The 6th Target, by James Patterson, Reviewed

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.

The Week and What I've Done With It

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....

Reading Fiction Stimulates Brain Activity

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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.

How Does A Writer Move You?

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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 tells the 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.

Contribution to Mankind, by Linda Acaster, Reviewed

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.

The Secret Life of Bletchley Park, Reviewed.

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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.

Continuing the #NaNoWriMo Challenge.

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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.

The Editing Process and Why I Enjoy It.

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 grammatical accuracy, 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?

The #NaNoWriMo Challenge Revisited.

So, what has the last week held for me with regard to writing?

I was reading Plato's The Republic and discovered it held references to a number of themes I'd touched on in the novel I drafted in November for the NaNoWriMo challenge. It was clear that it would help me with the editing if I finished reading Plato's work before I started. So, this week I finished reading and then reviewed The Republic.

I wrote another post for the blog, a piece about emotion in writing that will appear on 26 January.

I revisited two short stories; one a piece of erotica that I'm still unsure about placing, though it's a finished tale now. The other was a dystopian science fiction piece, which I'm still considering for submission. Can't make up my mind whether to send it to a contest (there are plenty listed under the 'Writing Contests' tab above, so I've no excuse on that score) or to one of the many magazines (Duotrope, of which I'm a member, lists over 3,770 journals that take stories or poetry, so no excuse there, either).

And, I finally made a start on the editing process of the NaNoWriMo novel. My first read through is a simple one, highlighting anything obvious that needs attention but without actually making any alterations. I've done the first five chapters so far. Of course, there's a lot of work to do before it'll be ready for publication, but I'm enjoying the work and surprised at just how good some of the text is, considering the speed with which I produced this first draft. More on that as I progress.

I've also done a little work on various websites I visit, some of the social networking sites I belong to, and have read this month's Writing Mag, highlighting those portions I need to revisit. The current Writers' Digest is still only half read, though.

So, that's the end of this writing week. Let's see what the new one brings.

The picture is a reminder of the summer to come; something to warm you in this cold part of the year.

Breaking News - Price Drop on Kindle Ebooks

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Due to some information from a friend, who also writes, I've just discovered that Luxembourg has reduced the VAT on book to 3%. So what? Well, apparently, Amazon UK operate out of Luxembourg, so that means all the ebooks on there have now reduced in price. An excellent oportunity to fill up that Christmas Kindle with new books at even better prices.






You'll find mine at http://www.amazon.co.uk/Stuart-Aken/e/B002WTJ3VE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1
Pay a visit and pay less for the reads; none of my ebooks is more than £2.00 now.

The Republic, by Plato, Reviewed.

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This classic, in the true sense of the word, was written by Plato some time after the execution of his admired narrator, Socrates, in 399BC. The supposed dramatic setting for the narrative is around 420BC.

Taking the form of a discussion between Socrates and friends, the work is a philosophical treatise founded on the theme of justice. It touches, along the way, many other aspects of life and thought and can be seen to be a foundation stone in the building of Western thought, politics and ideas.

That Plato wrote in an era when slavery was not only accepted but was an everyday normality, and where women were perceived as inferior beings, permeates the text for a modern reader. There are many places where I felt like grabbing the narrator, and his fellow conversationalists, by the metaphorical lapels and shaking them out of their complacency over these two issues. But that is more a reflection of my attitudes about these issues than of the quality of the writing.

I started reading this tome, which requires a good deal of concentration, before Xmas and the season rather interrupted the serious read. But I became determined to finish the book before starting on the editing of the novel I'd written the preceding November (NaNoWriMo challenge for those interested). The reason was that it immediately became clear that The Republic deals with many of the themes I included in my novel and I wanted to see what this seminal work had to say on these ideas.

The ideas expressed are remarkably contemporary in many cases. I was surprised by references to personality, character, political systems and religion that I'd previously considered to be relatively modern. There were times when I completely forgot that this book was written almost 2,500 years ago.

