Stuart Aken's Blog, page 270

The Secret Life of Bletchley Park, Reviewed.

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AChristmas present, this was a book I was unlikely to pick up for myself. However,I'm very pleased I was given the gift. WWII is long gone, of course, and formany of the younger generation probably holds little interest. I was born someyears after its end and my parents were involved, of course, so it has somepersonal resonance for me.
Ihad, of course, heard of Bletchley Park; the place has shed its cloak ofsecrecy over the past few years. Several books, TV documentaries and otheritems have opened up the world that had previously dwelt only within the wallsof the establishment and the minds of those thousands who had worked there. Isuspect that most people now are at least aware of the invaluable work that wasdone in this otherwise rather nondescript property. There is, after all, amuseum there now displaying the secrets of the code breakers.
Whatis not generally known is the way of life in the place during the crucial yearsof the war and it is this aspect that is covered by the bulk of this book.Written in an accessible style dotted with bits of humour, the book details thedaily lives, the trials and most poignantly, the pervading requirement forabsolute secrecy that prevented even those closest to the workers knowing whatthey were up to. These brave, talented and diligent men and women were unableto even hint at the nature of the work they did day in and day out. Many wereostracised by those who assumed they had a cushy job for the duration, manywere unable to tell their relatives how they really spent the war and had toallow their parents to die without ever being given the chance to feel the verywell deserved pride they would otherwise have known.
Fullof detail and crammed with fascinating facts and descriptions of the variouscharacters and personalities who made up the workforce of this extraordinaryestablishment, the book gives a real insight into the relationships,friendships and disputes that occurred. It also points the finger of blame atthose senior military men and politicians without a clear understanding of thenature of the work done at Bletchley Park. That Churchill understood the vital significanceof the operation is possibly the only reason it managed to continue with thetask that shortened the war by two years and saved countless lives as a result.
Onthese pages you will find the petty squabbles, the passionate devotion to thetask, the daily courage of people working against the odds and under dreadfulconditions, the strokes of genius and the dedicated pure slog of perseverance whenall seemed to be against them.
Oneother aspect of the book must be mentioned: contrary to Dan Brown's assertionthat the modern computer was developed as the result of work in Harvard in1944, this account makes it clear that Alan Turing and Tommy Flowers wereworking on the original idea of such a device and had built such machines atBletchley during 1943. The problem was that all their work, both written andpractical, was destroyed on the orders of a government obsessed with thepossibility that the Russians might somehow gain from the knowledge. Thus, GB'scomputer industry never really got off the ground.
Ifyou're interested in real people, tales of courage, accounts of socialinteraction between all classes for a common cause, if you want to read a trueaccount that will amuse, inform and move you, I suggest you give this book aread. I've enjoyed the journey and can recommend it to all those who have aninterest in the human condition.

Continuing the #NaNoWriMo Challenge.

Image via WikipediaThis week has seen much activity outside of writing, a lot of it to do with my daughter, who I've just returned to her place at university, hence the lateness of this post. However, I'm well on with the current read, The Secret Life of Bletchley Park, and I've read another of my writing magazines. As far as the current WIP is concerned, I'm now up to chapter 15 on the first read-through and still finding little that needs amending. Mind you, once I do the reading aloud from a typescript, I suspect I'll discover much more that needs changing.
A short spell of sickness also interrupted my week, so not much else to report for now.
Chapter 3 of breaking Faith will appear on Friday. And, on Thursday, there's a post about how authors make their readers feel what the characters are experiencing. So, hopefully see you then as well.

Read My Novel, Free, Here: Chapter 2.

