tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46072629239642901262024-03-05T07:43:00.196-08:00The Sound of MusingAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10343370754700456874noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4607262923964290126.post-24741747979524325922014-07-23T03:11:00.000-07:002014-07-23T03:17:02.166-07:00Letting go of TryWe've heard this somewhere before, haven't we? (Cue: Yoda.)<br />
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I recently got to know a new
friend. Towards the end of an interesting chat he said
something that arrested my attention.</div>
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He said he'd noticed how
often I used the word ‘try’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And though the first time he said it, I didn’t quite register his
meaning, as I reconsidered his statement later, the
implications began to make sense, inviting a feeling of relief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He simply said, in essence, give yourself
more credit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not an especially new
idea: give yourself more credit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So why
did it ring true this time?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it was
the dawning awareness that the regular even habitual use of the word (or its
variations) is to systematically—even insidiously—reject the worthy
accomplishments of every day, and every step towards cherished ends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s not always easy to validate
our own achievements, as we fully well know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(For anyone who's cracked this problem, bear with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What I say might help you help another
person.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But for those of you who have
or still feel like this, perhaps a little of what I say next will help you
recognise the wonder of being who you are already. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I think it's difficult to give
ourselves credit because of the fear of rejection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The truth is, the habitual qualifying of my
work with the prefix ‘trying’ ‘try’ ‘tried’, is one of the unseen faces of
perfectionism—an apparently respectable humility or modesty which is really the
fatalistic habit of self administered rejection, of protection against the
imagined (or sometimes sadly real) experience of authoritative others saying
'Is that it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is that all you can
do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted something more, you
promised so much more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm disappointed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'll move on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You're not what I was looking for.'<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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For me, it's been the fear of
getting left behind, discarded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's the
problem of
'yes-not-bad-but-I'm-still-not-quite-there-yet-so-I-can't-be-rejected-because-I'm-still-not-finished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fact is that we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are </i>either doing what we wish to do or we <em>are not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></em>But, and as simplistic as this sounds,
how often do we stop to celebrate the steps that <em>have </em>been taken?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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For example, in my desire to be
creative, I have frequently had difficulty defining my dreams; yes, I have been
consistent in my hopes to creative inspirational media: and so much of my life
has been engaged in such a pursuit: I have created inspirational media.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I have, perennially, dismissed the
actualities of this experience by alluding to the constant <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">effort</i>, the flawed perception that I was only every trying to do
these things, an ever present and subtly self-defeating act of rejection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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What we are doing either resembles
or directly relates to our desired outcome, or it does not, but we are still <em>doing
something</em>: therefore rather than downplay my activity as something only
trying to be something else, I may reconsider and fully acknowledge the thing
for its own sake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What I probably meant when
I habitually explained my trying to produce inspirational media, was that I was
not yet doing such things <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">full-time and
being paid (well)</i> for my labours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
having written and produced two feature films, broadcast hospital radio, performed
in video, documentary, and stage productions, studied creative writing to
postgraduate level at University, become a published novelist, as well as sold
books, music and film, and taught adults, youth, and children, how can I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">possibly </i>imagine that I have only been <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">trying!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been doing after all—in small but real steps—producing
inspirational media: not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">trying</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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So I came away from the
conversation with a new desire: to revise my validations, to acknowledge and
accept; and then to become more <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">specific </i>in
accepting the pieces of achievement so far experienced and the achievements
still desired.</div>
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<o:p>So, here's ready to publish again, something to inspire you. (And I'm not going to spend hours combing this post in search of imperfections, because today they don't matter as much as the ideas that already resonate...) </o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p> </div>
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I hope this helps you too.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10343370754700456874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4607262923964290126.post-43928185028779671262014-05-22T12:21:00.000-07:002014-05-22T12:21:04.911-07:00The opening chapters of Hope<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnB-DwD6_6bUjcFPOH8a4O_yyT-VB6NAWRuQYlKi01tJpnUy30HmGJbf5FF7HVT67U_q0EwBRlIwsrhVUDlEw53QDvcv25puLz773mwhEueAnLiUqSJEwwn0StUtAcKZXbZL60ItVY6gQ/s1600/Hope_Front_RGB_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnB-DwD6_6bUjcFPOH8a4O_yyT-VB6NAWRuQYlKi01tJpnUy30HmGJbf5FF7HVT67U_q0EwBRlIwsrhVUDlEw53QDvcv25puLz773mwhEueAnLiUqSJEwwn0StUtAcKZXbZL60ItVY6gQ/s1600/Hope_Front_RGB_small.jpg" height="320" width="205" /></a></div>
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<strong>The following is shared with the permission of the publisher, Currawong Press. For more information on the contents, click on the thumbnail of the picture you'll find on the Amazon Kindle Edition page when you click through from</strong> <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Hope-Historical-Novel-S-J-Wilkins-ebook/dp/B00KE8QM9G/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1400786081&sr=8-1&keywords=hope+s.j.+wilkins">here.</a></div>
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<strong>Apologies for the occasional truncation of the text, 'hope' you enjoy the browse...</strong></div>
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Prologue</div>
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My name was Isaac. In my early years, when</div>
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I reflected on the meaning of my name, I was</div>
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reminded of the Old Testament, of Abraham and of</div>
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the challenge of sacrifice, and the great character</div>
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traits of humility and faith. As a consequence, I</div>
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grew up believing I must always live a good and</div>
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noble life. I wanted my children to know I believed</div>
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this principle. And I suppose it was this very fact</div>
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that led to my death.</div>
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In the year of our Lord 1837, I became aware of</div>
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a new and remarkable movement, a new religion</div>
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brought to Queen Victoria’s England by a small group</div>
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of Americans. The Latter-day Saints—Mormons.</div>
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Their message was one of power, authority, and the</div>
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parting and knowing of the heavens. Their message</div>
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made known the might and majesty of a real,</div>
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resurrected Christ, the very Son of God preparing a</div>
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kingdom on earth in preparation for His millennial</div>
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reign.</div>
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Inspired, I desired to join their church, but was</div>
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prevented from doing so when I was killed while</div>
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trying to rescue two women and a man from a</div>
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burning mill. Thus my desire for baptism was</div>
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thwarted. But, joy of joys, I came to understand</div>
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that my wish might yet be fulfilled by the living, if</div>
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my baptism could be performed by someone still in</div>
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mortality.</div>
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Naturally, I considered it best that my family</div>
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do this for me. But since I was dead, the work of</div>
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guiding them into the truth presented a significant</div>
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challenge. And it was made infinitely more so. In the</div>
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wake of my passing I was accused of maliciously</div>
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starting the very fire that had taken my life. I was</div>
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therefore an arsonist, and because others had died,</div>
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I came to be known as a murderer.</div>
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My good reputation was destroyed. My name</div>
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became taboo, unspoken, my family tainted by their</div>
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association with a killer. With my memory ignored,</div>
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my wish for membership in the Lord’s kingdom was</div>
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forgotten.</div>
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Yet the truth was that I had become the victim of</div>
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another man’s crime, and the true story behind the</div>
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fire was kept hidden. A young girl’s identity was</div>
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made secret and my wife and children’s shame</div>
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carefully preserved, allowed to remain because it</div>
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served a valuable purpose.</div>
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Imagine again the pitiable shame of being</div>
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the murderer’s family. Imagine again my grief at</div>
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knowing this burden was borne unjustly, yet unable</div>
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to prove my innocence and another man guilty.</div>
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The misfortune might have remained forever</div>
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this way, except, at last, the grief itself created</div>
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a receptive heart in my youngest son: Ephraim</div>
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Immanuel Shaw—Manny. Thus it was that we</div>
