Stuart Aken's Blog, page 269

Top 12 Reasons to Enter Writing Contests

Image via Wikipedia
Much has been written aboutentering writing competitions, so I've decided to add to the topic only with alist of reasons why it might be a good idea for you. There's no priority in thelist, for me; the headings are simply as they occurred when I sat down to dothis piece. But, for you, there almost certainly will be reasons that are moreimportant than others. Have a read and see what you think.
1.     Kudos:
Some contests are so well-respected by readers and the industry that becoming aprize-winner can truly alter the way you're perceived as a writer. Win theBridport, the BBC International Short Story, the Aeon Award, for example andyou'll gain a great deal of respect from readers and fellow writers.2.     Cash:
In these hard economic times, a bit of extra income is surely worthconsidering, isn't it? I won't enter a contest that asks for payment unless thetop prize is at least 20 times the value of the entry fee, as I don't considerit a worthwhile investment. But, win one of those contests and your income willdefinitely increase. For example, on 3 occasions I've won prizes in theWriters' Forum magazine short story contest, for which I paid entry fees of £6,and won 2 second prizes of £150 and a first of £300; pretty good returns, Ithink you'll agree. And, for those with even less to spend, there are plenty ofcontests that are free to enter - visit the Writing Contests tab above to finddetails and links.3.     Reputation:
Gaining a good reputation amongst readers is paramount to success in thewriting world. If you can claim to be a prize winner in any writing contest, itbrings such a reputation closer.4.     Exposure:
We all need to make ourselves known to both readers and the industryprofessionals. The way in which prize-winners of contests are publicisedensures them a wide audience and drives more people to their work.5.     Discipline:
Some writers appear to need motivation to encourage them to actually write,rather than just talk about writing. I've never needed such motivation andactually believe that if you do need it then you shouldn't be writing: dosomething you actually want to do instead. However, for those who do need somespecific aim for their writing, entering contests, with their deadlines, is a goodway to increase personal discipline and actually get on with the writing.6.     Experience:
Entering contests is a great way to gain more experience of the actual writingprocess. You have to produce your best possible work if you're to stand achance in a contest and this is an excellent way of honing your skills anddeveloping your story-telling faculties.7.     Verification:
Writing is an isolated act and it's often difficult to know how you're doing.You can, of course, join a writing group (I recommend you to do this, ifthere's a good, supporting group available), or become involved with a peergroup online. But entering contests, especially where the offer of a critiqueis included, will give you feedback. And, of course, should you win a prize,you have concrete evidence of your writing abilities. But, a word of warning:failing to win a prize doesn't necessarily mean you're writing is no good. Itmight simply be that the judge wasn't in tune with your story on the day heread it.8.     Broaden horizons:
It's very easy for a writer to stick to what he knows, to write only for thosegenres he's comfortable with. Entering themed contests is a way of breaking outof this self-imposed straightjacket and may even show you that you do well inother areas. Certainly worth a try. Who knows? You might become a best-sellingauthor or a world-renowned poet as a result!9.     Bragging rights:
No matter how shy or modest we are, we all harbour a wish to tell the world howgreat we are. What better way than to shout out to the world that you're thewinner of XXXX contest? Have a go and tell the world how good you are.10. Success:
Success, they say, breeds success. Get your entry out there and win a prize.Who knows what may result from that single success? It might just be the startyou need or, if you're already established, it may be the success that liftsyou from mid-range to best-seller.11. Attraction:
We all, well most of us, if we're honest, would love to attract the attentionof an agent or publisher (I'm not going into the self-publishing v traditionalpublishing discussion here - another time, perhaps). Imagine it: you're sittingat your desk, in your bed, at the kitchen table and there's a phone call or aletter from an agent asking if she can represent you. Wow! That's a feeling weall want to experience. I know; I won a prize in a playwriting contest andgained an agent as a result (I'm no longer with him, but that's another story).12. Excitement:
The buzz we all get from being acknowledge for our skill, that elation we all experiencefrom recognition, the simple excitement of opening that letter and having thecheque fall out. It's not just the money, is it? It's the fact that someone outthere, someone with judgement and taste, has decided that your story, poem,play, essay or whatever is something that stands out from the crowd. Your workhas risen above the rest and been selected as outstanding. That's something tobe excited about, isn't it?

So, you've reached the end. Have you been inspired?Are you going to enter a contest? I'll repeat what I said at item 2: if youwant to get on with it now, you could do worse than visit the page tab entitled'Writing Contests' above. Basic details and a link to the relevant website shouldprovide you with all you need to get started. Good luck, and let me know ofyour successes.And, as always, let me have your views by commentingon the post.
A silly question for you toponder: Why do toastersalways have a setting that burns toast beyond the stage where any decent humanbeing would eat it?

The Writing Week

It's been a busy and productive week, interrupted by a further visit to the dentist, but that job should be finished at the next visit.
The NaNoWriMo novel, titled, An Avenger Unseen, is now well into its next stage of editing. I've read aloud the first 10 chapters and marked these where changes are needed. Once I've completed that part, I shall go back and make all the necessary alterations.
Another blog post is finished and scheduled to appear later this month.
On a walk along the coast (see pic above) with my wife, our conversation inspired another book; that will take some time to compile and write. A philosophical treatise, I'm not yet sure how I'll present it.
This morning I started on a new short story, managing 1400 words in the hour before breakfast.
And I've finally entered a short story in a contest. A 570 word piece for a flash fiction competition listed under the Writing Contests tab above.
I'm continuing to read the current book from my 'to read' list; The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, on my Kindle. And I've read this month's copy of Writers' Forum Magazine and sent a short letter for their reader's letters page. Time I entered their competition again, I think, having won 3 prizes with them over the years.
So, a reasonable week on the writing front. How did yours go?

Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 4.

Breaking Faith is availableas a paperback and an ebook. I'm posting individual chapters here, each week, sothat anyone who wishes can read the book in full and free of charge.
The Prologue, which beginsthe novel, was posted on 6 January. Here's the link, in case you missed it: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html. Chapter 1 was posted on 13January, subsequent chapters appear each Friday and can be accessed via thearchive.
Read, enjoy, invite yourfriends.

