Stuart Aken's Blog, page 279

Writing but not Reading:

For those of you expecting to see a featured author in this spot, just a note to let you know I've finished that series for the time being. I'm working on a new series with more directed questions and featuring only those authors whose work I have read. Watch this space.


Writing but not Reading:Most readers harbour nowish to write, perhaps feeling that the ability is a mix of gift andapplication they may not possess and happy to enjoy the fruits of others'efforts. But, and here lies the shame; many writers display no wish to read,justifying their attitude with the feeble excuse that they have no time: theyhave time only to write.The output of most ofthese non-reading writers is, at best, poor, and often unreadable for any discerningreader. The idea that a craft so complex can be properly learned withoutreference to those who've gone before is, to me, inexplicable. Would a reliableplumber or electrician consider himself a skilled artisan without the rigour ofa time-served apprenticeship? Would a painter exhibit his canvasses without atleast an initial study of the masters who preceded him? Would a fashiondesigner deck her models to propel her clothes along the catwalk without firstdemonstrating an interest in the garments worn by her potential customers? Of course, the answer toall these questions isn't a firm or unconditional 'no'. But we all know that anyonewho fails to learn from those who have preceded them is destined to repeattheir mistakes. It takes a certain type of arrogant ignorance to believe thatyou can perfect a skill alone and without instruction. Such ignorance isresponsible for poorly developed characters, plots that mirror the works ofothers, and the depiction of situations identical to those already well knownto readers. It's insulting to those who'll read your work not to be aware ofwhat's already been written in the genre. Of course it's not possible to readeverything: with too many books published every year, it would require moretime than is available to absorb all that's been written in our chosen genre.But it's quite possible and, I'd argue, essential, to glean an idea, a flavour,of what's already been done.Those who have no wish toread, but who would write, do their readers no favours by their cavalierattitude. They almost invariably produce work of a poor standard. Their refusalto sample other stories, far from ensuring uniqueness, generally results inpoor versions of tales already well told. How can a writer learn to constructsentences, to bend the rules of language effectively, to express an ideasuccinctly yet evocatively, if he's never exposed himself to the work ofothers? And those who believe themselves natural geniuses are, almost withoutexception, deluded fools who merely clog up the works with their poorly madepieces. They make it all the more difficult for the real artists to be heard,drowning the unique voices with their ill-devised and poorly-executedofferings.So, if you want to write, pleasemake sure you read. Read extensively within the area in which you wish toexcel, or risk mediocrity and unintented repetition. There; that's another irritationoff my chest.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Question mark?

Image via Wikipedia
Question mark: ?The question mark is apunctuation mark that indicates that the written sentence is in the form of aquery. Its contemporary use as journalistic shorthand, or an attempt to expressa matter in different terms has rapidly reached the status of a cliché. Whilstit's occasionally acceptable to talk about a 'question mark hanging over adecision' or something similar, the constant use of 'question mark' in place ofa simple question is becoming increasingly irritating, don't you think?

#NaNoWriMo progress, Day 16 = 66278 in total.

The dentist tapped my teeth and elicited only a few howls of pain and protest, but his tests confirmed that my tooth ache was the product of infected sinuses and did not involve the need to drill large holes in the enamel. So, I was spared that particular torture today; a difficult job to drill and fill when the recipient is coughing for Britain. Time and the antibiotics will, I know from past experience, reduce the pain and sensitivity.
So, it was back home and time to add a few more words to the NaNoWriMo total. Two sessions later, with long rests between, have produced an extra 4,194 words to bring the total to 66,278, which is an average of 4,142 per day. So, still on target.
Problems are rearing their heads again for the brave hero and heroine but I've left their romance intact, for now. They have enough trouble without falling out with each other, for the moment. But it won't last. They'll have to face the reality that perfect relationships rarely exist (I include my own relationship with my wonderful wife in the rare category, since our 23 years of marriage have produced not a single cross word between us and we remain blissfully in love with each other).
But poor Isla and Mel have a few issues to deal with and life and society are not exactly helping them out here. I'm having great fun with them and look forward to each day and each new session, when I can make them jump through those hoops that they permit in their own individual ways.
Hope the rest of you doing this challenge are having as much fun as I am.

The picture is another Wordle, this one of Chapter 19, the last completed. Now, there's an illustration of the usefulness of this as a tool. See the way 'just' is highlighted. I know they use the term in their dialogue, but  when I do my editing at the end of the creative run, I'll just have to make sure I just eliminate all those unnecessary 'just's from the text, just in case they make me look daft.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Pathos

Image via Wikipedia
Pathos: noun - an attribute in speech, writing,events, persons, which can excite pity or sadness; the power to stir tender ormelancholy emotion.