Breaking Faith waspublished as a paperback 3 years ago and, on 24 October 2010, I published it asan ebook through Smashwords and on Amazon Kindle. I'm now posting individualchapters here on the blog, so that anyone who wishes can read the book in fulland free of charge.
The Prologue was posted on6 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.
Read, enjoy, tell yourfriends.
Just a word or 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 takes a full chapter,narrating in first person. So, last week was Leigh's point of view, this weekFaith tells part of the tale. It continues in this way throughout, butsometimes one of the characters will tell the tale in a couple of chapters in arow.
Chapter 2
I crossed pristine snow onthe village green to use the phone box for the first time in my life andtrembled with more than just cold. Mrs Greenhough, cosy in her post officestores, might have let me use her phone but Father called her the villagegossip and it was not worth the risk.I followed the scratched and faded instructionsand dialled the number, taken from a card in the post office window. Theringing tone stopped and I heard his voice for the first time, and felt anunexpected and disturbing tingle at its deep, musical quality.A relief map of the local area stood next to thephone box to show tourists the walks. Fortunately, someone had scribbled 'Houseof Sin', in bright red felt tip on the map; otherwise I would not have knownhow to find Longhouse.Four miles from the village; it took me less timeto cross unknown fields of snow than I planned. Better early than late. Though,with feet and fingers numb from cold, I could have done without the wait.Father's watch, leant so I would not be late for my job at the Dairy, showed Istill had a few minutes before the interview.Curiosity, and a sense of mission; to saveLeighton Longshaw's wicked soul, took me to Longhouse. The inevitablepunishment from Father, if I returned home without a job, after walking out ofthe Dairy earlier that morning, had only a little to do with it.I ploughed through deep drifts that lay againstblackthorn hedges lining the steep lane. Fresh snow worked its way into wornshoes Father had bought from a jumble sale, joining slush already soaking mysocks. Near the white five-bar gate, I considered running back home to face thebelt. Better the devil you know…. On the gatepost, a sign warned 'Beware' above ablue and white glazed tile of a man chasing a woman. I had never seen a manwithout his clothes and, although I should have turned away, I was fascinated.Father often saw Hope and me undressed but I had not seen him, of course. Aman, being forged in the image of God, must preserve some mystery.I wondered if they all looked like that; if I gotthe job, I would soon know.The long, old house crowned the soft curve of thehill, its three entrance doors facing me. The left one seemed to lead to aworkshop or garage with a stone arch over closed double doors beside it. Theright, with its deeply carved panels polished by time and use, had to be themain entrance. The plain centre door opened as I looked and a man, agedsomewhere between twenty-five and forty, poked his head out and beckoned me in.I drew breath sharply; this danger might overwhelmme, if I let it, and that was enough to make me enter. I closed the gate,crossed the space rutted only by one set of car tyres, and turned to find hisdeep-set eyes gazing into mine with a directness I had not met before.'Step on it, love. Ma'll have my balls if I leavethis door open much longer.'Ma? Of course, Mrs. Hodge, his housekeeper;respected by everyone, in spite of all the dreadful things they said aboutLonghouse. I would be safe with her in the house. Though safe from what, I hadno real idea. And I was not at all sure what his balls, whatever they were, hadto do with it. He opened the door wider so I could step inside and the brightcolours of his patterned shirt assailed my eyes.'No further in your shoes, love. Can't have wetfootprints all over Ma's polished floor.' He closed the door behind me. Thetrap snapped shut as I knelt uncertain on coarse cocoanut matting