Chapter 4
I walked quickly along themain road, eager to be home and out of the cold. On the crest of the firsthill, out of sight of the house, a car was parked by the side of the road, itsengine running, exhaust clouding the air behind it.'Word wi' you, twat.'I glanced at Mervyn then ignored him and continuedon my way.'Do owt to meck me lose my job an' I'll break yourscrawny neck. Gerrit?'His hatred seemed genuine and I shivered with morethan cold, wondering what I had done to deserve it. I walked on without lookingback but he drove slowly after me and pulled alongside.'I'm good at what I do for Leigh. Skinny littletwat like you's not screwing it up for me. Right? Right? I said, Right?'I refused to look at him and, as he continuedbeside me, I gathered my courage and dashed behind his car. A ladder styleallowed me over the dry stone wall into a field. I did not intend to leave theroad at that point but I had to be free of his foul tongue and threats; in theprocess, I learned a short cut home.'Remember it, twat. I mean it!' His thick, vulgarvoice bellowed at me over the barrier.Then he was gone and silence surrounded me. Ihugged myself briefly and strode on, determined not to let his vile threatsspoil my victory. It was enough that I would have to face Father with all mynews after arriving home late.Mrs Greenhough's shop was still open when Ireached the dark village, its lights illuminating the fresh snow on thepavement. I had taken that first step; I was working for Leigh. It was time Istarted to make people alter their views and see the real me. I stopped beforethe shop door. Who was the real me? But it was not the time or place for such aquestion.Mrs Greenhough looked up as I went in and her facequickly set into the one that said she would stand no nonsense. 'There's nowtfor you here unless you've cash, girl. I've heard what happened at the Dairyand you'll have no wages this week. No job; no credit.'She expected me to leave the shop without a wordand go home empty handed to face Father's wrath. My confidence, however, hadgrown with my attack on Furnswurth and my success at Longhouse.'You may think you know what happened this morning,Mrs Greenhough but I don't expect you know that I start another job tomorrow.'She opened and closed her mouth like one of thetiny fish in the beck that ran through the fields below the cottage. No soundcame out.I had said more to her in that one sentence than Ihad in the past few weeks. 'I'll be paid more than I was at the Dairy, beforeFurnswurth put his hand up my skirt and touched my genitalia. I'm working forLeighton Longshaw at Longhouse now, so I'll be able to settle the bill at theend of the week as usual.'For a few more moments, Mrs Greenhough remainedspeechless. Then she glowered at me. 'I've no idea what's got into you, girl.But you're clearly deranged, using language like that! And if you think I'mgoing to believe that you, of all people, are working for that villain,Longshaw, you're sadly mistaken.'I would have been frightened before but my successwith Leigh had made me bold. 'You won't need the postcard in the window anymore, Mrs Greenhough. I've got the job as Leigh's Girl Friday. If you don'tbelieve me, why don't you phone him? The number's on the card. And he's not avillain, but a gentleman.'She looked at me as if I were mad and then strodeto the window to remove the card. 'I will! And when I hear the truth, I'll betelling your good-for-nothing hypocrite of a father what a wicked little misshe's brought up to lie to folk. He'll give you the hiding you deserve.'I decided on a treat to take home as a surprisefor Father. No point in getting anything special for Hope, of course.Mrs Greenhough returned and looked at me in adifferent way. It was obvious she found it hard to believe what Leigh had toldher but she tore up the card. 'Right. Well, it seems you will be paid, then.That's different. You can take the things you want and pay on Saturday asusual. Mr Longshaw particularly said I was to thank you for remembering thecard, by the way.'I chose a couple of Eccles cakes, made withbutter, to go with the fresh bread and the bottle of milk and a bag ofpotatoes. 'Thank you, Mrs Greenhough. I'll be in later in future, as I'll bewalking home from Longhouse after work. Good night.''Good night, girl, er, Miss Heacham.''My name is Faith.' I was smiling as I left theshop and the smile remained as I walked through the village. Already my lifehad started to change, as I had hoped it would when I stood in the snow waitingfor the interview.The final half-mile from the village was nodistance in my mood of newfound confidence. I passed the junction where thenarrow lane ran round the side of the hill and led to the farm where Mervynlived with his father and brothers. I shuddered and hoped my confidence was notmisplaced. Father would not be pleased at my news but he needed my money and hewould accept the change of work. I hoped the new experiences I faced wouldchange me in time; even more than they already had.There was a low moon shining over the tops of thefells and the trees cast deep black shadows over the drifted snow as I climbedthe steep stone track to the cottage.'What time's this, girl?' Father was in his chairby the fire.'Sorry, Father. I'll get tea on first and thenexplain. Has Hope been all right?''Any reason she shouldn't be?''I'll get tea, then.'Upstairs in my room, I pulled the old, red satinslip on over my skin for my domestic chores, so my work clothes could remainclean and smart, as Father demanded. The kitchen was cold and cheerless but thehot water thawed out my hands as I washed out my knickers ready for themorning. Cooking brought a little more warmth to smooth away the goose pimples.With our meal finished, I fed Hope. Then, over acup of tea and the special cakes, I told him of my day. He remained silent,waiting until I had finished before demanding to know the salary and new hoursof work. He grunted over the increase in my wages but was unhappy I would haveto set off earlier each morning and arrive home later each evening.'Once the snow's gone, I'll find a cheap secondhand bicycle; that'll cut the travelling time.''Women on bicycles. Devil's work.''I just thought it might save a bit of time, and Ialways wear a long skirt, Father, so…''More expense. All right. I suppose you betterhad. But let no strangers see your flesh. Give me no further cause to correctyou, girl.'He said nothing about Furnswurth but I expected hewould have words with him in private and then decide whether to beat me for mypart in the incident.'Longshaw's reputation will suffer less than yourown, girl. You're a fool if you think otherwise. You're a fool anyway. Mind yougive no cause for folk to gossip more than they will. You know the penalty forsin in this house. I'll have no more whores under my roof. Your mother whored;wicked Jezebel. I scourged her but she was too steeped in wickedness to changethe ways of her sex. Let me hear a word of you going the way Eve led and I'llhave the skin off your back. Understand me, girl?''Yes, Father.'Whilst I washed the dishes in the unheatedkitchen, I weighed-up father's uncharacteristically generous response to my news.No shouting, no lecture and no beating. He must have had a very good day and Ioffered a silent prayer of thanks for my escape. Even when I brushed the carpetas I cleaned around him, he made no complaint.The evening's housework complete, I lifted Hopefrom her bed beside the wall. Pulling her into a sitting position, I knelt infront of her and let her fall across my shoulder. The worst part, as always,was standing up with her dead weight on me, but I got her out to the backgarden and sat her on the toilet. She had grown used to the routine, at last,and I was glad she was quickly finished as the air was freezing with the cloudcover gone. Once I had cleaned her, I got her back to bed.For an hour, I worked her floppy limbs, bendingher joints, curling and straightening her spine. I told her about my day, theweather, the animals I had seen on my walks, what the night sky looked like asI had made my way home. Hope's expression, as always, remained unchanged, herhazel eyes blank and expressionless. The exercises done, I filled the bowl with hotwater and washed her. There was that strange smell from her again; it was therenearly every day. It seemed to come from a slight milky discharge. I askedFather.'Stop worrying. I'll tell you if there's anythingto concern yourself about. You know nothing, so stop bothering me with what youdon't understand.'He went back to his book.She looked sore again and I blamed myself forfailing to rub enough cream on that morning. I was generous with it, once I hadtowelled her dry. I rubbed her skin all over with baby oil to keep it soft andfree from bedsores before fitting her overnight nappy. 'It's a cold night, Father. Shall I put hernightie on?''You'll take it off in the morning. I can't lifther on my own.'I struggled to pull the brushed cotton over herhead, settled her breasts into the bodice and made my usual whisperedcomplaint.'Not fair, Hope. Yours are bigger than mine!' Igiggled softly, hoping there might be some reaction to this habitual littlejoke that included her but left out Father. She made no response, of course. Istraightened the skirt beneath her so she was not lying on folds or creases. Ibrushed her long, dark hair, cleaned her teeth and made sure her nose wasclean. With a kiss, I lowered her onto the pillow and covered her with thelight quilt.The coalscuttle was empty so I filled it from thecoalhouse next to the toilet and made my own visit whilst out there. The bulbblew as I switched on the light, so I got a new one from the kitchen. Fatherwould be furious if he had to use it in the dark.I rested the coalscuttle by the fire and stokedthe flames with fresh coal and cinders to last overnight. 'I'm for bed, Father.Goodnight.'He grunted but did not lift his eyes from the bookin his hands.The bathroom was cold, as always, when I peeledoff my slip and washed in a little warm water at the sink. Father came in as Iwas drying myself. 'Run my bath, girl.'He stood and watched as I put in the plug andbrought the water to the right temperature for him. My towel slipped off and hehung it on the hook until I was finished.'That feels about right, Father. Deep enough?'He grunted. I took my towel to my bedroom and lefthim to bathe undisturbed. Once he had finished and left, I returned to drainthe bath and clean it. He came back in, wearing his dressing gown, as I wascleaning my teeth. I stood to one side whilst he cleaned his and then finishedmy own as he went to his bedroom. It was half past eleven when I knelt beside my bedto say my prayers, the hard boards cold under my knees. At twenty to twelve Islipped, shivering, under the covers. I thought of Hope, wrapped and warm inher nightdress, and wished Father would find me something similar, just for thecold nights.I set the alarm clock for five thirty so I couldget everything done in the morning and start work on time for my first day atLonghouse and the beginning of what I hoped might be a new life.
###
Whilst it's great that youwant to read the book, it'd be even better, for me, if you bought it. So, ifyou can't wait for next week's instalment, check the links below. They'll takeyou to places you can buy either as paperback or ebook, depending on yourpreference.For those who live locally(East Riding of Yorkshire) you can also borrow the book from your locallibrary.
Sample or buy as any format Ebook: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stuartaken
            Barnes & Noble - Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Breaking-Faith/Stuart-Aken/e/2940011126079Amazon paperback or Kindle To buy from USA AmazonAmazon paperback or Kindle To buy from UK AmazonAppleidevice:UnitedKingdom: http://itunes.apple.com/gb/book/isbn9781849233149USA: http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/isbn9781849233149Canada: http://itunes.apple.com/ca/book/isbn9781849233149
Web site: http://stuartaken.co.uk
Tweet with me: http://twitter.com/@stuartaken
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Are All Writers Liars?

