The Dangers of Distraction.

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Do you do it? You know what I mean; participate in social networking. Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, Digg, StumbleUpon and Google+are all sites where you'll find me commenting, posting, bringing items of interest to other people. Then there are the peer review sites; those places where you post a piece of writing and hope for some reviews, but in exchange you have to post reviews of the work of others, which, of course, means reading them. There are even altruistic sites, like Critters, where the emphasis is on the support and nurturing of young talent for no reward other than that of helping out.

All these activities detract from your writing by involving the use of your time. There's so much advice out there on how best to learn to write and how to learn to write well. But one piece of advice stands out from the rest, in my mind at any rate: if you want to write, and write well, ignore everything else, and write. That, of course, is a little sparse and not as comprehensive as it ought to be. If you write without reading, for example, you're doomed to repeat the mistakes of others, doomed to repeat what has already been written, doomed to remain enclosed in your world of delusion where you're a brilliant, if untried and unpublished, writer.

So, to that injunction to write, I must add; read. Read often, read well-written work only, which doesn't necessarily mean best-sellers. I mean, Jeffrey Archer's novels are sometimes described as 'best-sellers', but would you call it good writing? I've read a few of the authors who sell lots of books and discovered that they often write in clichés, clichés of both phrase and idea. Formulaic, superficial writing seems to sell well for reasons I don't understand. But if you're more interested in dollars and pounds than the quality of the work you produce, you know where to find your role models. But be prepared to be forgotten as soon as your book is read. Prepare to be lost to history and the future. It's rare indeed for a best-seller to outlive the era in which the work was published. Oh, there are exceptions; there are always exceptions. They prove the rule, after all.

So, to improve your writing, read extensively from the best you can find. And then, write. Write something new every day, as a priority. Even if you can manage only a few words, even if it's no more than a diary entry, write something, something new, every day. Make it the best you can if it's only a few words. If, on the other hand, you're engaged in the construction of a more beefy piece, a short story, essay, novel or non-fiction tome, then I'd advise you to get the words down first. I know some people are, or feel they are, incapable of moving on until what they've written is the very best they can make it. For most would-be writers that way leads to an eternity of unfinished work. If you get the words down first, you can then revisit and use the editing process to refine and improve.

To return to the beginning: social networking and the like. If you must network, connect, interact - and which of us doesn't do this?- I'd suggest you do it only after you've done your day's writing. If you treat your writing as a profession, treat it as work, you'll be far more able to set and keep to your real priorities. The job of a writer is to write. That's the first priority. Everything else is secondary and should be treated as such.

I speak from experience here.

I've spent most of the past few months engaged in social networking; building that essential writer's platform beloved of agents and publishers. So, I've Tweeted, posted stuff to Facebook, engaged in discussions on LinkedIn, joined groups on Goodreads. It's been productive in terms of contacts and connections. And I've had a great deal of fun in the process; made a great many new friends at various levels of the writing craft from real beginner to accomplished author and every stage between. Met and connected with readers of all sorts. I wouldn't have missed the experience for the world. But, in that time, I've written and submitted too few stories, put down too few words (apart from November last year, when I participated in NaNoWriMo as a way to drive myself back into actually writing, and produced the first draft of a comedy thriller, writing 112,242 words before the time was up). But I have, sitting on my computer, two volumes of an epic fantasy trilogy, and I should have written volume three by now, should have had the books out there in the market place for readers. But no; the networking has taken precedence. So, I know what I'm talking about here.

So, following my own advice, I'm now aiming to produce at least one new story each week, complete the editing and route to publication for my NaNoWriMo novel titled An Avenger Unseen, and begin work on volume three of the epic fantasy. All social networking will take a back seat and be done only when I've completed my writing for that day.

If you want to write, I urge you to write. Leave the distractions, digressions, procrastination for others and you might find there are people out there actually reading the words you've put down. Isn't that something worth aiming for?

A silly question to ponder: If corn oil comes from corn, olive oil from olives, and vegetable oil from vegetables, where does baby oil come from?

Read an E-Book Month 2012

Choosing an E-Book Reader (Photo credit: Andrew Mason)

Adapted from Mark Coker on the Smashwords site.

Wonderful News: March is now Read an E-book Month in Canada!

By virtue of an Order by the 41st Parliament of Canada, First Session, Motion M-293 was passed declaring the month of March Read an E-Book Month.

The Order reads:

That, in the opinion of the House, the government should: (a) recognize that the ePublishing industry has created economic opportunities for entrepreneurs, authors, publishers and e-reader manufacturers; (b) recognize that e-books present significant benefits for seniors and children; (c) recognize that e-books are an environmentally-friendly alternative to books; (d) declare the month of March as "Read an E-book Month"; (e) support the goals and ideals of "Read an E-book Month; and (f) encourage Canadians to observe "Read an E-book Month".