'You write with all thepathos of a sufferer; it's as though you've experienced all the many tragediesyou describe in your work. I find myself moved to tears so often by the powerof the pathos in your words.'
16 Nov 1961 – Great Britainbegan limiting immigration from the Commonwealth. Until this point, almost anycitizen of the Commonwealth could legitimately come to live in these smallislands. It was more or less inevitable, given the relative sizes of thecountry and the Commonwealth, that such restrictions would eventually be imposed.Overcrowding is a major cause of civil unrest and the increasing influx ofnon-native settlers was bound to become a major issue once full employment wasno longer assured.

#NaNoWriMo progress, day 15 = 62084 words.

Should have been at work (the day job, that is) today. But a visit to the docs confirmed my sinus infection and resulted in antibiotics. The chest infection is a virus, however, and due to my history, best if I rest for a couple of days to deal with it.
But I can't sit and do nowt all day. So, had a couple of short sessions and turned out another 2,523 words for NaNoWriMo, taking the total to 62,084, which is about 52% of my personal target. Resting in between and will be again once I've finished this.
The story is moving along well, with a couple more comic incidents and a hint of more danger to come. I really love my two main characters but their romance is going far too well for it not to be disrupted some time soon, I fear.

The pic is a Wordle diagram of the latest complete chap, Chapter 18, and the prominence of the word, 'car' indicates how much travelling is going on at present.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Obàtálá

Image via Wikipedia
Obàtálá: Another in my occasional introductions to various godsworshipped the world over.According to the Yoruba people, Obàtálá isthe creator of human bodies, which arethen brought to life by the breath of Olorun.Obàtálá ownsall ori or heads. Any orisha (a spirit or deitythat reflects one of the manifestations of God) in the Yoruba religious system canclaim an individual, but until the person is initiated into the priesthood ofthat orisha, Obàtálá continues to own that head. In this religious system, the soul is believed to reside in the head.It's an interestingpoint that variations of this African religion now exist in many parts of theglobe and it's estimated there may be as many as 100 million adherents to thevarious cults and sects involved. But I'm willing to bet that most peoplereading this have never heard of the god or his religion. It's just anotherelement in my search for the reasons why religion has such a hold over manypeople. If an individual knows only about the god they were brought up to believein, how can they be sure that their god is the 'one', when they remain ignorantof all the others that exist with equal potency for those worshippers? Just athought.

#NaNoWriMo progress on day 14 = 59561 total

Poor day, health-wise. Had to leave the office an hour early (had 1 1/2 hours time built up, so used some of that), as I've got some winter bug - probably just a virus, but it's playing havoc with my sinuses and chest.
So rested on arrival home and then did a short session and managed 2,195 words to take me to a total for the NaNoWriMo of 59.561, which is just short of 50% of my personal target. I'll be resting for the remainder of the day. And I've no energy to write anything interesting or amusing here today. Sorry. See what the morrow brings, eh?

Pic: Barmouth Beach in Dorset, where we spent a holiday a few weeks ago. Included simply to cheer me up.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Nag

Nag: noun - a pony or small horse suitable for riding; colloquially, anyhorse; the penis; an act of nagging; something or someone that nags; a person whonags persistently, especially a woman.
'You've never put money onGlorious Failure to win, have you? That old nag won't even make the firstjump.'
'You know what you are,don't you? You're nothing but a nag: nag, nag, nag, all the time. You'll be thedeath of me with your eternal carping, you evil little nag.'
Pic: The waterfall at Goredale Scar, North Yorkshire.

#NaNoWriMo Progress on Day 13 = 57366 words

Been another good day, with 4,407 words added to the total for NaNoWriMo to bring it to 57,366. Almost halfway to my own target now. Today I've robbed a couple of gays, stolen a car and taken a ride in a lorry. But are those buggers who are chasing me any nearer to catching me? We'll have to wait, I guess.

The Wordle at the right is from the latest completed chapter, chap 17. If you want to create a similar word pattern yourself, go to http://www.wordle.net/ and paste in the text you want to use. You can alter the font, colour, orientation and layout to suit yourself. Why not have a go? It's easy and fun and actually has a practical application, in that it shows you how often you use certain words, since those are the ones that appear largest and most boldly.