What I found most disturbing, however, were some of the theories and philosophical ideas that have clearly been responsible for the way we think and live today in the Western world. That some of these ideas have been distorted, misunderstood, partially comprehended or, in some cases, deliberately taken out of context, to justify certain modern political decisions became clearer as I read. I understood, for the first time, some of the classical references I've come across in life and many of the underlying reasons for our current way of life became obvious. It's clear that many of our current leaders are steeped in the arguments put forward in this narrative. The teaching of the classics is, of course, fundamental to the education supplied by most private schools. That it isn't generally included in the curricula of state schools is equally clear. I'm not a lover of conspiracy theory, but it's difficult to avoid the conclusion that there has been a deliberate policy of discouraging the reading of such books as this, lest the general populace become aware of what leaders have always known.

It's impossible to do justice to this text in the space of a simple review. I can only suggest that those who have the intellectual stamina and the necessary curiosity about the nature of thought and life read this book. There is much that the modern reader will deplore, disagree with and denigrate. The benefit of living long after the work was completed provides us with a greater understanding of many things that must have been mysteries to Plato and his contemporaries. But the fundamentals of his thesis on politics, rule and the actions of leaders and the general populace are sound.

Those who love the superficial and the easy will find this book indigestible but those who like depth, provocation of the grey cells and stimulus for the imagination and curiosity will find this a singularly rewarding read. I thoroughly recommend it.

Writing: the Pen or the Keyboard?

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Writers are a funny bunch. We each have our own self-imposed rules, routines, favourites and hates. I know of authors who can no more create at the keyboard than they can lay an egg. But my method of composition now depends utterly on the keyboard. This is despite the fact that I can't touch type and use only two fingers (not those two!) and a thumb (either will do, I'm not prejudiced). I have to look at the keyboard as I write and then glance at the screen, with Word's spelling correction thingy open so it underlines any typos I make as I go along. I make a lot of ytops so I really should do something about it.

I should learn to touch type, of course.

In fact, I spent a fortnight doing just that, about 700 years ago, on a manual typewriter, and became quite proficient by the end of the course. Unfortunately, events jumped up and down on my ambition at the time and, having finished the course, I never went near a keyboard again for over two years. By that time, I'd forgotten everything I'd learned and went back to my three digit approach. It's not too bad; I can manage about 45 words a minute, when I'm really going. But I'd be much better off if I could touch type. One day, perhaps…

I don't dare write in script. I was clearly meant to be either a genius or a doctor, because my handwriting is all but indecipherable, even to me! Where did it all go wrong? The bit about being a genius or a doctor, I mean. As for the handwriting, well I have a small excuse that I was one of the lucky few who, following the end of World War II (I'm not that old that I have any personal connection with WWI), I was part of the generation who went to school during the continuing paper shortage. So, I learned to write, at age five, using a framed slate panel and a lead scriber. We complain about Health and Safety rules these days, but at least our kids don't learn using intimate contact with poisonous metals, eh? I was still in the early days of this initial learning when I contracted Scarlet Fever. I recall the ambulance, with its ringing bell (yes, a bell, not a siren) rushing me to the local hospital on Christmas Eve. There, I spent six weeks in an isolation ward, along with umpteen other patients, of all ages and both genders, suffering other contagious illnesses. Another six weeks off school, after I was discharged, meant I'd fallen seriously behind my fellow pupils when I returned to school a few weeks before my sixth birthday. I never caught up. So, that's my excuse for the poor handwriting.

But, in spite of my dyslexic fingers, the keyboard serves me well. Thank heavens for the speedy ability to right wrongs there. I repair spelling errors on the fly, but never actually read what I've written until I reach the end of a piece, no matter whether that piece is a tweet, a short story or a novel. Then I return to the beginning and correct, edit, replace and cut wherever necessary. Unlike many writers, I actively enjoy the editing process. The creative part, which I do at tearing pace, flying through the paragraphs like a demented racehorse set free from its jockey, I love. The making up of lives, events, lands, and all the other story elements feeds that part of me where the imagination dwells.

