Stuart Aken's Blog, page 271

Writing, Reading, Blogging.

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So, the first week of theNew Year is over, done, gone. And what have I achieved? Well, I've updated myWriting Contests page, which takes a bit of work and time. I've written threelengthy posts for the blog, the first of which has appeared and the next ofwhich will appear on Thursday. The free read for the novel seems to be meetingwith some good reaction; Chapter 1 will appear on Friday, now that the Prologuehas featured.I've completed my 'ToRead' page on both Goodreads, and on my blog here; see the tab above. Adeliberate exercise aimed at getting me to stick to my intention of reading anaverage of 1 book a week. Of course, I haven't finished the book I was alreadyreading, but Plato's The Republic is hardly a quick read. And, incidentally, isthe reason I haven't yet started to edit the novel I wrote during the NaNoWriMochallenge in November. Having come to this book late in life, I wish I'd readit 35 years ago. It contains so many of the themes I use in the novel that I'vedecided I need to finish reading it before I start on the editing. So, that'sthe priority task now.Watch this space: I'll bedoing a short run-down like this each Sunday.

Read Free; My Novel Here.

Prologue of Breaking Faith.
A little over 3 years ago,I published my first novel, Breaking Faith, as a paperback, through YouWriteOn,an Arts Council sponsored publisher. On 24 October 2010 I published it as anebook through Smashwords.Those who've read the bookhave enjoyed it: read some of their comments below. I'd like more people toread the book. That is, after all, why I write; to be read.So, I'm offering thechance for everyone to read it free, here on the blog. I'll post a section ofthe book each Friday until the whole novel has appeared. Here's the first part,the Prologue. Read, enjoy, tell your friends. The more who read, the happier we'llbe.
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.


