The 6th Target, by James Patterson, Reviewed

on Monday, January 30, 2012

James Patterson's The 6th Target is, of course, a thriller. I'm not a particular lover of thrillers, though I wrote a romantic thriller as my own first novel. I read this book because it was amongst a large number on my shelves and I'd made a decision at the start of the year to read all that were unread. I think I picked this one up second hand at a charity shop.
Patterson's book took me some time to enter, largely because I couldn't initially find a character I cared about. But this book is one of a longish series, so perhaps the author assumed readers would already be familiar with his female homicide detective. It took me a lot of chapters to become involved but, once I was hooked, I read the book quite quickly.
With over a hundred chapters, some only 2 pages long, and the usual short sentence structure 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.
Three basic story threads weave through the book and at times I was puzzled about which we were looking at. But the stories are told in linear form and, once I got used to the style of presentation, I moved swiftly forward. I try not to write reviews with spoilers, so I'll leave the story itself unexplained. Enough to 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 I only started to really care towards the end of the book.
There is quite a lot of detail that adds little to the story and I guess a good fifth of the text could be removed without detriment. In fact, it would improve the pace.
There's plenty of drama here and some moral messaging amongst the violence that drives the story. There's a lot of procedural detective work, and some court scenes, that enlightened me about the US justice system.
I gradually came to know the main characters and slowly grew to find some empathy with the female detective, Lindsay Boxer, and her mission to capture the guilty parties for the various crimes. Naturally, she had a complication in her love life; what detective doesn't? But that aspect of her life was written in such bland terms that I had little response to it. Her professional concerns, however, were depicted with more emotional content and I was with her toward the end of the book as the denouement unwound and the natural conclusion was presented.
Would I 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 first title on my 'to read' list. There just isn't enough emotional connection for me. The story is told and I prefer to be shown. But the guy sells a lot of books, so the failing is probably with me. I just didn't ever feel sufficiently involved; I felt like a neutral observer presented with enough superficial facts to make judgements on the crimes but lacking any real connection to the characters that might make me care about them.
If you're into crime and more interested in details than the deeper interaction of characters, you'll probably enjoy this a lot more than I did.

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The Week and What I've Done With It

on Sunday, January 29, 2012
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....
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Reading Fiction Stimulates Brain Activity

on Saturday, January 28, 2012
Brookings Hall, the administrative building fo...
Image via Wikipedia
It'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.
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Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 3.

on Friday, January 27, 2012

Breaking Faith was first published as a paperback 3 years ago and, on 24 October 2010, I published it as an ebook through Smashwords and on Amazon Kindle. I'm now posting individual chapters here on the blog, so that anyone who wishes can read the book in full and free of charge.

The Prologue, which begins the 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 13 January and the link can be found in the archive. (Subsequent chapters are posted each Friday and can be accessed via the archive).

Read, enjoy, tell your friends.

Just a bit of guidance, since you'll have read the previous chapter a week ago. The book is written from the viewpoints of the two main protagonists and each chapter is narrated in either Leigh or Faith's voice, in the first person. The viewpoints alternate, but sometimes one character will tell the tale over a couple of consecutive chapters.