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received our second opportunity.</div>
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Manny had been born with a remarkable</div>
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gift—a powerful spiritual talent. And even in the</div>
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aftermath of all that had happened, his gift lay</div>
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only suppressed. His was an innate and childlike</div>
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strength: the discerning of angels and ministering</div>
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spirits.</div>
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There was, of course, a danger in attempting to</div>
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reach him this way.</div>
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Manny worked in Ormley Mill where the fire had</div>
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happened. He was employed by a man with whom</div>
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I had formerly been friendly—a certain Edward</div>
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Reeve. Some five years earlier, Manny had ventured</div>
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to express his regret at the suffering his father had</div>
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caused, and sought permission to apologize in public</div>
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to the men of the mill. In addition, he sought to</div>
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understand why the fire had happened at all, and</div>
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had hoped that Mr. Edward Reeve who was master</div>
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of the mill, would take pity and help him to see.</div>
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But Mr. Reeve’s wife had been lost in the fire,</div>
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and he could never be brought to speak of it. So</div>
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he flatly refused Manny’s request, saying it would</div>
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be wrong to revisit the past, wrong to speak of the</div>
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dead, and wrong to dwell on the sins of the father.</div>
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Mr. Reeve said a person must be possessed with an</div>
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evil spirit to want to speak of these sins gone with</div>
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the dead, and everyone concerned would be grateful</div>
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to him for letting it rest in the past. When Manny</div>
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protested, insisting he had a right to understand,</div>
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Mr. Reeve became angry and took up a whipping</div>
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rope and beat him for impudence.</div>
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<em> What no one but I could see was that madness</em></div>
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<em>hung over Reeve like the storm clouds that frequented</em></div>
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<em>the village.</em></div>
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<em> Manny stumbled away, forcing back tears. His</em></div>
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<em>mam (my wife Lucy) said little, only that Mr. Reeve</em></div>
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<em>had always been kind and that they relied on his</em></div>
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<em>goodwill, and that Manny should learn to act like</em></div>
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<em>my eldest son, the steady and loyal Will.</em></div>
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<em> But Manny knew, as I did, that his brother also</em></div>
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<em>struggled with the shame of their father’s crime. Will</em></div>
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<em>rarely talked at length about anything personal and</em></div>
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<em>often sat with his head bowed, his hands gripped</em></div>
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<em>tight in his pockets as if he was clinging to the last</em></div>
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<em>shreds of his dignity. So Manny humbled himself</em></div>
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<em>and followed his brother’s lead, obediently burying</em></div>
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<em>his need for answers, and tried to do right by his</em></div>
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<em>mam all through the years after.</em></div>
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<em> Unpleasant though it was for him to continue</em></div>
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<em>working there, Ormley Mill was where Manny</em></div>
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<em>and his brother were securely employed—in spite</em></div>
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<em>of their father before them and, no doubt, for the</em></div>
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<em>sake of the unfortunate widow left behind. And</em></div>
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<em>though the subject of wages was rarely discussed,</em></div>
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<em>the higher-than-normal pay my sons received was</em></div>
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<em>generally viewed as a noble act of charity.</em></div>
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<em>And thus it was, until one Monday morning,</em></div>
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<em>exactly sixteen years after my passing—three days</em></div>
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<em>before Manny turned one and twenty.</em></div>
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<span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle;"><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle;"><div align="LEFT">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">One</span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Arrivals and Departures</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
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</div>
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Monday, 19 September 1853</div>
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Mr. Reeve was there, half hidden by shadow,</div>
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behind the mill window—watching, as he always</div>
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was. Manny clenched the damp iron railings and</div>
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took a long breath, clearing his mind and trying to</div>
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let go of his agitation.</div>
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He relaxed his grip on the courtyard gates and</div>
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stepped away. He wanted so much to feel better.</div>
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The desire relieved the weight in his chest just a</div>
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little. If Job could be patient, so could Manny.</div>
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He set his mind on his work. He could manage</div>
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another day’s weaving, and another, and then</div>
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another day after that. Eventually it would all</div>
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improve—he would prove a faithful hand in the end,</div>
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Mr. Reeve would see. Encouraged by this thought,</div>
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Manny glanced over at the weavers, nodding his</div>
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good morning to the late ones who hurried on</div>
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past.</div>
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All around him, the smell of fog and river, of</div>
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moorland and wrought-iron gates, swept over the</div>
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courtyard, swirling around the burnt-brick walls of</div>
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the mill. And as he stood quietly there, a thought</div>
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caught him by surprise. It came softly but there</div>
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<span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;">was no mistaking its urgency: </span></span><i><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle-Italic; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle-Italic; font-size: small;">Take up your cross</span></span></i></div>
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</div>
<i><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle-Italic; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle-Italic; font-size: small;"></span></span></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle-Italic; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle-Italic; font-size: small;">and leave.</span></span></i></div>
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In the stillness of the morning, the idea came</div>
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into Manny’s mind with so much clarity that for a</div>
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moment he thought someone had actually spoken.</div>
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He looked around, but from his brother’s blank</div>
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expression it clearly had not been him. There was</div>
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no one else near them.</div>
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Take up your cross and leave? Manny glanced</div>
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at the mill and wondered. Leave the mill? He</div>
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looked toward the open, inviting moorland. The</div>
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impression had been so definite. Was it a warning,</div>
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an urging?</div>
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He considered leaving that morning but felt</div>
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the danger of changing, and concern at the idea</div>
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of jeopardizing his mam’s well-being. He might not</div>
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find another employment. If he left the mill like</div>
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this he might never be allowed to return. Mr. Reeve</div>
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could be harsh, especially to the men he didn’t</div>
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like.</div>
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The thump of his heart increased, the coming</div>
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unknown pounding up in his throat. No. It was</div>
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foolish to think of leaving. It was insanity to think</div>
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he could find another workplace that paid as well.</div>
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The idea was sheer desperation. True, he hated</div>
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having to work here, but how could he think of</div>
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walking away? His mam and Will depended on the</div>
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income they managed together to earn. In spite of</div>
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the permanent discomfort of being “Isaac’s sons,”</div>
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Reeve paid them well—in fact, Manny knew it</div>
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was charity, really. Except, he argued, they were</div>
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made to earn every last farthing. But he could not</div>
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avoid the reality that this decision would affect</div>
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his family for the worse. And yet he could not</div>
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explain why he knew there was so much more to</div>
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this feeling than just sheer desperation. It was</div>
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something he knew he would follow.</div>