Prologue
I had to wait when I wentto collect bread and milk from our village store. The owner was serving the manthat Father called 'the Devil's Henchman'. He said some really dreadful thingsto her but she laughed as I had never heard her laugh before. When he left theshop, she frowned at me.'What d'you want, girl?''Father says Leighton Longshaw is evil, MrsGreenhough. But he was making you laugh.'She twisted her mouth into an ugly shape andsighed. 'Your good-for-nothing father's a hypocritical fool, girl. And you'rejust a fool; plain and simple.' She smiled as if she thought she had saidsomething clever. 'What do you want?''Father says I'm to tell you I start work at theDairy next week and can he have a bit of credit until I get my first wages,please? We've run out of sugar for his tea, you see.'She almost threw a bag of sugar at me. 'You'll payas soon as you've got your wages, girl. Though, God knows what sort of job anidiot like you's going to get.'I bowed my head, as Father had taught me, and tookthe bag back home. On the way, I passed a cottage with the door open. There wasa thing I had never seen before in the far corner of the room. It had movingpictures on it and I was so surprised to see this that I actually stopped andwatched to see if it was true. It was only a few seconds before the man wholived there saw me.'Bugger off, cretin.' He started to shut the door.His wife came and peered at me. She frowned. 'Oh,it's only that Heacham girl. She can't help it, George; probably never seen atelly before, livin' with that ne'er-do-well father of hers. Shouldn't yell ather; she's simple.' She turned to me, her face firm but not unkind. 'Off yougo, Faith, there's a good girl. It's not nice to peer into people's houses, youknow.'As I moved away, Leighton Longshaw walked past mein the street. He was a tall man with the happiest eyes I have ever seen, a mopof dark hair and a beard. And he smiled at me. Smiled. I remember because noone ever smiled at me; people generally scowled. Because I was schooled athome, by Father, and lived outside the village in an isolated cottage, I had nofriends I could ask about why this bad man should smile at me so nicely. When Igot home, I mentioned it to Father but he warned me to have nothing to do withhim.'Keep well away from him, girl! Evil beyond yourworst nightmares. That man's trouble through and through. You better not havedone owt to encourage him or I'll have to scourge you, girl.''I just passed him in the street, Father.''Make sure that's all you ever do with LeightonLongshaw, girl. Now get my tea.'I never argued with Father, of course. But I didthink the man's smile had been kind and friendly. It was such an unusual eventfor me and it left me feeling the sort of joy I only knew when I was up at thetarn; swimming or watching the birds flying. I very much wanted to experienceit again.
Now, of course, whilst Iwant people to read the book, it would be even better if they were to buy it.So, if you can't wait until next week's instalment, check the links below,which will take you to a place you can make your purchase, either as apaperback or an ebook, depending on your preference.
            Sample or buy as 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/isbn9781849233149France: http://itunes.apple.com/fr/book/isbn9781849233149Australia: http://itunes.apple.com/au/book/isbn9781849233149Germany: http://itunes.apple.com/de/book/isbn9781849233149Austria: http://itunes.apple.com/at/book/isbn9781849233149Belgium: http://itunes.apple.com/be/book/isbn9781849233149Bulgaria: http://itunes.apple.com/bg/book/isbn9781849233149Cyprus: http://itunes.apple.com/cy/book/isbn9781849233149Czech Republic: http://itunes.apple.com/cz/book/isbn9781849233149Denmark: http://itunes.apple.com/dk/book/isbn9781849233149Estonia: http://itunes.apple.com/ee/book/isbn9781849233149Finland: http://itunes.apple.com/fi/book/isbn9781849233149Greece: http://itunes.apple.com/gr/book/isbn9781849233149Hungary: http://itunes.apple.com/hu/book/isbn9781849233149Ireland: http://itunes.apple.com/ie/book/isbn9781849233149Italy: http://itunes.apple.com/it/book/isbn9781849233149Latvia: http://itunes.apple.com/lv/book/isbn9781849233149Lithuania: http://itunes.apple.com/lt/book/isbn9781849233149Luxembourg: http://itunes.apple.com/lu/book/isbn9781849233149Malta: http://itunes.apple.com/mt/book/isbn9781849233149Netherlands: http://itunes.apple.com/nl/book/isbn9781849233149Norway: http://itunes.apple.com/no/book/isbn9781849233149Poland: http://itunes.apple.com/pl/book/isbn9781849233149Portugal: http://itunes.apple.com/pt/book/isbn9781849233149Romania: http://itunes.apple.com/ro/book/isbn9781849233149Slovakia: http://itunes.apple.com/sk/book/isbn9781849233149Slovenia: http://itunes.apple.com/si/book/isbn9781849233149Spain: http://itunes.apple.com/es/book/isbn9781849233149Sweden: http://itunes.apple.com/se/book/isbn9781849233149Switzerland: http://itunes.apple.com/ch/book/isbn9781849233149
Web site: http://stuartaken.co.uk
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Organic Change or Stability in English?