Chapter 3

Faith’s unexpected conversational skills and sense of humour were not the only surprises she sprung, once she recovered from her faint. She picked up my dislike of Biblical quotations and allusions straight away and stopped using them, which was just as well, considering my views.
I found a well-organized, able and clever young woman, with a contradictory set of ideas and values and the most eclectic range of knowledge I’d ever come across. I was intrigued. I had nothing to lose by giving her a trial. But it was only fair to let her meet Merv before either of us made a decision.
She accompanied me from the office, through the small waiting area, where occasional reps and clients sat in ancient, leather, easy chairs and gazed at life-sized monochromes of women on the walls. Faith avoided the flesh but admired the smaller landscapes and sighed with audible relief when I led her into the studio.
The snow had stopped and early afternoon sun was sending shafts of light through the high windows to fall in dazzling rhomboids at 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 scale of the room, the atmosphere or the assorted equipment, I could only guess. I let her stand and stare at a sight I knew well. ‘Impressive, isn’t it? I spend so much time in here, I forget how strange it must appear.’
‘It’s wonderful; amazing.’ Her enthusiasm was genuine.
‘Used to be two storeys; hay barn above, animal quarters below. They built these longhouses to provide living space for the farmer’s family and animals all in one building. It was built in the sixteen seventies. Uncle Fred and I completed most of the work a year or so before he died. The old coach house at the end is now a garage on the ground floor with the 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 here but the larger stuff’s done on site. I do mostly catalogue work in here; light industrial, tools and fastenings, things like that. Some portraiture and a bit of formal work with models. But I prefer to work in situ with the girls when I can.’
‘I noticed.’
The tone of her voice spoke volumes. I’d seen embarrassment and censure cloud her features as she looked at the work on display in the office and waiting room. Strangely, the print of the Velazquez Rokeby Venus, behind my desk, didn’t appear to unsettle her as much as my photographs. 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 be spending some of your time around models, often topless, sometimes nude. How do you feel about that?’
She fixed me with a determined stare. ‘As long as I don’t have to take off my clothes, I’ll manage.’
I looked at her ragbag collection of hand-me-downs: brown tweed skirt to the ankles, long-sleeved, heavy cotton blouse in dingy white with appliquéd lace, hand-knitted brown cardigan with darned elbows and fraying cuffs. And, judging by the lines, she was wearing a heavy bra at least two sizes too big. I wondered what her knickers would be like: straight from the school gym? I hadn’t seen a young woman so badly dressed. Hardly the glamourpuss I was seeking. Maybe exposure to me and the girls would educate her tastes and show her the possibilities. She had potential 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, and she 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 feels vulnerable in lots of ways. Not least, there’s the temperature. It’s easy, when you’re sweating under the lights in jeans and polo neck, to forget how cool it can be in your skin. I try to develop empathy with my models and being naked helps that.’
‘Don’t they mind?’
‘I wouldn’t do it if they did. In fact, some of them 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 know what you’re getting into. I’m not about to change my way of working just to avoid embarrassing you. Nudity is pleasure and delight for me. You find it disturbing or threatening and I sort of understand that; it’s depressingly common, but it’s your problem, not mine. If you find it unacceptable, we might as well close this interview right now.’
She crossed the space between us until she was looking up into my face with a challenging expression I found disconcerting. ‘You said yourself I’m not the idiot people think, Leighton Longshaw. But you don’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 seen a 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 my duties as required. My feelings and beliefs are my own and have nothing to do with you or the job.’
‘Are you always so truthful?’
‘I try to be. Life would be so much better if everybody was honest all the time, don’t you think?’
‘It’d be intolerable. But what matters is whether you can work in the conditions I’ve described.’
‘I thought I just said I can.’
I looked down into her face and saw truth shining in her eyes; her wide-set, large and very dark, brown eyes that stared at me so directly. Looking into those eyes, I saw potential for passion. I also saw her vulnerability and unique quality and I wanted to know her better; to know her well.
I needed to lighten the mood. ‘Do your eyes bother you?’
She frowned. ‘No. Why?’
‘They bother me.’ I laughed shortly, as much at my mistake 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 worked for 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’ll surprise me.’
‘Prepare to be shocked.’ I led the way to the end of the studio and the foot of the vertical ladder. ‘Not pleasantly.’
I shinned up, aware she might worry I was looking up her skirt, an impossible feat, if I followed her. On the metal landing, I waited for her before opening the door into the suite of small rooms that served as printing, storage and finishing area.
I studied her as she watched the glazing drum turn slowly, its mirrored chromium cylinder reflecting the fluorescent tubes and the blue-white daylight streaming through the windows.
‘It’s very warm and there’s an odd smell. Would I work up here?’