Image via Wikipedia
All writers are liars, you know. They all construct their ownfictional version of the world in which they exist. But honesty's actually essentialfor an author. Readers are clever folk and very quickly spot inconsistencies,inaccuracies and attempts to fool them into believing something that just isn'ttrue, so trying is a bit daft.
But, how do authors grab the attention of readers and convincethem that the world they're about to drag them into is something they canaccept? How do they take them on a journey into whatever fantasy they'vedevised? For, except in the case of straightforward journalism (assuming such athing exists), all writing contains an element of fantasy. Whether or not thereader perceives it that way often depends more on the reader's experiences oflife than the writer's presentation of events. Some people are more gulliblethan others, that's all.
There are clear works of fantasy, The Lord of the Rings, 1984, Maia, where the story unfolds in aland or society that's clearly invented. And these are lumped together bypublishers under the genre of Fantasy as a way of enticing readers who enjoysuch imaginative works. But other works, both fictional and factual, containelements of fantasy in that they're always the creation of the mind of anotherhuman being. None of us experiences the world in exactly the same way, afterall. We overlay our view of events and people with our personal sets of valuesand judgements, which are based on the combination of those things we'veexperienced and those we've been taught to believe.
Even a simple situation seen through the eyes of differentpeople will contain elements in common but will also be a different experiencefor each viewer. The man brought up a Roman Catholic will have an entirelydifferent world view from the woman raised in a strict Muslim tradition. Thisis perhaps an obvious example, but even siblings of the same age and genderwill view life differently, filtered through their individual experiences andtheir responses to those things they've been involved in. Every interaction,every influence, every event impacts on each of us in slightly different waysto make us into the people we are. Yet each of us, presented with a simpleevent, will be sure that what we see is what the others will also see, or,worse, that we're the only ones to perceive the reality; when, in fact, ofcourse, none of us sees the reality, even the person creating it.
An example? How do you portray what's actually experienced byanother human being in such a way as to provide something that's likely to beseen by most people in a similar way? Here's an apple. A simple enoughstatement. But what do you see in your mind's eye? Do you see a French GoldenDelicious, an orchard apple plucked fresh from the branch, a bruised andworm-eaten windfall, a golden representation as presented by Paris, a whole redfruit, or a crisp green apple with a bite already taken from it? If you'reimbued with Abrahamic fundamentalism, you may be incapable of separating theimage of the apple from the representation of the Garden of Eden and the fallof man, blaming Eve for her consumption of the apple. Even though you know,because it's been said many times, that no apple is ever mentioned in yoursacred texts and that the story is, in any case, simply a myth created toexplain the inexplicable, you'll be plagued by that image and it will skew yourworld view. Another obvious and well-known example of how we're formed by ourown worlds. But, hopefully, you get the point. None of us exists withoutoutside influence on our view of the world, but for each of us that perspectiveis unique.
So, to return to the original question: how do authors grabthe attention of readers, convince them that the world they're about to enteris something they can accept, and then take them on a journey into whateverfantasy they have devised?
First; they accept that there are limits to their ability.There will be whole cultures that will stumble at the first mention ofelectricity, having never experienced this energy. There will be groups thatwill have difficulty accepting equality of the sexes, others that will baulk atthe mention of bare skin, some for whom the idea that money is the onlyworthwhile pursuit, others who will insist that ghosts exist, and yet others whoare incapable of accepting that a man may love a man, a woman a woman in asexual way.
Because of these varied and sometimes opposing viewpoints,authors are often driven into writing for certain portions only of the population,levered into expressing their ideas only to a limited few.
The writer of horror, accepting the conventions of that genre,takes the reader into places that seem superficially ordinary, even mundane,and then introduces elements designed to raise anxiety, fear, distress,disgust, loathing and many other emotions that can be described as negative.Often, it's the contrast between the everyday and the unusual that feeds theseemotions, the partially anticipated crisis arising from a foundation ofapparent normality. Because the reader is familiar with the method, a slowbeginning is often accepted on the promise of the horror to come.
The crime writer either pins attention with the nature of thecrime in the opening scenes, relying on curiosity and fellow-feeling to make thereader need to discover what's happened and why, or sets a puzzle the reader wishesto solve, persuading them into believing they can reach the right answer beforethe detective and therefore pandering to their ego. Again, convention allowsthe author to use a form of creative shorthand, since the reader knows what toexpect, certain aspects of the story can be held as being self-explanatory and thereforenot worthy of description.
In romance, that wide and much-sub-divided genre, the emphasisis on the emotional bond between the loving protagonists. The reader expects tofind a happy, or at least, a satisfying ending, where the conclusion to thecontest is driven by the perception that justice will inevitably be visited onthose who love and are loved.
The one area where the genre is less likely to determine thereadership is what is loosely called 'literary fiction'. It's a field ofcreation in which language is often the primary concern, sometimes to the detrimentof story and character. Because of this cerebral emphasis, the emotionalcontent is frequently less easily assimilated by the reader, though, of course,there are exceptions. Indeed, when the best of the other genres meets the bestof the literary, it generally results in something that either is or willbecome a classic. The melding of story, character, language and emotion creatingsomething which is greater than its component parts.
And, finally, the writer for whom the challenge of portrayingreal emotion to a diverse readership is seen as too difficult can always turnto the thriller. Yes, I know, there are thrillers which are full of emotionalcontent, of course there are. I've written one myself. But, as a genre, it'sgenerally accepted by its readership that the story is what matters. It's thisbasic simplicity that brings readers to authors such as Dan Brown and that mostinexplicably successful of writers, Jeffrey Archer.
So, to conclude; if you're hoping to capture the hearts ofmost of your readers, you're going to have to decide which genre to use toconvey your ideas. If you're exceptionally brilliant, you can risk the literaryroute, accepting that your readership may be smaller. If, on the other hand,you want numbers and uncritical acclaim, you can write something mostly devoidof emotional content and label it a thriller. Up to you.
A silly question for you to ponder: Why is 'bra' singular, but 'panties'plural?