with'Welcome' written on it.My fingers were numb and the knots in my frozenlaces almost defeated me. By the time I had them untied, the heat inside theroom was overpowering. I got up too quickly as he offered to help with my coat.His next words made no sense through a loud buzzing in my head. My skin feltwet and cold. The walls swayed in and out of focus, as if they might fall in onme. Abruptly, everything went black.Brightness, like white unbroken snow, made mesquint; a fine black line cracking its surface as my eyes focussed. My face wastoo warm on one side and the ground hard but smooth beneath me. I heard themurmur of voices at the same time as I realized I was on my back. A secondlater, I knew where I was and that my feet were in the air, naked as my knees. 'Steady. Steady, love. You're safe.' The voicemade me tingle, again.'She's concerned she's decent.' Mrs Hodge movedinto my field of view. 'Don't worry, lass, no-one can see your unmentionables.'The fold of skirt between my legs reassured me hecould see no more than my knees and lower limbs, though that was bad enough. Heheld my bare feet in his hands, massaging them so that a dull, hot ache flowedthrough the flesh to offset the surprising pleasure of his skin on mine.'Stay there. No one's going to harm you and you'resafer on your back than standing, for the moment.'I must do as he said, though Father would punishme for this pleasure I could not help but feel. I turned to face the source ofheat and saw flames flickering round thick logs in a large, black grate. Hisfeet were in view, pale skin visible between the dark leather straps of hissandals. Blue, shaped inserts with embroidered flowers of gold, red and violetwidened the bottoms of the legs of his pale khaki, denim jeans.'Fainted, love.' Mrs Hodge frowned down at me.'Fainted with the heat after the snow.' She spoke slowly and loudly, as if Imight be deaf, or stupid, like so many others did.'Thank you, Mrs Hodge, I know. I'm sorry. I don'tusually fall over when I meet people.''Don't worry on my account, love. Women fall at myfeet all the time.''Bighead.' Mrs Hodge accused him.Father held women inferior to men but I had seenthem behave almost as equals at the Dairy. It was good to know that, in thishouse of sin, women were able to speak their minds. Mrs Hodge squinted down at me. 'You all right,love?''I'll be fine if you'll help me to my feet and letme sit for a bit, thank you.'Her look of confusion deepened.'Told you.' The man smiled back down at me withsatisfaction. 'Sure you're ready to be upright?''I'd feel happier perpendicular than prone, now mybrain's recovered its circulation, thank you.'Mrs Hodge looked utterly flummoxed but helped meto my feet and guided me to a wooden chair in front of the desk. 'It's no good,love; I've got to know. You are Faith Heacham, aren't you?''Yes. I'm sorry about that. I normally just sayhello, you know.'The man grinned and held out his hand. 'LeightonLongshaw; pleased to meet you, Miss Heacham, or is it Faith?'I took his hand. It was warm, dry and firm. At theDairy, I had started with Father's formal approach but quickly learned mostpeople preferred first names. 'Faith.'He held my hand for what seemed a long time andonly let go when a slight frown crossed his brow. 'Coffee or tea, Faith? Orsomething stronger?''What are you having, Mr Longshaw?''Call me Leigh, everybody does. "Mister" makes mefeel a hundred.''And he's only ninety-eight, you know.'I saw a twinkle in Mrs Hodge's eye and, startingto understand some of the humour I had heard at the Dairy, wondered if I shouldrisk joining in. The way she spoke to the man made me bold. 'I can't believethat, Mrs Hodge. I wouldn't have thought Leigh was that old.' She looked at meexpectantly and I dared the rest. 'No, not a day over eighty-nine.'They both laughed and the look that passed betweenLeigh and his housekeeper showed me I had been right to try.'I'll get the coffee.' Mrs Hodge left, shaking herhead.'Ma thought you were…, your reputation, you know?''Reputations, Leigh. I suspect, and hope with allmy heart, that you know more than most folk just how false they can be.'