‘Eventually; I’d want you to do most of the print finishing… drying, glazing, trimming and mounting. It’s all done in here. Merv’s kingdom is the darkroom.’ I indicated the blank white door with its bulbs mounted above. ‘When the red light’s on, you can’t go in. It means Merv’s loading film into tanks for processing. Stray light would fog the film and ruin it.’ I explained the light-trap and gave quick descriptions of the other equipment 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 door behind me before I could open the one into the darkroom. Merv was working by white 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 the brightness of the white room and turned quickly away from the wall facing her. Dozens of women, cut from the pages of porno magazines, displayed obscenely behind Merv. It was his realm and I chose not to impose my own standards on the way 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 he briefly touched hers. I tapped his arm and caught his eye with a warning that stopped 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 to her and, unfamiliar with small talk, remained silent.
‘I’m considering offering Faith the position of Girl 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 working with Merv?’
‘I don’t understand everything he says, but he seems less… coarse than I’d heard. I’m willing to try, as long as I don’t have to 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, do we?’
Merv immediately lifted the metal tank and upended it five times in quick succession before replacing it on the bench. I indicated that Faith should leave the room again. She was barely out of the door before I turned to Merv. ‘Well done, Merv. Think you can manage to remain as polite if she comes to work here?’
‘Once it gets its tight little bum under the desk I’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 to go?’
‘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’re botherin’.’
I found Faith blushing on the other side of the light 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’s all. Shall we go back?’
I paced the office and Faith studied the local landscapes of the Dales I’d displayed on the walls in the hope that tourists might drop in to buy them.
‘Like them?’
‘They’re beautiful. I didn’t know you could do that with photography. It’s beautiful countryside. I recognise this one, but where were the others taken?’
I thought she was pulling my leg until I saw the genuine question on her face. They were all local, none more than a dozen miles from Longhouse.
Ma brought fresh coffee in before I had the opportunity to answer properly. Old Hodge poked his face around the door and saw Faith. He smiled at her and lifted his cap in greeting. She gave him a little nod of acknowledgement and smiled back. Everybody liked Old Hodge.
After Ma had placed the tray, she tested the white socks by the fire and found them dry at last. ‘You never took the lass traipsing into that cold studio with nowt on her feet, Leigh?’
I hadn’t noticed, and she’d said nothing. I found myself apologising for my thoughtlessness.
‘I had nothing to put on my feet and you wanted me to 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 and sat 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 emerging look of surprised disapproval and turn it into polite indifference.
Abby glanced round the room. ‘Sorry. Thought you’d be done by now. Just wanted my wrap.’
It lay on the floor near my desk, where Ma had kicked it after Abby had discarded it for our earlier session. Her briefs lay at my feet, out of sight. Faith picked up the wrap, shook out the dust and creases and took it to the fire to warm for a few moments.
No one spoke.
She turned and held the gown, helping Abby into it. ‘Does the hair around your genitalia grow that short naturally or do you trim it?’ She sat down with no sign of a blush and gave me a look that spoke volumes.
Abby flicked her long tresses back over her shoulders 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 this time she blushed.
‘It’s okay, sweetie. No one’s died.’ She perched on the edge of my desk and looked at Faith speculatively before twisting to face me. ‘Prettier than I expected but a bit on the thin side for you, I’d have thought. Taking her on?’
I’d almost made up my mind before Abby had come in. Faith’s demonstration of the professional attitude she’d described in the studio 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 frown from her face. ‘Thank you. Thank you, very much, Leigh. I can start now, if you like.’
‘Now? I thought you had a job at the Dairy? You’ll have to give notice, surely?’
‘They’ll not want me to work notice after what I did this morning. No, I can start straight away, if that’s all right for you?’
She had no idea of the significance of her throw away 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 suddenly confused and unable to collect her thoughts. I wondered if I’d misjudged her or even been misled. ‘Out with it. Let’s have some of this famous honesty.’
Still she was reluctant to speak and I began to grow 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 and uncertainty 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 to plunge 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 Furnswurth asked me to move out of the general office and be his personal secretary. He’s a… a horrible man. The other women talked about his wandering hands and the way his 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. All outward respectability but seething with sexual repression.’
She considered that for a moment. ‘His office has a 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 when they get files from the top or bottom shelves. He couldn’t do that with me, of course. My skirt’s a decent length.’
She must have guessed my intention to try to change that because she stared at me sternly. ‘And always will be, in case you’re thinking any different.’
Her insight was vaguely unnerving after such brief acquaintance.
‘How you dress is up to you, Faith. Most men these days prefer the mini or micro, but the maxi’s fine, especially in a flowing fabric. Can’t say I’m a lover of your old lady’s tweeds but… up to you. You were telling us about Furnswurth…’