The 6th Target, by James Patterson, Reviewed

JamesPatterson's The 6th Target is, ofcourse, a thriller. I'm not a particular lover of thrillers, though I wrote aromantic thriller as my own first novel. I read this book because it wasamongst a large number on my shelves and I'd made a decision at the start ofthe year to read all that were unread. I think I picked this one up second hand ata charity shop.Patterson'sbook took me some time to enter, largely because I couldn't initially find acharacter I cared about. But this book is one of a longish series, so perhaps theauthor assumed readers would already be familiar with his female homicidedetective. It took me a lot of chapters to become involved but, once I washooked, I read the book quite quickly. Withover a hundred chapters, some only 2 pages long, and the usual short sentencestructure of the genre, it was a relatively quick and undemanding read. Though,at times, I lost track of who was who amongst the dozens of characters.Threebasic story threads weave through the book and at times I was puzzled aboutwhich we were looking at. But the stories are told in linear form and, once Igot used to the style of presentation, I moved swiftly forward. I try not towrite reviews with spoilers, so I'll leave the story itself unexplained. Enoughto know that the book contains murders, of course, kidnapping and other crimes.Such acts should generally absorb the reader and make him care but I found Ionly started to really care towards the end of the book. Thereis quite a lot of detail that adds little to the story and I guess a good fifthof the text could be removed without detriment. In fact, it would improve thepace.There'splenty of drama here and some moral messaging amongst the violence that drivesthe story. There's a lot of procedural detective work, and some court scenes,that enlightened me about the US justice system.Igradually came to know the main characters and slowly grew to find some empathywith the female detective, Lindsay Boxer, and her mission to capture the guiltyparties for the various crimes. Naturally, she had a complication in her lovelife; what detective doesn't? But that aspect of her life was written in suchbland terms that I had little response to it. Her professional concerns,however, were depicted with more emotional content and I was with her towardthe end of the book as the denouement unwound and the natural conclusion waspresented.WouldI read any more of this? Well, I have another Patterson book on the shelves,unread, and I won't be getting to it soon, though it was originally the firsttitle on my 'to read' list. There just isn't enough emotional connection forme. The story is told and I prefer to be shown. But the guy sells a lot ofbooks, so the failing is probably with me. I just didn't ever feel sufficientlyinvolved; I felt like a neutral observer presented with enough superficialfacts to make judgements on the crimes but lacking any real connection to thecharacters that might make me care about them. Ifyou're into crime and more interested in details than the deeper interaction ofcharacters, you'll probably enjoy this a lot more than I did.

The Week and What I've Done With It

So, the end of another week. As usual, nothing like as much done as I'd hoped at the beginning. But, I've completed the first reading and marking up of the NaNoWriMo novel and begun the second phase, reaching chapter 3 and reducing the word count, so far, to 112,043. Along the way, I did a quick check for overused words, using Wordle.com and started to use this to reduce the repetitions in that chapter (the illustration shows the Wordle graphic after the changes). It then seemed to make sense to extend the search for those words to the whole MS. I have the file on the PC as a single file, since that way it's easier to make alterations that are global. Once I'd done about 4 of the repeated words, I suddenly realised this was a waste of time at this stage. I might as well wait to employ this exercise once I've made the other changes, as I'm otherwise replacing words that I might later completely remove.
I've also done a small update to the Writing Contest page - see the tab above. This is quite time consuming, but it keeps my own table up to date and hopefully allows my readers the opportunity to dip into those contests that might interest them.
I've been busy with the social networks, making changes and posts to Facebook, Goodreads, LinkedIn, Digg and tweeting on Twitter.
I'm currently reading a thriller and I've ploughed through a good number of its short chapters whilst Valerie has been watching the sport on TV.
Had a short spell organising a replacement windscreen for the car on Saturday. What's that to do with writing? Well, the chip that caused the old screen to crack happened as I was on my way to my writing group, so a tenuous link, I think.
So, still no contests entered and no short stories sent to magazines. But the coming week....

Reading Fiction Stimulates Brain Activity

Image via WikipediaIt's probably too early in the research to reach too many conclusions, but it looks as though reading fiction may do serious good to your brain. Have a read of this article - http://news.wustl.edu/news/Pages/13325.aspx from the Washington University website and see what you think.

Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 3.

