Anita Dawes's Blog: http://jenanita01.wordpress.com, page 11

The joys of writing…

"A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song." Maya Angelou.

As much as I love a good book, I also love many other beautiful things. Like the picture above for instance, I think it is stunning. I wish I could create pictures like that. I do try, with my little camera and I quite like some of the images that come forth. I have dabbled with a paintbrush too but know I'm not very good.
Which brings me neatly to my new project. I have been writing a series of murder mystery novels, inspired by the books I have read and all Anita's work that I have helped to publish. Whether they will be any good at all remains to be seen, but I am determined to give it my best shot. After all, I think I am a good editor/proofer, and I always got good marks for English, so what do I have to lose?

Anita started writing when her life was at a low ebb. Losing herself in creating fictional plots and characters turned out to be very therapeutic- not to mention relaxing and soothing, the list of advantages seemed to go on and on. Also, knowing you are in control of this brave new world, controlling everything that happens, must be a very special feeling.
Anita tells me that sometimes the characters take over and tell her what they want to do. That must be truly amazing!

As Anita's editor, the process worked for me too. It was bliss to immerse myself in this newly discovered world.
Mostly tired (or sick) of the way the ordinary world is, what better than to create a world where literally everything can be the way you want it? A chance to show the world that life doesn't have to be like that. A chance to experience what your heart desires, if only for a while.
But do it well enough and it will be remembered.

I can see a small similarity with what Anita does and my bonsai hobby. Some of them I have grown from seed and tended and cared for, trained, encouraged and celebrated as beautiful things. 
Some people laugh at my 'little sticks' but I can see the end result. Hopefully my efforts with the pencil will be just as rewarding for me...

#Wordless Wednesday...

Technophobe Revisited!

When I started blogging in 2012 to promote our books, I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Not for me, anyway. First of all, we needed a blog, and they made it sound so easy. Just choose one, click here and there, and you’re up and running.To start with, choosing which one to go with was not that easy. I wanted our blog to look amazing, be simple to use and not cost anything.
I tried a few before I got to Blogger, the one run by Google. Most of them said they were easy, and they probably are for most people, but my little brain seems to have a glitch.I have always had this glitch. People will try to explain things to me, but there will always be at least one little detail, that if I understood it, would make the whole thing make sense of all the others. Sometimes, after many attempts, the penny will drop. Now and again, it will refuse and I will have to give up.
Fortunately, I did succeed in setting up our first blog. After many false starts and dummy runs, several layout changes and mucking about in general, we had ourselves a reasonably attractive website. Domain and all.  I thought that was all I had to do. I posted regularly, but they were short and amateur. No images, and precious little imagination.Well, in my defence I was learning.
Now, some kind of communication is important for people like me, and before long, I realised that Blogger does not have the capability to answer any of my questions. You had to post your question to a forum and hope someone just like me had run up against the same problem and knew how to put it right.
This brings me to my other problem. Whenever I do ask for help, the answers are usually so technical they mean nothing to me. So why do I bother, I hear you ask.
Just lately, much has been said about the importance of your email list. Now, because there was a subscribe button on our blog, I mistakenly thought we had the makings of one. But I don’t think we do.The one that comes with the Blogger package is something called Feedburner, but as far as I can tell, it doesn’t do anything at all. There is no list, no information and no analytics. At this point, I wanted to run screaming and hide under the stairs. But, because I’m stubborn and want to succeed, I looked around for an alternative.Mailchimp or Eweber were recommended most strongly as being, wait for it… simple to use…blah, blah.

