This story about a young girl with a mother who is addicted to drugs and alcohol is worth checking out. I’ve just read chapter one and I’m looking forward to reading the remainder http://medusamoon13.webs.com/
On Tuesday evening I had dinner with an old friend. During the meal I remarked how as I walked up the hill towards the restaurant the sound of birdsong filled the air. Listening to the song of the birds almost made me weep and yet I was unable to put into words why that should be so.
Several days later my friend sent me the below quote who’s origin I have been unable to trace. It expresses beautifully my feelings on that evening as I listened to birdsong on my way to meet my friend
“I walk a path after rain between trees.
I hear birdsong
And weep inside for something lost.”
A theme running through my story, Samantha is that of evil. Barry (a pimp who owns an escort agency) drugs and rapes Sam. When she wakes he shows her pictures of the sexual abuse and threatens to send the photographs to Sam’s father unless Samantha agrees to work for him as a prostitute. Not wishing to induce another heart attack (Sam’s father has just undergone a heart operation) she agrees to work for Barry and enters a world of physical and mental abuse.
On discussing Barry’s personality with a close friend he remarked that I should consider endowing him with one redeeming feature or including in my narrative one act of kindness by Barry. I thought long and hard as to whether I should follow my friend’s advice, however Barry possesses no saving graces and I decided to portray him as the unfeeling psychopath that he undoubtedly is.
Barry possesses many of the classic traits exhibited by psychopaths. He is superficially charming (it is his charm which convinces Sam to accept a drink from him which unbeknown to her contains the date rape drug GHB). Barry has no conscience, he beats one of his girls, Tanya because she is unable to work due to being high on Crack and in the final chapter Barry attempts to kill Sam because she has had the temerity to tell him to “Go fuck yourself”. Barry is egotistical. In his world it is only Barry O’Connor who matters, the prostitutes he controls are mere means to his profit. Barry does not acknowledge that anyone other than him possesses feelings or if he does accept this, he shows no sign of caring about them.
To acknowledge that Barry is a psychopath with no redeeming features is not the same as saying that we can feel no empathy for him. In chapter 7 (http://newauthoronline.com/2012/12/18/samantha-part-7/) Barry has a nightmare in which he is, as a six-year-old thrown into a dark cupboard under the stairs by his mother. He bangs his head on the gas meter and is left bleeding there while his mother watches television. The terrible abuse which Barry has suffered as a child warps his view of women “they are all bitches and deserve everything that men do to them”. We rightly abhore and condemn Barry’s view of women and the abusive behaviour which flows from it. We can however understand (but in no way excuse) why Barry behaves as he does.
Barry is at bottom a thoroughly nasty piece of work. We can shed few tears when he meets his grizly end However had Barry experienced a loving childhood rather than one filled with abuse, would he have turned out as the cold hearted pimp he is trawling the streets of Liverpool for girls to entrap into prostitution? .
I feel bereft. Since December 2012 I’ve been working on my story, Samantha and yesterday (20 February) I completed the manuscript. For several months Samantha and the other people in my book have been my more or less constant companions. While walking to the station to take the train into work my mind has been busy thinking about the storyline and rehearsing dialogues. Suddenly all that is over, ends have been tied up and the story put to bed.
Since December the actors in Samantha have become real to me, they have lived in my brain and become part of my life. At a fundamental level I know that the persons in Samantha are mere figments of my imagination, however to write convincingly one must believe in the people you create, they do at some level take on a life of their own. When Sam is abused by her brutal pimp it is a mere will of the wisp, a nothing which suffers. Sam does however represent those who are forced into the sex industry against their will and, as such she is real. Her pain represents the suffering of actual sex workers who have been compelled to become prostitutes so, at another level Sam does, most definitely exist.
I said at the start of this post that Samantha has been completed. This is not quite correct. While Samantha exists in draft form on my blog (http://newauthoronline.com/2013/02/20/samantha-part-16/), It is my intention to edit the book with the view to publishing my manuscript as an ebook. During this process changes will be made although the fundamentals of the story will remain the same.
Last night I had a series of bizarre dreams. They flashed through my sleeping brain and as with most of the dreams I experience my recollection of them is hazy now. As a child I actually tried to physically retain my dreams. I have a clear recollection of waking up, attempting to clench the dream in my hand and lock it away in a drawer in the bedroom. Of course as an adult this recollection makes me smile. Dreams are insubstancial things which it is impossible to grasp. One might as well attempt to confine the wild wind in a sack, it can not be done!