Breaking Faith was first publishedas a paperback 3 years ago and, on 24 October 2010, I published it as an ebookthrough Smashwords and on Amazon Kindle. I'm now posting individual chaptershere on the blog, so that anyone who wishes can read the book in full and freeof charge.
The Prologue, which beginsthe novel, was posted on 6 January. Here's a link, if you missed it: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html. Chapter 1 was posted on 13January and the link can be found in the archive. (Subsequent chapters areposted each Friday and can be accessed via the archive).
Read, enjoy, tell yourfriends.
Just a bit of guidance,since you'll have read the previous chapter a week ago. The book is writtenfrom the viewpoints of the two main protagonists and each chapter is narratedin either Leigh or Faith's voice, in the first person. The viewpointsalternate, but sometimes one character will tell the tale over a couple of consecutivechapters.
Chapter 3
Faith's unexpectedconversational skills and sense of humour were not the only surprises shesprung, once she recovered from her faint. She picked up my dislike of Biblicalquotations and allusions straight away and stopped using them, which was justas well, considering my views.I found a well-organized, able and clever youngwoman, with a contradictory set of ideas and values and the most eclectic rangeof knowledge I'd ever come across. I was intrigued. I had nothing to lose bygiving her a trial. But it was only fair to let her meet Merv before either ofus made a decision.She accompanied me from the office, through thesmall waiting area, where occasional reps and clients sat in ancient, leather,easy chairs and gazed at life-sized monochromes of women on the walls. Faithavoided the flesh but admired the smaller landscapes and sighed with audiblerelief when I led her into the studio.The snow had stopped and early afternoon sun wassending shafts of light through the high windows to fall in dazzling rhomboidsat the base of the far wall. Specks of dust, floating in the silent beams,leant the large space a cathedral quality.She seemed entranced; though whether by the scaleof the room, the atmosphere or the assorted equipment, I could only guess. I lether stand and stare at a sight I knew well. 'Impressive, isn't it? I spend somuch time in here, I forget how strange it must appear.''It's wonderful; amazing.' Her enthusiasm wasgenuine.'Used to be two storeys; hay barn above, animalquarters below. They built these longhouses to provide living space for thefarmer's family and animals all in one building. It was built in the sixteenseventies. Uncle Fred and I completed most of the work a year or so before hedied. The old coach house at the end is now a garage on the ground floor withthe darkroom above. That's where I'm taking you.''Is this where you work, Leigh?''A lot of the time. The small items I do in herebut the larger stuff's done on site. I do mostly catalogue work in here; lightindustrial, tools and fastenings, things like that. Some portraiture and a bitof formal work with models. But I prefer to work in situ with the girls when Ican.''I noticed.'The tone of her voice spoke volumes. I'd seenembarrassment and censure cloud her features as she looked at the work ondisplay in the office and waiting room. Strangely, the print of the VelazquezRokeby Venus, behind my desk, didn't appear to unsettle her as much as myphotographs. Perhaps because it wasn't frontal, or because it was a painting,she found it less threatening.'If I decide to take you on, Faith, you'll bespending some of your time around models, often topless, sometimes nude. How doyou feel about that?'She fixed me with a determined stare. 'As long asI don't have to take off my clothes, I'll manage.'I looked at her ragbag collection ofhand-me-downs: brown tweed skirt to the ankles, long-sleeved, heavy cottonblouse in dingy white with appliquéd lace, hand-knitted brown cardigan withdarned elbows and fraying cuffs. And, judging by the lines, she was wearing aheavy bra at least two sizes too big. I wondered what her knickers would belike: straight from the school gym? I hadn't seen a young woman so badlydressed. Hardly the glamourpuss I was seeking. Maybe exposure to me and thegirls would educate her tastes and show her the possibilities. She hadpotential as far as face and figure were concerned. A bit of weight, makeup,hair set free from its constricting band, limbs allowed to feel the air, andshe could be a different and very attractive woman.'You can be as covered or uncovered as you like,though I do sometimes take off my clothes when I'm working with a model.''All of them?'I nodded.'Why?' Her question was condemnatory.'Sex, a lot of the time. But a naked girl feelsvulnerable in lots of ways. Not least, there's the temperature. It's easy, whenyou're sweating under the lights in jeans and polo neck, to forget how cool itcan be in your skin. I try to develop empathy with my models and being nakedhelps that.''Don't they mind?''I wouldn't do it if they did. In fact, some ofthem demand it. I never expect or ask anyone to do anything against their will,Faith. That's one reason I'm making the situation clear to you now, so you knowwhat you're getting into. I'm not about to change my way of working just toavoid embarrassing you. Nudity is pleasure and delight for me. You find itdisturbing or threatening and I sort of understand that; it's depressinglycommon, but it's your problem, not mine. If you find it unacceptable, we mightas well close this interview right now.'She crossed the space between us until she waslooking up into my face with a challenging expression I found disconcerting.'You said yourself I'm not the idiot people think, Leighton Longshaw. But youdon't know that I'm also professional. I hate the idea of public nakedness.Your unclothed body might embarrass or offend me; I don't know: I've never seena naked man. Your behaviour is sinful and it'll send you to Hell for eternity.But, if you employ me to work with naked women, or men, I'll carry out myduties as required. My feelings and beliefs are my own and have nothing to dowith you or the job.''Are you always so truthful?''I try to be. Life would be so much better ifeverybody was honest all the time, don't you think?''It'd be intolerable. But what matters is whetheryou can work in the conditions I've described.''I thought I just said I can.'I looked down into her face and saw truth shiningin her eyes; her wide-set, large and very dark, brown eyes that stared at me sodirectly. Looking into those eyes, I saw potential for passion. I also saw hervulnerability and unique quality and I wanted to know her better; to know herwell.I needed to lighten the mood. 'Do your eyes botheryou?'She frowned. 'No. Why?''They bother me.' I laughed shortly, as much at mymistake in using an inappropriate line, as at her incomprehension. 'Come on;let's see what you make of Merv the Perv.''Mervyn Tupper?''Know him?''He's a neighbour, of sorts. I'd heard he workedfor you. I hoped it wasn't true.''What do you know of him?''Like most in the village, he's called me names.But, really, only what I've heard about him from others.''Reputation, then?''And we both know how false that can be. Maybe he'llsurprise me.''Prepare to be shocked.' I led the way to the endof the studio and the foot of the vertical ladder. 'Not pleasantly.'I shinned up, aware she might worry I was lookingup her skirt, an impossible feat, if I followed her. On the metal landing, Iwaited for her before opening the door into the suite of small rooms thatserved as printing, storage and finishing area.I studied her as she watched the glazing drum turnslowly, its mirrored chromium cylinder reflecting the fluorescent tubes and theblue-white daylight streaming through the windows.'It's very warm and there's an odd smell. Would Iwork up here?''Eventually; I'd want you to do most of the printfinishing… drying, glazing, trimming and mounting. It's all done in here.Merv's kingdom is the darkroom.' I indicated the blank white door with itsbulbs mounted above. 'When the red light's on, you can't go in. It means Merv'sloading film into tanks for processing. Stray light would fog the film and ruinit.' I explained the light-trap and gave quick descriptions of the otherequipment in the room until the red light went out and a green bulb shone.'That means Merv's put the darkroom lights on; we can go in now.''Why not just one bulb?'I was pleased she was analysing; it showed promise.'The bulb might've blown. The green light's insurance.'I went through the light trap, closing the doorbehind me before I could open the one into the darkroom. Merv was working bywhite light, pouring developer from a glass measuring cylinder into a tall,stainless steel, processing tank on the wet bench. 'You've got a visitor.'Faith entered, blinked with surprise at thebrightness of the white room and turned quickly away from the wall facing her.Dozens of women, cut from the pages of porno magazines, displayed obscenelybehind Merv. It was his realm and I chose not to impose my own standards on theway he decorated it, much as I disliked his preferences.'Faith Heacham; Mervyn Tupper.'Faith, good as her promise to give him a chance,extended her hand. He leered unpleasantly, stripping her with his eyes as hebriefly touched hers. I tapped his arm and caught his eye with a warning thatstopped him moving too far into vulgarity.'Yeah.''How do you do?''Fu… great, given the chance. You?''Fine, thank you.''Talks, then? Never thought it could.'Faith failed to recognize this as a reference toher and, unfamiliar with small talk, remained silent.'I'm considering offering Faith the position ofGirl Friday, Merv. Do you think you could work with her?''Any position it takes, I'll go along with.''And you, Faith, how do you feel about workingwith Merv?''I don't understand everything he says, but heseems less… coarse than I'd heard. I'm willing to try, as long as I don't haveto work under those… those pictures.''Good. Good. Right, we'd best leave him to it;don't want him ruining the films by forgetting to agitate the developer, dowe?'Merv immediately lifted the metal tank and upendedit five times in quick succession before replacing it on the bench. I indicatedthat Faith should leave the room again. She was barely out of the door before Iturned to Merv. 'Well done, Merv. Think you can manage to remain as polite ifshe comes to work here?''Once it gets its tight little bum under the deskI'll 'ave to tease it. It's too thin. Keeps its curlies short and tidy though.You can see right through 'em to its…''Thank you for that, Merv. That order ready togo?''Final rinse. 'Ave 'em on the dryer in a mo.''Right. I'll be up for them in half an hour.''It'll never let you, Leigh. Dunno why you'rebotherin'.'I found Faith blushing on the other side of thelight trap. 'He says some very strange things. Was he talking about me?''All talk is Merv. Doesn't mean anything by it,you know.''He can't possibly know what I look like.''Guessing. Wishful thinking. Just guessing, that'sall. Shall we go back?'I paced the office and Faith studied the locallandscapes of the Dales I'd displayed on the walls in the hope that touristsmight drop in to buy them.'Like them?''They're beautiful. I didn't know you could dothat with photography. It's beautiful countryside. I recognise this one, butwhere were the others taken?'I thought she was pulling my leg until I saw thegenuine question on her face. They were all local, none more than a dozen milesfrom Longhouse. Ma brought fresh coffee in before I had theopportunity to answer properly. Old Hodge poked his face around the door andsaw Faith. He smiled at her and lifted his cap in greeting. She gave him alittle nod of acknowledgement and smiled back. Everybody liked Old Hodge.After Ma had placed the tray, she tested the whitesocks by the fire and found them dry at last. 