Canada has taken steps to recognize the innovation of e-book entrepreneurs and the value this new technology brings to society.

Wouldn't it be great if we could have the whole world join in and have a worldwide E-book Month?

Some event sponsors are also doing something special for Read an E-Book Month.

E Ink: Look for contests and exciting factoids on the E Ink Read an E-Book Month Facebook page! Content will be unlocked as each day of the month arrives. They have also set up a website page for the event.

Indigo Book & Music will offer $10.00 off a Kobo WiFi e-reader during Read an E-Book Month.

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E-book Reading Devices

E-books have gone mainstream! The latest announcements on airlines include: "Please turn off all electronic devices, including electronic book readers...." That translates into a home run for e-books. They have arrived!

Of course, e-books can just as easily read on a computer or laptop. That's what the first e-books were created for. But now e-books are more commonly read on e-book reading devices like the iPad, Sony Reader, Kobo, Kindle  and a host of other dedicated devices.

The list of e-book readers, and formats they read in, is growing yearly. The good news is that new technologies make these devices more durable and easier to see in all lighting situations.

E-books can also be read on handheld computers (aka Pocket PCs, or PDAs). These pocket-sized devices are popular with people on the go, and can carry an astounding amount of memory!

Smartphones are combined PDAs and cellphones, and like PDAs, they are great e-book readers for people with long commutes on public transport. Try an e-book on your Nexus One.

Last year during Read an E-Book Week we had a list, and link, to the most popular e-book readers. This year there are simply too many to keep track of. Instead, here's a few great links to learn about e-book readers -- past, present and future!

E-Book Matrix 
Mobileread Wiki for E-book Devices
The eBook Reader Blog
The eBook Reader
eBook Reader Guide
E-book Readers Review
E-Book Reader Comparison

So, if you don't already own one of these devices,  now you can discover which is best for you and go ahead, take the plunge, and find your way to reading more books, often at greatly reduced prices. In fact, many of the classics are available free as ebooks. And taking books on holiday no longer need take up space or weight in your luggage if you have an e-reader; they can often carry up to 1,200 books!

When is Theft Not Really Stealing?

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Theo: You do the boss a favour, staying at your desk over your lunch break to field an important call for him, and, whilst you're captive, in what's generally your own time, you surf the net. It's company policy that you can do this during your lunch break, provided you don't enter inappropriate sites, of course. You come across an article you've been wanting to read; research for a private project. So, without the time to read it there and then, you print off the five pages with the colour illustrations, on the firm's laser printer so you can take it home to read in comfort. Is that theft?

Dave: What, taking five sheets of office paper and a bit of ink they'll never even notice? You're kiddin', right?

Theo: The question is this: Is it yours to take?

Dave: Hell, man, you're doing the boss a favour in your own time. He owes you, doesn't he? Any case, I bet you waste more paper and ink than that nearly every day by mistake.

Theo: So, you don't think it counts as stealing?

Dave: No way.

Theo: The same, I suppose, goes for those odd paper clips, rubber bands and envelopes you take for personal use?

Dave: Look, everyone does that. You can't call it stealing. The amount they pay for stationery, they'd never even notice, would they?

Theo: And the private letters placed into the post tray to be stamped or franked?

Dave: Maybe in an emergency. You know, when it needs to go today and you don't have a stamp or you can't get out the office for some reason. Once in a while won't do any harm, will it?

Theo: What about that photocopying of the club's agenda for that meeting you've arranged tonight as secretary? A copy of three pages for each of thirty seven members. How about that?

Dave: It's for a good cause, isn't it? I mean, I know the boss doesn't give to that cause, but the firm chooses a charity every year to support, so they don't mind a bit of giving, do they?

Theo: Not, then, a matter of principle? More one of expediency, I suppose?

Dave: Horses for courses, mate. What harm's it do. That sort of thing doesn't hurt the company. Any case, everybody does it.

Theo: And because everybody does it, that makes it acceptable, or right?

Dave: Well, you can't really call it stealing, can you? I mean, stealing's important things, things that cost, not little bits and pieces like that.

Theo: So, just to get this right: everybody does it and they're only small things?

Dave: That's right.

Theo: So. A hundred employees take a hundred sheets, together with the accompanying ink, what, every week, month, year?

Dave: Now you're being daft. Not everyone does that much, do they? I mean that's ten k sheets and a lot of ink. No. It's not like that; it's just occasional and not all the staff do it, do they?

Theo: Not everybody, then?

Dave: Well, no. Some folk aren't interested in that sort of thing. They take other things instead.

Theo: Ah, you mean time? For example, the quarter of an hour they spend talking at the water cooler when they're being paid to work? Or the few minutes each day they arrive late? Or maybe those odd minutes they need for shopping over lunch? That sort of thing?