###
Of course, whilst I want youto read the book, it would be even better if you bought it. So, if you can'twait until next week's instalment, check the links below, which will take youto a place you can make your purchase, either as paperback or ebook, dependingon your preference.
            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/2940011126079            Amazon paperback or Kindle To buy from USA Amazon            Amazon paperback or Kindle To buy from UK Amazon            Apple idevice:United Kingdom: 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
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/StuartAken

The Editing Process and Why I Enjoy It.

Unlike many writers, I enjoy the editing process that followsthe white hot period of creation. This is the time when you find the rightwords to replace those that flew off the end of your fingers in the rush to getthe ideas down before they escaped into the ether. This is your opportunity toturn a banal phrase into something poetic and memorable. It's the time to hone,sharpen, tighten and close up the text to build in the pace that carries thestory forward. It's the chance to spend some prime time with your charactersand understand them better than was possible at the beginning of the story,since even the most well-drawn characters have a tendency to diverge from theauthor's view of them as they grow during the story. It's the place to do thathardest of all things every writer must do in order to succeed; to murder yourdarlings. Most writers will understand this expression. For those who don't, itsimply means that you have to examine your writing critically and decidewhether that exquisite phrase you used to describe the heroine, the scenery,the hero, is actually necessary to the story. If it isn't, you cut it out andtoss it away. Your darling infants consigned to the bonfire of vanities.
I've always held to a short but, for me, true mantra onwriting: write from the heart, but edit from the head.
I've also always placed a distance between the writing of apiece and the editing. If you can come to your work with a fresh mind,following a break without reading or thinking about it, you're far more likelyto spot problems within it. So, after the creative phase, I always lock awaythe piece for a period, the length of which is more dependent on circumstancesthan any formal programme. But when I return to it, I work methodically.Whether my method will work for you, however, depends on the type of writer youare.
I do a first read through, quickly and without stopping forchanges I see as necessary - merely marking these points as prompts for thenext read through. This first read I do more or less as a reader, rather than awriter. It re-acquaints me with the work, allows me to see whether the ideashave translated into something that will interest readers, and highlights anyglaring inconsistencies in plot, character or setting.
Next, I read through and look at those marked places, makingwhatever alterations seem necessary. As I do this, I also make any changes thatmight affect pace by removing redundancies and repetitions.I then subject each chapter, or section, to the http://www.wordle.net/check. This wonderful and simple program provides a graphic (see theillustration for this post) that highlights words used according to frequencyand is an invaluable tool for identifying overused words. I thoroughlyrecommend this free editing helper.
The next stage is the crucial one, which I advise every writerto do, regardless of genre, habit, type or experience. I read the entire workaloud, from a typed script, marking it as I go along to indicate any areas oferror, confusion, repetition, clumsy construction etc. Reading aloud makeserrors far more evident, and reading from a printed source, rather than thescreen, makes mistakes and inconsistencies far more obvious. I can't emphasisetoo strongly how important this step is. If you do nothing else in editing, atleast do this.
Once I've been through and made the changes indicated by theread-through above, I subject the piece to the mechanical spell and grammarcheck. This highlights a number of issues and, in spite of its shortcomings andinadequacies, often reveals odd things missed during the manual process.
A final read through allows me to ensure consistency inplotting, characterisation, timeline, setting and theme. I keep a spreadsheetfor the timeline, so that I know where each character is at any given time.This includes a hyperlink to each character's sketch, so I can ensure I haven'tinadvertently changed hair or eye colour or suddenly made an atheist into agodbotherer, or aged a youngster, etc. I also include phases of the moon andsunrise/sunset times on the timeline, so I can keep track of such items whenI'm describing activity or scenes.
You will no doubt note that I haven't described a sessionwhere I make changes to improve the language of the piece. That's because I dothis as I go along, as part of all the other checks and alterations.
That's it. I know I could go through the piece again andagain, and find other faults or places where improvements could be made, but Iwrite to be read and there comes a time when the piece must be revealed to readers.Some writers find this final phase the most difficult and I suspect theirreluctance to get their piece out in front of an audience is due to eithermisplaced lack of confidence or an unwillingness to let go of their child andsend it out into the world.
There are writers, particularly amongst the indie writercategory, who don't bother with even the most basic editing. Their work isreadily identifiable by its numerous spelling errors, lack of grammaticalaccuracy, inconsistencies in expression and poor story planning. It puzzles anddistresses me that readers give such writers the time of day, but perhaps Iconsider such things as correct language use, basic spelling and grammar, astools of the trade and see their lack as insults to the readers; insults that,perhaps, certain readers don't perceive as such.
So, there you have it: the process of refining the initialpiece of created fiction into a story worthy of exhibition before my readers.Yes, it's a lot of work, time and effort. But nothing worthwhile was evercreated in ease. I can only hope that my efforts produce stories that readersfind entertaining, illuminating and enjoyable.

An unrelated question for you to ponder: Why do doctors leave the roomwhile you undress, since they're going to see you naked anyway?

The #NaNoWriMo Challenge Revisited.

So, what has the last weekheld for me with regard to writing?I was reading Plato's The Republic and discovered it heldreferences to a number of themes I'd touched on in the novel I drafted inNovember for the NaNoWriMo challenge. It was clear that it would help me withthe editing if I finished reading Plato's work before I started. So, this weekI finished reading and then reviewed TheRepublic . I wrote another post forthe blog, a piece about emotion in writing that will appear on 26 January.I revisited two shortstories; one a piece of erotica that I'm still unsure about placing, thoughit's a finished tale now. The other was a dystopian science fiction piece,which I'm still considering for submission. Can't make up my mind whether tosend it to a contest (there are plenty listed under the 'Writing Contests' tababove, so I've no excuse on that score) or to one of the many magazines (Duotrope, of which I'm a member,lists over 3,770 journals that take stories or poetry, so no excuse there,either).And, I finally made astart on the editing process of the NaNoWriMo novel. My first read through is asimple one, highlighting anything obvious that needs attention but withoutactually making any alterations. I've done the first five chapters so far. Ofcourse, there's a lot of work to do before it'll be ready for publication, butI'm enjoying the work and surprised at just how good some of the text is,considering the speed with which I produced this first draft. More on that as Iprogress.I've also done a littlework on various websites I visit, some of the social networking sites I belongto, and have read this month's Writing Mag, highlighting those portions I needto revisit. The current Writers' Digest is still only half read, though.So, that's the end of thiswriting week. Let's see what the new one brings.
The picture is a reminder of the summer to come; something to warm you in this cold part of the year.