She let my criticism go but she’d have something to say should I raise the subject again. ‘He asked for one of the files on the top shelf. I was looking for it when he came and stood below me, pretending to help 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, for my support, I suppose. ‘I couldn’t believe it. He goes to Father’s chapel. I was too shocked to move at first but then he slid his hand even further up and actually touched my genitalia. I came to my senses then. I kicked his arm and bent down and slapped him across his nasty face as hard as I could. I almost fell off the steps.’ She stopped, awaiting judgement.
‘Dirty old sod. I’d have kicked him in the goolies.’ Abby slipped off the desk and put a comforting arm around her shoulders.
‘Do you think they’ll not have you back ‘cause you slapped his face, love? Is that it?’
She frowned at Ma. ‘They won’t have me back because 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 very wicked of me, Leigh, but I hope so. Why? Does it matter?’
‘No. Just satisfying if you blacked his eye. I understand 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 for me in the morning.’
Her relief was almost tangible. ‘I can start right now, if you like.’
‘Go home and have a short rest. There’s only a couple 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 five thirty in the week, up to lunch time on Saturdays. I don’t mind. But I want to know something, Faith. I’m curious to know why, having reacted so violently to Furnswurth’s sexual advances, you came straight here? You must’ve believed I was the most sexually dangerous man in the area.’
‘I was out of a job. I have to work. Father is… He wouldn’t understand me leaving like that. In fact, he won’t believe me.’ She shrugged as if resigned. ‘We really need the money because he can’t work, so I couldn’t go home without another job. Yours was the only one with the skills I have. I saw your postcard in Mrs Greenhough’s window. In the rack outside, a newspaper 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 gain no points for diplomacy.’
‘Bit of honesty from a pretty lass’ll do you no harm. Most of ‘em are so eager to have you in their knickers they’ll say owt to please you.’ Ma gave Abby a look full of meaning and received a protruding tongue in response. ‘You’re a real surprise to me, Faith, but you’re a welcome addition to Longhouse, and I for one hope you’ll not change your ways too much by working for Leigh.’
She managed a smile for Ma, and then turned to me with apprehension. ‘I must be completely honest, Leigh. I believe it’s as bad to miss out facts, as it is to make them up when it comes to truth. At the Dairy, they either think you’re a wicked libertine or else the most eligible and delectable bachelor in the district, whatever all that means. No one talks about 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 unless I let you think I was willing to take off my clothes. Which, by the way, I most certainly am not! Also, I intend to help you see the error of your ways and lead you down the path of righteousness so that we can save your soul.’
I shook my head at her candour. Faith was showing all 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 when he learns I’m working for you. But he won’t stop me; we need the money. He calls you ‘Satan’s local henchman’ and believes no woman’s safe with you. I can tell him he’s mistaken about that, and for…’
‘You seem very sure.’
‘Oh, if you’d wanted to do something to me, you had the perfect opportunity when I was lying at your feet. As far as I can tell, you didn’t even try to look up my skirt. And you went up the ladder before me because you knew I’d feel more comfortable that way. In fact, you’ve behaved in a way that even Father would find hard to criticize. I believe you’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 despoiler of virgins.’
‘I don’t fully understand what that means, but I’m hoping you’ll ruin mine as the village idiot, Leigh.’
The studio door let Merv into the office. ‘Tight little 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 how strongly 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 in this 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 off home. And find another word to use when talking about women to me or anyone else in this household. You might start by using their names. Go.’
Merv turned to Faith, his face purple with a mix of anger and embarrassment. ‘Yeah. Right. Sorry, then.’ I knew we’d get no more from him and I gestured him to leave. He went without another word but he glared at Faith as he closed the door.
‘God, but he’s foul that one.’ Ma had never liked him.
‘Foul mouth, foul mind.’ Abby felt the same way.
‘It’s not just the words; it’s the attitude that lies 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 count myself extremely lucky.’
She looked around the room, skimming quickly past the 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 the darkroom. I didn’t see a phone in there. I won’t be able to answer calls unless you have one put in.’
‘Hasn’t even started and already she’s costing me money. Hop it, wench, before I change my mind!’
She slipped her socks and shoes on quickly and was inside her shabby winter coat before I relented.
‘You’re right, of course. You can have your extension, but only when I’m satisfied you’re right for the job.’
A huge smile of relief brightened her clouded countenance.
Ma turned to Faith and nodded. ‘You’ll do.’
I foresaw those two forming an alliance against me in all sorts of subtle ways and I relished it. ‘Right. I’m off down to Garsington. 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 warming up when you come back.’
My look softened her eyes and parted her lips. I turned 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 another world. ‘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 a chance, Leigh. I’ll prove my worth.’
I wondered if she would or whether I’d saddled myself with problems simply from a desire to try to mould this strange little wench into a real woman. Time, no doubt, would tell.