Language, they say, withsome justification, is organic. And, in common with organic structureseverywhere, it must grow, develop and experiment with variations, or die. Manyof the world's small languages have disappeared, often because their speakersand users refused to adapt to the changes imposed by the developing world.English, considered the most widely spoken language on this extraordinary planetof ours, has some champions who would subject it to the sort of purity thatwill ultimately suffocate it. On the other hand, there are those who stretchthe meanings of words until they become meaningless.
To be a useful method ofcommunication, language needs to maintain some stability. A common example ofthe changes imposed on English in the relatively recent past concerns the word 'wicked'.Initially stemming from the Old English 'wicca' or the female version, 'wicce',and then evolving into 'witch', this word was initially all about badness andmalevolence. Though, even as early as the 17th century it could betaken as meaning 'playfully mischievous or roguish'. Last century, it took onthe exact opposite meaning and came to convey the ideas of 'good, brilliant,wonderful' in the mouths of youth.
At the time, I recallbeing disturbed by this reversal of meaning, which appeared to have the effectof turning communication upside down and causing confusion. But the period ofbewilderment proved short and it was soon evident that context would make theintended meaning clear, often depending on who was actually using the word. Itcontinues today to have the meanings of both 'bad' and 'good'. As such, itought to be an obstacle to comprehension but, except in the most clumsy cases,its meaning is generally obvious from its usage.
Had we employed the samesort of language police as the French have for centuries, the new meaning ofthe word would have been prevented and the language made poorer by its lack.English, because of its global appeal, is not only able to absorb such changesbut actually seems to welcome them. We are blessed with a wide vocabulary withmany words borrowed, stolen or high-jacked from other languages. This gives us,as writers, the ability to express our ideas with some niceness (I use the wordin its sense of 'accuracy'). If we wish to express an idea for which there's noreal English word, we can employ one from a foreign language, knowing that inmost cases it will be both understood and accepted. So, to express the ideathat a girl is in a state of romantic attachment to a man she intends to marry,we call her a 'fiancée', borrowing the term from our cousins over the Channel.And, is there an English equivalent for that wonderfully expressive Germanword, 'Schadenfreude'? (For those who don't know, it means enjoying, in amalicious way, the misfortune of another.)
Our common language,evolving from influences of Latin, early French, ancient Greek, the dialects ofthe Norse invaders, Celtic and Germanic origins, has borrowed words from allover the world. The days when Great Britain ruled a vast empire ensured that wecollected many exotic words from lands as diverse as India, Tasmania, Borneo,Argentina, China and Egypt to mention but a few. With the development of theearly United States of America, when peoples from all over Europe mingled withthe native populations they eventually displaced, many more words were absorbedinto the growing language.It's said that English, asused worldwide, now contains over one million different words. That's one hugemine from which to excavate the words you need to express your ideas withclarity and exactitude.
So, this is a plea forflexibility harnessed to sensible and accurate usage of language. Metaphor andsimile encourage writers and readers to expand their understanding of languageand, providing such linguistic expeditions don't remove the reader from arecognisable landscape, they can act as a means of broadening horizons for all.
It really would be wickedof you not to indulge in the full splendour of our common language to make yourwriting as wicked as you can, don't you think?
A question for you toponder: Why do folk say they 'sleptlike a baby' when babies wake up so often?

Featured Author on Another Website

This link will take you to a website, where I am the featured author for today, 3 January. Visit it, and you'll see why I'm delighted with this piece of unexpected and unsolicited generosity from Ronnie Dauber.
http://ronniedauberauthor.com/

A Tale for the New Year: Read it Free.