In my early days, I did actually write in longhand and then transposed the work to type on a manual typewriter; a process that took more time than the composition, usually because I couldn't read my own writing and had to decipher words to make sense of it. I used the less than perfect Tippex to deal with the odd typo. Later, I progressed to an electronic machine with a correction ribbon; a real boon. But, in those days before the word processor and computer printer, any re-arrangement of a sentence involved retyping an entire page and, sometimes, an entire chapter. Publishers required pristine text without alterations, so it could take a long time, much patience, and an entire forest to turn out a manuscript that an agent or editor would accept.

Paper wasn't generally recycled back then, so the waste bin overflowed with screwed up pages. These days, we wait until everything appears perfect on the screen before committing the work to paper. But even that isn't foolproof: every writer understands that editing on paper is far more likely to throw up errors than doing the same job on the computer screen. But, at least, it's simpler to correct now, and it isn't often necessary to reprint the entire work simply because of a few errors.

So, I compose at the keyboard, correct on screen, print in draft and re-edit using a pen, and then I transfer the changes to the file and reprint in 'best' mode to send my work off to editors and agents. I print, as required by the industry, on one side only of the paper, with wide margins. I mean, what's it matter if I still use a forest to achieve this level of perfect presentation? All that matters is that the reading professional will have no reason to reject the piece without even bothering to read it. After all, competition is tough out there. It's good to know that they'll have a pristine piece of work to view before they reject it without reading; makes the whole process so much more worthwhile, don't you think?

A question for you to ponder: Why are you IN a movie, but ON TV?

Short Term Offer

Just to let you know, I recently - i.e. today, answered a query on LinkedIn relating to how an ebook could be offered free. To illustrate how it's done, I produced a coupon for my anthology Ten Tales for Tomorrow, which allows the user to download the book free from Smashwords in any ebook format. Thought I should share that with the readers of my blog. So, if you want to take advantage just use the code - SC28Q - when you go to this link
 http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stuartaken
and select the book. Just enter the code and you'll get the book free. But this is only available until 1 February. If you wait any later, you'll have to make me much richer by paying the regular price of $0.99 or £0.65. You have been warned!

Writing, Reading, Blogging.

Image via Wikipedia

So, the first week of the New Year is over, done, gone. And what have I achieved? Well, I've updated my Writing Contests page, which takes a bit of work and time. I've written three lengthy posts for the blog, the first of which has appeared and the next of which will appear on Thursday. The free read for the novel seems to be meeting with some good reaction; Chapter 1 will appear on Friday, now that the Prologue has featured.

I've completed my 'To Read' page on both Goodreads, and on my blog here; see the tab above. A deliberate exercise aimed at getting me to stick to my intention of reading an average of 1 book a week. Of course, I haven't finished the book I was already reading, but Plato's The Republic is hardly a quick read. And, incidentally, is the reason I haven't yet started to edit the novel I wrote during the NaNoWriMo challenge in November. Having come to this book late in life, I wish I'd read it 35 years ago. It contains so many of the themes I use in the novel that I've decided I need to finish reading it before I start on the editing. So, that's the priority task now.

Watch this space: I'll be doing a short run-down like this each Sunday.

Read Free; My Novel Here.

Prologue of Breaking Faith.

A little over 3 years ago, I published my first novel, Breaking Faith, as a paperback, through YouWriteOn, an Arts Council sponsored publisher. On 24 October 2010 I published it as an ebook through Smashwords.

Those who've read the book have enjoyed it: read some of their comments below. I'd like more people to read the book. That is, after all, why I write; to be read.

So, I'm offering the chance for everyone to read it free, here on the blog. I'll post a section of the book each Friday until the whole novel has appeared. Here's the first part, the Prologue. Read, enjoy, tell your friends. The more who read, the happier we'll be.

What others have said about

Breaking Faith

...I could not believe how determined this book was to make me read it...set in the summer of 1976, it details Faith’s journey from isolation, deprivation and abuse...to enlightenment...A shocking but captivating story...’ Shirley Mace

I read this book in one sitting, unwilling to put it down, immersed in Faith’s journey from darkness to self-knowledge. The characters drawn with a fine brush...The denouement is sudden, violent and completely satisfying. Mr P. F. Field

...a story of triumphant human spirit. The novel simmers with heat, lust, decadence and sexuality...Stuart Aken is indeed a writer to watch. Karen Wolfe, author.