My most recent dreams brought to mind the encounter in Wuthering Heights Between Catherine and Ellen (Nelly) Dean. Where I to attempt to relate some of my dreams would you join with Nelly Dean and remark “I won’t harken to your dreams?” I wonder. I quote the relevant passage below because it is one of my favourite passages in english literature and it is relevant to the above
“‘Nelly, do you never dream queer dreams?’ she said, suddenly, after some minutes’ reflection.
‘Yes, now and then,’ I answered.
‘And so do I. I’ve dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas: they’ve gone through and through me, like wine through
water, and altered the colour of my mind. And this is one: I’m going to tell it—but take care not to smile at any part of it.’
‘Oh! don’t, Miss Catherine!’ I cried. ‘We’re dismal enough without conjuring up ghosts and visions to perplex us. Come, come, be merry and like yourself!
Look at little Hareton! He’s dreaming nothing dreary. How sweetly he smiles in his sleep!’
‘Yes; and how sweetly his father curses in his solitude! You remember him, I daresay, when he was just such another as that chubby thing: nearly as young
and innocent. However, Nelly, I shall oblige you to listen: it’s not long; and I’ve no power to be merry tonight.’
‘I won’t hear it, I won’t hear it!’ I repeated, hastily.
I was superstitious about dreams then, and am still; and Catherine had an unusual gloom in her aspect, that made me dread something from which I might shape
a prophecy, and foresee a fearful catastrophe. She was vexed, but she did not proceed. Apparently taking up another subject, she recommenced in a short
time.
‘If I were in heaven, Nelly, I should be extremely miserable.’
‘Because you are not fit to go there,’ I answered. ‘All sinners would be miserable in heaven.’
‘But it is not for that. I dreamt once that I was there.’
‘I tell you I won’t hearken to your dreams, Miss Catherine! I’ll go to bed,’ I interrupted again.
She laughed, and held me down; for I made a motion to leave my chair.
‘This is nothing,’ cried she: ‘I was only going to say that heaven did not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weeping to come back to earth;
and the angels were so angry that they flung me out into the middle of the heath on the top of Wuthering Heights; where I woke sobbing for joy. That will
do to explain my secret, as well as the other. I’ve no more business to marry Edgar Linton than I have to be in heaven; and if the wicked man in there
had not brought Heathcliff so low, I shouldn’t have thought of it. It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him:
and that, not because he’s handsome, Nelly, but because he’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton’s
is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire.”
Once I have finished my present project (my book Samantha which tells the story of a young girl forced into prostitution by her brutal pimp, Barry in the city of Liverpool) I’m considering writing about the experiences of a young muslim girl/lady growing up in the UK. I want to explore the conflicting pulls of the west and Islamic worlds. This will entail a great deal of research in terms of reading both online and traditional paper books. It will be a long term project and I’d welcome any help which anyone can offer. In particular I would be interested to hear from muslim ladies (either practicing or non practicing) who have been brought up in the west. Please do get in touch either by leaving a comment on this blog or, alternatively by sending an email to newauthoronline@gmail.com.
Many thanks,
Kevin
Plans to celebrate the work of the children’s writer Enid Blighton have led to controvasy in the Buckinghamshire town of Beaconsfield (United Kingdom) where the author lived for a significant portion of her life. Some inhabitants are claiming that Blighton was a racist and a snob and, as such her life and works should not be celebrated. Others argue that Blighton and her work should be viewed in the context of the mid twentieth century when atitudes to race and social class where less enlightened than they are today.
I have happy childhood memories of my grandfather reading the Famous Five and other books written by Enid Blighton aloud to me. At that time it never occurred to me that Blighton might be a racist, a snob or any of the other unflattering labels which her detractors are now pinning on the long deceased author (she died in 1968).
Racism and snobbery are obnoxious traits and are rightly deplored by civilised individuals. It is right that we have laws to prevent discrimination on the grounds of race, however it is unfair to judge Enid Blighton by today’s standards. As pointed out above she grew up in an era when Britain still possessed an empire and this shaped her view of the world and, very possibly inbued the writer with attitudes which most people rightly condemn today. However Enid Blighton was far from unique in holding such views and if we follow the logic of her detractor’s then surely Kipling’s works should also be consigned to the dustbin as he was (undoubtedly) a racist and an imperialist.
The fact is that a writer may possess views which we disagree with very profoundly. We may, however still regard them as great writers. Are we to stop reading Kipling because his words “lesser breeds without the law” (see his poem Recessional) jar with our modern sensabilities? The answer has to be a resounding no!