'I'm seeing in the New Year, with my chosen lover, in front of thefire. Wonderful. Until, that is, an unidentified rural noise makes the townienervous and something must be done to restore the magic.'
If you prefer to read onan eReader, you can download this free for any platform at http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stuartaken
But, Baby, It's Cold Outside.
A Seasonal Short Story
Stuart Aken
For all that it's black asthe proverbial out there, I'm required to venture forth if I'm to retain credibilityin the current lover's eyes. First, there's the unexplained and ill-definednoise, which I ignore. Then, coincidentally, the light goes out, provoking aperformance worthy of the heroine in those supposedly scary black and white Bmovies from the forties.The failure of the light turns out to be nothingsinister. 'Just a blown bulb.''Replace it, then.''Call me an old romantic, but wouldn't firelightserve us better?'The response is unprintable and indicates anunhealthy reliance on artificial light. So, once I've restored adequateillumination, I'm ordered outside to see what made the noise.'Me?''It's your house.''As the woman, shouldn't I stay in the warmth andsafety of my home whilst you, Macho Man, go fight the marauders?''Along with the rest of your gender, you claimequality. You have to deal with the downside as well as the up.''So far, I've experienced little up, except theobvious, and I'm pretty sure that's been as much benefit to you as it has tome.'He raises his eyebrows but not my hopes and I knowI'm onto a loser; it doesn't help that my statement wasn't the truth, either. Iwonder, in passing, why him? And then recall his superb taste in clothes andcars, his delicious and sensual touch, and the generous cut of his wallet, whichhas so far afforded me access to three first nights, a private viewing and thebest table at Egon's. I can stand a little misplaced equal opportunity for theluxury and privilege that are his accessories. Wimpishness isn't the cause ofhis reluctance; he sincerely believes equality of the sexes means I should dowhatever he'd be prepared to do on my behalf. Daft, I know; but he is a man,after all.Being rural, I ignore strange noises in the night,examining their cause in full light of day, if at all. He's a townie who putsup with the shouts of drunks, the screams of distressed women, the whistling offools and the constant clatter of traffic past his trendy pied à terre but ismade suspicious by the noise of something falling over outside.'It's just that old gate I stacked against theside of the house. The wind's blown it over.''Didn't sound like a gate falling over to me.''It's pitch bloody black out there. How am Isupposed to see anything?''Use a torch.''Batteries are flat.''Well, we'll open the curtains and turn on all thelights, assuming they work.''They do. Mostly.'Raised eyebrows indicate his lack of faith but heaccepts. 'Good.''And your monster of the night is just going tohang about out there, awaiting discovery, having received the signal of ourintent?''Our?''We're conspiring jointly in the process, even ifI'm the active member and you're merely the source of ideas.''Mmm.'I rise, turn on the spot. 'Look at me.''Yes, very lovely.''You really expect me to venture forth into thewild night with…?''Put something on and stop making excuses.'I don seductive red satin recently abandoned,rather than the woollen protection I know is appropriate. It'll be cold outthere. New Year always is. But I won't be gone long and I intend to continuewhere we left off after the interruption of the unidentified noise. I suggesthe turns on the downstairs lights, front and back, whilst I plunge into thefrozen void.'You're not going out there like that on your own,are you?''Are you coming with me?''Are you mad?'I try a simple facial message but it doesn't getthrough. Insufficient intimate togetherness yet for such subtlety to connect, Isuppose. 'Exactly how am I supposed to go outside without you, yet not bealone?'A pause for consideration. 'Be quick, then. I'llworry about you.''Not enough to accept my plausible explanation.'He avoids the shrug that his body and myexpectations demand and makes do with a non-committal grunt.'Not enough to be the gentleman?''Equality of opportunity. This is yours.''But I don't crave such opportunity. In any case,I'm not worried by the noise.'Another grunt; distinctly negative and indicativethat this is the end of the discussion, as far as he's concerned. That much ofhis subtlety I have learned.Outside, it seems even darker than the proverbialand I wait for light to issue through the curtains he's supposed to be opening.I wait. And slowly freeze. The darkness remains; unilluminated, unmoving andunmoved by my presence. I understand I am irrelevant to the void and begin towonder if I represent a similar rank of importance to him.At last, a faint glow signals the start of hissimple task, but at the front of the house. I left by the back door and he sawme. Is this contrary action merely pique at my rational response to hisirrational fear? Or is it simple idiocy? Hardly the latter. I don't getinvolved physically or emotionally with imbeciles. Not deliberately, anyway.But I wonder why I've become so attached to a man who's beginning to seem remarkablylike a prat. Except, he has his good points. The fact that he's unjustlywonderful at that most subtle of interpersonal activities adds to theattraction of his wealth, devastating good looks and multiple connections. Iponder, for a fraction of a second, whether I might be a tad guilty ofsuperficiality here but I expunge that unworthy thought and recall theextraordinary evenings, nights, afternoons and mornings I've experienced sincewe met.The light at the back escapes at last through theraised kitchen blind and the drawn dining room curtains. I examine the area ofgarden I can see and note that the soft cold stuff assaulting me is snow,augmenting the frost already formed. Nothing moves but flakes of lightness andthe tips of visible vegetation, shaking in the gale. It occurs I've denied anyidea of what I'm supposed to be seeking and a question might afford me re-entrybefore I freeze further. I open the back door and call into warmth I'm temptedto re-enter.'What sort of noise?'He is by the fire; I can tell by the distance hisvoice has to travel. 'I told you.'I have no recollection of either being told or, ifI have been told, of the message. 