###

Whilst I want you to read the book, I'd like it even better if you bought it. So, if you can't wait until next week's instalment, check the links below. They'll take you to a place you can make your purchase, either as paperback or ebook, depending on your preference.

Amazon paperback or Kindle To buy from USA Amazon
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How Does A Writer Move You?

on Thursday, January 26, 2012
Ken Burden
Image by stuartaken via Flickr

How does a writer enter the mind, heart and soul of a reader and persuade a mature human being that the fiction purveyed is true enough to deserve and elicit an emotional response? Of course, the question itself suggests that every writer does this. But we all know there are writers who succeed in the market place without ever stirring any deep emotion, relying on the 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 reward them with a fully rounded experience. For me, such writers might persuade me to read one of their novels but I'll never return to waste more time on such superficial entertainment. It serves a purpose, of course, but holds little appeal for me and many other readers.

If the writing of fiction is about anything, it's surely about providing 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 my readers to laugh in amusement, cry with empathy, gasp in surprise, wail at injustice, call out in fear, retch with disgust, pause in thought, tremble in anticipation, wince at cruelty, warm with erotic response, scream in terror, applaud at justice, weep at despair  and cheer over a deserved outcome.

But how are such responses to be achieved? People are so different, so varied in outlook, experience and education, that it must surely be impossible to get under their skin in this way? Well, perhaps it isn't possible to succeed with every reader on every occasion. But it clearly is possible to form the desired response in enough of your audience to justify the time, 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. All of us go through the basic events of life; births, deaths, illness, falling in love and out of it, fearing the unknown, having sex or getting none, admiring some natural or man-made phenomenon, witnessing a natural catastrophe. We may not experience all of these events personally, but we will have at least some awareness of them through our family, friends, acquaintances and the ever-present media. There is, therefore, some fellow-feeling which can be used as 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 are things about which I know.

My real father died before I was born and I was raised, from the age of four, by the man who later married my widowed mother and called himself my father. I was loved, cared for, appreciated and nurtured. I've no cause to feel in any way that I missed out on anything due to my real father's untimely death.

But. Yes, the 'but' is the crucial aspect here.

But, I always felt that I was incomplete because I'd never known my biological father. Because of this, I'm susceptible to certain elements in fiction. One of these is the situation that drives the hugely successful movie, Mama Mia. The heroine, Sophie, wants to know who she is before she gets married, and sends invitations 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 minds of many. But, because I absolutely understand, empathise with, Sophie's desire to know about her father, I find the story moving. It touches me in a way that probably evades many men. There's a link for me. And that's the point. I respond to the emotional element that drives the story because I have direct personal experience of the central emotion of longing to know.

Another incident that never fails to move me is the denouement of The Railway Children. As Bobbie waits on that railway platform and her father appears through the mist, I'm unable to prevent tears falling. And it matters not that I've seen both recent versions of the film on more occasions than I should. The power of the emotion remains. 

Why?

I can identify two entirely separate reasons for this one, I think. The first is that I'm a father and have a strong love for my daughter. I can empathise with the way both a father and a daughter must feel during a period of prolonged forced separation. My personal experience lies in the necessary absence of my girl as she attends university. But there's a second factor at play here. I have a deep and enduring concern for justice. Injustice wounds me and always has; perhaps I suffered some unjust event as a child and this lurks beneath the surface of my consciousness to elevate the quality of justice into something of paramount importance to me. I don't know; but it's as good a reason as any for my concern. In The Railway Children, of course, the father returns from a spell in prison served for a crime he didn't commit. So, the daughter/father reunion is enhanced as an emotional experience for me by the fact that justice is restored. Hence, I think, my empathy and my inability to prevent the tears.

I use these two examples to demonstrate how powerful a tool emotion can be for the writer.

Not only the most obvious emotion, that of love between adults, as embraced by romantic fiction authors, but all emotion. The reader needs 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 of loss at the death of her baby.' This tellsthe reader what happened. 'Rose gentled the tiny crumpled cot blanket in trembling hands, hardly aware of the damp trails she left as she brought it close to her face and inhaled the scent of that 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 will experience the feelings of loss and utter devastation such an event gifts the victim.

This is one example of how it can be done. So, the writer engages the reader with the character(s), manipulates the reader into a relationship that involves concern and fellow-feeling. Where the thriller writer might get away with generic description and superficial emotional content, relying on pace and action to drag the reader through the story, the author of almost every other genre must actually become his characters, in the same way a good actor does, he must feel what the characters feel, in order to convey the real emotions experienced by the people who act out the tale. Only then will the reader experience what the character feels and be moved, amused, shocked, aroused or whatever is appropriate to the situation. 

It takes a clever combination of the right language with a description and presentation of character that persuades the reader to care. If the reader really doesn't give a damn what happens to the character(s), then the author has fallen at the first hurdle and might as well take up some other activity. It's for this reason that most serious (serious in the sense of intent rather than style) authors develop the plot through their characters rather than forcing characters into a pre-conceived plot.

If you're an author who wants readers to respond to your writing rather than skip through the text on a mad dash to the end, you need to be fully engaged with your characters and to allow them to dictate the direction of the story. Only in that way will you find the necessary empathy to share emotional events with them and, thereby, your readers. It's a demanding process 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.

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Contribution to Mankind, by Linda Acaster, Reviewed

on Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Here we have a collection of short stories by an author who knows her craft. The tales are all dark but, as with all good tales of the sort, carry patches of light. Linda Acaster has an uncanny knack of undermining assumptions so that the reader finds her stories end rather differently from what might have been expected. Nevertheless, the endings are all apt; there is nothing either false or contrived about them, it's merely that they lead to places not ordinarily considered.

The author employs her considerable imagination to take the reader into unfamiliar worlds where all is not as it seems on the surface. Although ghosts and spirits populate some of these stories, they don't arise from the regular menu of ghost stories. 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.

As always in this writer's fiction, the language employed is both apt and accessible without being either patronising or too clever. She uses a down to earth tone to set the scene and to portray her characters. And the characters are beings we might all have met, even those populating the other worlds she sometimes takes us into.