Breaking News - Price Drop on Kindle Ebooks

Image via WikipediaDue to some information from a friend, who also writes, I've just discovered that Luxembourg has reduced the VAT on book to 3%. So what? Well, apparently, Amazon UK operate out of Luxembourg, so that means all the ebooks on there have now reduced in price. An excellent oportunity to fill up that Christmas Kindle with new books at even better prices.






You'll find mine at http://www.amazon.co.uk/Stuart-Aken/e/B002WTJ3VE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1
Pay a visit and pay less for the reads; none of my ebooks is more than £2.00 now.

Read Free, My Novel Here: Chapter 1.

3 years ago, I publishedBreaking Faith as a paperback and on 24 October 2010 I published it as an ebookthrough Smashwords.
Those who've read the bookhave enjoyed it: some of their comments are shown below. I'd like more peopleto read the book. That is, after all, why I wrote it; to be read.
So, I'm offering thechance for everyone to read it free, here on the blog. I'm posting a chapter ofthe book each Friday until the whole novel has appeared.
The Prologue was posted on6 January. Here's a link, if you missed it: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html Read, enjoy, tell yourfriends. The more who read, the happier we'll be.
What othershave said about
BreakingFaith
...I couldnot believe how determined this book was to make me read it...set in the summerof 1976, it details Faith's journey from isolation, deprivation and abuse...toenlightenment...A shocking but captivating story...' Shirley Mace
I read thisbook in one sitting, unwilling to put it down, immersed in Faith's journey fromdarkness to self-knowledge. The characters drawn with a fine brush...Thedenouement is sudden, violent and completely satisfying. Mr P. F. Field
...a storyof triumphant human spirit. The novel simmers with heat, lust, decadence andsexuality...Stuart Aken is indeed a writer to watch. Karen Wolfe, author.
1
1976
Monday 9th February
'You're having me on!' Ithought one of my former lovers must be playing silly buggers.'What do you mean, Mr Longshaw?' Her voice had anedge of nervousness, almost fear, to it.'Pulling my leg. I mean you're not really FaithHeacham.' It couldn't be her.'I'm sorry; I don't know what you mean by pullingyour leg.' Her anxiety was briefly overcome by undisguised frustration. 'But Iam Faith Heacham.'I struggled to accept that Faith Heacham was onthe phone to me, of all people. But her naivety convinced me. I answered therest of her hesitant questions and, in spite of misgivings from a small warningvoice, invited her for interview.Abby tried to recapture my attention, playing thecoquette, shrugging her gorgeous shoulders and bringing beguiling movement toher breasts.I closed the mouthpiece with my hand. 'Patience.'The door from the kitchen opened and, apprehensiveat once, Abby flung one arm across her chest. But, seeing it was only Ma, sherelaxed again.'Until one o'clock, then. TTFN.''Pardon?''Ta ta for now.''Oh, I see. Good morning, Mr Longshaw.'The short call finished, I replaced the phone andwondered what had made me agree to interview this strange girl from thevillage. Abby saw my puzzled frown. 'Who was it, Leigh?'Carrying coffee mugs on a tray, Ma stumbled overAbby's polyester wrap on the floor and kicked herself free of it.'Faith Heacham.'Ma frowned at the name. 'Shilling short of apound.' Thumping down the tray in emphasis.I decided against pointing out the anachronism; Madidn't take kindly to that sort of criticism. 'I'm interviewing her afterlunch.'Abby arched delicate pencilled eyebrows. 'You'reinterviewing the village idiot?''Didn't sound like an idiot. Local, uncertain,nervous, naive but not stupid. Voice like burgundy silk, with none of thecoarseness you'd imagine. Funny, I've never heard her speak, you know. Wouldn'texpect that voice from a tiny wench like her.''Beats me why you want a Girl Friday anyway.''Answer the phone when I'm working, amongst otherthings.''Stick an extension in the Perv's darkroom and gethim to take messages.''Of course! I never thought. Merv's unique andcandid misogyny would be perfect. Work like a charm on every secretary,receptionist and potential model who called. Good idea, Abby.''Sarkey sod.'I tripped the shutter. 'Shift your lovely bum atad to the left. Beautiful.' Another work of genius captured on film.'Can't Ma take messages?''I do.' Ma's face said all she needed to on thatsubject and she left without another word.'She does. It's not just that. Takes me hours totype a letter. Paperwork clogs up my creative cogs, I'm forever running out offilm and paper, and the tax return's murder. Anyway, a good pair of legs undera mini or micro and some bold boobs in a see-through might keep those damnedreps out of my hair. Do wonders when clients visit in person.''All three of them.''Cheek. If I had some glamour here to greet them,there'd be more.''Faith Heacham hasn't got legs or tits. She's notglam. She's skinny and square. I'm glam. I've got legs and tits.' She displayedto best advantage.'And very beautiful they are, Abby. But you've allthe organisational skills of a bramble bush, and your idea of accounting is,"Any money? Yes, stroke no. Spend it". Anyway, you'd not work the hours I wantfor the wages I'm offering.'She yawned her boredom again and I prepared tofinish the session with a last couple of shots. 