I spent an entire afternoon with Mailchimp, shredding my nerves and any patience I had left, and got precisely nowhere. To be fair, it all went well, until I tried to import any lists I might have had already. They found none. At least that’s what they said. More than two years of blogging and not one name?That was when I think Mailchimp went off me. I tried to move on, as they said building a list was easy. All I had to do was copy and paste this code into my blog to install the subscribe button. You could then run a campaign to attract more subscribers. You know, free books and stuff. Sounded great, but when I tried to set this up, it refused, saying that I had no list to send campaign to. Duh?That was when I gave up; resigned to the fact I had probably gone as far as I could. Same old story really. Close, but no cigar.
Now, I say I have given up, that the blog will have to do as is, but I know I will probably have another go, just to see if I can make it work. This is how I have ever gotten anywhere, but boy it gets me down sometimes.Maybe I should just retire for real and get out my knitting, but hang about, who am I kidding?
~~~~~~~~
Since then, we have discovered WordPress, and life is so much more interesting. So much more you can do with them, and they are really helpful, which comes in dead handy for me.Couldn’t bring myself to turn off our blog with Blogger, I mean, we own the domain on that one. But anything is possible in the cyber world and as I get better at all this techie stuff, who knows what I will be able to do next?
© Jaye Marie 2016

#Wordless Wednesday...

Jack Frost...

The only good thing about my scheduled trips to the hospital at the moment, is the car journey there and back again. Made me realise that I haven’t been going out nearly as much as I should have lately.
Part of the journey is on the motorway, but it does take us through the South Downs National Park, so is a lot more interesting than you would first think. Then, as we get closer to the sea, there is so much more to delight the eye.

I have seen amazing cloud formations, and once a double rainbow. Silver sunlight gleaming on the surface of the sea, and the Downs shrouded mysteriously in mist. One morning, a few weeks ago, as we drove into the hospital car park, it was just getting light and a blackbird was singing his heart out in a nearby tree. Almost as though he had been waiting for me to get there.
I witnessed the early flowering of the daffodils, bobbing bravely all along the edge of the motorway, but one day, I saw something truly amazing.

It was absolutely freezing as we made our way to the car. Most of our appointments have been early in the morning, (our choice, as it would have been difficult to get there otherwise) the sun was up, making everything bright and crisp, flooding everything with pink tones. As I went to open the car door, I noticed something magical on the roof of the car.
As if magically painted by the fairy folk, the frost had made incredible patterns across the entire surface. I just stared, unable to believe what I was seeing, unable to move or get in the car. But I would have to, or we would be late.
I didn’t have my camera with me unfortunately, but my son had his phone, and quickly captured the moment for me.


I have a few more treatments to go; I wonder what I will find tomorrow?

Excerpt from More Lives...

More Lives is the story of a typical teenager who has already decided how she wants her life to be. A loving husband, family and friends. No dark clouds on the horizon. But Sarah Curtis has been having sad and confusing dreams, where she seems to be someone else entirely. A girl with terrible, disturbing problems that could hold the secret to her future.
The dreams become more depressing, and Sarah begins to worry that something in her own life must be wrong, and when a child goes missing, her life begin to mirror her dreams.Her aunt takes her to Cornwall for a holiday, but her mind refuses to rest. Trouble seems to have followed her there, and a car accident leads to surgery when a clot is discovered in Sarah’s brain.
Could this be the cause of her nightmares?

Excerpt from More Lives...
Two days later, mother and I went to see her lying in the Chapel of Rest.
She looked beautiful; it was like looking over the side of the coffin at some fairy-tale princess. I had the overwhelming feeling that if I was to lean over and kiss her cheek; she would awake. There was one thing missing. Grace loved to carry a lace handkerchief.  I knew I would have to get her one.
We went to Arding and Hobbs, and I bought one with a red rose in the corner. When we got back to the Chapel, I took the handkerchief from its cellophane wrapping and sat beside the coffin for a while, gathering my courage. I wanted it to be tucked into her hands and knew I wouldn’t be able to avoid touching her.
When I did, I wasn’t ready for the cold that embraced me and my breath was taken away, sucked sharply down deep inside; like a baby’s would be in a strong wind. I clutched the wedding rings that were on a chain around my neck, to stop myself from shaking her, to make her tell me what she had meant.
I stood there, holding the side of the coffin, crying, my tears dropping onto the white satin lining. Partly in anger, partly in frustration of losing George and Grace, wondering what part of me they had taken with them.