Prologue

I had to wait when I went to collect bread and milk from our village store. The owner was serving the man that Father called ‘the Devil’s Henchman’. He said some really dreadful things to her but she laughed as I had never heard her laugh before. When he left the shop, she frowned at me.

‘What d’you want, girl?’

‘Father says Leighton Longshaw is evil, Mrs Greenhough. But he was making you laugh.’

She twisted her mouth into an ugly shape and sighed. ‘Your good-for-nothing father’s a hypocritical fool, girl. And you’re just a fool; plain and simple.’ She smiled as if she thought she had said something clever. ‘What do you want?’

‘Father says I’m to tell you I start work at the Dairy next week and can he have a bit of credit until I get my first wages, please? We’ve run out of sugar for his tea, you see.’

She almost threw a bag of sugar at me. ‘You’ll pay as soon as you’ve got your wages, girl. Though, God knows what sort of job an idiot like you’s going to get.’

I bowed my head, as Father had taught me, and took the bag back home. On the way, I passed a cottage with the door open. There was a thing I had never seen before in the far corner of the room. It had moving pictures on it and I was so surprised to see this that I actually stopped and watched to see if it was true. It was only a few seconds before the man who lived there saw me.

‘Bugger off, cretin.’ He started to shut the door.

His wife came and peered at me. She frowned. ‘Oh, it’s only that Heacham girl. She can’t help it, George; probably never seen a telly before, livin’ with that ne’er-do-well father of hers. Shouldn’t yell at her; she’s simple.’ She turned to me, her face firm but not unkind. ‘Off you go, Faith, there’s a good girl. It’s not nice to peer into people’s houses, you know.’

As I moved away, Leighton Longshaw walked past me in the street. He was a tall man with the happiest eyes I have ever seen, a mop of dark hair and a beard. And he smiled at me. Smiled. I remember because no one ever smiled at me; people generally scowled. Because I was schooled at home, by Father, and lived outside the village in an isolated cottage, I had no friends I could ask about why this bad man should smile at me so nicely. When I got home, I mentioned it to Father but he warned me to have nothing to do with him.

‘Keep well away from him, girl! Evil beyond your worst nightmares. That man’s trouble through and through. You better not have done owt to encourage him or I’ll have to scourge you, girl.’

‘I just passed him in the street, Father.’

‘Make sure that’s all you ever do with Leighton Longshaw, girl. Now get my tea.’

I never argued with Father, of course. But I did think the man’s smile had been kind and friendly. It was such an unusual event for me and it left me feeling the sort of joy I only knew when I was up at the tarn; swimming or watching the birds flying. I very much wanted to experience it again.

Now, of course, whilst I want people to read the book, it would be even better if they were to buy it. So, if you can't wait until next week's instalment, check the links below, which will take you to a place you can make your purchase, either as a paperback or an ebook, depending on your preference.

            Sample or buy as Ebook: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stuartaken
            Barnes & Noble - Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Breaking-Faith/Stuart-Aken/e/2940011126079

            Amazon paperback or Kindle To buy from USA Amazon

            Amazon paperback or Kindle To buy from UK Amazon

Apple idevice:

United Kingdom: http://itunes.apple.com/gb/book/isbn9781849233149

USA: http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/isbn9781849233149

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Malta: http://itunes.apple.com/mt/book/isbn9781849233149

Netherlands: http://itunes.apple.com/nl/book/isbn9781849233149

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Poland: http://itunes.apple.com/pl/book/isbn9781849233149

Portugal: http://itunes.apple.com/pt/book/isbn9781849233149

Romania: http://itunes.apple.com/ro/book/isbn9781849233149

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Spain: http://itunes.apple.com/es/book/isbn9781849233149

Sweden: http://itunes.apple.com/se/book/isbn9781849233149

Switzerland: http://itunes.apple.com/ch/book/isbn9781849233149

Web site: http://stuartaken.co.uk
Tweet with me: http://twitter.com/@stuartaken
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Organic Change or Stability in English?