'Move a bit further over, honey,and don't pose. It's "Housework au Naturel." remember? You're supposed to beactually doing the hoovering.''As if I'd get involved in housework. I'm not askivvy. Anyway, if it's supposed to be au naturel, shouldn't I be completelynude?''They'd never publish it. And I'd never get you onpage three like that.''Even so, wouldn't you like…?''Of course, even if it's just for my personalcollection.'She did; leaving just the shoes to enhance thelength and shape of her legs. I repeated the poses I'd already done.The roll finished, Abby decided she'd had enough.She took my hand off the film magazine I was about to remove from the 'Blad.'That'll wait. I won't.' She dragged me into the sitting room, where UncleFred's framed sepia parents, stiff in matching gilt frames, glared Victoriandisapproval at us from the ancient oak mantelpiece. The roaring fire counteredthe ice in their stares, making the sheepskin rug yet more inviting. Abbyrested her lovely skin on the soft wool and pulled me down to join her.An hour or so later, I left her glowing inside andout, languorous on the creamy fibres. At her request, I stuck a stack ofsingles on the radiogram and wandered off as Hot Chocolate sang 'You SexyThing', appropriately enough.Back in the office, I replaced denim flares andthe psychedelic shirt Abby had insisted on removing from me during the shoot,and took the films to the darkroom for processing.Merv, however, was not lurking in the orange glowof his domain. The stockroom door was ajar and, fixated by his view through thetiny window, he didn't hear my approach. I loathed his attitude to women.'Stripping another unfortunate female?''You do it.''Merv, comparing my photography of women with yourlewd mental despoiling is like placing Velazquez in the same frame as Vargas.'He grunted. 'Seen that 'un starkers.'I peered over his shoulder, down through thewhite-encrusted skeletal sycamore to the lane end where a small, anxious youngwoman stood ankle deep in fresh snow. It took me a moment to recognize her,though she wore her usual cast-offs and was expected.'Not that one, Merv. I doubt even the doctor'sseen that little body.''I 'ave! Seen the lot. Outside it were an' all.Doesn't shave its armpits. All 'airy they was. Mucky little twat.'I left Merv his fantasy, unwilling to explore orargue and suddenly aware of the dangers of his corruption and loathing meetingwith her reputed purity. 'Depending how things go this afternoon, you may soonsee her; face to face.''Eh?''I'm interviewing her in twenty minutes.''It'll never effin' model for you!''Girl Friday, Merv.''Waste o' time. Less brains than a shagged sheep.''I'll accept your expert assessment of the sheep,Merv, but have you actually met the girl, spoken with her?''Everyone knows. Even its effin' dad says it'sthick as cow dung.''I admit he seemed determined to brand her anidiot before he sent her out to work. Anyway, I've nowt to lose by giving her ahearing. The only other two who responded were great to look at and fun in bedbut the blonde had all the mathematical aptitude of an artichoke and theredhead thought typewriter keys were arranged alphabetically.''You'll not gerrit in bed, Leigh. Never tecks itsknickers off. It'll not even teck off its coat if it knows a man's lookin' atit.'I turned him away from the window to face me buthe couldn't meet my eyes, despite our equal height. 'I want that order printedand finished, Merv. I'll deliver it after the interview.''Waste of effin' time if you ask me. It's gotnothing you want.'I left Merv to it; confident he'd do his usualperfect job. As a photographic printer and technician, he was brilliant; as aman… I shuddered.At my desk, I picked up the morning paper andwaited for Faith Heacham to knock at my door. Recalling her, apprehensive inthe snow, I wondered again how the skinny, ragged, village idiot had persuadedme to interview her.###
Of course, whilst I want youto read the book, it would be even better if you bought it. So, if you can'twait until next week's instalment, check the links below, which will take youto a place you can make your purchase, either as paperback or ebook, dependingon your preference.
            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/2940011126079            Amazon paperback or Kindle To buy from USA Amazon            Amazon paperback or Kindle To buy from UK AmazonApple idevice:United Kingdom: 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
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/StuartAken