I felt mother’s arm around my shoulders, heard her say softly, ‘let’s go home now, Sarah?’ Her voice seemed to come from a long way off, some distant place, and reached my mind as a soft whisper, needing no answer.
Mother was expecting to lead me gently away, but my hands held fast to the walnut wood. I couldn’t let it go. I wanted to stay right there, forever if necessary, until Grace’s unspoken thoughts ran up the length of my arms. Hoping some death-like phantom could make me understand what she had wanted me to know.
There was nothing, not even silence. The Chapel seemed to hum with a sound that came close to slow moving water. All mixed with mother’s whispered attempts to comfort me, to stop my tears.
I couldn’t tell her I was crying for myself. That what Grace had said made my own feelings stronger, heavier to carry. Feelings that defied words. Knowing something bad was coming and I would be powerless to stop it. A feeling I was about to do something no one would forgive. Somehow, she had stamped a seal on it that said, ‘I know your burden.’

Finally, my hands slid from the silky wood that would carry Grace underground. A dark place, which would have terrified her, no light to paint by. Something she hated more than the danger of the small minds she had lived with. In my opinion, it was these that had taken them both from me. If they hadn’t stormed the prefab that night, Grace and George might still be here.
I decided to try talking to Joyce. I knew she had popped in every now and then with a bag of food for their past kindness. She must know a part of Grace I didn’t, shared things she may have thought me too young to understand. It wouldn’t be easy; Joyce kept her conversation to customer service kind of stuff.

I don’t remember walking home or the thick fog that seemed to have followed me, preventing further thoughts from forming. I barely touched the food mother put in front of me and could see I was worrying her. I tried, but each mouthful seemed to swell, refusing to be swallowed.

Sleep that night was virtually impossible. I tossed and turned, tangling myself in the sheets, until a great anger took me into black dreams. I seemed to be the lead character in this nightmare, and yet it wasn’t me. I was in a large house, three floors and a basement. Faintly, I could hear the pitiful sound of someone crying and it seemed to be a small child. Somewhere below me, voices shouting, angry swearing, the sound of things being broken.  I couldn’t leave the room, couldn’t help, couldn’t even go and see what was happening. The clothes I wore were old, thin, in need of a wash. No, better still, they needed burning.
More Lives is just 99p at Amazon...  click on the link; myBook.to/moreL

The Joy of Editing…

(re- posted from September 2015)


I have edited many books in my time, and usually start at the beginning and go through the draft that way.This is how I edited my first book “The Ninth Life” and I think for a debut, it turned out quite well. It was meant to be a one-of, but the characters had other ideas. Or wasn’t it supposed to end the way it did?So I was literally forced to continue the story, and when it was time to edit it, an interesting idea occurred to me. I have no idea where it came from, and I don’t think I have heard of other writers doing the same.
This sequel had turned out to be quite complicated. Maybe sequels are, I have no idea, not having written one before. The idea of editing all of the characters chapters separately seemed like a logical and workable thing to do.That way I could see if the threads of the story (and their lives) were running fluently, and whether there were any gaping plot holes anywhere.
Well, I found quite a lot of holes and several lapses of continuation, leading me to update my running storyboard yet again.
At times, it seemed all I was managing to do was make it even more complicated, and I despaired. As I get older, there seems to be far too much of this despair happening around me, but I digress.There are four main characters in “The Ninth Death” and all are so different from one another, so I concentrated on each one in turn. I found that I could enter their own space and really get to know them personally. The result seems deeper and more rounded, and it is almost time to reunite them into the final book.
There is just one problem though; it falls short of the 60.000 words I was aiming for. Should I rustle up a bit more, or leave well enough alone.
What would you do?
© 2015 Jaye Marie

Secrets...a haunting family drama...

Secrets, a haunting family drama , is about deeply buried guilt and all the secrets and suspicions that invade and control our lives.
Many children have an invisible friend, and sometimes they can be a necessary part of a child’s life for many reasons.But when this ‘friend’ starts to cause more than just mischief, it is time for his mother to investigate further.
Maggie Swan loves her little boy Danny, but his new playmate was becoming something of a problem. It was almost as though something was wrong and he was trying to fix it.Her husband Jack, was no help at all, dismissing her ideas as rubbish. But was he merely trying to hide a guilty secret? One that Danny’s new friend knew all about?
An excerpt from Secrets... 
It took Maggie over two hours before the house started to look normal again, leaving their room until last because of Jack.
Taking two cups of coffee to the bedroom, she put them on the cabinet beside him.