A Commemoration of my father at 100

Mum & Dad on their wedding day, 1953.My real father, the man whogave me life, died less than 3 weeks before I was born and I know him onlythrough the memories of others, as a good man. But my mother, who died a weekafter my 16th birthday, married Richard Allison when I was about 5years old. On the occasion of what would have been his 100th birthday,this short piece commemorates the very special man who raised me as his ownson.
Richard Herbert Allison,to give him his full name, would have been 100 years old today. He died, aged92, on July 13th 2004, following a fall. An only child, at 18, helost his own father to cancer. A man who could not live without a woman in hislife, he married 4 times; my mother, May, being his 3rd wife. Whenhe married May, he took on my older sister, Denise, and me. May took on hisson, Barry, who is 6 weeks my senior. Later, they both brought the youngestmember of the family, Stephen, into being. We were a real family, with nodelineation caused by different parentage, and, as children, we all receivedequal love from both parents. In fact, I had what I consider an idyllicchildhood, characterised by love, adventure and humour. Richard worked at two jobsfor most of his life. He was initially a dental technician, making false teeth,and later a travelling salesman, representing a national dental supply companyand visiting customers all over Yorkshire. His second job was as a wedding photographer,often for his own business but sometimes as a stringer for other weddingphotography businesses. He loved his photography, or, more accurately, he lovedhis cameras. Not a particularly creative man, he was an excellent technicianand, in spite of a lifetime with poor eyesight, always ensured his pictureswere pin sharp. Image via WikipediaIt was from Richard that Igained an interest in photography when he rewarded me with a folding camera fora good school report at the age of 11. My mother, a talented painter, gifted mewith an eye for a picture, so I had both technical and creative influences formy photography.Richard had an interestingwar (1939-45); beginning as a medic with the army, stationed at Spurn Point andBull Fort in the mouth of the Humber Estuary. He soon went on to become a firefighter and rose to the rank of Captain, taking his regiment to France on D Dayand then travelling to Belgium and Holland, earning a 'Mention in Despatches'on the way by rescuing one of his men from a booby-trapped and burningbuilding.He was well-read, with aparticular liking for the novels of Ryder Haggard and other adventure tales. Hetaught himself French and Dutch and could still speak both even at the end ofhis life. It was from Richard that Ilearned my love of astronomy. He could point out all the major and some of theminor constellations and recognised the planets as they wandered across ourheavens. A nature lover, he could name any bird he saw, either at rest or onthe wing. And he knew all the butterflies and most moths we ever came across. Buthe had no idea about wild plants and only a basic knowledge of trees. Richard, me, Stephen, May, Barry, Denise. Beverley Westwoods, 1959A walker, he enjoyedroaming the countryside and often took us on walks, pointing out the variousbirds and insects we encountered. He'd been a cyclist for many years and,through this, developed a great fear of wasps. On one occasion, when the M1motorway had just opened, I was travelling with him when a wasp flew into theold Morris Minor he was driving. He stopped the car where it was and got out,refusing to return until the offending insect had been ejected. That there wasvirtually no traffic on the road made this more a humorous than an anxiousepisode. It was only later that I learned he'd been cycling through a piece oflocal common ground, speeding downhill across the Beverley Westwoods, when awasp had lodged itself behind his glasses and stung his eye. He'd come off thebike at speed and ripped all the muscles in his back: hence his loathing of thestriped peril.On another occasion, wewere driving in the local hills and he got out of the car and walked alongsideit as it slowly motored up the hill by itself, his skill in judging its abilityto travel with minimal power demonstrated. He took us all to the Lake Districton one memorable day. A family of five plus a Welsh Corgi, we travelled 365miles that day. At one point, we were climbing a very steep hill (1:3) and thecar stopped. We had to get out and walk as he drove up by himself, the reducedload enabling the old car to make it to the summit. He was a good, if fast,driver who'd learned his skill in the army, driving a fire engine, which healways called an 'escape'; a vehicle with a 14 foot overhanging ladder which hedrove around Birmingham during the blitz. Only once did he manage to swipe aset of traffic lights off their pole with the ladders as he swept around acorner in a hurry. And he spoke with amusement of the time he'd been given thechance to drive a tank and had managed to crush a 3 ton truck in the process.In Belgium, his adjutant had come across an abandoned US Jeep, which hadapparently simply run out of fuel. He commandeered it and used it as a staffcar for the rest of the war.He possessed a phenomenalmemory and could recite verse after verse from The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám,quote a nonsense piece of Victorian gobbledegook (In promulgating your esoteric cogitations and articulating yoursuperficial sentimentalities and philosophical and physiological observations,beware of platitudinous ponderosity.  Letyour extemporaneous decantings have intelligibility, sagacious facility, anelegant rapidity and ventriloquent verbosity. Shun pestiferous profanity both obscure and apparent.In other words, speak plainly, briefly, naturally and truthfully.  Say what you mean and mean what you say.  Do not swear or use big words.) and analternative version of 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star (Scintillate, scintillate globule vivific, fain I ponder thy purposespecific – is all I can recall, but he could quote the whole thing).In short, Richard Allisonwas a pretty remarkable man and I'm both proud and pleased that he chose totake me as his own son and raise me. He wasn't without fault and could be both dictatorialand severe at times. But he was a damned good father and I have every reason tothank him for taking that role seriously and for loving me, my siblings and mymother.