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</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle-Italic; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle-Italic; font-size: small;"><i>Take up your cross and leave. </i></span></span><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;">The words again,</span></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;">more urgent than before.</span></span></div>
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What would Will think? Manny knew his brother</div>
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was impatiently waiting behind him at this very</div>
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moment, accustomed to this ritual lagging behind.</div>
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Despite the frequent silences between them, they</div>
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valued their friendship. Manny knew that, like him,</div>
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Will merely wished to prove loyal, different from</div>
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his father, and trustworthy. But Manny also knew</div>
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his brother believed dreaming achieved nothing. It</div>
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was sheer hard work that mattered.</div>
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And now Will stood waiting, scuffing his clogs</div>
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against the rutted highway. In this small detail there</div>
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lay a more recent point of tension: Manny wore not</div>
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clogs, but boots, a gift from the beautiful young</div>
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woman who had taught him to read, the ward of</div>
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an old yeoman farmer who lived on the edge of the</div>
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moor, just a short half-mile walk out of the village. A</div>
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girl both he and his brother had been smitten with</div>
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for years.</div>
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He heard Will clear his throat and knew what</div>
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it meant. They must go in or they’d be late. He</div>
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looked at Will’s impatient face, and his heart began</div>
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to race at the thought of the impending departure.</div>
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In his soul, Manny knew he must go far away from</div>
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this place that threatened his sanity.</div>
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The mill window was empty. Mr. Reeve had</div>
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gone. Manny knew he would have only a minute to</div>
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persuade his brother to come with him.</div>
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Take up your cross and leave.</div>
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He wondered if the pounding in his chest would</div>
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tell in his voice. “We’ve to leave, Will. I feel it.” He</div>
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gestured at his heart, then saw the shock in his</div>
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brother’s face. “We could all of us move away from</div>
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the village.”</div>
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Will looked doubtful.</div>
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“I swear I’m going to do it,” Manny continued</div>
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urgently. “We could all of us make a new start.”</div>
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It was not unusual for Manny to dream, even to</div>
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be unpredictable, but this strength of resolution,</div>
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this level of conviction seemed to have taken</div>
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his brother by complete surprise. For a moment</div>
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Manny believed he was entertaining the idea. But</div>
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the hesitancy lasted too long.</div>
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Will shook his head, father-like, and walked</div>
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away toward the mill, leaving Manny standing there</div>
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alone. A final few weavers jogged away over the</div>
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courtyard and disappeared into the loom shed.</div>
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The trill of a blackbird rose over the silence.</div>
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Manny looked round to make absolutely sure Mr.</div>
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Reeve had gone, then took a sharp breath and</div>
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hurried away.</div>
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Early morning mist ghosted along the Orm,</div>
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trailing above the water, rising and twisting.</div>
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Wide and sleek and almost silent, the river curled</div>
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through the valley, curved almost to the doors</div>
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of the stone-terraced cottages sunk tight in the</div>
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moorland.</div>
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As soon as he was beyond sight of the mill gates,</div>
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Manny ran, his step lighter, his boots crunching</div>
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against the highway. The village was quiet now,</div>
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and he could hear the faint cries of sheep on</div>
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the hillside. He felt suddenly exultant at having</div>
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acted decisively, felt the thrill of running away.</div>
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Then he reasoned with himself that he wasn’t</div>
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so much running away as running to something</div>
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else—something better—running away to take</div>
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charge of his future. He was improving his station</div>
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in life, looking for work of his choosing. Even the</div>
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imminent rain was exciting.</div>
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Now at the age of almost one and twenty he</div>
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wanted to prove himself able, for her sake—the</div>
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old farmer’s ward, the young woman they called</div>
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Hope. He wanted to give her more than a lifetime</div>
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of dour, unchanging Ormley. He felt suddenly</div>
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reckless, free as the gulls wheeling high in the sky</div>
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above. He knew she aspired to become a teacher,</div>
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and he wished at least to be her equal. Through</div>
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the years since Mr. Reeve’s whipping, Manny had</div>
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slowly, relentlessly been made into something he</div>
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wished not to be. But he knew now that he could</div>
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and must change himself for Hope.</div>
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She had always made him feel he could</div>
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be a different man than his father had been.</div>
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Manny was grateful and humbled by her faith</div>
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in him. And lately, he had been even more so.</div>
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In the last few weeks, Hope had discovered she</div>
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was adopted. Her guardian had been unwilling</div>
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to speak of the circumstances, and Hope, still</div>
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struggling with the shock of the discovery, had</div>
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not yet pressed him for details. And so neither</div>
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had Manny pressed her.</div>
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He resolved to try Northwood first. The market</div>
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town was only a short journey from the village,</div>
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and there were mills and factories all around</div>
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the outskirts. It wouldn’t take him long to reach</div>
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them if he ran. There were two roads he could</div>
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take: the main highway, a simple, rutted road</div>
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that followed the river; or a higher, less-used</div>
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road—a narrow, untended hill track. He thought</div>
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of taking the latter to avoid being seen, and then</div>
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decided against it. He’d soon be out of the village</div>
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anyway.</div>
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Maybe if he had no luck in Northwood he’d</div>
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try Manchester, or Stoke, or even London. In any</div>
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event there must be no going back to the Ormley</div>
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Mill. Manny unclenched his fists. The breeze felt</div>
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cool against his skin, and he brushed the palm of</div>
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his hand against the dry-stone wall beside him.</div>
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One thing was already certain. He felt happier.</div>
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It was at the outskirts of the village that he saw</div>
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the man—a stranger, walking carefully down the</div>
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bridle path from the moorland and approaching</div>
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slowly from the other side of the river. The stranger</div>
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stepped nearer, a cloth bag slung across his back,</div>
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a brown book in his hand. It was something about</div>
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his manner that made Manny stop. The man was</div>
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tall, and his eyes burned like the sun. Manny</div>
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wanted to move on, yet felt impressed to stay where</div>
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he was. The man paused at the bridge. Then he</div>
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hitched his bag higher on his shoulder, narrowed</div>
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his eyes, and gazed around at the village as if he</div>
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were puzzled by it. Their eyes met, and his face</div>
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filled Manny with light. Then the man turned and</div>
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hurried away.</div>
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Manny was so surprised at the intensity of this</div>
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vision that for a moment he forgot why he was</div>
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leaving the village. He ran, calling for the man</div>
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to wait. But the stranger strode faster as if he</div>
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regretted being seen.</div>
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“Wait!” Manny called again.</div>