Dave: That's right. Most people do that sort of thing.

Theo: And that's not stealing, even though they're paid for that time?

Dave: You think the bosses work every hour of every day? Think they're working when they have a  'meeting' on the golf course? Think they're working when they fly business class to some conference they could do by video call?

Theo: I understand your point. So, what you mean when you say the everybody does it, is that the practise of petty theft is rife throughout the structure of the workplace and is accepted simply as a part of daily life?

Dave: Well, I wouldn't put it like that. But, yeah, I suppose that's really what it is when you look at it. I mean, no one works every minute of every day doing what they're paid to do, do they?

Theo: I expect not. In fact, I suspect it would be bad for their mental health if they did. But, my point here is more about what we call such things. What we label this activity. The bosses see their own small thefts as 'perks', the natural reward for their level of commitment. How do the ordinary workers see their own small acts of stealing?

Dave: Most of them see it as getting something more out the bosses, if they think of it at all. You're making more of it than it really is, Theo. It's just part of working life.

Theo: You're probably right. But what that means in reality is that workers, and their bosses, actually approve, even if only by not disapproving, the daily general theft we've discussed.

Dave: Life's too short to worry about things like that.

Theo: But, what concerns me, Dave, is whether the casual acceptance of such petty theft allows some people to consider rather more valuable items taken to be also acceptable. We don't have time to discuss this now. But I'd like to plant the notion that it's the general acceptance of small theft as unimportant that allows some folk to go on to steal the work of others, to see such theft as something normal and of no harm to anyone.

Dave: It's a thought. But, like you say, we best get back to work. The boss is looking over here and glancing at his watch.

Ariel, by Sylvia Plath, Reviewed

Mostly incomprehensible. For me, at least, that encloses in a nutshell the bulk and content of this overly personal poetry. Oh, the mood of depression and despair is thick enough to be tangible and some of the imagery even peers through the gloom in a form that I can recognise. But much of this self-indulgent outpouring of grief, bitterness and bile is so utterly personal to the poet that, without those essential notes used by the students of literature, I find I'm lost in a morass of meaningless references.

The exceptions are the poems about the bees. These, at least, I can understand and therefore appreciate. There is life and light and some understanding of both the insects and their keepers here.

As for the rest; I'm at a loss to understand the poet's reputation as foremost amongst those of her time. Whilst accepting that poetry is necessarily a personal experience set in the form of words employing descriptive language and often obtuse references that make for metaphor, I do expect to be able to take something from the verse apart from utter incomprehension. I read Dylan Thomas and know where I am and what it is I'm being told. I need no interpreter, no student's notes, no back history about the writer. But, without such guidance, these poems are, for me, just so many words.

If the poet intends to communicate feeling, mood, impressions in any manner that her readers will understand, then surely density, obfuscation and abstract reference must occasionally bow to clarity, mustn't they?

I fully understand that the disciples of these works and their creator will label me a philistine, an ignoramus, perhaps even a fool. In my defence, I would simply say that I read the entire anthology and was able to comprehend around ten of the eighty pages. That the poet was mostly living a troubled and despairing life is evident. But what she actually meant by the mass of the work presented here will remain a mystery to me.

I wonder if this is another of those writers who ranks with James Joyce and a few others as an object of admiration because the critics are terrified of appearing foolish should they admit to finding the work unintelligible. I recognise that the failing may well lie with me, but I'm unable to quite avoid the impression that somehow the literary world has allowed itself to be fooled in much the same way as the art world has accepted Damon Hirst's  biological specimens as works of art rather than the anatomical samples they are in reality.

Not a poet I shall read again. Disappointing and ultimately deeply unsatisfying. 

In Aid of Inshore Rescue

A friend of mine, Rick Sumner, has produced a slim volume of comic verse to be sold to raise funds for the local inshore rescue service. This maritime service has done sterling work over the years since it was first introduced, rescuing people in difficulties in the seas around the East Yorkshire town of Hornsea. If you'd like to obtain a copy, but don't get as far as Hornsea, here's the contact link.

And, by way of a tempter, here's an example of the verse:

 A very small fellow once stated
That he wanted his legs elongated
But when his friend Jack
Stretched him out on a rack
He screamed 'STOP, being tall's over rated.'

Rick's Rescue Rhymes can be purchased for the enormous outlay of £1.00 from Hornsea Inshore Rescue, or by post, by contacting Rick using the link above. For that service, there will be a small postal service, but all money raised goes to this excellent cause.

Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 8

If you've got this far, you don't need me interrupting with stuff you already know. Enjoy the read.

If you missed the start, here's the link to it: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html

Chapter 1 appeared on 13 January and following chapters appear each Friday. You can find them via the archive.

Read, enjoy, invite your friends.

Chapter 8

Wednesday 24th March

‘…Happy birthday to you.’