We must so far as is possible separate the writer from their work. Some say that Enid Blighton was not a nice lady. This may or may not be true, however it is irrelevant as a writer’s niceness or lack of it does not (and should not) affect how we view the worth of their literary output. A man (or woman) may have treated their family terribly, however if they are a great writer then that is what they are.
In the case of Enid Blighton people of every race and religion continue to enjoy her work which does, surely say a great deal about the quality of her writing.
I don’t like witch hunts and the whole Blighton issue has the potential to turn into something rather nasty. Lets judge authors on their writing and leave aside so far as is humanly possible whether they are “nice” or any other label one cares to put on them.
For the Telegraph’s article on Enid Blighton please visit http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/booknews/9870065/Town-torn-over-celebrations-of-Enid-Blytons-racist-work.html.
I write because I believe that I have something to say. Also I write because I must. I have an itch which must be scratched. Human nature being what it is I hope that people will enjoy my writing and I’m thrilled when they do so. However not everyone likes what I write. I sent a gentleman of my acquaintance a complimentary copy of my collection of short stories, The First Time (at his request I should add). About a week later I bumped into my acquaintance in the street and he remarked that while he had liked the first part of The First Time he’d found the rest “not to my taste”.
To put my acquaintence’s comments into context it is necessary to know a little about The First Time. The main story, The First Time relates how Becky, a graduate with a first class degree in English literature enters the world of prostitution, as an escort in order to clear her debts. The book deals with the physical and emotional effects of working as a prostitute on both Becky and her fellow escort and friend Julie. In The First Time a tragedy befalls one of the girls and it is this which made the gentleman of my acquaintance remark that the story was not to “my taste”.
At one level I am sorry that my acquaintance did not find The First Time to his “taste”. As I said at the beginning of this post I hope that people will derive pleasure from my writing and being only human it gives me satisfaction when my work is praised. However I can not change my stories to please the gentlemen of my acquaintance or anyone else. In the real world as opposed to the world of fairy tales people do not always “live happily ever after” and The First Time reflects this truth. I wrote what I believe to be an accurate portrayal of the world of prostitution not a fairy story. Consequently while I am sorry that some will find The First Time not to their “taste” I’m pleased that others have understood it and derived enjoyment from the story.
I will continue to write as I do. I can do nothing else.
For the First Time by Kevin Morris please visit http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-First-Time-ebook/dp/B00AIK0DD6
Yesterday evening as I browsed through the books on my bookshelves I was struck by the beauty of the hard back titles. The Royal National Institute of the Blind (RNIB) used to provide books either in soft paper covers or, alternatively in what they described as cloth . boards. I am of the view that books are long term friends so purchased the hard back versions. Sadly RNIB no longer offer cloth bound volumes so the blind person wishing to purchase titles has Hobsons choice (they must like or lump the soft cover books sold by the Institute).
The hard cover books feel permanent and possess a wonderful scent wholly lacking in their soft bound alternatives. It is a real pleasure to take down Wuthering Heights in it’s cloth boards not only because it is a marvellous story but also due to the volumes being a pleasure to handle. They feel as though they where made to last and the braille protected as it is by the robust covers remains easy to read unlike some of my paper bound books. Where I to be a sighted person I would purchase hard backs in preference to paperbacks as they exude a sense of permanence and dare one say it stability.
As I browsed my books my mind wandered and I began to ponder the issue of permanence more generally. On occasions it seems as though we are, as a society obsessed with the ephemeral. Next time you are on public transport witness the number of people who are engrossed in madly texting rather than reading a book. Some of these texts are no doubt important, however especially with teenagers one suspects that many are wholly inane and are being sent to people whom the teen has only just left. Again the constant checking of Facebook fosters a view of the world in which nothing is permanent, things change constantly and one must always be moving forward on a roller coaster from one exciting post to another.
To sit down with a book is in contrast an experience to be savoured. With a good book one must concentrate and yes sometimes struggle. However the pleasure to be derived from comprehending a complicated plot or a difficult subject does (in my view) outweigh the shallow pleasures which eminate from the obsessive use of social media. In time (a very short time) most of the posts on Facebook will be forgotten, however Emily Brontae, Charles Dickens and other great writers will remain as proof that there is more to the world than a vapid ever shifting obsession with change for change’s sake.
I hope that I am not turning into an old fogey before my time!
Kevin
I am not a huge fan of Dylan Thomas. I do, however love his poem Do Not Go Gentle and I was pleased to come across the poet reading his own poem on Youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2cgcx-GJTQ&feature=em-subs_digest-vrecs.
K Morris - Poet 