Moving around to her side of the room, she sat on the edge of the bed. Shabby, faded black and white images of the past lay against the pink silk duvet like the scattered leaves of autumn. The smiling faces of four young boys playing in a summer field looked back at her, and she asked Jack who they were.
He was lost in thought, trying desperately to remember everything.
Maggie reached for his hand. 'Jack, please let me in, tell me what you're thinking?'
'Right then I was thinking about all the mess I've made. I'm sorry.'
'It's alright, Jack. Tell me about the photographs.'
Pointing with his other hand to the one nearest her he said,
'That one's Tommy Barclay, one of my best friends. How could I have forgotten him? And Henry Bridges...and that one...' he said, 'was Darren Stanley, he was the youngest.'
She pointed to the face he hadn't identified. 'And this one?'
He laughed and it sounded hollow. 'That's me; I was about ten when that was taken.'
Taking the photograph from the bed she looked at it closely, Danny would look just like his father in another few years she thought.
'Where was this taken, Jack?'
'The Norfolk Broads. I can't believe it, Maggie. How could I have forgotten such a large part of my life? Now, looking at these, I can remember the small farm my dad had. Mum hated it there, that's why we moved to London when I was twelve. Apparently, when they got married, mum agreed to give it a fair go and over the years dad kept putting her off the idea of moving back to London...
'I remember the rows they used to have, Maggie, some of them were real bad. In the end dad gave in, but keeping his side of the bargain was the end of him. He wasn't the same man living in town, but mum couldn't see it, wouldn't see it. And losing his job just made him worse. Somehow mum didn't seem to care; I used to think she enjoyed seeing him beaten. I guess in her mind it made up for all the years she'd wasted on the farm...
'I remember what she used to say every chance she got, whenever dad would lose one of the cows, or when one of the pigs wouldn't eat. Dad would stay up all night sometimes with the new lambs, making sure he didn't lose one. All mum could say was, it was a waste of time anyway, sitting there all night, smelling worse than the pigs, for what?  Dad would just look at her, he knew better than to say anything. She didn't understand. He never said it, but I always knew that's what he was thinking. Funny thing, pigs don't smell at all if they're looked after properly...'
Maggie let him talk, not daring to ask questions. He'd never spoken about his childhood before and she wanted to hear it all.'...The faster pace of London took a bit of getting used to, but I made friends and so did mum. But it wasn't until dad lost his job that she found out they weren't like the people dad called friends. Townies, he called them, they don't know what the word means...
'Farm people do things differently. You hit a rough patch, they always help out. The women folk make sure you don't go hungry and the men would bring a young pig or a lamb, whatever was needed to keep you from going under. Mum soon found out that in London, if you can't keep up they soon close you out...
'That's when I first realised that money was the only thing that meant anything and if I was going to be somebody in this world I had better get some. I felt sorry for mum, but there was nothing I could do to help her. She was hurt and lonelier than she'd ever been on the farm.'
Maggie sifted the photographs around. It was like looking through a window in time, sharing a part of Jack's life second hand, but without the depth of feeling that she could hear in his voice.
'Mum knew that she was wrong, she was just too stubborn to admit it. They could have sold up and moved back; dad wasn't too old to start again. I tried to tell her that he was dying, but she said I was being too dramatic. He'll find a new job, you'll see, she said, we'll be alright then. But he didn't and that's when the rows started. I should say mum started, dad never said all that much. He just seemed to lose a little bit more of himself each day. That's why I didn't like to bring anyone home; I never knew what might be waiting...'Looking at the face of Jack's father, Maggie found it hard to believe that someone who looked so strong could fall apart so easily. His mother didn't exactly look like a tyrant either. They both looked so healthy and in charge of their lives. Imagining the photographs in colour, she could almost see the shiny red cheeks that outdoor people always seem to have. Save a fortune on blusher, she thought. But what did all this have to do with Danny?
She was sure that's what Jack had said; he needed to find the photographs because of Danny. She asked him but he didn't know.
'There has to be some connection, Jack. Try to think.'
'What do you think I've been doing?'
'Maybe it has something to do with your mother's dislike of the farm?'
'I don't know, Maggie. All I can remember is that she hated the way things died all the time. She said it was a waste of money to keep replacing them just to watch them get sick and die like all the others. I can still hear her saying it. Dad would just shake his head and sit for as long as it took with the sick ones, hoping they'd make it. It's the way of things, son, he'd say. He had to be sure they'd given up the fight before he put them down, but it hurt him to do it, Maggie...
