Stuart Aken's Blog, page 312

3 May is World Press Freedom Day

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World Press Freedom Day is observed on May 3 every year, to remind and inform the international community that freedom of the press and freedom of expression are fundamental to human liberty. The United Nations General Assembly declared 3 May World Press Freedom Day in order to raise awareness of the importance of freedom of the press. It's also intended to remind governments of their duty to respect and uphold the right to freedom of expression, as enshrined under Article 19 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and marks the anniversary of the Declaration of Windhoek, a statement of free press principles put together by African newspaper journalists in 1991. Of course, as is so often the case with the UN and other large bodies intended to legislate worldwide but denied the necessary powers to actually do the job, the freedom of the press is denied in many countries. In some, this is due to a political stance that denies the possibility of opposing points of view, in some, a dictator controls everything the people see and hear, in others the appearance of a free press is so cleverly presented that the citizens are fooled into thinking they receive unbiased news, when, in fact, they are fed the lies and biased opinions of those who control the press machinery. That this happens widely in western countries that see themselves as bastions of free will, is an illustration of the duplicity inherent in most political systems and supported by multinational commerce with an interest in maintaining the status quo.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Short Story

Short Story: noun – a form of fiction in which, ideally, an event or series of events interacts with a character in such a way that the character undergoes some change, small or large; any short piece of fiction not long enough to be considered a novelette or novel; a tale, as opposed to an anecdote; a short form of fiction with a beginning, a middle and an end.
And, instead of an illustrative sentence, seems to make sense to provide an illustrative example. One of my own: Not the Type to Murder His WifeCharles, murder Madge for another woman? Ludicrous. Makes you wonder what they were thinking: the police and the court. He's not the type. Not to murder his wife. Not for passion. Only have to look at him to know he's the very stuff of decency and stolid convention. Hair cropped short and never out of place, Brylcreemed down to a glossy mat. Smart suit, white shirt, dark regimental tie and polished shoes buffed until you can see your face in them. Which, by the way, you're likely to just before said shoe smacks into you, should you dare insult him. Short moustache, permanently stained with nicotine like the tips of the fingers on his right hand. Clean cut nails that can undo small screws or unpick staples.Of course, he did always say, 'Madge has a mind as deep…as a puddle of mud and the soul…of a brown boot.'Big in the Women's Institute, was Madge. Wore tweeds, would you believe? Made real jam, sponge cakes light as air, proper biscuits. Never break a tooth on Madge's cookies. Into good causes: save the local hunt, retirement homes for lame otter hounds, that sort of thing. Pillar of the local church: well in with the vicar and his wife. Big boned woman: heavy. Dark moustache like a line of exclamation marks on her upper lip. Sort of hairy echo of her domineering way of speaking, I suppose. To everyone except Charles.Good to Charles, she was. Devoted. Warmed his slippers, cleaned his pipe, ironed his Telegraph flat. Meat and two veg every day and a proper roast with Yorkshires on Sundays. Every Friday night she'd pour him a scotch, with a tiny drop of water the way he likes it, before she went up to bed. 'I'll be ready and waiting, my dear.''Need more than a ruddy scotch,' he'd say and we'd laugh.Perfect wife. And everyone said they were so well suited.So, folk were shocked when he murdered her. Especially like that. I mean, poor woman, she'd have been mortified. Modest was Madge. Found her in the bath wearing nothing but a natural sponge and an electric fan heater. Hair stood up like stalagmites, they said. Blew all the circuits in the house.And, I ask you, for what? A blonde tart with legs up to her armpits. Skirts; more like pelmets, wouldn't cover a ha'penny, if you know what I mean. And a cleavage fit to hide in. Pretty enough face, for a tart. Mind you, wouldn't do to let Charles hear you call her that. He'd as soon break your neck.Never any violence in Charles. Wouldn't harm a fly, as they say. Gentleman. Always holds the door open for a lady and won't take no cheek. Saw him skelp a young lass once for calling Madge, 'Fatty.' Sorted her out. No, wouldn't stand for anyone giving lip, our Charles.Apparently, Madge caught them at it. Charles and this blonde. Can't picture Charles without clothes. Always see him in pin stripes with razor sharp creases, crisp white shirt, very smart and dashing. Had his socks on, though, she said. English, you know. Just can't see it; not Charles.Madge said he was grunting like a pig! She could be a bit funny sometimes. I think she imagined that bit. Said the tart was moaning fit to bust. And on clean sheets. She'd only changed the bed that morning. Went out to the Institute to enter her jam tarts and came home to him entering a tart. Naked and gasping on her cream fitted cotton: the ones with jacquard lace edges. So nice. She showed me them the day they came from the catalogue. Lovely.Big breasts, of course. And blonde, like I said. They always are. Mind you, Madge said it was peroxide: cuffs and collars, if you understand my meaning. Don't know what men see in them. But then, that's men for you. Hadn't even closed the curtains. I mean, anyone could've seen in if they'd been in the garden, you know: standing on tiptoes. Anyone. I know Brutus would have their leg off but that's no guarantee, is it? Suppose Brutus knew them? He's a lovely dog; friendly enough if you know how to treat him. They were those blue paisley curtains from Harpers in the High Street. The ones they had on offer last March. Very pretty. I helped her hang them.Didn't bat an eyelid, apparently. Made no effort to move after Charles got off her. Madge almost chucked the vase of dahlias at her but she didn't want to make the bed wet. That big crystal one with the fleur-de-lys motif. Charles's dahlias, from the border by the shed in the bottom corner. Lovely shades of red. Always good in the garden, Charles. Just finished, stood, and put his clothes on without a word. Left them to it, she said. Madge didn't know where to look, poor thing. I mean, she wouldn't, would she? Just turned her back and told her to get out.Friday night… this all happened on Wednesday… she poured his scotch as usual. 'I'm going to have a bath, dear. Take your time: I want to luxuriate in that new Sensual Jasmine from the Avon lady. Why not have another, when you've finished? Then I'll have time to warm the bed.'Last words he ever heard her speak, I imagine. Never locked the bathroom door, you know. She told me: open house for Charles. Not any more. Ten years he got. Be out in six with good behaviour. I'll be waiting.Charles is such a lovely man, blonde tarts aside. Madge was good to him and she didn't really deserve that. But it was too good a chance to miss. He need never know. Do his time for the blonde. Come out older and wiser.I expect Madge was a bit shocked, really, to see me standing there with the electric fan heater. Charles must've been a bit shocked, too, when he stumbled through the dark and found her. Of course, I'd gone by then. Actually, her last word was, 'Aghhh!' or something that sounded like that.-ends-Of course, being a Brit, a bit of a rebel, and prone to break the rules, I don't necessarily follow all the conventions noted above. But I hope you enjoy this story, regardless.

