining the petrol stations of the very fuel they so desired. Government ministers may bear some responsibility for their inane advice but the general public acted like sheep and queued for hours to buy petrol they didn't really need.
In Preston, at the very end of the trip to collect our daughter, a young man in a large new car crashed into the back of my small hatchback at some traffic lights. A small white mark was my only damage. His was a broken front bumper and a smashed number plate.
Kate drove us back home, which was a great rest for me.
I'm currently reading and acting on, the Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. It's a 'spiritual' approach to the recapture of creativity and, if you can get past her generic use of God (Good orderly direction) as the external creative force, her advice seems apposite and appropriate. I've managed the 'morning pages' every day so far. And I've taken my 'artist's dates', employing them to do some drawing, listen to music and to write some poetry, a genre I rarely indulge in. So far, the process has been beneficial, so I'll see it through. If you're feeling blocked in any way, it might be a good idea to take this 12 week course.
I've managed a piece for the blog - to be posted next week, and a short piece for a contest. But I've also spent a good deal of my time bringing the Writing Contests page up to date - it's accessible on the tab above and will lead you to hundreds of contest details and links to the websites.
And I've dealt with those emails you get and decide you'll do later; you know, the ones that require more than a minute or two to complete.
So, not a bad week in all, but not enough writing done. Still, now the decks are more or less clear, the coming week should provide the opportunity for more words to be written. That's the plan, anyway.
See you on the other side of the week. And good luck with your writing and reading.