There is irony, some just desserts, and a glance into our possible distant future within the tales in this collection. I enjoyed all the stories and commend them to you.

As a bonus, the book also contains the opening chapters of Linda Acaster's 'Torc of Moonlight', a superb paranormal romance novel that stands out as more than just a great example of the form but as a demonstration that such works can truly transcend the narrow definition of the genre and appeal to the widest readership.

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The Secret Life of Bletchley Park, Reviewed.

on Monday, January 23, 2012
Turing at the time of his election to Fellowsh...
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A Christmas 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 for many of the younger generation probably holds little interest. I was born some years after its end and my parents were involved, of course, so it has some personal resonance for me.

I had, of course, heard of Bletchley Park; the place has shed its cloak of secrecy over the past few years. Several books, TV documentaries and other items have opened up the world that had previously dwelt only within the walls of the establishment and the minds of those thousands who had worked there. I suspect that most people now are at least aware of the invaluable work that was done in this otherwise rather nondescript property. There is, after all, a museum there now displaying the secrets of the code breakers.

What is not generally known is the way of life in the place during the crucial years of 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 the daily lives, the trials and most poignantly, the pervading requirement for absolute secrecy that prevented even those closest to the workers knowing what they were up to. These brave, talented and diligent men and women were unable to even hint at the nature of the work they did day in and day out. Many were ostracised by those who assumed they had a cushy job for the duration, many were unable to tell their relatives how they really spent the war and had to allow their parents to die without ever being given the chance to feel the very well deserved pride they would otherwise have known.

Full of detail and crammed with fascinating facts and descriptions of the various characters and personalities who made up the workforce of this extraordinary establishment, the book gives a real insight into the relationships, friendships and disputes that occurred. It also points the finger of blame at those senior military men and politicians without a clear understanding of the nature of the work done at Bletchley Park. That Churchill understood the vital significance of the operation is possibly the only reason it managed to continue with the task that shortened the war by two years and saved countless lives as a result.

On these pages you will find the petty squabbles, the passionate devotion to the task, the daily courage of people working against the odds and under dreadful conditions, the strokes of genius and the dedicated pure slog of perseverance when all seemed to be against them.

One other aspect of the book must be mentioned: contrary to Dan Brown's assertion that the modern computer was developed as the result of work in Harvard in 1944, this account makes it clear that Alan Turing and Tommy Flowers were working on the original idea of such a device and had built such machines at Bletchley during 1943. The problem was that all their work, both written and practical, was destroyed on the orders of a government obsessed with the possibility that the Russians might somehow gain from the knowledge. Thus, GB's computer industry never really got off the ground.

If you're interested in real people, tales of courage, accounts of social interaction between all classes for a common cause, if you want to read a true account that will amuse, inform and move you, I suggest you give this book a read. I've enjoyed the journey and can recommend it to all those who have an interest in the human condition.

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Continuing the #NaNoWriMo Challenge.

on Sunday, January 22, 2012
The main house at Bletchley Park. The estate w...
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This 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.
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Read My Novel, Free, Here: Chapter 2.

on Friday, January 20, 2012

Breaking Faith was published as a paperback 3 years ago and, on 24 October 2010, I published it as an ebook through Smashwords and on Amazon Kindle. I'm now posting individual chapters here on the blog, so that anyone who wishes can read the book in full and free of charge.

The Prologue 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 13 January and the link can be found in the archive.

Read, enjoy, tell your friends.

Just a word or guidance, since you'll have read the previous chapter a week ago. The book is written from 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 week Faith tells part of the tale. It continues in this way throughout, but sometimes one of the characters will tell the tale in a couple of chapters in a row.