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The man stopped abruptly and looked back,</div>
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seeming anxious not to linger.</div>
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“Who are you?” Manny asked quietly. Somehow</div>
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he could not escape an overwhelming sense of</div>
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awe.</div>
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“They call me an elder.” The voice was soft</div>
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and possessed an unusual lilt, and Manny</div>
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realized with a start that the stranger was an</div>
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American. “I’m Mormon, a missionary,” the man</div>
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explained. He looked unsure about saying more.</div>
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Then his face softened. “See here, young feller,</div>
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I’m preaching later, down over in Northwood—</div>
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aside the Orm, at the railway bridge on the east</div>
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of town. My name’s Armitage. Why don’t you</div>
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come and listen?”</div>
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For a moment Manny didn’t know what to say.</div>
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The prompting he’d experienced earlier had urged</div>
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him away, and straightaway he’d met this man.</div>
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The man had filled him with such an intensity</div>
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of light. And then, though the encounter lasted</div>
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barely a minute, a feeling of such warmth came</div>
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over Manny that he knew he must agree quickly.</div>
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“I’ll come,” he said. “I know the place you mean.”</div>
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All notions of finding work had left him.</div>
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Another rather unexpected idea began to form.</div>
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Perhaps sooner rather than later, he and Hope could</div>
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emigrate. Yet regardless of this, he knew she must</div>
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be informed of the elder’s arrival, and quickly.</div>
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They were just outside Northwood, as the elder</div>
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had said. Manny knew the place well and watched</div>
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the man preparing to address the crowd. Strangers</div>
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sometimes came through these parts, but this</div>
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American had gained more attention than travelers</div>
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usually did. The missionary’s strange aura was</div>
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still noticeable, though not quite as bright as it</div>
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had been in Ormley. Manny calculated that close</div>
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to a hundred people had come to listen—perhaps</div>
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a couple of dozen men, a lot more women, and at</div>
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least two dozen children. Some people stood on a</div>
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footbridge; others straggled along the river’s edge.</div>
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A few bystanders, their voices dissenting and</div>
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mocking, heckled the man on account of his being</div>
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American, but the elder seemed unperturbed and</div>
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smiled good-naturedly.</div>
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The iron underside of a railway bridge rattled as</div>
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a train leaving Northwood thundered overhead, its</div>
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shrill whistle piercing the air. A layer of dust and</div>
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dirt shook loose from the girders, and the clack of</div>
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freight carriages faded as the train steamed into</div>
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the moorland.</div>
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The missionary looked up, his face suddenly</div>
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serious, as if he was ready to speak. The crowd</div>
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was silent. Somewhere a baby cried out, and then</div>
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it was hushed.</div>
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“Brothers and sisters,” Elder Armitage called</div>
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boldly. His voice echoed back from across the</div>
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river. “My brothers and sisters, I come to preach</div>
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a message of peace, of prophets, of a living Christ,</div>
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of a kingdom of God that can save you. I invite</div>
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you to be baptized, for it will change you—” He</div>
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stopped as though interrupted by a sudden</div>
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thought. “But before I speak of this . . . I feel to tell</div>
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you that forgiveness springs from understanding.</div>
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Understanding does not mean approving, nor</div>
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does it mean granting permission for injustice to</div>
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continue, but it does allow us to have compassion.</div>
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</span></span><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><div align="LEFT">
In understanding we find freedom, the strength to</div>
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abandon resentment. Forgiveness grants us the</div>
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power to possess and then be consumed by our</div>
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Savior’s compassion. And His compassion, my</div>
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brothers and sisters, is freedom—a freedom from</div>
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anger, a freedom from hate, and, in the end, the</div>
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only perfect freedom.”</div>
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The same thrill of warmth Manny had felt in</div>
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Ormley washed over him again. He looked around,</div>
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wondering if anyone else felt as he did. He could</div>
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see from Hope’s face that she was also moved by</div>
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the elder’s words. She stood with her head held</div>
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high, dressed as she so often was in a high-necked</div>
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gray calico dress, her black hair pulled back into</div>
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a neat bun. A few loose strands of hair lay gently</div>
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against her cheek, her pale skin contrasting the</div>
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blue of her eyes. Manny felt his heart leap and</div>
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then guiltily averted his gaze.</div>
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She’d seemed just as excited as he’d been by</div>
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the elder’s arrival, and Manny had felt an intense</div>
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pleasure at inviting her to come with him to the</div>
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town. He looked at her once more and noticed a</div>
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tinge of pink on her cheeks. The same light he’d</div>
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seen in Elder Armitage was beginning to emanate</div>
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</span></span><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><div align="LEFT">
from Hope as well. A sense of peace filled Manny,</div>
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</span></span><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><div align="LEFT">
and he reached out to take hold of her hand. He</div>
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knew they would both be baptized.</div>
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</span><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><div align="LEFT">
Elder Armitage stood waist-deep in the river,</div>
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close to the edge where the water was calmest.</div>
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Manny slid down the embankment toward him,</div>
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his hands catching against briars. The river was</div>
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swollen, and driftwood tumbled past in the froth.</div>
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He made a silent pledge. This baptism would</div>
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signify a new beginning. He would strive to become</div>
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a man of peace. “‘Blessed are the peacemakers,’”</div>
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he thought, “‘for they shall be called the children</div>
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of God.’”</div>
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It was enough. He was ready to commit.</div>
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The cold water pushed at Manny’s legs and</div>
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then his belly. He grinned and shivered. The crowd</div>
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had gathered above him, on the footbridge—some</div>
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smiling, others frowning and turning away, shaking</div>
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their heads.</div>
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Elder Armitage raised his arm and spoke slowly.</div>
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“Ephraim Immanuel Shaw . . .”</div>
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All became silent as Manny sank under the</div>
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water, his heart pounding. The river sealed above</div>
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him, closed over his face. For a moment he lay</div>
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in the elder’s grip, immersed in the thundering</div>
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water. He felt the current beat at the riverbed,</div>
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rushing and humming all about his head and</div>
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arms and legs, his old life rushing away. Then</div>
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he rose.</div>
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Hope was still smiling as she too emerged from</div>
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the river. Her face flushed as she climbed up the</div>
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embankment toward Manny, and he felt a surge</div>
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of pride at seeing her so happy, so alive. Gentle</div>
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clapping broke out behind them, and the crowd</div>
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rippled as people moved away.</div>
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Manny handed Hope his coat, then helped her</div>
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wrap it around her shoulders. It was good being</div>
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so close to her. Even though he was shivering, he</div>
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felt warm, confident, renewed. He thought of the</div>
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marriage plans they had laughed at so many times,</div>