Writing: Ch24 Complete & Ch25 Begun.

This morning I finished Ch24, which now runs to 4551 words. All three threads of the story now weaving well together, with the major driving force of the celestial event affecting the action for all groups. As readers, would any of you like more information regarding characters, locations, etc as I continue this diary? As writers, is there anything you'd like me to include, or exclude in this account? Writing epic fantasy is demanding in some ways, requiring extensive imagination and the ability to reside within the envisioned world. On the other hand, current events here on our real world have no part in such fantasy, so, apart from linguistic anachronisms, the writer is less restricted in the use of ideas than is the writer who sets stories in the known world. Many fantasy writers include magical creatures in their stories; dragons and unicorns are common. Many dwell on the physical battles between good and evil. Many rely on esoteric magic elements. There are references to dragons, there is war between good and evil and I do employ a small amount of magic in my novel. But the story is much more about my characters and their interaction within several societies founded on different religions, so that I explore many of the topics that others have neglected.
Whether my story will appeal to many or just a few remains to be seen. I hope for the former, of course: writing is communication and communication without an audience is a little pointless, after all.
So, the rest of my day has been taken up with a pleasant rural walk with Valerie, a short session in the garden, moving a few plants about in preparation for a fairly major project I have planned, and some social networking via Facebook, Twitter and Goodreads.
I've also started Ch25, just a couple of hundred words, but ready to continue tomorrow after my return to the office after this long weekend break.

The picture, taken at the weekend, is entitled 'Cloudy Sky.' Enjoy.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Rabbi

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Rabbi noun - Jewish scholar or teacher with authority regarding law and doctrine; someone ordained to deal with questions of law and ritual, and to perform certain functions; a title of respect and form of address; person whose learning, authority, or status is like that of a Jewish rabbi; US slang - a senior official who exerts influence on behalf of someone.
'Rebecca sought out the rabbi to explain to her a point of doctrine that seemed to contradict another she had read in a sacred text.'

Writing: 1300 Words Again; is This a Habit?