Language, they say, with some justification, is organic. And, in common with organic structures everywhere, it must grow, develop and experiment with variations, or die. Many of the world's small languages have disappeared, often because their speakers and users refused to adapt to the changes imposed by the developing world. English, considered the most widely spoken language on this extraordinary planet of ours, has some champions who would subject it to the sort of purity that will ultimately suffocate it. On the other hand, there are those who stretch the meanings of words until they become meaningless.

To be a useful method of communication, language needs to maintain some stability. A common example of the changes imposed on English in the relatively recent past concerns the word 'wicked'. Initially stemming from the Old English 'wicca' or the female version, 'wicce', and then evolving into 'witch', this word was initially all about badness and malevolence. Though, even as early as the 17^th century it could be taken as meaning 'playfully mischievous or roguish'. Last century, it took on the exact opposite meaning and came to convey the ideas of 'good, brilliant, wonderful' in the mouths of youth.

At the time, I recall being disturbed by this reversal of meaning, which appeared to have the effect of turning communication upside down and causing confusion. But the period of bewilderment proved short and it was soon evident that context would make the intended meaning clear, often depending on who was actually using the word. It continues today to have the meanings of both 'bad' and 'good'. As such, it ought to be an obstacle to comprehension but, except in the most clumsy cases, its meaning is generally obvious from its usage.

Had we employed the same sort of language police as the French have for centuries, the new meaning of the word would have been prevented and the language made poorer by its lack. English, because of its global appeal, is not only able to absorb such changes but actually seems to welcome them. We are blessed with a wide vocabulary with many words borrowed, stolen or high-jacked from other languages. This gives us, as writers, the ability to express our ideas with some niceness (I use the word in its sense of 'accuracy'). If we wish to express an idea for which there's no real English word, we can employ one from a foreign language, knowing that in most cases it will be both understood and accepted. So, to express the idea that a girl is in a state of romantic attachment to a man she intends to marry, we call her a 'fiancée', borrowing the term from our cousins over the Channel. And, is there an English equivalent for that wonderfully expressive German word, 'Schadenfreude'? (For those who don't know, it means enjoying, in a malicious way, the misfortune of another.)

Our common language, evolving from influences of Latin, early French, ancient Greek, the dialects of the Norse invaders, Celtic and Germanic origins, has borrowed words from all over the world. The days when Great Britain ruled a vast empire ensured that we collected many exotic words from lands as diverse as India, Tasmania, Borneo, Argentina, China and Egypt to mention but a few. With the development of the early United States of America, when peoples from all over Europe mingled with the native populations they eventually displaced, many more words were absorbed into the growing language.

It's said that English, as used worldwide, now contains over one million different words. That's one huge mine from which to excavate the words you need to express your ideas with clarity and exactitude.

So, this is a plea for flexibility harnessed to sensible and accurate usage of language. Metaphor and simile encourage writers and readers to expand their understanding of language and, providing such linguistic expeditions don't remove the reader from a recognisable landscape, they can act as a means of broadening horizons for all.

It really would be wicked of you not to indulge in the full splendour of our common language to make your writing as wicked as you can, don't you think?

A question for you to ponder: Why do folk say they 'slept like a baby' when babies wake up so often?

Featured Author on Another Website

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

A Tale for the New Year: Read it Free.

'I'm seeing in the New Year, with my chosen lover, in front of the fire. Wonderful. Until, that is, an unidentified rural noise makes the townie nervous and something must be done to restore the magic.'

If you prefer to read on an eReader, you can download this free for any platform at http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stuartaken

But, Baby, It's Cold Outside.

A Seasonal Short Story

Stuart Aken

For all that it's black as the proverbial out there, I'm required to venture forth if I'm to retain credibility in the current lover's eyes. First, there's the unexplained and ill-defined noise, which I ignore. Then, coincidentally, the light goes out, provoking a performance worthy of the heroine in those supposedly scary black and white B movies from the forties.