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imagined the bite of salty sea air on the deck of a</div>
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schooner, the captain performing the wedding.</div>
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Now was the time to ask. Gently, Manny took</div>
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hold of Hope’s hand. “Will you . . .” But his heart</div>
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was racing and he stalled. He couldn’t tell whether</div>
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she knew his intent, but she blushed as she looked</div>
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up at him, and he saw tears welling in her eyes,</div>
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her face alight with anticipation.</div>
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He wanted to say something more profound,</div>
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something more eloquent. The words he had</div>
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prepared seemed awkward, inadequate. “I’d like to</div>
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ask your guardian a question.”</div>
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He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the elder.</div>
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He was holding a Bible and smiling. “We need to</div>
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confirm you now,” he said, “and bestow upon you</div>
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a gift—the Holy Ghost.”</div>
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Manny looked at Hope and saw in her eyes a</div>
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mixture of disappointment and excitement.</div>
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“Come, come with me before you catch your</div>
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death of cold,” Elder Armitage urged. “Come and</div>
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</span></span><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><div align="LEFT">
meet Sister Aitkin.” He gestured toward a woman</div>
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who stood smiling down on them from the bridge.</div>
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“She owns the lodging house where I’ve been</div>
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</span></span><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><div align="LEFT">
boarding, and while we’re there we can find new</div>
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clothes for the both of you.” He held up his Bible.</div>
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</span></span><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><div align="LEFT">
“We can talk more comfortably there as well.</div>
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</span></span><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><div align="LEFT">
Besides, I have a doctrine I’m longing to share,</div>
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something that will help you in the future.”</div>
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<span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"> </span></span></div>
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Storm clouds rolled in over the moorland,</div>
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making the late afternoon seem like evening. Will</div>
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swung his fist again, smashing it against Manny’s</div>
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mouth. “Where have you been, lad?” he spat.</div>
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“You’ve been gone all day.”</div>
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Blood trickled down Manny’s chin. He was</div>
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grateful Hope was not here with him, that he’d</div>
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agreed to her request that she wait in Ormley.</div>
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This was not a spectacle he would have wanted</div>
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her to witness. He wiped his mouth, trying to stop</div>
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the blood dripping onto the shirt Elder Armitage</div>
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</span></span><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><div align="LEFT">
had lent him. As Will looked disdainfully at</div>
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the new clothes, Manny swallowed, his breath</div>
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punctuated by his heartbeat, his knuckles red</div>
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and swollen.</div>
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The brothers stood alone on the rutted highway,</div>
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just outside the village. Manny clenched his fists,</div>
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his jaw tight. He’d been surprised that Will had</div>
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come looking for him, but even more surprised at</div>
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his brother’s response.</div>
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“We’ve done right,” Manny insisted. The shock</div>
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he’d felt at Will’s reaction was turning to anger.</div>
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“We’ve found peace. And no one, most of all you, is</div>
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going to take it from us.”</div>
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His brother laughed and then stared at him</div>
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scornfully. “You’ve been tricked, lad. You should</div>
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never have left.”</div>
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“No, you’re wrong. I won’t go back on this.”</div>
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“You’re sick in the head, lad—that’s all there is</div>
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to it.”</div>
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They circled each other in silence, stepping</div>
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over the ruts and stones in the road. Behind them,</div>
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the storm moved over the village. Thunder volleyed</div>
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across the moorland, and the cloud split, spewing</div>
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rain into the valley.</div>
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The rain swept over them, drenching the highway.</div>
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Manny held up his hand to shield his eyes. “Maybe</div>
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you don’t care who lives or dies here, Will. But I</div>
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swear Hope and I do.” He turned, bowing his head</div>
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against the rain, and hurried toward the village.</div>
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Will rushed up behind him and yanked him</div>
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back. They tripped and fell heavily. “You and</div>
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Hope?” Will demanded. “You ain’t right. Have you</div>
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no pity for your mam, or me?”</div>
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Pushing and pulling at each other, they scraped</div>
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over stones, slipped in the mud. They had never</div>
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fought like this, and Manny felt sick to his stomach.</div>
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“What’s happened to you, Will?”</div>
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Shaking, he leaned in close, and Manny could</div>
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smell his stale breath. “It’s not what’s happened</div>
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to me, lad. It’s what’s happened to you,” Will</div>
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whispered. “But you can’t run away from who we</div>
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are.”</div>
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Manny tried to wriggle loose, but his brother</div>
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had him pinned.</div>
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“You’re scared, Will, that’s all. You’re scared of</div>
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what I’ve done. But it could be for the best. And</div>
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one day, you’ll regret you didn’t come.”</div>
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Will looked suddenly weary, resigned, as if</div>
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overwhelmed by a weight he would never divulge.</div>
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He turned his head away for a moment and then</div>
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looked back, determination to hold his family</div>
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together etched into his face again. “I swear I’ll hurt</div>
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you worse than this if you don’t do as I say. Now</div>
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just you think about our mam. Remember her,</div>
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will you? And by the way, Mr. Reeve said he’d even</div>
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increase your wages if you stay. Don’t forget it.”</div>
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Will stood up awkwardly, spat on the ground,</div>
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and hobbled away.</div>
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Manny watched his brother go and grimaced at</div>
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the throbbing in his mouth. The rain fell heavier,</div>
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stinging his face. He didn’t move even though</div>
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mud seeped slowly into his clothes. Then the rain</div>
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ceased as abruptly as it had begun, and the clouds</div>
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pushed on toward the moorland.</div>
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There was the sound of horse hooves and carriage</div>
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wheels splashing through puddles. It could only be</div>
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Mr. Reeve; no one else in the village could afford</div>
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such transport. Manny took a deep breath as he</div>
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tried to put the turmoil out of his mind and prepare</div>
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for the inevitable interview. The mill owner’s black</div>
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coach drew closer, and the driver pulled back on</div>
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the reins. The horses shook their heads, snorting,</div>
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pawing at the ground. Mr. Reeve leaned out of the</div>
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window, looking amused. But Manny thought the</div>
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man also seemed disconcerted.</div>
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“Whatever’s the matter?” Mr. Reeve asked. “Do</div>
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you need help?”</div>
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Manny winced, pushing himself up, and</div>
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managed a rueful smile. “No, sir, it’s nothing.”</div>
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Mr. Reeve stared at him. It was clear he did not</div>
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believe this response, and he looked as if he was</div>
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trying to read more into the answer. But he only</div>
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declared, “I’ll say no more about it then. And I’ll</div>
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not inquire into the matter of your disappearance</div>
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this morning. I trust you’ve seen your brother and</div>
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that he’s conveyed to you my offer?” It was more of</div>
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a statement than a question and was immediately</div>
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followed by another. “Do you know if your mother’s</div>