Abby seemed as much embarrassed as touched by our display. She blew out the candles on the cake Ma had baked and iced.

‘How old are you?’

She whispered, a secret, that she was twenty-two. ‘How old are you?’

‘I’ll be twenty one in a few months time.’

‘Twenty-one? What date, love?’ Ma seemed keen to know.

‘Some time in July or August, I think.’

Ma, Old Hodge, Abby and Leigh stared incredulously at me.

It was Leigh who asked. ‘You don’t know when your birthday is?’

‘Oh, I always put August the first on forms and things. But I don’t know the actual date.’

‘Have you never celebrated your birthday, love?’

‘No.’

‘Had a party?’

‘Never.’

‘Been to a party?’

I shook my head as Ma and Leigh exchange glances. ‘You will this year.’

Ma reached across and enfolded my hand in hers. ‘Apart from that useless father of yours, who knows your birthday date?’

‘Mother, I suppose. And probably Charity.’

There was a moment of total silence around the table. ‘It’s Abby’s birthday. Shouldn’t we be concentrating on her?’

Abby leant across and kissed my cheek. It was nice, but nothing like being kissed by Leigh. ‘You’re a weird, peculiar, funny woman, Fay, but, honey, you’ve got a heart of gold.’

We toasted Abby in white wine and wished her health and happiness. I sipped the pale gold liquid in my glass and liked it, so drank the rest.

‘Nice?’ Leigh smiled in a slightly mocking fashion.

‘Very.’

‘Not drunk wine before, have you, Fay?’

‘I do wish you’d call me Faith. And, no, I haven’t.’

Abby turned to Leigh. ‘You’ll not have such a straightforward time with this one, Leigh. Needs educating. And, obviously, she’s not into free love, or any kind of love, as far as I can tell. Won’t be sharing your bed for a long while.’

‘Ever!’

Leigh just grinned at my emphatic statement.

‘I mean it. Unless we were married, of course.’

I wondered why I had said that and whether I should have, but Leigh just smiled at me in that odd way he sometimes had and Abby, well, Abby shrugged her shoulders and stared at me as if she believed the exact opposite.

‘Once I’ve gone, you’ll be able to spend more time… Oh, it’s okay, Leigh, I knew you were working up to a split, but being the sentimental old fool you are, you didn’t want to tell me until after my birthday. I’m getting bored anyway; too easy to have my way with you. Time for pastures new. Des has been in touch and my liver’s hanging out for the cool of jazz and a spot of pot, so I’m scooting to his pad tomorrow.’

Leigh seemed not at all upset at her announcement, more disappointed in something else.

‘You’ve ditched the weed, Abby. Don’t take it up again for kicks, love, please.’

‘I’ve kicked the habit once, I can do it again. I ache for a fix, honey. Des is groovy but he doesn’t do it down below for me like you. Don’t begrudge me my lift.’

‘Suit yourself, Abby. But you know my views on coffin nails.’

She leant forward and squeezed his hand. ‘I know; Nosmo King rules here, okay. Relax, lover, it’s not going to happen to me. Anyway, what I propose for today, since I know you’ve nothing on, is…’

‘Not yet, but I’m sure he’ll be that way as soon as you’re ready.’ I blushed, horrified by what I had said. But they all just laughed as if I had cracked a joke.

‘As I was saying, I think you and I should have a final session on the project. You said you wanted me for the window cleaning shots. It’s a nice day, for the inside shots. And, now the walkers are on the scene, we might entertain them by using the French windows in the library.’

‘Exhibitionist.’

Abby turned to Ma and nodded. ‘If you’ve got it, flaunt it. They’ll not be able to identify me from the stile in the bottom field but they’ll be almost sure we’re almost naked and it’ll give them something better to talk about than their boots.’

‘Will you need me, Leigh?’

‘Doubt it. I’ll use natural light with reflectors, as I have for the rest of the project. If you wouldn’t mind bringing a couple in from the studio and taking them to the library...?’

I stood, confused for a moment, before shaking my head and leaving for the studio. I had no idea where to find the library. I shrugged; there were not many rooms to choose from after all.

Leigh’s final session with Abby in front of the camera lasted all afternoon; he was gathering pictures of part clothed or naked women doing housework for some sort of arty book he called ‘a coffee table book’, though I wasn’t sure what that was. I imagine they had carnal knowledge of each other as well.

The following morning, long after Leigh had left for Harrogate, Abby appeared in the office with her bags. I looked at her in her lemon crop top that hugged her breasts so closely that her nipples protruded. Lilac bellbottom hipsters fitted tightly to her thighs and buttocks. Her feet were shod in bright red platforms of glossy mock patent and her right wrist held a dozen assorted bangles that clinked as she moved.

She sauntered to the leather seat behind Leigh’s desk, sat down and lifted her feet onto the desk. ‘Call me a taxi, honey.’