'No, sorry, that doesn't help.''Oh! You're useless. There's something out there.Just see what it is.''Well, there's a large area of garden, mostlyimmobile and recumbent under a falling blanket of snow, except where it'ssufficiently fragile to be disturbed by the howling gale, of course. There's afence, beyond which lie several thousand acres of fields, forests and hills,dissected by a river, currently out of my field of vision ...'As I list the inventory, he emerges into thekitchen.'Idiot! I mean something moving, something thatshouldn't be there!''Ah. An alien? Ghost? Creature of the night, specifiedor un? Perhaps a monster from nightmare? A serial killer out for a midnightstroll? A lynch mob intent on suspending a victim, if not its credibility?''God, you're obtuse. And I'm freezing here withthat door open in my robe...''I suggest you shut the door in your robe and giveme a…''Look, it was a sharp slithering sort of softthudding scraping noise.' And he shuts the door. Not the one in his towellingrobe, but the more substantial wooden portal to the house, before I can askfrom what direction this comprehensive oxymoron of a sound emerged.Disconsolate at being left out in the cold,wearing a garment designed to lure the eyes of men to my assets rather thanprotect them from frost, and unsocked wellies that barely insulate my feet fromfrozen ground, I begin a rapid exploration. Alcohol has lost supremacy by nowand the threat of frostbite dictates I make a simple circuit to rule out anyobvious cause before I return, bold cold and brave, to conquer his residualconcerns with passion, before the night freezes my ardour: I can rest assuredthat his will not diminish in the waiting.The corner of the house allows the gale to swirlincreasing flakes into a small tornado that lifts my scandalous hem andspatters snow against the skin beneath to melt and slowly slide in wetness downmy legs. But there's nothing in the intervening darkness, between the dim lightat the back and the dimmer light at the front, to suggest a monster might belurking at that side of the house. I pass, unmolested, beside the solid brickbarrier to the front garden; neat, hedged and deserted.Beyond the hawthorn and beech runs the narrow lanethat leads eventually to the hamlet where my nearest neighbours celebrate thenew arrival. And I recall we haven't made the usual ritual this time: I have nocoal or logs, no money, salt or bread to enter with and bring the luck we alldesire. Though, on being questioned, I'll deny any interest in or subjection tosuch craven superstition as 'first-footing'. In any case, he's supposed toperform that particular ritual, as the man.The front garden is also devoid of alien beasts,hobgoblins and mass murderers. I lightly skip along the beds of restingflowers, past the blank front door and across the white blanket that is now thedrive. His red Ferrari, encrusted with a soft layer of white icing, like alittle boy's birthday cake, is exhibited at his insistence for the hungry eyesof the envious before the garage door, behind which skulks my wheeledutilitarian box. Fooled by softness, I forget the constant puddle and slip onthe ice it has now become. The robe helpfully lifts so that my naked buttocksslide along the frozen surface until the stone kerb brings me to a halt withonly a spine-jarring jolt and superficial injury to my fast freezing passionateparts. I curse the night, rub the offended rump and other bits and struggleupright, glad no one saw my pratfall and exposure.The last side of the house, also in darkness,reveals no sign of monsters but there is evidence of some disturbance in thedrifting snow. Tracks of recent footfalls meander, and the broken gate, whichhad been leaning against the house, has fallen onto the path. I right it. Butwill he believe I was correct in my original supposition when I give him thissolution to his mystery?I turn the corner and tumble headlong over a darkhuddled shadow that mumbles. I land against the dustbin, upside-down with myhead buried in a small drift, and moon into the moonless night. An unknown handmolests my unprotected flesh and then hoists me back to my feet and suddenly I'mat the back door.He is there, in gratitude no longer worried by thedoor in his robe, which he's removed to reward my bravery with his undiminishedand evident passion. The robe, that is, not the door. Behind me looms thehuddled shadow that caused me to befriend the dustbin.He cries out in alarm. I turn, ready to attack anddefend.''Appy New Year, m' dear. Shorry 'bout the clisionback there. Dropped me lump o' coal an' I was tryin' to fine it. Firsht footin'an' all that.'It is the redoubtable Miss Fobiter; she of thethree facial hirsute warts and fixed leering grin. I grin back, hopefullywithout the leer, and wrap my robe more tightly.By the time I've turned, he's vanished intoconcealing darkness within and I'm left stumbling my thanks to my nearestneighbour and inviting her in for customary seasonal cheer. The picture ofdeparting gratitude, flouncing as though no longer quite so pleased with mysolution to his fears, suggests I'll see New Year's Day arrive without hisclose company.'Thought you'd be on your own, like me, don't y'know?'I wonder whose car she thinks she passed on mydrive and then recall her reputation as a woman resistant to normal consumerpressures. She probably didn't even notice it, or worse, thinks it's mine.My neighbour, whose first name she reserves as amystery, insists on two full choruses of Auld Langsyne, which I'm powerless toresist. To my surprise, he returns to join in this ritual, his robe replaced.She greets him with a cursory assessment that suggests she finds him, becausehe's a man, wanting. But she accepts the second glass of cheer he politelyoffers. Two hours of pointless chatter pass as the fire slowly settles in thegrate and he grows glassy eyed. At last, she decides it's time she visitedother neighbours. I hold him close about the waist as she departs into the snowand we close the door on night.With her departure, my role in his earlierexposure is recalled and expressed in word and deed, the repelling hand shovingme unceremoniously back into my armchair.'If you think you're having your wicked way withme after letting that dirty old hag see me naked, you've another think coming.''I don't think she was interested in you; naked orotherwise.''You should've warned me. I don't like strangewomen seeing me undressed.'I'm being unfair and mighty inaccurate when Isuspect, aloud, he's anxious at being found wanting. He sulks at the unguarded,unfounded suggestion the alcohol encourages me to make, and I watch him climbthe stairs.He lingers at the turn on the landing taking allpromise of passion with him. 'A real woman wouldn't take no for an answer.'Unsure whether this is an invitation or simplyanother assault, a reminder of my imperfections, I return to the fire,unwilling to be seen as coercive and determined to play the part of the injuredparty to the bitter end. I place more logs onto the embers, refill my glasswith the last of the Chivas Regal I bought him for Christmas, and stare intothe flames, imaging what might've been and recalling New Years that startedmore auspiciously.Lurking at the back of my mind is the suspicionthat he'll forgive me, once he finds the bed a little wide and cold without mycompany. Just to encourage that idea and persuade him of my value, I sneakoutside and bang the metal dustbin lid with the coal shovel. I'm back in frontof the fire, waiting on the hearthrug, by the time he reaches the security andwarmth of me and the blazing logs.I invite him to open the door in my robe. He doesso willingly but, as I surrender to his delicious demands, I hear the gate fallover again and await his protest. Oddly, he seems preoccupied and doesn't evenmention the noise, this time. Aahhh.
###This story, whilst free to read here, is copyright the author, StuartAken, 2011. Please respect the author's work in producing this and avoidpirating, copying or sharing other than through this blog, to which I'm happyfor you to link with all your friends.#I hope this little piece of seasonal fun has amused you. Please considerit a gift in appreciation of your time and support.If you'd like to read more of my work, please see the books in the righthand column. A click on each will take you to a place you can read more and/orbuy.