The Republic, by Plato, Reviewed.

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Thisclassic, in the true sense of the word, was written by Plato some time afterthe execution of his admired narrator, Socrates, in 399BC. The supposeddramatic setting for the narrative is around 420BC.Takingthe form of a discussion between Socrates and friends, the work is aphilosophical treatise founded on the theme of justice. It touches, along theway, many other aspects of life and thought and can be seen to be a foundationstone in the building of Western thought, politics and ideas. ThatPlato wrote in an era when slavery was not only accepted but was an everydaynormality, and where women were perceived as inferior beings, permeates thetext for a modern reader. There are many places where I felt like grabbing thenarrator, and his fellow conversationalists, by the metaphorical lapels andshaking them out of their complacency over these two issues. But that is more areflection of my attitudes about these issues than of the quality of thewriting.Istarted reading this tome, which requires a good deal of concentration, beforeXmas and the season rather interrupted the serious read. But I becamedetermined to finish the book before starting on the editing of the novel I'dwritten the preceding November (NaNoWriMo challenge for those interested). Thereason was that it immediately became clear that The Republic deals with many of the themes I included in my noveland I wanted to see what this seminal work had to say on these ideas.Theideas expressed are remarkably contemporary in many cases. I was surprised byreferences to personality, character, political systems and religion that I'dpreviously considered to be relatively modern. There were times when Icompletely forgot that this book was written almost 2,500 years ago. WhatI found most disturbing, however, were some of the theories and philosophicalideas that have clearly been responsible for the way we think and live today inthe Western world. That some of these ideas have been distorted, misunderstood,partially comprehended or, in some cases, deliberately taken out of context, tojustify certain modern political decisions became clearer as I read. Iunderstood, for the first time, some of the classical references I've comeacross in life and many of the underlying reasons for our current way of lifebecame obvious. It's clear that many of our current leaders are steeped in thearguments put forward in this narrative. The teaching of the classics is, ofcourse, fundamental to the education supplied by most private schools. That itisn't generally included in the curricula of state schools is equally clear. I'mnot a lover of conspiracy theory, but it's difficult to avoid the conclusionthat there has been a deliberate policy of discouraging the reading of suchbooks as this, lest the general populace become aware of what leaders havealways known.It'simpossible to do justice to this text in the space of a simple review. I canonly suggest that those who have the intellectual stamina and the necessarycuriosity about the nature of thought and life read this book. There is muchthat the modern reader will deplore, disagree with and denigrate. The benefitof living long after the work was completed provides us with a greaterunderstanding of many things that must have been mysteries to Plato and hiscontemporaries. But the fundamentals of his thesis on politics, rule and theactions of leaders and the general populace are sound.Thosewho love the superficial and the easy will find this book indigestible butthose who like depth, provocation of the grey cells and stimulus for theimagination and curiosity will find this a singularly rewarding read. Ithoroughly recommend it.

Writing: the Pen or the Keyboard?