‘Okay, you’re a taxi.’

‘Ho-di-ho. Positively antediluvian, sweetie.’

I ordered the taxi and asked for the destination, which Abby gave me. When I had finished on the phone, I stared across at the woman who had shared Leigh’s bed for as long as I had known him. ‘Aren’t you sad you’re going?’

‘Easy come, easy go. Leigh and I are free spirits. It’s been fun and the best sex ever. But all good things… In any case, and hear me here, Fay, never let a man get under your skin. They’re shits by and large. Leigh’s hip and fun and he screws with a rod of hot steel but he’s just a man. Get liberated, honey. Live your own life, get in the groove but make sure it’s your groove. Hey, man, lighten up and get easy.’

I shrugged. ‘I expect I might understand half of what you say eventually, Abby, but I wish you’d speak English.’ I wondered why she had suddenly taken to talking in this peculiar fashion but I knew better than to ask. ‘The taxi will be here in half an hour. I never realized you lived so far away; I always thought you were local.’

‘Fay, you’re so parochial; just the end. It’s only the other side of Garsington for Pete’s sake. Any case, I don’t live there, my pad’s over the other side of the Dale in Wharfsden. Where I’m going is this hip joint where a groovy guy who digs jazz and pot hangs out. He’s been freaked by me since the beginning, so I thought I’d just, you know, drop in and drop out for a while.’

I shook my head and wondered if it would be rude of me to get on with my work. Abby had other ideas.

‘Let me fill you in on some heavy news, honey. When the time comes to hone the bone the first time, don’t close the canyon and hold your breath. Just loosen up and welcome in the joy horn, breathe easy, pant, and ride it. That way it won’t hurt at all, I guarantee.’

I thought I had probably been given some valuable advice but was both too shy and too polite to ask for an explanation so smiled, nodded and said, ‘Thank you, I will.’

‘Final word. Leigh’s your guy for the first ride. He’s got hands that take you to the stars and he licks like for paradise. He’s the only guy I’ve had who not only knows what a clit is but doesn’t have to hunt it. Hits the spot every time.’

I became vaguely aware that all this was to do with sex. It was a concept outside my personal knowledge and experience, though I knew Abby and Leigh fornicated all the time and evidently enjoyed it. Now, it seemed, there was some strange, esoteric language involved. It was another reason to avoid an activity my father described as destructive and harmful as well as addictive.

The taxi arrived and I helped Abby load her bags onto the back seat as the driver sat inside, smoking. She got in and asked him what it would cost. It sounded a lot to me.

‘Flash the cash, honey. Leigh says to take it out of petty cash.’

‘I don’t think Leigh would expect me to pay for your taxi …’

‘Calling me a liar, honey?’

I had no idea what was best. In the end I thought I had better pay as she said and ask Leigh when he came back. I just hoped he would not be too cross if I had chosen wrongly. He could be funny about money sometimes.

When Abby had gone, I caught up with the paperwork so that I had finished before lunch.

In the kitchen, Ma opened the topic that had started the previous day. ‘Do you have anything to do with your mother, Faith?’

Old Hodge was at the table already and watching me with interest. I liked the Hodges; they were kind, warm and affectionate. They made me feel wanted and safe and valued. Father made me feel unwanted, unworthy, stupid and a burden. My mother… ‘I used to write occasionally but I never got a reply. Father says she’s a whore, but then he says all women are so I don’t suppose that helps. She left me behind when she took Charity because she thought me ugly and stupid. Charity’s grown up now; I’d like to meet her but I don’t know anything about her really.’

‘Just a thought; why not write to your mother from here and give Longhouse as your address? She’s bound to be curious. You could ask her when your birthday is, as well.’

‘Why should she reply here, Ma, when she never does at home?

Ma looked at Old Hodge. He took my hand and held it between both of his. His fingers were strong and gnarled but his touch was soft and welcoming. ‘What Ma’s suggesting, love, is that perhaps your Mum did reply but your father didn’t want you to hear what she had to say.’

‘Father would never…Oh!’ It had not occurred to me before. He always either met the post woman or demanded I give him the post unopened. Not that there was ever very much; a couple of large plain envelopes, quite heavy, with foreign stamps every month and others I assumed must be bills by his manner when he opened them. ‘Why would he not want me to know what she has to say?’

‘Perhaps he’s not always told you the truth?’

‘Father always tells the truth!’ I pulled my hand free from Old Hodge, startled by his accusation and expecting to feel an anger that never came. Instead, and unaccountably, I burst into tears. Old Hodge put his arm round me and uttered soothing words as he stroked my shoulders and back.