Chapter 2

I crossed pristine snow on the village green to use the phone box for the first time in my life and trembled with more than just cold. Mrs Greenhough, cosy in her post office stores, might have let me use her phone but Father called her the village gossip and it was not worth the risk.
I followed the scratched and faded instructions and dialled the number, taken from a card in the post office window. The ringing tone stopped and I heard his voice for the first time, and felt an unexpected and disturbing tingle at its deep, musical quality.
A relief map of the local area stood next to the phone box to show tourists the walks. Fortunately, someone had scribbled ‘House of Sin’, in bright red felt tip on the map; otherwise I would not have known how to find Longhouse.
Four miles from the village; it took me less time to 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 I still had a few minutes before the interview.
Curiosity, and a sense of mission; to save Leighton Longshaw’s wicked soul, took me to Longhouse. The inevitable punishment from Father, if I returned home without a job, after walking out of the Dairy earlier that morning, had only a little to do with it.
I ploughed through deep drifts that lay against blackthorn hedges lining the steep lane. Fresh snow worked its way into worn shoes Father had bought from a jumble sale, joining slush already soaking my socks. Near the white five-bar gate, I considered running back home to face the belt. Better the devil you know….
On the gatepost, a sign warned ‘Beware’ above a blue and white glazed tile of a man chasing a woman. I had never seen a man without 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. A man, being forged in the image of God, must preserve some mystery.
I wondered if they all looked like that; if I got the job, I would soon know.
The long, old house crowned the soft curve of the hill, its three entrance doors facing me. The left one seemed to lead to a workshop or garage with a stone arch over closed double doors beside it. The right, with its deeply carved panels polished by time and use, had to be the main entrance. The plain centre door opened as I looked and a man, aged somewhere between twenty-five and forty, poked his head out and beckoned me in.
I drew breath sharply; this danger might overwhelm me, 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 his deep-set eyes gazing into mine with a directness I had not met before.
‘Step on it, love. Ma’ll have my balls if I leave this door open much longer.’
Ma? Of course, Mrs. Hodge, his housekeeper; respected by everyone, in spite of all the dreadful things they said about Longhouse. I would be safe with her in the house. Though safe from what, I had no real idea. And I was not at all sure what his balls, whatever they were, had to do with it. He opened the door wider so I could step inside and the bright colours of his patterned shirt assailed my eyes.
‘No further in your shoes, love. Can’t have wet footprints all over Ma’s polished floor.’ He closed the door behind me. The trap snapped shut as I knelt uncertain on coarse cocoanut matting with ‘Welcome’ written on it.
My fingers were numb and the knots in my frozen laces almost defeated me. By the time I had them untied, the heat inside the room 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 felt wet and cold. The walls swayed in and out of focus, as if they might fall in on me. Abruptly, everything went black.
Brightness, like white unbroken snow, made me squint; a fine black line cracking its surface as my eyes focussed. My face was too warm on one side and the ground hard but smooth beneath me. I heard the murmur of voices at the same time as I realized I was on my back. A second later, I knew where I was and that my feet were in the air, naked as my knees.
‘Steady. Steady, love. You’re safe.’ The voice made me tingle, again.
‘She’s concerned she’s decent.’ Mrs Hodge moved into my field of view. ‘Don’t worry, lass, no-one can see your unmentionables.’
The fold of skirt between my legs reassured me he could see no more than my knees and lower limbs, though that was bad enough. He held my bare feet in his hands, massaging them so that a dull, hot ache flowed through the flesh to offset the surprising pleasure of his skin on mine.
‘Stay there. No one’s going to harm you and you’re safer on your back than standing, for the moment.’
I must do as he said, though Father would punish me for this pleasure I could not help but feel. I turned to face the source of heat and saw flames flickering round thick logs in a large, black grate. His feet were in view, pale skin visible between the dark leather straps of his sandals. Blue, shaped inserts with embroidered flowers of gold, red and violet widened 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 I might be deaf, or stupid, like so many others did.
‘Thank you, Mrs Hodge, I know. I’m sorry. I don’t usually fall over when I meet people.’
‘Don’t worry on my account, love. Women fall at my feet all the time.’
‘Bighead.’ Mrs Hodge accused him.
Father held women inferior to men but I had seen them behave almost as equals at the Dairy. It was good to know that, in this house 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 let me sit for a bit, thank you.’
Her look of confusion deepened.
‘Told you.’ The man smiled back down at me with satisfaction. ‘Sure you’re ready to be upright?’
‘I’d feel happier perpendicular than prone, now my brain’s recovered its circulation, thank you.’
Mrs Hodge looked utterly flummoxed but helped me to 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 say hello, you know.’
The man grinned and held out his hand. ‘Leighton Longshaw; pleased to meet you, Miss Heacham, or is it Faith?’
I took his hand. It was warm, dry and firm. At the Dairy, I had started with Father’s formal approach but quickly learned most people preferred first names. ‘Faith.’
He held my hand for what seemed a long time and only let go when a slight frown crossed his brow. ‘Coffee or tea, Faith? Or something stronger?’
‘What are you having, Mr Longshaw?’
‘Call me Leigh, everybody does. “Mister” makes me feel a hundred.’
‘And he’s only ninety-eight, you know.’
I saw a twinkle in Mrs Hodge’s eye and, starting to understand some of the humour I had heard at the Dairy, wondered if I should risk joining in. The way she spoke to the man made me bold. ‘I can’t believe that, Mrs Hodge. I wouldn’t have thought Leigh was that old.’ She looked at me expectantly and I dared the rest. ‘No, not a day over eighty-nine.’
They both laughed and the look that passed between Leigh and his housekeeper showed me I had been right to try.
‘I’ll get the coffee.’ Mrs Hodge left, shaking her head.
‘Ma thought you were…, your reputation, you know?’
‘Reputations, Leigh. I suspect, and hope with all my heart, that you know more than most folk just how false they can be.’