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at home?”</div>
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“I expect she will be, sir.”</div>
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Mr. Reeve touched his hat and smiled. “Then</div>
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I’ll leave you.” He looked toward the driver. “Stop</div>
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at The Fold.”</div>
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The driver flicked the whip, and the horses</div>
</span></span><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: BookmanOldStyle; font-size: small;">clipped away.</span></span><br />
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<br />
<strong>If you are interested buying a copy, either the paperback or the Kindle Edition,</strong> <a href="http://musingona.blogspot.co.uk/2014/04/a-hope-links-page-which-naturally-i.html">this list should help--includes a list of various Amazon sites around the world.</a><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10343370754700456874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4607262923964290126.post-68879380245089656142014-05-19T22:41:00.001-07:002014-05-20T13:57:31.104-07:00Have now entered Cyberspace...Not much time to blog a long post. Suffice it to say this: Hope has now entered the realms of ebook. Can be bought with pounds sterling, dollars--of the US and Canadian varieties, euros, yen, and rupees. Yes, that's right--The Book is now as far a field as Japan and India.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Hope-Historical-Novel-S-J-Wilkins-ebook/dp/B00KE8QM9G/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1400564313&sr=1-2">Here, for example, is the .co.uk link</a> You should also be able to browse inside the book here. <br />
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Currently (20 May) listing as #1 bestseller in 'Mormons' on Amazon!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10343370754700456874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4607262923964290126.post-56610206635252655232014-05-12T14:40:00.000-07:002014-05-12T14:53:16.764-07:00The Shaping of Hope<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnB-DwD6_6bUjcFPOH8a4O_yyT-VB6NAWRuQYlKi01tJpnUy30HmGJbf5FF7HVT67U_q0EwBRlIwsrhVUDlEw53QDvcv25puLz773mwhEueAnLiUqSJEwwn0StUtAcKZXbZL60ItVY6gQ/s1600/Hope_Front_RGB_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnB-DwD6_6bUjcFPOH8a4O_yyT-VB6NAWRuQYlKi01tJpnUy30HmGJbf5FF7HVT67U_q0EwBRlIwsrhVUDlEw53QDvcv25puLz773mwhEueAnLiUqSJEwwn0StUtAcKZXbZL60ItVY6gQ/s1600/Hope_Front_RGB_small.jpg" height="320" width="205" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I sat down this evening, excited to make a mention of my fascination for poetic structure in creative writing [it genuinely is a fascination] and promptly got side-tracked by a 'discovery' that may impact my time and capacity--it left me feeling deflated, demoralised, and just a bit angry. And robbed of the enthusiasm for writing about something I really wanted to share. </div>
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</div>
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But then I realised this is Life. So I have climbed back into my seat, allowed myself this little preamble as a way of acknowledging the turbulence [in the hopes that it will help to defuse it a little] and now recommit to sharing something about my experience of shaping of <em>Hope</em>. </div>
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</div>
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In 2005-2006 I attended Lancaster University (to study for an MA in Creative Writing) and there was taught about the Golden Mean and the Fibonacci Sequence (a strange mathematical counting pattern that conforms to the Golden Ratio: i.e. 0, ,1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21 etc.) and the Hero's Journey.</div>
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I became fascinated by the artistic patterns, the symmetry, and the possibilities for combining all three. I am intrigued that that these 'things' are something seen frequently, yet unconsciously enjoyed and infrequently <em>perceived, </em>in spite of manifesting in multiple and diverse ways and places (<a href="http://www.goldennumber.net/">examples can be seen here for example</a>.) For me, they become fascinating because they seem to exist just beneath the surface, all the while shaping and moulding us into our most natural and beautiful form. </div>
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</div>
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For me, these principles became almost an obsession in the later stages of redrafting <em>Hope</em>. Okay, strike the 'almost'. But to be fair to myself, I believed I could see a chance to deepen the poetic structure of the story. I wanted to experiment to see whether it could strengthen the reading experience in a way that wouldn't draw attention to itself in a bad way, but instead be something that if and when discovered might provide an enriching revisiting of the story later.</div>
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</div>
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Now. I am mindful that analysis can kill a good read, but if you <em>are </em>interested in exploring the book's poetic structure, here are a few clues to get you started:</div>
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</div>
<ul>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
Act 1 = the first <strong>5 </strong>chapters [which includes the Prologue] </div>
</li>
</ul>
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</div>
<ul>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
Act 2 = <strong>13</strong> chapters [subdivided in two blocks: the first made up of 8 and then second an additional 5; chapter 13 is important in terms of the Golden ratio in the story as a whole].</div>
</li>
</ul>
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</div>
<ul>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
Act 3 = <strong>3</strong> chapters. </div>
</li>
</ul>
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</div>
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I'm sensing it's best to leave it at that. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10343370754700456874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4607262923964290126.post-86993162347943642852014-04-16T14:35:00.000-07:002014-04-16T14:45:05.022-07:00With many many thanks...Imagine being in a room with a window low enough to see something of the outside, but just too high to really see the lay of the land properly (though something of the outside is visible, it's only really the sky you can see; occasional better sight of the ground can be established by jumping with all your might but you can snatch only split second views before you fall back down). This is what it feels like from the point of view of an overexcited and perhaps overzealous debutant novelist based in the UK who is trying hard via Google to keep a cyber eye on the main action taking place in the USA and whose book has been officially available for purchase for less than three weeks.<br />
<br />
So here we are. Two and a bit weeks into April, and the fact that I am beginning to forget how little time has actually passed, and just how obsessed I may sound is marginally concerning. <br />
<br />
Mindful that my long suffering Facebook friends are continuing to patiently bear with my somewhat one track posts, and mindful of the speed at which forgetfulness can kick in, I wish to create a gratitude list: <br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Grateful to every generous soul who has celebrated this success with me. (I was especially touched to receive a congratulations card out of the blue from an aunt.)</li>
</ul>
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<li>Grateful to the people who have given their time to read and review the novel (and those still engaged in such an endeavour). Your gift has been a real boost for the book's launch. So thank you. </li>
</ul>
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<ul>
<li>Grateful to the dozens of friends who have sportingly (if you listen to yourself say that slowly it will uncannily sound like supportingly) like the <em>Hope</em> Facebook fan page, and, so, willingly submit themselves to the possibility of double updates from me. </li>
</ul>
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<li>Grateful that <em>Hope </em>is now on the shelves at Deseret Book--and selling. </li>
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<li>Grateful that copies are being sent out by post--including my complimentary copies--really looking forward to handling the physical product. Don't tell my kids, but I plan to give each of them a copy with a personal message. (Just what they wanted, you say? I know!) </li>
</ul>
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<li>Grateful to be finding the book has been picked up by Independent LDS retailers: in addition to the main market in the USA, this includes Canada and the UK.</li>
</ul>
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<ul>
<li>Grateful to be able to say, finally, to my wife and children the waiting is over: the novel is now on sale. </li>
</ul>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10343370754700456874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4607262923964290126.post-62581353096945350132014-04-03T14:27:00.002-07:002014-05-17T00:33:34.374-07:00A Hope links page... It's early days, but here are a number of links to places to learn more about (and in some cases buy) Hope:<br />
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<a href="http://musingona.blogspot.co.uk/2014/03/the-first-review.html">Review by a retired English Literature Professor (which I am understandably VERY proud of!)</a> <br />
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<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/566229-coming-soon--new-lds-books">Link to a Goodreads page for Salt Lake County Library Service, where, if you live close to, you can borrow the book.</a><br />
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<a href="http://ilovetoreadandreviewbooks.blogspot.co.uk/2014/04/hope.html">Another positive review (from Shauna Wheelwright at ilovetoreadandreview</a>)<br />
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<a href="http://diony-george.blogspot.co.uk/">A plug for my novel at Diony George's blog</a><br />
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<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/20897494-hope">Good news on Goodreads--happily, a developing page... </a><br />
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<a href="http://ldsbookuk.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=342_296_134&products_id=14960">A link to the store I used to work for; love the social media plugins at the bottom of the page! Wish I knew the people who have clicked Facebook 'like'. I'd love to thank them.</a><br />
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<a href="http://deseretbook.com/Hope-S-J-Wilkins/i/5121641">Link to Deseret Book (where there are currently 3 easy to access reviews).</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.ldsstores.com/">List of some couple of dozen retailers who should all be able to source the book</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.byubookstore.com/ePOS/form=robots/item.html&item_number=9781599929040&store=439&design=439">The BYU Bookstore</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.brighamdistributing.com/product.php?id_product=1441">A second distributor (who will specialise in supplying Amazon and Barnes and Noble orders--watch this space).</a><br />
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Further to the link above (Update 13th May 2014) <br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hope-S-J-Wilkins/dp/159992904X">Amazon.COM (i.e. USA)</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Hope-S-J-Wilkins/dp/159992904X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1400010346&sr=1-1">Amazon.CO.UK (i.e. UK)</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.ca/Hope-S-J-Wilkins/dp/159992904X">Amazon.CA (i.e. Canada)</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.de/Hope-S-J-Wilkins/dp/159992904X">Amazon.DE (i.e. Germany)</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.fr/Hope-S-J-Wilkins/dp/159992904X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1400010678&sr=8-1&keywords=hope+s.j.+wilkins">Amazon.FR (i.e. France)</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.es/Hope-S-J-Wilkins/dp/159992904X/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1400010790&sr=1-1-catcorr&keywords=hope+s.j.+wilkins">Amazon.ES (i.e. Spain)</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.it/s/ref=nb_sb_noss/275-5100103-1425209?__mk_it_IT=%C3%85M%C3%85%C5%BD%C3%95%C3%91&url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=hope%20s.j.%20wilkins">Amazon.IT (i.e. Italy)</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.jp/Hope-S-J-Wilkins/dp/159992904X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1400011677&sr=8-1&keywords=hope+j.+wilkins">Amazon.CO.JP (i.e. Japan)</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.in/Hope-S-J-Wilkins/dp/159992904X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1400012006&sr=8-1&keywords=hope+s.j.+wilkins">Amazon.IN (i.e. India)</a><br />
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Also, (in no particular order)<br />