A New Year and a Change of Direction.

I'm a writer. Not news, Iknow. But, writers write. They read as well, and, sometimes, they do a bit ofliving - on the side, so you won't really notice it. So far, on this blog, I'veserved the needs of numerous authors by interviewingthem and promoting their work. I've reviewed books I've read. Because,believe me, any writer who doesn't read is wasting his time. You can't write inisolation, unaware of what's happening in the world of books. I don't read asmuch as I used to, or as much as I should, or, indeed, as much as I'd like to.But last year, apart from the monthly writing magazines frequent newslettersand emailed updates I read, I managed to get through 30 books. This year I'dlike to try to average 1 a week. We'll see.But, more importantly, I'dlike to get some new writing done, some of my past writing edited, and more ofmy work published. So, I'm publicly declaring a determination to enter work forcompetitions, to submit work to magazines and to complete the novels Icurrently hold in draft form. Why make such adeclaration public? Well, if it's out therewith readers, you're likely to ask me about my progress, which means I have anadditional motive for actually keeping to the plan. I don't want to have tofind excuses why I haven't done this or that. Not that that will stop mefinding such excuses, when I feel the need, of course.What this means inpractice is that my Daily Word Spot will either disappear completely (pleaselet me know how important this is to you as a reader by making a comment) or itmight become a weekly digest with a few words in each instead. The problem withthose posts is that they take up a lot of time, you see.So, the plan is to do alonger article each week, usually on the writing process or something involvedwith books, reading and writing. This will replace my previously regularThursday interview slot. At the weekend, I'll do a summary of my writingactivity, illustrating what does and doesn't work and letting readers knowwhat's involved in actually getting words down on paper (or, of course, onscreen for the ebooks). I'll keep up the writingcontests page, since I'll be entering competitons and know how useful thatparticular page has been to a number of you.And, this is breaking newshere, I'm going to be giving something back to you for your time andcontributions. Later today I'll post the full text of my free ebook, But, Baby, It's Cold Outside, so you canread it here, if you wish. It's an appropriate story for today, since it's seton New Year's Eve. However, the real news is that I'll start to release thefull text of my novel, Breaking Faith,in instalments, so that those who haven't bought or borrowed it, can read the wholestory here. That will start on Friday, 6th January, with the Prologue, andcontinue each Friday until the end of the book is reached. Why? Writing is all about beingread. Any modern writer who sets out to make money from writing as a primaryaim is either daft or self-deluded. The JK Rowlings and Dan Browns represent analmost infinitesimal fraction of the community of writers out there. In UK, theaverage novel sells no more than 2,000 copies. For an experienced writer,that's around a year's work. At a royalty rate of 10% on a £7.99 paperback -well, you do the math, as they say. Let's just accept that by far the majorityof writers, irrespective of talent and ability, will never make a living fromtheir writing. For those wannabees who think they'll make a quick killing inthe market place, please accept this as a friendly warning: if you want to makea quick buck, find something else; writing isn't going to do it for you. So, I'll waste no more ofyour time now. But, please, do make comments. It's easily done, anonymously, ifyou can't do it any other way; you can always add your name at the end of thecomment. Writers exist in a world that can be isolating, and feedback is notonly important, it's essential.My thanks for your timeand attention. May I wish you all the very best in the coming year? I hope youall receive the good things you wish for yourselves.