The failure of the light turns out to be nothing sinister. 'Just a blown bulb.'

'Replace it, then.'

'Call me an old romantic, but wouldn't firelight serve us better?'

The response is unprintable and indicates an unhealthy reliance on artificial light. So, once I've restored adequate illumination, I'm ordered outside to see what made the noise.

'Me?'

'It's your house.'

'As the woman, shouldn't I stay in the warmth and safety of my home whilst you, Macho Man, go fight the marauders?'

'Along with the rest of your gender, you claim equality. You have to deal with the downside as well as the up.'

'So far, I've experienced little up, except the obvious, and I'm pretty sure that's been as much benefit to you as it has to me.'

He raises his eyebrows but not my hopes and I know I'm onto a loser; it doesn't help that my statement wasn't the truth, either. I wonder, in passing, why him? And then recall his superb taste in clothes and cars, his delicious and sensual touch, and the generous cut of his wallet, which has so far afforded me access to three first nights, a private viewing and the best table at Egon's. I can stand a little misplaced equal opportunity for the luxury and privilege that are his accessories. Wimpishness isn't the cause of his reluctance; he sincerely believes equality of the sexes means I should do whatever he'd be prepared to do on my behalf. Daft, I know; but he is a man, after all.

Being rural, I ignore strange noises in the night, examining their cause in full light of day, if at all. He's a townie who puts up with the shouts of drunks, the screams of distressed women, the whistling of fools and the constant clatter of traffic past his trendy pied à terre but is made suspicious by the noise of something falling over outside.

'It's just that old gate I stacked against the side of the house. The wind's blown it over.'

'Didn't sound like a gate falling over to me.'

'It's pitch bloody black out there. How am I supposed to see anything?'

'Use a torch.'

'Batteries are flat.'

'Well, we'll open the curtains and turn on all the lights, assuming they work.'

'They do. Mostly.'

Raised eyebrows indicate his lack of faith but he accepts. 'Good.'

'And your monster of the night is just going to hang about out there, awaiting discovery, having received the signal of our intent?'

'Our?'

'We're conspiring jointly in the process, even if I'm the active member and you're merely the source of ideas.'

'Mmm.'

I rise, turn on the spot. 'Look at me.'

'Yes, very lovely.'

'You really expect me to venture forth into the wild night with…?'

'Put something on and stop making excuses.'

I don seductive red satin recently abandoned, rather than the woollen protection I know is appropriate. It'll be cold out there. New Year always is. But I won't be gone long and I intend to continue where we left off after the interruption of the unidentified noise. I suggest he turns on the downstairs lights, front and back, whilst I plunge into the frozen void.

'You're not going out there like that on your own, are you?'

'Are you coming with me?'

'Are you mad?'

I try a simple facial message but it doesn't get through. Insufficient intimate togetherness yet for such subtlety to connect, I suppose. 'Exactly how am I supposed to go outside without you, yet not be alone?'

A pause for consideration. 'Be quick, then. I'll worry about you.'

'Not enough to accept my plausible explanation.'

He avoids the shrug that his body and my expectations demand and makes do with a non-committal grunt.

'Not enough to be the gentleman?'

'Equality of opportunity. This is yours.'

'But I don't crave such opportunity. In any case, I'm not worried by the noise.'

Another grunt; distinctly negative and indicative that this is the end of the discussion, as far as he's concerned. That much of his subtlety I have learned.

Outside, it seems even darker than the proverbial and I wait for light to issue through the curtains he's supposed to be opening. I wait. And slowly freeze. The darkness remains; unilluminated, unmoving and unmoved by my presence. I understand I am irrelevant to the void and begin to wonder if I represent a similar rank of importance to him.

At last, a faint glow signals the start of his simple task, but at the front of the house. I left by the back door and he saw me. Is this contrary action merely pique at my rational response to his irrational fear? Or is it simple idiocy? Hardly the latter. I don't get involved physically or emotionally with imbeciles. Not deliberately, anyway. But I wonder why I've become so attached to a man who's beginning to seem remarkably like a prat. Except, he has his good points. The fact that he's unjustly wonderful at that most subtle of interpersonal activities adds to the attraction of his wealth, devastating good looks and multiple connections. I ponder, for a fraction of a second, whether I might be a tad guilty of superficiality here but I expunge that unworthy thought and recall the extraordinary evenings, nights, afternoons and mornings I've experienced since we met.