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Writers are a funny bunch. We each have our own self-imposedrules, routines, favourites and hates. I know of authors who can no more createat the keyboard than they can lay an egg. But my method of composition now dependsutterly on the keyboard. This is despite the fact that I can't touch type anduse only two fingers (not those two!) and a thumb (either will do, I'm notprejudiced). I have to look at the keyboard as I write and then glance at thescreen, with Word's spelling correction thingy open so it underlines any typosI make as I go along. I make a lot of ytops so I really should do somethingabout it. I should learn to touch type, of course. In fact, I spent a fortnight doing just that, about 700 yearsago, on a manual typewriter, and became quite proficient by the end of thecourse. Unfortunately, events jumped up and down on my ambition at the timeand, having finished the course, I never went near a keyboard again for over twoyears. By that time, I'd forgotten everything I'd learned and went back to mythree digit approach. It's not too bad; I can manage about 45 words a minute,when I'm really going. But I'd be much better off if I could touch type. Oneday, perhaps…I don't dare write in script. I was clearly meant to be eithera genius or a doctor, because my handwriting is all but indecipherable, even tome! Where did it all go wrong? The bit about being a genius or a doctor, Imean. As for the handwriting, well I have a small excuse that I was one of thelucky few who, following the end of World War II (I'm not that old that I haveany personal connection with WWI), I was part of the generation who went toschool during the continuing paper shortage. So, I learned to write, at age five,using a framed slate panel and a lead scriber. We complain about Health andSafety rules these days, but at least our kids don't learn using intimatecontact with poisonous metals, eh? I was still in the early days of thisinitial learning when I contracted Scarlet Fever. I recall the ambulance, withits ringing bell (yes, a bell, not a siren) rushing me to the local hospital onChristmas Eve. There, I spent six weeks in an isolation ward, along withumpteen other patients, of all ages and both genders, suffering othercontagious illnesses. Another six weeks off school, after I was discharged,meant I'd fallen seriously behind my fellow pupils when I returned to school afew weeks before my sixth birthday. I never caught up. So, that's my excuse forthe poor handwriting.But, in spite of my dyslexic fingers, the keyboard serves mewell. Thank heavens for the speedy ability to right wrongs there. I repairspelling errors on the fly, but never actually read what I've written until Ireach the end of a piece, no matter whether that piece is a tweet, a shortstory or a novel. Then I return to the beginning and correct, edit, replace andcut wherever necessary. Unlike many writers, I actively enjoy the editingprocess. The creative part, which I do at tearing pace, flying through theparagraphs like a demented racehorse set free from its jockey, I love. Themaking up of lives, events, lands, and all the other story elements feeds thatpart of me where the imagination dwells. In my early days, I did actually write in longhand and thentransposed the work to type on a manual typewriter; a process that took moretime than the composition, usually because I couldn't read my own writing andhad to decipher words to make sense of it. I used the less than perfect Tippexto deal with the odd typo. Later, I progressed to an electronic machine with acorrection ribbon; a real boon. But, in those days before the word processorand computer printer, any re-arrangement of a sentence involved retyping anentire page and, sometimes, an entire chapter. Publishers required pristinetext without alterations, so it could take a long time, much patience, and anentire forest to turn out a manuscript that an agent or editor would accept.Paper wasn't generally recycled back then, so the waste binoverflowed with screwed up pages. These days, we wait until everything appears perfecton the screen before committing the work to paper. But even that isn'tfoolproof: every writer understands that editing on paper is far more likely tothrow up errors than doing the same job on the computer screen. But, at least,it's simpler to correct now, and it isn't often necessary to reprint the entirework simply because of a few errors.So, I compose at the keyboard, correct on screen, print indraft and re-edit using a pen, and then I transfer the changes to the file andreprint in 'best' mode to send my work off to editors and agents. I print, asrequired by the industry, on one side only of the paper, with wide margins. Imean, what's it matter if I still use a forest to achieve this level of perfectpresentation? All that matters is that the reading professional will have no reasonto reject the piece without even bothering to read it. After all, competitionis tough out there. It's good to know that they'll have a pristine piece ofwork to view before they reject it without reading; makes the whole process somuch more worthwhile, don't you think?
A question for you to ponder: Why are you IN a movie, but ON TV?

Short Term Offer

Just to let you know, I recently - i.e. today, answered a query on LinkedIn relating to how an ebook could be offered free. To illustrate how it's done, I produced a coupon for my anthology Ten Tales for Tomorrow, which allows the user to download the book free from Smashwords in any ebook format. Thought I should share that with the readers of my blog. So, if you want to take advantage just use the code - SC28Q - when you go to this link
 http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stuartaken
and select the book. Just enter the code and you'll get the book free. But this is only available until 1 February. If you wait any later, you'll have to make me much richer by paying the regular price of $0.99 or £0.65. You have been warned!