Afterwards, calm and collected again, I explained how Father’s behaviour during Leigh’s visit had unsettled me. He had seemed afraid of Leigh, deferential and condescending, even telling lies. This was so out of character for a man I knew as violently opinionated. Father, I explained was a difficult man, hard and sometimes brutal in his search for what he considered truth and duty and the true service of God. I always tried to do as he commanded but I had discovered things that made some of what he told me seem doubtful.

‘Father seems to hold opinions and beliefs that most other people don’t agree with. He’s always told me that other people’s views don’t matter because they’re all sinners and they’ll burn in Hell. But I look around me and I see good people, I see people who love and are loved, people who care, people who say and do things to make life better for others and I’m so confused and…’

‘Do you believe you’re stupid, Faith?’

‘Father does. Most people do.’

Old Hodge lifted the ever-present cap and scratched his bald head. He looked at Ma and apparently received the encouragement he sought. ‘You’re a bright, intelligent, young woman, Faith. Ma and I think so, and Leigh. And, by now, if you talk to most of the villagers, you’ll find they treat you with more respect.’

I had noticed people seemed to smile at me in the street and sometimes even spoke. ‘Why?’

‘Because,’ Ma told me, as she dished out the meal, ‘Old Hodge and I, and Leigh, have been telling them the truth. We’ve been undoing the years of lies put out by your father.’

‘What lies?’

‘Why, Faith, when you’re so obviously bright and clever, do you think folk call you an idiot?’

‘I’m ignorant and...’

‘Ignorant, maybe. Ignorant in the sense that you only know what your father’s allowed you to know. He’s spent your entire life telling people that you’re stupid. Tell people something often enough and they’ll believe it in spite of the evidence. Of course, your clothes haven’t helped.’

‘Why? Why would father do that?’

‘That’s something you’ll have to discover for yourself. One thing I do know, though and that is you’re not a fool, you’re not an idiot, you’re not stupid, Faith. You’re simply innocent and naive. And we can do something about that.’

When Leigh arrived home, rather later than expected, I was in the library. ‘Knew I’d find you in here if you weren’t in the office. Now you’ve discovered it, you can’t keep away, can you?’

‘I’m sorry, Leigh. I’d finished everything there was to do in the office and I thought I might be able to learn something of use in here, that’s all.’

‘Don’t apologize. In fact, from now on, you’re to spend some of every day in here. I want you to read as much as you can. If you finish your work early, come in here and pick up a book until I’m ready to take you home. It’s the only way you’re going to catch up on your education and increase your knowledge of the real world. It wouldn’t hurt if you watched a bit of telly, either. Trouble is you’re at home when the good stuff’s on. I’d love to see your reaction to some of the current sitcoms. I’m sure you’d find Frank Spencer amusing, and The Good Life. And Morecambe and Wise would definitely make you laugh.’

I had only had a glimpse of a television in operation, as I passed a cottage in the village. There was one in the sitting room, crouching in the corner between the fire and window, with its great grey screen staring into the room. I had no real idea what it held but most people seemed to enjoy it. Father was violently opposed to it and I wondered what wickedness it portrayed to deserve his severe sanction.

One day, perhaps, I would see some of what it had to offer and then I might judge for myself and decide whether Father was right or wrong. The significance of that thought hit me hard.

‘Are you all right, Faith?’

‘Is it normal for children to believe what they’re told by their parents?’

He sat opposite me. ‘Depends on the parents and the child, Faith.’ For a while, he struggled to make up his mind about something. ‘In your case, I can only say that you’re singularly more intelligent than your father. If you want my opinion, and you did ask me, I suggest you question and doubt everything he’s ever told you. And I do mean everything.’

It was too much, of course. I was steeped in Father’s opinions and rules and ideas. I had none of my own and precious little information to form any. But I had learned that Father’s view of the world was violently different from almost everyone else I knew. I looked about me and saw that most people had periods of contentment and even occasional happiness. Father was habitually morose.

On balance, whether he was right or wrong seemed not to be the point. I asked myself whether I wanted to be happy or miserable for the rest of my life and I knew the answer even as I posed the question. But that opened huge questions and threatened life-changing answers for which I was not ready.

I found myself seeking the mundane, the ordinary, in order to avoid the turmoil caused by my questions. ‘Leigh, Abby asked me to pay for her taxi out of petty cash. Was that all right?’

‘An enigma. That’s what you are, Faith Heacham. A puzzling, fascinating, exasperating, endearing, frustrating, attractive, idiosyncratic, marvellous enigma. And, yes, it was perfectly okay to pay for Abby’s taxi from petty cash. I suggested it, but I forgot to tell you. Sorry. Come on, little Miss Enigmatic, time I took you home to that monster of a father of yours. Though, God knows why you stay with him.’

His words so surprised me that I was incapable of speaking sensibly, so said nothing. I thought about how he had described me and what he had said about me staying with Father. That raised terrifying, exciting possibilities that made my head spin. I could not cope with such ideas and again sought refuge in my surroundings and things familiar.