The light at the back escapes at last through the raised kitchen blind and the drawn dining room curtains. I examine the area of garden I can see and note that the soft cold stuff assaulting me is snow, augmenting the frost already formed. Nothing moves but flakes of lightness and the tips of visible vegetation, shaking in the gale. It occurs I've denied any idea of what I'm supposed to be seeking and a question might afford me re-entry before I freeze further. I open the back door and call into warmth I'm tempted to re-enter.

'What sort of noise?'

He is by the fire; I can tell by the distance his voice has to travel. 'I told you.'

I have no recollection of either being told or, if I have been told, of the message. 'No, sorry, that doesn't help.'

'Oh! You're useless. There's something out there. Just see what it is.'

'Well, there's a large area of garden, mostly immobile and recumbent under a falling blanket of snow, except where it's sufficiently fragile to be disturbed by the howling gale, of course. There's a fence, beyond which lie several thousand acres of fields, forests and hills, dissected by a river, currently out of my field of vision ...'

As I list the inventory, he emerges into the kitchen.

'Idiot! I mean something moving, something that shouldn't be there!'

'Ah. An alien? Ghost? Creature of the night, specified or un? Perhaps a monster from nightmare? A serial killer out for a midnight stroll? A lynch mob intent on suspending a victim, if not its credibility?'

'God, you're obtuse. And I'm freezing here with that door open in my robe...'

'I suggest you shut the door in your robe and give me a…'

'Look, it was a sharp slithering sort of soft thudding scraping noise.' And he shuts the door. Not the one in his towelling robe, but the more substantial wooden portal to the house, before I can ask from what direction this comprehensive oxymoron of a sound emerged.

Disconsolate at being left out in the cold, wearing a garment designed to lure the eyes of men to my assets rather than protect them from frost, and unsocked wellies that barely insulate my feet from frozen ground, I begin a rapid exploration. Alcohol has lost supremacy by now and the threat of frostbite dictates I make a simple circuit to rule out any obvious cause before I return, bold cold and brave, to conquer his residual concerns with passion, before the night freezes my ardour: I can rest assured that his will not diminish in the waiting.

The corner of the house allows the gale to swirl increasing flakes into a small tornado that lifts my scandalous hem and spatters snow against the skin beneath to melt and slowly slide in wetness down my legs. But there's nothing in the intervening darkness, between the dim light at the back and the dimmer light at the front, to suggest a monster might be lurking at that side of the house. I pass, unmolested, beside the solid brick barrier to the front garden; neat, hedged and deserted.

Beyond the hawthorn and beech runs the narrow lane that leads eventually to the hamlet where my nearest neighbours celebrate the new arrival. And I recall we haven't made the usual ritual this time: I have no coal or logs, no money, salt or bread to enter with and bring the luck we all desire. Though, on being questioned, I'll deny any interest in or subjection to such craven superstition as 'first-footing'. In any case, he's supposed to perform that particular ritual, as the man.

The front garden is also devoid of alien beasts, hobgoblins and mass murderers. I lightly skip along the beds of resting flowers, past the blank front door and across the white blanket that is now the drive. His red Ferrari, encrusted with a soft layer of white icing, like a little boy's birthday cake, is exhibited at his insistence for the hungry eyes of the envious before the garage door, behind which skulks my wheeled utilitarian box. Fooled by softness, I forget the constant puddle and slip on the ice it has now become. The robe helpfully lifts so that my naked buttocks slide along the frozen surface until the stone kerb brings me to a halt with only a spine-jarring jolt and superficial injury to my fast freezing passionate parts. I curse the night, rub the offended rump and other bits and struggle upright, glad no one saw my pratfall and exposure.