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<a href="https://wordery.com/hope-s-j-wilkins-9781599929040?currency=GBP&gtrck=OTNxZlBBb0ZleGRuQ1VXeXUyb3RUcVJSczExT1JxZWorZTNheGJxdzNnaz0&gclid=CJvGmILcqb4CFebItAodihYA0g">Wordery</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.bookdepository.com/Hope-Wilkins/9781599929040">Book Depository</a><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10343370754700456874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4607262923964290126.post-71311590060233807332014-03-24T15:15:00.001-07:002014-03-24T22:06:50.393-07:00Asking Questions, Maintaining PerspectiveI've been chugging along at this creative adventure for quite a while now, chugging along through various experiences, including a couple of films (<a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1746335/?ref_=fn_al_nm_1">here</a>) and a number of creative writing programmes.<br />
<br />
In 2006, some two and a bit years after graduating with a BA in Independent Studies, I just about scraped a Pass on my MA in Creative Writing: the pass mark was 50, I received a 53.<br />
<br />
My confidence took a huge hit, I felt incredibly humiliated. For a time, the desire to keep writing was eclipsed by anxiety that I was merely deluding myself. Embarrassment about my 'failure' prevented me from really believing I could succeed. In short, I was focused on the wrong catalysts. Embarrassment, however human, showed immaturity: my focus was <em>me</em>, when it needed to become more deeply concerned with serving the reader. And in more truly patient with the time that takes. <br />
<br />
My wife (who is a very talented fine artist) once said, in essence, all art is valuable because it reveals where the artist has come to at any given point; in other words, the question of "how good it is" is in many ways an irrelevance and an unhelpful distraction. Which is not the same as saying all art is equal (i.e. ready for publicly sharing) but an invitation to be patient with myself in producing the work, patient with the process of making it ready for others. <br />
<br />
How long to write a book? How long before I get published? Will my work secure positive reviews? Will the novel sell? How well will it sell?<br />
<br />
For me, these <em>are</em> big questions. And questions I <em>have </em>asked. But whenever they become urgent, they are clues that I am walking onto the ice, thin ice. <br />
<br />
The distracted question of how long it takes to become published (a question I have asked if different ways many times) is potentially a revelation of troubled subtexts. The unspoken doubts are 'how long <em>should</em> it take, <em>may </em>it take, <em>will</em> it take'?<br />
<br />
What I am really asking is: 'do <em>I</em> have what it takes to see a project through to the "end"?' Whatever "end" means. Maybe what it means is another subtext of self doubt: 'how will I know when I am <em>done</em>?' Which is to say 'how will I know when I have done enough for someone else to like it?' Ah... Will my work be popular, or will I get overlooked? Will all my effort come to nothing? Will I be more liked, or less liked? <br />
<br />
<em>There</em> is the ice: these most dangerous of questions, dangerous because they take my eye off the proverbial ball. <br />
<br />
Stanislavski might have asked me: 'Do you love the art in yourself, or yourself in the art?'<br />
<br />
As E.M. Forster said: 'Only connect.'<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10343370754700456874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4607262923964290126.post-29959041805537613012014-03-08T14:32:00.000-08:002014-03-13T14:24:28.572-07:00The First Review!<div>
<strong><em>Hope</em> has now gone to press! And the journey to publication has entered the review stage. I received the following this evening (8 March) and wanted to share...</strong> </div>
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The story of the earliest Mormon missionaries in Great Britain, arriving as they did just at the tipping point when a nation of independent craftsmen and weavers and creators of hand-made lace was already becoming the first modern industrialized state, inventing in the process both smog and mass production and the middle class, is an oft-told tale of spiritual power and sacrifice and miracles and of an immigration to their promised Zion of the faithful on such a grand scale that it literally saved the new Church from its enemies in the United States and in the process changed the history of nations on both sides of the Atlantic. A tale oft told but probably still not as familiar as it deserves to be among Latter-day Saints today. But Seth Wilkins's novel <i>Hope</i>, with that history as its background, is quite a different tale, the story of those who stayed behind, who did not join the Church and the exodus to America in those earliest years because they were unaware of what was being welcomed by others around them, or perhaps because of their fear of sacrifice or of persecution, or sometimes because they became victims to that persecution before final choices were even possible. What became of them, and their descendants? How was the foundation laid for the United Kingdom to become the first nation in the modern Church to be organized entirely into stakes?</div>
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But to dwell on the background history here is to miss too much, for <i>Hope</i> is a very human story of faith and love; of betrayal and fury; of kidnapping and murder, fraud and vengeance and, sometimes, forgiveness; families divided and ruined, or united and made eternal; families built by individual struggle and decisions of lasting consequences. Wilkins's novel is set in the Lancastrian moorland, stark, and chilling, and beautiful to those with eyes to behold, where great darkness can seem sometimes to cover the land by day as well as by night. It is also a setting in which "a fragile shaft of sunlight" can reach down "through the cloud and spread over the village" and indeed over all the landscape beyond the villages, woods and tarns and rocky outcrops, and into the hearts of some of the characters, those alert to receive light. For human hearts, we see here, are as variable and as variously receptive as this landscape. It is a story, in some ways an extended parable, in every way beautifully crafted and powerfully told, set firmly in its historical present but also reaching back into "another time when there was only order and peace" and also forward with its "sense of future things and a gradually rising sense of elation." And if its cast of characters includes, as all our lives do, "a sea of beings--the presence of angels," it is nevertheless at every moment a very human story of human relationships and human choices, corrupt or enlightened, stumbling or everlasting, as bad as can be or as good as human capacity is able to extend itself.</div>
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It is a novel no one should miss!</div>
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Gordon K. Thomas, Emeritus Professor of English Literature, Brigham Young University<br />
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<a href="http://deseretbook.com/Hope-S-J-Wilkins/i/5121641">Order it here...</a></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10343370754700456874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4607262923964290126.post-60128559873685181662014-02-24T15:21:00.000-08:002014-03-13T14:27:58.696-07:00Announcing Hope...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjytQuO__NJ-7NN1SUDfEh95g9jH8nnEgSWmarZrtnu8H7JGlzyEYPuO0DptkW_E80eWWbupozR0_9_q1hForaVMOiudR9xveAGi49IuswEMoc9nK1iKczc3oMCegiyf63016JqhWbcEpo/s1600/Hope_Front_RGB_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjytQuO__NJ-7NN1SUDfEh95g9jH8nnEgSWmarZrtnu8H7JGlzyEYPuO0DptkW_E80eWWbupozR0_9_q1hForaVMOiudR9xveAGi49IuswEMoc9nK1iKczc3oMCegiyf63016JqhWbcEpo/s1600/Hope_Front_RGB_small.jpg" height="320" width="205" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Englishman Isaac Shaw is dead. For sixteen years, his family has struggled on in shame, believing he died a criminal—responsible, in 1837, for several deaths when he set fire to the village mill. When Isaac’s youngest son Manny runs away, straight into the path of a traveling Mormon elder, the meeting threatens the family’s future. Charged with care of a letter that challenges the village’s history, Manny must find a way to reveal the identity of a young woman called Hope. The quest is destined to change everything. This plot-driven mystery is a tale of humankind’s eternal search for peace.</span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,Helvetica,Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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Here it is. My book. After the best part of thirteen years--struggling, doubting, and, against the facts hoping--publication is finally at the doors. By the end of March I should be able to call myself a published novelist.</div>
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I'm not sure I can fully believe it. I'm not even quite sure what comes next. I know I am enjoying the process; the novel is to be published by the Utah based Walnut Springs Press, via its Currawong Press imprint. I am over the moon that Deseret Book Distributing are an official distributor and delighted <em>Hope </em>will feature in the Deseret Book summer catalogue (that goes out a <em>huge</em> mailing list.) I almost feel like my writerly life is complete. </div>
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There's a moment in a favourite film (<em>Chariots of Fire</em>) in which Harold Abrams finally takes gold in his event, the 100 yard dash, and soon afterwards is invited by his friend Aubrey to celebrate; instead, Harold leaves the changing area in a daze, without so much as a goodbye. Lord Lindsay advises Aubrey to leave Harold be, explaining how hard it can be to comprehend and accept one's own success. Ah. Yes. I have a little inkling about that now. </div>
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There's a danger here, of course, that in getting so carried away with the fact that a bona fide publisher actually <em>wants and enjoys </em>my work, I begin to sound like a Megalomaniac. Or worse, that I begin to think like one. I hope I don't come across this way. I apologise if I have or ever do. That would be awful. </div>
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But in a way, I do feel like I have just been given parole. </div>
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For years I have felt imprisoned by falling short, occasionally and (more recently) increasingly in despair, wondering if I would <em>ever </em>achieve my goal, and I suppose a little afraid that it might just have been delusion. It <em>has</em> been a choice to pursue creative ventures, but it has rarely if ever been easy on our family. My wife has been unbelievably loyal, constantly. So this achievement is sweet because I have wanted so much to be published for her sake, for her faith in me. That's why after some thirteen years--and arguably longer, since I began a sustained approach to creative writing the year we married, 1997--this feels like parole.</div>
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I hope you won't misunderstand me: my feet are very much on the ground about the book's prospects. I want it to do well. And I'll be trying to make sure it does. But, for nearly six years, I sold books for a living... I know what the realities are. So this is not about getting rich quick (I've got thirteen years to remunerate!) It's about honouring a feeling that creative talents are important. It's about trying to stay true to a belief that the arts can make a difference.</div>
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Hang on to the idea that perseverance wins out. </div>
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Hopefully you'll forgive this little bit of self-congratulation, and, if you are also doggedly slaving away at a secret--or not so secret--creative project, scratching your head at your defiance of the 'facts'... permit me to encourage you to keep going. Just keep going. It turns out 'they' were right all along: perseverance does pay off in the end. </div>
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<strong><em>Hope </em>is due for release April 2014, and will be available in both paperback and electronic forms. Paperback: ISBN 978-1-59992-904-0; E-book: ISBN 978-1-59992-905-7. </strong></div>
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<a href="http://deseretbook.com/Hope-S-J-Wilkins/i/5121641">The paperback can now be ordered here...</a></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10343370754700456874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4607262923964290126.post-10695822354852019352013-05-02T14:34:00.002-07:002013-05-02T14:38:46.118-07:00Writing with Purpose<br />
I suppose this post's title is an invitation to disaster. <o:p></o:p><br />
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What can I possibly mean by 'writing with purpose'? And shouldn't my blog
post be a more or less perfect example of finish and poise? <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Perhaps. But also perhaps not. <o:p></o:p><br />
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Surely the attempt to write something meaningful, something true, something <em>really
</em>true, is connected not so much to what we say, nor the way we choose to
say it, but rather is linked to our innate, deep-seated capacity for truly <em>listening.