###

Of course, whilst I want you to read the book, it would be even better if you bought 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 paperback or ebook, depending on 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:



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The Editing Process and Why I Enjoy It.

on Thursday, January 19, 2012

Unlike many writers, I enjoy the editing process that follows the white hot period of creation. This is the time when you find the right words to replace those that flew off the end of your fingers in the rush to get the ideas down before they escaped into the ether. This is your opportunity to turn a banal phrase into something poetic and memorable. It's the time to hone, sharpen, tighten and close up the text to build in the pace that carries the story forward. It's the chance to spend some prime time with your characters and understand them better than was possible at the beginning of the story, since even the most well-drawn characters have a tendency to diverge from the author's view of them as they grow during the story. It's the place to do that hardest of all things every writer must do in order to succeed; to murder your darlings. Most writers will understand this expression. For those who don't, it simply means that you have to examine your writing critically and decide whether that exquisite phrase you used to describe the heroine, the scenery, the hero, is actually necessary to the story. If it isn't, you cut it out and toss it away. Your darling infants consigned to the bonfire of vanities.

I've always held to a short but, for me, true mantra on writing: write from the heart, but edit from the head.

I've also always placed a distance between the writing of a piece and the editing. If you can come to your work with a fresh mind, following a break without reading or thinking about it, you're far more likely to spot problems within it. So, after the creative phase, I always lock away the piece for a period, the length of which is more dependent on circumstances than any formal programme. But when I return to it, I work methodically. Whether my method will work for you, however, depends on the type of writer you are.

I do a first read through, quickly and without stopping for changes I see as necessary - merely marking these points as prompts for the next read through. This first read I do more or less as a reader, rather than a writer. It re-acquaints me with the work, allows me to see whether the ideas have translated into something that will interest readers, and highlights any glaring inconsistencies in plot, character or setting.

Next, I read through and look at those marked places, making whatever alterations seem necessary. As I do this, I also make any changes that might affect pace by removing redundancies and repetitions.
I then subject each chapter, or section, to the http://www.wordle.net/check. This wonderful and simple program provides a graphic (see the illustration for this post) that highlights words used according to frequency and is an invaluable tool for identifying overused words. I thoroughly recommend this free editing helper.

The next stage is the crucial one, which I advise every writer to do, regardless of genre, habit, type or experience. I read the entire work aloud, from a typed script, marking it as I go along to indicate any areas of error, confusion, repetition, clumsy construction etc. Reading aloud makes errors far more evident, and reading from a printed source, rather than the screen, makes mistakes and inconsistencies far more obvious. I can't emphasise too strongly how important this step is. If you do nothing else in editing, at least do this.

Once I've been through and made the changes indicated by the read-through above, I subject the piece to the mechanical spell and grammar check. This highlights a number of issues and, in spite of its shortcomings and inadequacies, often reveals odd things missed during the manual process.

A final read through allows me to ensure consistency in plotting, characterisation, timeline, setting and theme. I keep a spreadsheet for the timeline, so that I know where each character is at any given time. This includes a hyperlink to each character's sketch, so I can ensure I haven't inadvertently changed hair or eye colour or suddenly made an atheist into a godbotherer, or aged a youngster, etc. I also include phases of the moon and sunrise/sunset times on the timeline, so I can keep track of such items when I'm describing activity or scenes.

You will no doubt note that I haven't described a session where I make changes to improve the language of the piece. That's because I do this as I go along, as part of all the other checks and alterations.

That's it. I know I could go through the piece again and again, and find other faults or places where improvements could be made, but I write to be read and there comes a time when the piece must be revealed to readers. Some writers find this final phase the most difficult and I suspect their reluctance to get their piece out in front of an audience is due to either misplaced lack of confidence or an unwillingness to let go of their child and send it out into the world.

There are writers, particularly amongst the indie writer category, who don't bother with even the most basic editing. Their work is readily identifiable by its numerous spelling errors, lack of grammaticalaccuracy, inconsistencies in expression and poor story planning. It puzzles and distresses me that readers give such writers the time of day, but perhaps I consider such things as correct language use, basic spelling and grammar, as tools of the trade and see their lack as insults to the readers; insults that, perhaps, certain readers don't perceive as such.

So, there you have it: the process of refining the initial piece of created fiction into a story worthy of exhibition before my readers. Yes, it's a lot of work, time and effort. But nothing worthwhile was ever created in ease. I can only hope that my efforts produce stories that readers find entertaining, illuminating and enjoyable.


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


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