The last side of the house, also in darkness, reveals no sign of monsters but there is evidence of some disturbance in the drifting snow. Tracks of recent footfalls meander, and the broken gate, which had been leaning against the house, has fallen onto the path. I right it. But will he believe I was correct in my original supposition when I give him this solution to his mystery?

I turn the corner and tumble headlong over a dark huddled shadow that mumbles. I land against the dustbin, upside-down with my head buried in a small drift, and moon into the moonless night. An unknown hand molests my unprotected flesh and then hoists me back to my feet and suddenly I'm at the back door.

He is there, in gratitude no longer worried by the door in his robe, which he's removed to reward my bravery with his undiminished and evident passion. The robe, that is, not the door. Behind me looms the huddled shadow that caused me to befriend the dustbin.

He cries out in alarm. I turn, ready to attack and defend.

''Appy New Year, m' dear. Shorry 'bout the clision back there. Dropped me lump o' coal an' I was tryin' to fine it. Firsht footin' an' all that.'

It is the redoubtable Miss Fobiter; she of the three facial hirsute warts and fixed leering grin. I grin back, hopefully without the leer, and wrap my robe more tightly.

By the time I've turned, he's vanished into concealing darkness within and I'm left stumbling my thanks to my nearest neighbour and inviting her in for customary seasonal cheer. The picture of departing gratitude, flouncing as though no longer quite so pleased with my solution to his fears, suggests I'll see New Year's Day arrive without his close company.

'Thought you'd be on your own, like me, don't y'know?'

I wonder whose car she thinks she passed on my drive and then recall her reputation as a woman resistant to normal consumer pressures. She probably didn't even notice it, or worse, thinks it's mine.

My neighbour, whose first name she reserves as a mystery, insists on two full choruses of Auld Langsyne, which I'm powerless to resist. To my surprise, he returns to join in this ritual, his robe replaced. She greets him with a cursory assessment that suggests she finds him, because he's a man, wanting. But she accepts the second glass of cheer he politely offers. Two hours of pointless chatter pass as the fire slowly settles in the grate and he grows glassy eyed. At last, she decides it's time she visited other neighbours. I hold him close about the waist as she departs into the snow and we close the door on night.

With her departure, my role in his earlier exposure is recalled and expressed in word and deed, the repelling hand shoving me unceremoniously back into my armchair.

'If you think you're having your wicked way with me after letting that dirty old hag see me naked, you've another think coming.'

'I don't think she was interested in you; naked or otherwise.'

'You should've warned me. I don't like strange women seeing me undressed.'

I'm being unfair and mighty inaccurate when I suspect, aloud, he's anxious at being found wanting. He sulks at the unguarded, unfounded suggestion the alcohol encourages me to make, and I watch him climb the stairs.

He lingers at the turn on the landing taking all promise of passion with him. 'A real woman wouldn't take no for an answer.'

Unsure whether this is an invitation or simply another assault, a reminder of my imperfections, I return to the fire, unwilling to be seen as coercive and determined to play the part of the injured party to the bitter end. I place more logs onto the embers, refill my glass with the last of the Chivas Regal I bought him for Christmas, and stare into the flames, imaging what might've been and recalling New Years that started more auspiciously.

Lurking at the back of my mind is the suspicion that he'll forgive me, once he finds the bed a little wide and cold without my company. Just to encourage that idea and persuade him of my value, I sneak outside and bang the metal dustbin lid with the coal shovel. I'm back in front of the fire, waiting on the hearthrug, by the time he reaches the security and warmth of me and the blazing logs.

I invite him to open the door in my robe. He does so willingly but, as I surrender to his delicious demands, I hear the gate fall over again and await his protest. Oddly, he seems preoccupied and doesn't even mention the noise, this time. Aahhh.

###

This story, whilst free to read here, is copyright the author, Stuart Aken, 2011. Please respect the author's work in producing this and avoid pirating, copying or sharing other than through this blog, to which I'm happy for you to link with all your friends.

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I hope this little piece of seasonal fun has amused you. Please consider it a gift in appreciation of your time and support.

If you'd like to read more of my work, please see the books in the right hand column. A click on each will take you to a place you can read more and/or buy.