'You never took the lasstraipsing into that cold studio with nowt on her feet, Leigh?'I hadn't noticed, and she'd said nothing. I foundmyself apologising for my thoughtlessness.'I had nothing to put on my feet and you wanted meto see the rest of the work place. I wanted to see it. I'm used to cold feet.''See, Ma, she's perfect. No complaints, no fuss.Just what I need.''Taking her on, then?'Faith's eyes followed me as I moved to my desk andsat down in the leather chair, still trying to make up my mind.The door from the hall opened and Abby stepped in,pink along one side from the hearthrug. I saw Faith close down her emerginglook of surprised disapproval and turn it into polite indifference.Abby glanced round the room. 'Sorry. Thought you'dbe done by now. Just wanted my wrap.' It lay on the floor near my desk, where Ma hadkicked it after Abby had discarded it for our earlier session. Her briefs layat my feet, out of sight. Faith picked up the wrap, shook out the dust andcreases and took it to the fire to warm for a few moments. No one spoke. She turned and held the gown, helping Abby intoit. 'Does the hair around your genitalia grow that short naturally or do youtrim it?' She sat down with no sign of a blush and gave me a look that spokevolumes.Abby flicked her long tresses back over hershoulders and laughed a little uncertainly. 'I …er wax and trim it, sweetie …But what an odd question to ask in mixed company.' 'I'm sorry. I didn't know I shouldn't…' And thistime she blushed.'It's okay, sweetie. No one's died.' She perchedon the edge of my desk and looked at Faith speculatively before twisting toface me. 'Prettier than I expected but a bit on the thin side for you, I'd havethought. Taking her on?'I'd almost made up my mind before Abby had comein. Faith's demonstration of the professional attitude she'd described in thestudio was enough to clinch it, in spite of that strangely personal question.'If she wants the job. What do you say, Faith?'Her whole body relaxed and relief took the frownfrom her face. 'Thank you. Thank you, very much, Leigh. I can start now, if youlike.''Now? I thought you had a job at the Dairy? You'llhave to give notice, surely?''They'll not want me to work notice after what Idid this morning. No, I can start straight away, if that's all right for you?'She had no idea of the significance of her throwaway admission. Abby and Ma exchanged curious glances.'What, exactly, did you do this morning, Faith?'My tone alerted her to the seriousness of her comment. She was suddenlyconfused and unable to collect her thoughts. I wondered if I'd misjudged her oreven been misled. 'Out with it. Let's have some of this famous honesty.'Still she was reluctant to speak and I began togrow impatient. Ma stepped in to the rescue. 'We're not sitting in judgement,love. Just curious.'She glanced at each of us in turn, fear anduncertainty distorting her pretty face. When she brought her eyes back to mine,I nodded and tried to take the suspicion from my features. 'Tell us in your own words.'She literally took a deep breath, as if about toplunge into cold water. 'I told you Father got me the job at the Dairy?''Working for one of his cronies… friends, yes.''I'd worked there a few weeks when Mr Furnswurthasked me to move out of the general office and be his personal secretary. He'sa… a horrible man. The other women talked about his wandering hands and the wayhis eyes undress you. He looked at me like Mervyn did.''Some men routinely undress women with their eyes.I find their attitude appalling. I know Furnswurth and he's just the type. Alloutward respectability but seething with sexual repression.'She considered that for a moment. 'His office hasa wall of shelves from floor to ceiling and steps so you can reach the top.Some of the women told me he sits at his desk and looks up their skirts whenthey get files from the top or bottom shelves. He couldn't do that with me, ofcourse. My skirt's a decent length.'She must have guessed my intention to try tochange that because she stared at me sternly. 'And always will be, in caseyou're thinking any different.'Her insight was vaguely unnerving after such briefacquaintance.'How you dress is up to you, Faith. Most men thesedays prefer the mini or micro, but the maxi's fine, especially in a flowingfabric. Can't say I'm a lover of your old lady's tweeds but… up to you. Youwere telling us about Furnswurth…'She let my criticism go but she'd have somethingto say should I raise the subject again. 'He asked for one of the files on thetop shelf. I was looking for it when he came and stood below me, pretending tohelp me look. Before I knew what was happening, he put his hand up my skirt.''The man needs seeing to.'She gave me the briefest of troubled smiles, formy support, I suppose. 'I couldn't believe it. He goes to Father's chapel. Iwas too shocked to move at first but then he slid his hand even further up andactually touched my genitalia. I came to my senses then. I kicked his arm andbent down and slapped him across his nasty face as hard as I could. I almostfell off the steps.' She stopped, awaiting judgement.'Dirty old sod. I'd have kicked him in thegoolies.' Abby slipped off the desk and put a comforting arm around hershoulders.'Do you think they'll not have you back 'cause youslapped his face, love? Is that it?'She frowned at Ma. 'They won't have me backbecause I walked out, there and then, of course, Mrs Hodges.''Did you hurt Furnswurth?''I don't know. I expect so. I know it's verywicked of me, Leigh, but I hope so. Why? Does it matter?''No. Just satisfying if you blacked his eye. Iunderstand your comment now, Faith. I think you were right to do what you did.Showed courage and presence of mind. And I'd be happy for you to start work forme in the morning.'Her relief was almost tangible. 'I can start rightnow, if you like.''Go home and have a short rest. There's only acouple of hours of the working day left anyway. But there is just one thing.''What time should I be here in the morning?''Up to you; eight thirty to five or nine to fivethirty in the week, up to lunch time on Saturdays. I don't mind. But I want toknow something, Faith. I'm curious to know why, having reacted so violently toFurnswurth's sexual advances, you came straight here? You must've believed Iwas the most sexually dangerous man in the area.''I was out of a job. I have to work. Father is… Hewouldn't understand me leaving like that. In fact, he won't believe me.' Sheshrugged as if resigned. 'We really need the money because he can't work, so Icouldn't go home without another job. Yours was the only one with the skills Ihave. I saw your postcard in Mrs Greenhough's window. In the rack outside, anewspaper said that unemployment's gone past a million and is still rising.Where else would I go?'I grinned at Abby and Ma. 'Honest, but she'll gainno points for diplomacy.''Bit of honesty from a pretty lass'll do you noharm. Most of 'em are so eager to have you in their knickers they'll say owt toplease you.' Ma gave Abby a look full of meaning and received a protrudingtongue in response. 'You're a real surprise to me, Faith, but you're a welcomeaddition to Longhouse, and I for one hope you'll not change your ways too muchby working for Leigh.'She managed a smile for Ma, and then turned to mewith apprehension. 'I must be completely honest, Leigh. I believe it's as badto miss out facts, as it is to make them up when it comes to truth. At theDairy, they either think you're a wicked libertine or else the most eligibleand delectable bachelor in the district, whatever all that means. No one talksabout you as if you're a danger to women, though; just the opposite, in fact.They say you're licentious and lewd; more words I don't fully understand,except I know they're bad. So I didn't think I'd be in any actual danger unlessI let you think I was willing to take off my clothes. Which, by the way, I mostcertainly am not! Also, I intend to help you see the error of your ways andlead you down the path of righteousness so that we can save your soul.'I shook my head at her candour. Faith was showingall the signs of being a serious challenge and I relished the coming contest.But she hadn't finished.'I also came here because Father'll be livid whenhe learns I'm working for you. But he won't stop me; we need the money. Hecalls you 'Satan's local henchman' and believes no woman's safe with you. I cantell him he's mistaken about that, and for…''You seem very sure.''Oh, if you'd wanted to do something to me, youhad the perfect opportunity when I was lying at your feet. As far as I cantell, you didn't even try to look up my skirt. And you went up the ladderbefore me because you knew I'd feel more comfortable that way. In fact, you'vebehaved in a way that even Father would find hard to criticize. I believeyou're a gentleman, even if you do fornicate and take pleasure in the flesh,and I shall tell Father what I've learned when I get home''You'll ruin my reputation as the local despoilerof virgins.''I don't fully understand what that means, but I'mhoping you'll ruin mine as the village idiot, Leigh.'The studio door let Merv into the office. 'Tightlittle twat gone…? Oh. Yeah, right. 'Ere's that order, Leigh. I'm done now.I'll be off…' He knew he'd overstepped the mark.I wanted the girls, especially Faith, to know howstrongly I objected to his attitude. 'Merv. I'll say this now, in front of Ma,Abby and Faith. I'll give you a choice: either you start to treat the women inthis household like human beings or you can leave for good. Understood?'Merv looked at the floor.'Understood?'He glanced up at me and nodded.'Understood?'Faith jumped at my volume.'Yeah. Right, yeah, Leigh. Right.''Good. Now, apologize to Faith and then bugger offhome. And find another word to use when talking about women to me or anyoneelse in this household. You might start by using their names. Go.'Merv turned to Faith, his face purple with a mixof anger and embarrassment. 'Yeah. Right. Sorry, then.' I knew we'd get no morefrom him and I gestured him to leave. He went without another word but heglared at Faith as he closed the door.'God, but he's foul that one.' Ma had never likedhim.'Foul mouth, foul mind.' Abby felt the same way.'It's not just the words; it's the attitude thatlies behind them.''If he upsets you, Leigh, why do you employ him?'Her directness continued to surprise and amuse me.'There's not much choice around here when it comes to skills and talent, Faith.If you turn out to be as good a Girl Friday as Merv is a printer, I'll countmyself extremely lucky.'She looked around the room, skimming quickly pastthe photographs of women's bodies, but taking in the rest of the details.'You're expecting me to do most of the print finishing in that room next to thedarkroom. I didn't see a phone in there. I won't be able to answer calls unlessyou have one put in.''Hasn't even started and already she's costing memoney. Hop it, wench, before I change my mind!'She slipped her socks and shoes on quickly and wasinside her shabby winter coat before I relented.'You're right, of course. You can have yourextension, but only when I'm satisfied you're right for the job.'A huge smile of relief brightened her cloudedcountenance.Ma turned to Faith and nodded. 'You'll do.'I foresaw those two forming an alliance against mein all sorts of subtle ways and I relished it. 'Right. I'm off down toGarsington. Coming, Abby?'She looked out of the window and then stretched,revealing tempting skin. 'I'll wait for you near the fire. You'll need warmingup when you come back.'My look softened her eyes and parted her lips. Iturned to Faith. 'Can I take you home?''Garsington? That's a long way, isn't it?'I laughed. 'Less than fifteen miles.''Garsington.' She spoke as if it were anotherworld. 'No, thank you, Leigh. I believe it's in the wrong direction.''Suit yourself. See you in the morning then.''Eight thirty. And thank you for giving me achance, Leigh. I'll prove my worth.'I wondered if she would or whether I'd saddledmyself with problems simply from a desire to try to mould this strange littlewench into a real woman. Time, no doubt, would tell.