Stuarts' Daily Word Spot: Allegory

[image error] Allegory: noun - a narrative written under theguise of another and sharing points of correspondence with it; symbolicrepresentation; an extended metaphor; an emblem; a picture where meaning is representedsymbolically.
Allegory in the visualarts is almost as old as the art form itself. I could list hundreds ofexamples, but will make do with just three representatives of the form: SandroBotticelli' s Primavera ,also known as Allegory of Spring ,Johann Vermeer's Allegoryof the Catholic Faith and Il Bronzino's Venus,Cupid, Folly and Time
In literature, there isthe famous case of the 'mistaken' allegory as exemplified by JRR Tolkien's Lord of the Rings, which many criticsassumed to be an allegory of WWII, in spite of Tolkien's emphatic denial ofsuch and his assertion that he loathed the very idea of allegory.Amongst those works thatare recognised as allegory, of which there are many, a few are as follows:Jonathan Swift's politicalallegory, Gulliver's Travels ,William Golding's Lord of the Flies ,an allegory about the conflicting forces that apply to civilisation and power,and, of course, the famously allegorical work by George Orwell. In Animal Farm the author skilfullycaricatures the rise of Stalin and the follies of the communist state.
Many works of fictioncontain elements of allegory and some have said that my own Breaking Faith isan allegory of good and evil. I'd argue that 'good and evil' is too wide atopic to be the subject of allegory and, in any case, is more a theme than asubject for allegory. But it is nevertheless true that many novels that are notspecifically allegorical do carry an element or elements of allegory withinthem. Often, however, these are interpretations made by readers and critics,rather than intentional designs of the authors.

1696 - A window tax wasimposed in England, causing many shopkeepers to brick up their windows to avoidthe tax. It was repealed on the 24th July 1851, following much lobbying. Asimilar tax was imposed in France from 1798 and lasted until 1926. A realexample of the wealthy law-makers being oblivious to the harm caused bythoughtless legislation on those less well-off, it was responsible for seriousdeterioration in living conditions for many of those who lived in poverty. Thelack of light and air caused innumerable illnesses and deaths amongst the poor.Walking around England's historical urban areas it is easy to mistake somearchitectural devices for examples of attempts to defeat the window tax. Manywindows were, or course, bricked up as a result of the imposition, but thehabit of designing 'mock' windows continued long after the tax had beenrepealed and goes on today, with the decorative elements now used to harmonise andbring symmetry into the design of some buildings.