Early spring sunlight dappled Leigh’s hair as we passed under the greening trees. I found myself looking at him and thinking how attractive he was. Another thought too disturbing to allow.

‘Ever been to York?’ His question came unexpectedly and startled me with its apparent irrelevance.

‘York?’

‘York.’

‘I’ve never been out of the Dale, Leigh. I’ve been to the village, Longhouse, and to a secret tarn up above the cottage. Nowhere else.’

He shook his head in disbelief, though our enthusiastic discussions of his landscapes must have revealed how little I knew of our local geography.

‘Warn your damned father you’ll be late home on Monday night.’

‘I think you’re more likely to be damned than Father.’

‘As likely, I suspect, but for different reasons.’

That raised more questions than I could face with my mind already whirling. ‘Why will I be late on Monday night?’

‘We’re going to York for the day.’

‘You’ve got a job in Leeds.’

‘Tuesday?’

‘You’ve promised George you’ll have the proofs ready for the calendar by last thing Tuesday.’

‘Wednesday?’

‘Nothing that won’t wait.’

‘Wednesday, then. We’re spending the day in York on Wednesday. I want you in your best togs. Be as adventurous as you like. And have a pair of stout town shoes as well as something for evening wear with you. Do your hair and put a face on. We’re going to do the town, you and I.’

I was excited and frightened. ‘Father won’t allow me home later than seven.’

‘Father will do as I say, if he wants you to stay in my employ and get paid. Try that on him. Your father understands the language of money, even if he’s deaf to every other normal plea.’

Leigh stopped at the village shop for me to collect bread and milk. It was such a habit now that he just did it as a matter of course, occasionally coming in with me to buy a magazine or paper or some of Ma’s favourite sweets. Mrs Greenhough was much more respectful to me now and I noticed she treated Leigh with great politeness even when he pulled her leg, which he did most of the time.

At the bottom of the steep track that led to the cottage, he stopped the car and got out to open my door.

‘Why are you taking me to York?’

‘Need a new typewriter. That old manual’s had its day. Time to invest in an electronic model, I think.’

‘Will that take all day?’

‘An hour, at the outside.’

‘Will it take us a long time to get there?’

‘It’s about an hour and a half each way, why?’

‘You said we’d be all day and not get home till late.’

‘That’s right. See you Monday. Have a good weekend.’

‘Aren’t you in tomorrow?’

‘Sorry, should’ve told you, but it only came up a short while after I got back. I’ve got to go and see someone over the weekend and I’ll be setting off early tomorrow morning. Family thing. Sort of emergency but I expect it’ll come to nothing. It usually does. Look, have the day off. Take a day’s holiday. Paid, of course.’

‘Thank you, Leigh, but I’d rather go to Longhouse.’

He looked at me for a long time. ‘If you must. But set off late and leave early. Spend your time reading. Better still; write that letter to your mother. I mean it. See you on Monday.’

And he returned to the car and drove off. He seemed rather distracted as he left for his family crisis. And I realized I knew very little about him and absolutely nothing about his family, except that he had once had an Uncle Fred who had lived in Longhouse.

I waited for the sound of his car to die away before turning to climb the rough track to the cottage. I was a little earlier than usual and hoped Father would be pleasantly surprised to see me.

###

You've got this far. Seems unlikely you'll stop now. But, if you do get impatient waiting, you know where to look to buy the book.

Web site: http://stuartaken.co.uk
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An Interview with Leighton from Breaking Faith.

I had a piece from Faith a short while ago. Thought I should restore balance by letting Leigh have his say. 

Leigh: Seems a bit odd, you interviewing me, when you invented me, Stuart.

SA: I know, but I'd like to give my readers a bit more insight.

Leigh: Readers matter, then, do they?

SA: They're the writer's lifeblood. Without them, the whole of the activity would be pretty meaningless.

Leigh: Bit insulting on us characters, isn't it? That attitude, I mean. I do have feelings, you know. In fact, you of all people, should know I have deep emotions.

SA: Fair point, Leigh. But you must also realise that you're a figment of my imagination, whilst the readers are real people. They have to have precedence in the mind and world of the writer.

Leigh: Fair enough. But it still makes me feel a bit like a spare part here. Anyroad, what did you want to know?

SA: Can we first get over the fact that I invented you and therefore know all there is to know about you? I'm not asking these questions for myself but for my readers. Okay?

Leigh: You're the boss.

SA: Perhaps you'd tell us which book you appear in?

Leigh: I'm the male protagonist, you might say 'hero' in that romantic thriller you wrote; Breaking Faith. By the way, I have to thank you for those great women you gave me to interact with. Had a great time with some of them; well, most of them, actually. And…

SA: Sorry to interrupt. It's great you want to talk this way, but I've a couple more questions to ask first, if that's okay?

