Stuart Aken's Blog, page 270

Are All Writers Liars?

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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.

###
Whilst I want you to readthe book, I'd like it even better if you bought it. So, if you can't wait untilnext week's instalment, check the links below. They'll take you to a place youcan make your purchase, either as paperback or ebook, depending on yourpreference.
Sample or buy as any format Ebook: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stuartaken
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How Does A Writer Move You?

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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.

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.'

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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
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