Stuarts' Daily Word Spot (Antonyms): Zany/Serious

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Zany/Serious
Zany: adjective - comically idiotic; ridiculous or comic; bizarre, crazy.
Serious: adjective - grave, solemn or sober indisposition or intention; responsible, neither reckless nor careless.
'The tabloid newspaper wasin the habit of describing any student activity that was even marginally out ofthe ordinary as "zany", so that it was impossible to take its reportsseriously.'
'Jason was a serious youngman; his sober clothes, sedate manner and generally grave habit made him thebutt of the jokes played by his more frivolous fellow students.'
1703 - Tokyo was hit by anearthquake, which killed about 37,000.1919 - Lincoln's Inn inLondon admitted its first female law student. And even after almost a hundredyears of supposed equality, women are seriously underrepresented as barristersand judges. So much for progress, eh?

Stuarts' Daily Word Spot: X-Rated

X-Rated: a film classificationused in UK, USA, France and Australia in the early days of film censorship andrating. In UK, in 1982, it was replaced in by the 18 certificate, and it wasapplied to films felt unsuitable to be seen by people under 18 years of age dueto sexual, violent or nude content. In US, much the same situation appliedinitially, but because 'X-rated' was not trademarked, it quickly became a toolfor the pornographers to use to advertise their films, frequently beingconverted to XX or XXX to indicate the level of hardcore pornography peddled.In more general terms,it's become a symbol of something outrageous or risqué, something to titillateand excite, usually in a sexual manner. It is still sometimes applied toviolent entertainment as well.
'The bikini that girl'salmost wearing should be X-rated, is you ask me.'
'I'd tell you what I heardabout Barbara and Trevor the other night at Joanna's, but it's X-rated.'
A question to ponder: How is it that we put a manon the moon before we decided it would be a good idea to fit suitcases with wheels? 
1170 - Thomas Becket,Archbishop of Canterbury, was assassinated inside Canterbury Cathedral byfollowers of King Henry II, and later became a saint and martyr in the AnglicanChurch and the Roman Catholic Church. The story is that Henry never intendedhis death and that his statement, 'Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?' was misinterpreted by the subjects who went on to dohis bidding. However, if those were his actual words, it's difficult to knowwhat else he might have meant.
Image via Wikipedia1955 - Barbra Streisand's firstrecording of 'You'll Never Know' wasmade, when she was aged 13.

Stuarts' Daily Word Spot (Antonyms): Yell/Whisper

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Yell/Whisper
Yell: noun - a loud cry of pain, fear, anger, delight, triumph orsurprise; a shout, scream.Verb - to utter a yell or shout.
Whisper: noun - an instance of whispering orspeaking softly; a softness of voice characterizing such speech; a whispered phrase.Verb - to speak very softly; to converse like this for the sake ofsecrecy;
'When Roger crept upbehind Sarah, fresh and warm from her shower, and placed his cold hands overher uncovered breasts, she gave out a great yell of shock and indignation.'
'As the time came for thenews to be passed on, John brought Mandy close, embraced her, and with a gentlewhisper, explained that he wouldn't be spending the night with her but withJacob.'
'In the falling darknessof dusk, the dark figure that emerged from the trees and lurched toward her, madeMartha yell with fear.'
'Mark teased Maria'sauburn locks away from her small ears and placed his mouth close so he could whisperwords of love and tenderness to her without alerting her husband to hisfeelings.'

1846 - Iowa became the29th state of the US.1908 - An Earthquake struckMessina in Italy and killed nearly 80,000.1981 - The infamous RendelshamForest UFO incident, in Suffolk near the US Airforce base, caused muchspeculation in the press. Just another cause for conflict between those whobelieve and those who don't. If the military had been more open from thebeginning, the whole field of UFOs could probably have been less fraught withconspiracy theory.