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How Does A Writer Move You?

Image by stuartaken via Flickr
How does a writer enter the mind, heart and soul of a readerand persuade a mature human being that the fiction purveyed is true enough todeserve and elicit an emotional response? Of course, the question itselfsuggests that every writer does this. But we all know there are writers whosucceed in the market place without ever stirring any deep emotion, relying onthe pace and action of their stories to maintain the interest of the reader.Such writing invariably leaves the thoughtful reader unsettled and unsatisfied,as if they've devoted time and energy to a pursuit that has failed to rewardthem with a fully rounded experience. For me, such writers might persuade me toread one of their novels but I'll never return to waste more time on suchsuperficial entertainment. It serves a purpose, of course, but holds littleappeal for me and many other readers.
If the writing of fiction is about anything, it's surely aboutproviding the reader with a multi-layered experience full of emotional content.As a writer, I want to entertain, of course. But I also want to cause myreaders to laugh in amusement, cry with empathy, gasp in surprise, wail atinjustice, call out in fear, retch with disgust, pause in thought, tremble inanticipation, wince at cruelty, warm with erotic response, scream in terror,applaud at justice, weep at despair  andcheer over a deserved outcome.
But how are such responses to be achieved? People are sodifferent, so varied in outlook, experience and education, that it must surelybe impossible to get under their skin in this way? Well, perhaps it isn'tpossible to succeed with every reader on every occasion. But it clearly ispossible to form the desired response in enough of your audience to justify thetime, energy and effort needed to invoke the emotion you're aiming for.
So, how does it work?
I suspect the most important factor is shared experience. Allof us go through the basic events of life; births, deaths, illness, falling inlove and out of it, fearing the unknown, having sex or getting none, admiringsome natural or man-made phenomenon, witnessing a natural catastrophe. We maynot experience all of these events personally, but we will have at least someawareness of them through our family, friends, acquaintances and theever-present media. There is, therefore, some fellow-feeling which can be usedas a platform from which a writer can launch an assault on the reader's senses.
I'll give a couple of personal examples, since these arethings about which I know.
My real father died before I was born and I was raised, fromthe age of four, by the man who later married my widowed mother and calledhimself my father. I was loved, cared for, appreciated and nurtured. I've nocause to feel in any way that I missed out on anything due to my real father'suntimely death.
But. Yes, the 'but' is the crucial aspect here.
But, I always felt that I was incomplete because I'd neverknown my biological father. Because of this, I'm susceptible to certainelements in fiction. One of these is the situation that drives the hugelysuccessful movie, Mama Mia. Theheroine, Sophie, wants to know who she is before she gets married, and sendsinvitations to each of the three men she identifies as her possible father.Now, this motion picture has much in it that should, by the measure of many,not appeal to an average guy. It has been much lauded as a picture for women.That it's also a musical, lends it even more of a feminine appeal in the mindsof many. But, because I absolutely understand, empathise with, Sophie's desireto know about her father, I find the story moving. It touches me in a way thatprobably evades many men. There's a link for me. And that's the point. Irespond to the emotional element that drives the story because I have directpersonal experience of the central emotion of longing to know.
Another incident that never fails to move me is the denouementof The Railway Children . As Bobbiewaits on that railway platform and her father appears through the mist, I'm unableto prevent tears falling. And it matters not that I've seen both recentversions of the film on more occasions than I should. The power of the emotionremains. 
Why?
I can identify two entirely separate reasons for this one, Ithink. The first is that I'm a father and have a strong love for my daughter. Ican empathise with the way both a father and a daughter must feel during aperiod of prolonged forced separation. My personal experience lies in thenecessary absence of my girl as she attends university. But there's a secondfactor at play here. I have a deep and enduring concern for justice. Injusticewounds me and always has; perhaps I suffered some unjust event as a child andthis lurks beneath the surface of my consciousness to elevate the quality ofjustice into something of paramount importance to me. I don't know; but it's asgood a reason as any for my concern. In TheRailway Children, of course, the father returns from a spell in prisonserved for a crime he didn't commit. So, the daughter/father reunion isenhanced as an emotional experience for me by the fact that justice isrestored. Hence, I think, my empathy and my inability to prevent the tears.
I use these two examples to demonstrate how powerful a tool emotioncan be for the writer.
Not only the most obvious emotion, that of love betweenadults, as embraced by romantic fiction authors, but all emotion. The readerneeds to be exposed to the emotional spectrum as experienced by the characters,to feel these emotions, not simply to be told that the character feels them.
'Rose felt the sorrow ofloss at the death of her baby.' This tellsthe reader what happened. 'Rose gentledthe tiny crumpled cot blanket in trembling hands, hardly aware of the damptrails she left as she brought it close to her face and inhaled the scent ofthat small perfect person she would never hold again.' This shows the reader her emotions. And,because the author will have built previous experiences into the writing,making the reader empathise with the character of Rose, the reader willexperience the feelings of loss and utter devastation such an event gifts thevictim.
This is one example of how it can be done. So, the writerengages the reader with the character(s), manipulates the reader into arelationship that involves concern and fellow-feeling. Where the thrillerwriter might get away with generic description and superficial emotionalcontent, relying on pace and action to drag the reader through the story, theauthor of almost every other genre must actually become his characters, in thesame way a good actor does, he must feel what the characters feel, in order toconvey the real emotions experienced by the people who act out the tale. Onlythen will the reader experience what the character feels and be moved, amused,shocked, aroused or whatever is appropriate to the situation. 
It takes a clevercombination of the right language with a description and presentation of characterthat persuades the reader to care. If the reader really doesn't give a damn whathappens to the character(s), then the author has fallen at the first hurdle andmight as well take up some other activity. It's for this reason that mostserious (serious in the sense of intent rather than style) authors develop theplot through their characters rather than forcing characters into apre-conceived plot.
If you're an author who wants readers to respond to yourwriting rather than skip through the text on a mad dash to the end, you need tobe fully engaged with your characters and to allow them to dictate thedirection of the story. Only in that way will you find the necessary empathy toshare emotional events with them and, thereby, your readers. It's a demandingprocess but one that brings great rewards when handled well. 
The picture, by the way, shows my biological father, Ken Burden, about whom I've recently learned a good deal from his surviving sister, my 98 year old Aunt Vera.