Image by stuartaken via FlickrThis morning, about to embark on the next section of Ch24, I realised somewhat belatedly (I'm not too bright, you know) that I'd killed off a character who, although not a 'point of view' character, nevertheless provided a necessary sounding board for just such another character. So, I had to develop a new person to speak with my pov character. That took a little time, but the profile was completed before breakfast.
Since then, I have been otherwise engaged. The garden gate needed its second coat of paint, I needed a rest, lunch was an option I was reluctant to deny, The front and back gardens both needed lengthy drinks to prevent desertification (and I lack a sprinkler, so have to stand holding the hose and sprinkle manually; such fun). As Valerie was finishing off the fence painting, including the garden shed, I thought it was time I made the bird table I've been intending to construct for months, so she could give it a coat of the paint when she'd finished (I'm so generous to my wife). So, another simple job completed and the visiting birds now have a safe zone where they can eat without too much danger of being eaten by the neighbours' cats. Nevertheless, I did manage another 1300 words, including some interaction between my new character and the pov character, much of it hopefully quite illuminating for the readers.
My daughter has been delivered to her second party in as many nights (she's 18 and all her friends are reaching that landmark age, so her life consists of either parties or studying for exams).
We suddenly discovered, after lunch, that we were short of bread. If we were to eat tomorrow, replenishment of the staff of life was needed. So, Valerie and I walked into town and bought a loaf. The day is saved; we shall eat!
But, I think that, once I've completed the photocopying Valerie needs doing, I shall relax with the current reading matter (Robert Jordan's The Gathering Storm) on my lap and a glass of red wine in my hand.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Qaynan

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Qaynan was just one of the many gods worshipped by the people who ultimately became the first Muslims. This one was a god of smithies, but there were a great many more.
Unrelated fact: 1 May 1961 - First betting shops opened in UK.

Writing: Another 1300 Words Today

A not-so-early rise today, following yesterday's physical exertions. But, after breakfast, managed another 1300 words of the epic fantasy; all moving the story along well, with the main party on the move again and leaving the strange city for a destination feared by some, welcomed by others. Who will be pleased, who disappointed, who placed in danger? That's all to come.

Also updated my writing contest page today, so if you're a writer looking for contest details, go no further than the 'Writing Contests' tab and see if any of the many competitions there is of interest.

Decided to have our usual Sunday walk today instead, since the weather is beautiful; though the wind is quite cold. Went to a local spot called Huggate, situated on the highest part of the Wolds. Only ever passed through here before, even though it's only 8 miles up the road. Parked up and took a 4 mile walk through some lovely countryside.  On our return, I updated my album on Facebook with another 5 pics from today.

You'll have noticed I often accompany my posts with pictures that are in the public domain, when I'm not using my own or those submitted by interviewees. These public pics come courtesy of a widget called Zemanta, which analyses the text of the post and then suggests various articles and pics that might go with it. Can anyone explain what in this post would make Zemanta think that pictures of girls in wet t-shirts or microscopic bikinis could possibly be appropriate? Weird.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Paraprosdokian

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Paraprosdokian: noun - a figure of speech in which the latter part of a sentence or phrase is surprising or unexpected in a way that causes the reader to reinterpret the first part. This time, I'll give some examples, rather than use the word in an illustrative sentence:
'Denis prayed fervently for a skateboard, knowing prayer doesn't actually work like that. In the end, he lifted a skateboard from a small child and prayed for forgiveness instead.'
'Attending a mosque won't make you a Muslim any more than taking a woman against her will makes you a lover.'
'Why do you believe every word the pastor tells you, no matter how unlikely, but always touch the paint to check, regardless of the sign telling you it's wet?'
'Knowledge is knowing that pepper is a hot spice; wisdom is not using it to warm up the custard.'

Writing: Another 1200 Words.

Early start and another 1200 words done - an action sequence, which moves along one thread of the interwoven fabric of the story.
I was all primed to miss the 'great event' by going out to pain the garden gate,when the rain came down. Didn't last for long but then I had to wait for it to dry. So, it was after lunch before we got out there. Valerie did the big stuff, coating the new fence with appropriate green that allows the grain of the wood to show through. Her choice, by the way. I gave the new garden gate a first coat of blue - to match the woodwork on the bungalow. It's a wrought iron affair and fiddly to do and will need another coat, unfortunately. Also gave the older garden gate, on the other side of the house a second coat, so it looks new again now. The wind was cold in spite of the shining sun, so glad to be done and back inside.
Naturally, caught the evening news, so saw the newlyweds in their finery and, yes, she did look very pretty; every bit the princess.
And now we're going to have a family evening and watch the latest of the Harry Potter movies on DVD. A drop if red will make that even more enjoyable.

The picture is a place called 'Cadgers' Lane' and is part of a regular walk we do from the house.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Oar

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Oar: noun - long pole, flattened and made wider at one end to form a blade, used to move or steer a boat by pressing against water; something like an oar in purpose or shape; an implement with which something is stirred; in brewing, a pole to stir the mash in a tun. Verb – to row or move, as if propelled by oars. move the hands like oars.
'Roberto tried out as fifth oar for Oxford but he caught a crab so frequently that they rejected him and chucked him in the river.'
'Philippa used the oar to propel the small rowing boat away from the bank and save herself from the stalker who had been following her all day.'