Leigh: Right fire away. Though this was supposed to my gig…

SA: So it is. But if you could offer me some advice, what would you say to me?

Leigh: Honest, no holds barred?

SA: Express yourself.

Leigh: Well, there were times early on I thought you made me look pretty shallow. Of course, you let me develop as the story developed, but I felt I was perceived as a bit superficial to begin with.

SA: That's because you were being described through the eyes of Faith, and she had a very limited and specific world view.

Leigh: Fair comment.

SA: So, how do you feel about the way readers perceive you at the end of the story?

Leigh: Ah, well, by that time they know a lot more about me. I think I come across as a well-rounded bloke. I mean my initial obsessions, yes, I admit it's obsession, with naked women and sex, is modified by the way I grow to feel about Faith (this won't spoil things for readers who haven't yet read the book, will it?) and people get to know what really drives me, what really matters to me. I know I can come across to some as a bit too keen on getting their knickers off, but I really do love women. I mean, by that, that I love them in all their forms, all their ways. Look at the way a woman's put together. What better design for a living beauty can you imagine? Oh, I know we're all driven by our biological imperative, our need to pass on our genes and ensure they survive, but there's a lot more to it than that.

That's the trouble with the scientists; they reduce everything to rational causes, when we all know that feeling is a vital part of our make-up as well. And I, for one, don't subscribe to the school of thought that says our emotions are nothing more than sublimation of that damned biological imperative. Reducing us to chemical reactions is an insult to the race, don't you think?

As for those bloody godbotherers; well, they make my blood boil. Look, the early human race had no idea about what caused most things to happen. They lived in a world populated by wild and hungry predators, in a world where the climate and the environment were anything but friendly to them. They suffered earthquakes and forest fires, floods and droughts. No wonder they sought some reason for their plight. No wonder they came up with various different deities to explain the inexplicable. In those days, before science and rational thought developed, there was no other way they could make sense of their world.

But to continue these bloody myths into the modern world, when we know so much more about how the world and life work, seems to me to be nothing short of perverse. And, as soon as rational thought became widespread it was only a matter of time before some clever sod would pervert those beliefs in whatever gods were native at the time into methods of controlling the rest of the population. That's what religion is, after all: a control tool for despots and bullies. It's got about as much to do with spiritual wellbeing as a thistle up your arse.

Mind you, that doesn't mean I'm necessarily on the side of the scientists. Seems to me that a lot of what they have to say is open to debate as well. I know the best of them are open-minded and willing to be persuaded. But there's a good few who stick as doggedly to their theories and hypotheses as those bloody godbotherers do to their dogmas. Like to see a bit more doubt, a bit more humility, a bit more of an acceptance that we don't know the answer to everything and probably never will. Bloody good thing, too, if you ask me. I mean, can you imagine the arrogance of a human race that held all the answers? We'd be fucking impossible. It's the worst thing that could happen to us as a race, don't you think?

SA: Well, thank you for that, Leigh. You have some pretty wild ideas, don't you?

Leigh: Wild? I don't think so. But I guess I do get a bit passionate about things that matter to me. Why shouldn't I? The leaders in society, of whatever leaning or calling, have plenty of opportunities to have their say. It's not often the rest of us get a look-in, is it?

SA: If I could just return to the book for a moment? I'd be interested to know how you came to employ that sod, Mervyn?

Leigh: Ah. Merv the perv. In many ways I was as guilty of attempted conversion with him as Faith was with me in the initial days and weeks. I took him on for practical reasons: my workload was such that I couldn't afford to spend as much time in the darkroom as I needed to turn out the work I was producing. Merv had a natural skill with the chemical and physical processes. He'd absolutely no imagination, of course, but he was able to follow my lead and soon learned what I did and didn't need from him. Let's be honest, as a man he was a bastard, but as a printer…well, I'd never have found a better one. Once I'd got him in Longhouse, I tried to work on him and change his attitude to women, people in general, I suppose. Waste of time, of course, but that was my hope and intention.

SA: And your attitude to glamour photography; how did Faith influence that?

Leigh: Initially, I thought she was just a prude with some distorted view of nudity gleaned from her upbringing by that shithouse, Heacham. But when I really thought about what she had to say, she actually made sense. As you know, I stopped doing the glamour work completely and only did full nudes after that. Like Faith said, real art requires absolute honesty. I've her to thank for showing me that truth.

SA: Well, Leigh, thank you for your time and your thoughts. It's been most interesting.

Leigh; You're welcome. I hope the readers have got something out of it. Maybe some of them will understand where I'm coming from a bit better, eh?

SA: Perhaps. Let's hope they comment and then see what they say, shall we?

Why do people believe you when you say there are over four billion stars, but check when you tell them the paint is wet?