Contribution to Mankind, by Linda Acaster, Reviewed

Herewe have a collection of short stories by an author who knows her craft. Thetales are all dark but, as with all good tales of the sort, carry patches oflight. Linda Acaster has an uncanny knack of undermining assumptions so thatthe reader finds her stories end rather differently from what might have been expected.Nevertheless, the endings are all apt; there is nothing either false orcontrived about them, it's merely that they lead to places not ordinarily considered.
Theauthor employs her considerable imagination to take the reader into unfamiliarworlds where all is not as it seems on the surface. Although ghosts and spiritspopulate some of these stories, they don't arise from the regular menu of ghoststories. Each has its own take on experiences that take us out of our normal,cosy world and plunge us into possibilities we might otherwise not encounter.
Asalways in this writer's fiction, the language employed is both apt and accessiblewithout being either patronising or too clever. She uses a down to earth toneto set the scene and to portray her characters. And the characters are beingswe might all have met, even those populating the other worlds she sometimestakes us into.
Thereis irony, some just desserts, and a glance into our possible distant futurewithin the tales in this collection. I enjoyed all the stories and commend themto you.
Asa bonus, the book also contains the opening chapters of Linda Acaster's 'Torcof Moonlight', a superb paranormal romance novel that stands out as more thanjust a great example of the form but as a demonstration that such works cantruly transcend the narrow definition of the genre and appeal to the widestreadership.