</em><o:p></o:p><br />
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I believe we <em>all</em> have this capacity, this potential. It's just a
question of learning to unearth it.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Listening is something we usually think of in relation to conversations with
others, but in a writing and creative sense, listening is more about reaching
into a deeper space, through the interference of our own superficial thoughts
and quietly on, and then out, into the great ocean-like unseen, where the
universe is not really perceived by sight at all, but by an inner sense (isn't
there something amazing--it might even be called synchrony--that 'inner sense'
echoes the word innocence? And innocence <em>is</em> a kind of tuning out the
superficiality associated with emotional defensiveness. It seems to encourage
openness, the readiness to receive.)<o:p></o:p><br />
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This kind of inner sense (or innocent) listening can, and in my experience
has and will, bring us into gentle contact with what feels akin to a great
reservoir of Being, sheer energy or creative force. And will on condition that
we learn to trustingly surrender to its omniscience. I would suggest this
experience can be one of the ways we learn a little more about God.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I think I should acknowledge the influence of two great Creatives
as their work has helped me to more successfully apprehend this awareness. I
think if you'll read their work, you'll see what I mean.<o:p></o:p><br />
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The writers (and their superb books) are:<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Dorothea Brande (author of <em>Becoming a Writer</em>) <o:p></o:p><br />
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Julia Cameron (author of <em>The Artist's Way</em>)<o:p></o:p><br />
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So... writing with purpose? It's all about learning to <em>listen</em>.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10343370754700456874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4607262923964290126.post-75749442155188562422013-04-11T13:38:00.000-07:002013-04-11T13:38:51.495-07:00Creative Conduct... <br />
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In attempting the creative I acknowledge the spiritual.<br />
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I desire the company of good will and kindness to my fellow Creatives. I desire a feeling of kindness towards them no matter where they may be in their journey.<br />
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In acknowledging the principles of effort and experience, I reject the impulse towards unkind and unhelpful contentiousness. It will threaten my work.<br />
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I am able, in the silence of my heart, to observe the current state of things and gain wisdom and ability from this. <br />
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I reject the temptation to criticise for the sake of superiority. The spirit of superiority is counter to the spirit of creativity.<br />
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I accept others and benefit from their efforts. I applaud the efforts of others and assume integrity and childlike desire on the part of those engaged: I assume their desire to be like mine--to produce a lasting legacy of meaningful and worthwhile Art.<br />
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My desire is to produce beauty and emotionally strengthening material, to find and share my viewpoint; my greater challenge is to reject the temptation to envy and to jealousy, and to other unhelpful distractions--all of these choke my creativity and diminish my Art.<br />
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I pray for the strength to give what I can give, and avoid the things that scar me.<br />
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I believe that the blessing of confidence is a great asset and worthy of pursuit.<br />
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I will take each day as my moment to think, create, and otherwise contribute. Each day is an opportunity, each hour a chance to invigorate.<br />
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I will seek to contemplate, to concentrate, and to consecrate my compassion to the edifying and encouraging of all those around me.<br />
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I will let go of the things that discourage me, I will move on from the days that I don't quite make the aspirations outline above.<br />
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I am able to become the kind of man I hope to be, and to make the contribution I hope to make. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10343370754700456874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4607262923964290126.post-82349282162879949492013-04-01T13:07:00.001-07:002013-04-02T00:10:10.949-07:00Creativity equals vulnerability and energy...After commiting to share musings on the creative process, I decided it might really help if I took a bit of time to organise myself first, or at least brainstorm a few things I felt able to get my teeth into. I came up with a fairly eclectic list that ranges from discussing elements of narrative craft, such as plot and character, to contemplations on the Golden Mean, to confidence, synchronicity, and purpose in the face of death... Not sure at this stage how this grand plan will pan out. But each of these ideas seemed important. So I'll do my best to offer my two pennies on them.<br />
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Also, I don't really want this to become a Writers Only column; I really believe that principles of creativity are transferable. And, again, this isn't limiting us to 'conventional' artistry: being human is to be creative. Every time we're kind to someone, we build something a little more beautiful.<br />
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Hopefully, you'll be able to substitute 'writing' for anything that happens to be more within your circle of interesting.<br />
<br />
I want to begin with a pretty basic question:<br />
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What <i>is </i>writing? <br />
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This makes me think of an early line in one of my favourite films, <i>Dead Poets Society, </i>in which a stuffy handbook reduces poetry to potential passionless exercises in analysis.<br />
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Don't get me wrong. There's a place for such approaches, and without a healthy interest in analysis so much understanding can be missed. But writing, like living, demands our passion--our personal commitment--the courage to own an opinion, an energised view.<br />
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Creativity can be analysed and debated, but to really to enrich others, I have to live with my heart wide open. Which of course is fraught with emotional danger. But that's the deal if our creations are to really <i>live.</i><br />
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And the price of life is vulnerability. As Robert Frost is attributed with saying: 'No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.'<br />
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Writing--like any act of creation--means understanding that we are engaged in capturing and sharing energy. Our energy. And that we are doing so for the sake of others. Little wonder it both hurts and exhilarates...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10343370754700456874noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4607262923964290126.post-9345628427180713822013-03-30T00:23:00.000-07:002014-03-13T14:26:58.162-07:00Welcome <div style="text-align: left;">
Welcome. <br />
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Kicking off a blog is hard. Well, for me it is anyway. There's something like a kind of stage fright, a fear of speaking on your own in a corner, about things no-one has time for. Or worse, speaking in way that is just windy, boring, and irrelevant.<br />
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But I have been offered a book contract. On a novel I currently call <i>Hope</i>. And after ten years of submitting various versions to publishers, I am trying to find a way to create a chatting place, a place where we can talk all things Book.<br />
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I'm excited to get started.<br />
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What I think I am trying to do here is discuss and celebrate the creative process. It's so important. So essential. But it is not just about the obvious forms, such as art and literature or whatever else immediately springs to mind when someone says Creative. The process reflects our human need for joy. Which finds its way into every aspect of our lives. I find it in my effort to write, but equally it manifests in striving to be a friend, a wise parent, a good spouse.<br />
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I guess I need to say from the outset that I believe in God. I believe in the fact that I need to believe in God. And I don't see this as a weakness. For me, it has been the underpinning reason to keep with this creative intent. <br />
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Regardless of whether others agree with identifying God in the creative process (it's not my intention to ram faith down anyone's throat) I hope to focus on common ground: the wonder of humankinds' inherent capacity to 'make things' - it's a truly amazing gift.<br />
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Life <i>is</i> a wonder.<br />
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So I'll call this place The Sound of Musing.<br />
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<a href="http://deseretbook.com/Hope-S-J-Wilkins/i/5121641">The book can now be ordered here...</a><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10343370754700456874noreply@blogger.com0