'I remember the pain in his eyes whenever he had to take his gun down from over the fireplace, and how he'd be gone for hours, often just walking, talking to the boss, asking why things had to be so hard. It was a while before I realised what he meant, that he was talking to God...'
'Jack,' Maggie said, trying hard to choose her words carefully, but her mind had other ideas, 'You've just gone through a whole lot of memories, but none of it's any use. We still don't know why you think your past has something to do with Danny. Are you sure you're remembering it right? Could you have made a mistake? Could one of these boys be called Toby?'
Jack looked at the photograph of the four boys again and remembered the day they'd played hide and seek in Mr Jones' field. He whispered the name.
'Who's Mr Jones?'
Jack's head was spinning. Long forgotten memories were trying to fight their way out of the fog and he was sure he felt something bad, just out of reach. His words were slow, as if other thoughts were pushing them from his mouth.
'...He had the farm next to dads. We used to play in his field and the old barn...'
'Did he have a child called Toby?'
'No,' Jack said. 'They didn't have any kids.'
'Are you sure?'
'Look, Maggie. I'm as sure as I can be. Just because Danny came up with the name Toby doesn't mean there has to be one in my past.'
'You've remembered this much, maybe later you'll remember more.' She started to gather up the photographs.
'Leave them, I'll do it.' he said sharply.
'I have to finish cleaning up the mess you made before Danny sees it!' she said, a little ruffled by the sharp edge in his voice. It made her feel as if he'd just slapped her hand away from the cookie jar.
'Christ, Maggie! I forgot all about Danny. Did you take him to the hospital with you? 'At least he'd read her note before ransacking the house, she thought.
'No. I didn't think that was a good idea. I asked Cathy to keep him for the night, and before you say anything, I didn't think he needed to see the state you were in. Considering the mess I came home to, I was right. He's safer with Cathy.' she said, picking up the clothes from the floor.
'What's that supposed to mean? Are you trying to insinuate that I'd hurt our son?' He looked hurt and pulled the clothes from her hand. 'Leave that!' he said, throwing them back on the floor. His hurt had changed to anger and for a second she thought he would hit her as he grabbed her arms.
'Explain, Maggie, tell me what you've been thinking!'
'Jack, you've been acting very strangely these last few days. Like now... all this mess... and you're hurting me!'
Letting go of her arms, he said, 'How strange?'
Maggie went over the way he'd blown up over the stray dog the other day.
'That was understandable, Maggie. The damn thing could have killed us!'
'Maybe.' she said. 'But it wasn't like you to get so mad. Normally you'd have said that was close, or been thankful that nothing had happened. But that same night you made love to me after drinking too much, and it just wasn't you, Jack!'
'What do you mean, it wasn't me? You just said...'
'I know what I said, but it wasn't you.'
'Then who the hell was it!'
'I don't know, your dark side, maybe.'
'I don't understand what you're trying to say. So I had a few drinks and we made love, what's wrong with that? We're past the age of legal consent!'
'For Christ's sake, just listen to yourself right now, does that sound like the man I married? Someone who might have asked if he'd hurt me, seeing as how he can't even remember raping me?'
She hadn't meant to let it come out like that and the shock on his face was small consolation. About as good as a Band-Aid on a severed limb.
She went on. 'And you nearly had me thinking that Cathy might do something strange. Right now she's saner than you and I put together. Maybe the kind of things she's lived through has a way of helping her to understand pain, even when it's someone else's. Right now I'd say I understand her better than the way you've been behaving. You're like a lunatic, running around looking for a lost memory, something from a dream that you're convinced holds the key to all Danny's problems...
'All very dramatic, Jack, but I think Cathy's been more help than you have, you're so caught up with this dream you had this afternoon, you haven't even asked about Dave!'
She started tidying the room and if he tried to stop her again, she had the feeling she'd be the one doing the hitting. Her little dragon was on his hind legs, blowing angry purple and black smoke through her mind.
Jack felt the weight of his body as he dropped to the bed; lowering his head he shielded his face with his hands.
'How is he?' he asked, his voice muffled. Without any gentleness, she said, 'He's dead. Now you can whip yourself about that too!'
She was deliberately trying to hurt him, lashing out with whatever weapon came to mind. It made her feel both strong and ashamed at the same time for using Dave's death just to see Jack bleed a little, to punish him for something he couldn't remember doing.
She was going to need the Hoover to clean up the powder and broken make-up that was all over the floor. Taking the small machine from the landing cupboard, she was reminded of just how lucky she was, remembering the time when they couldn't afford one Hoover, let alone two. Jack was right about money, having enough to make life's road a little smoother was great, but there were far more important things in life and she had been reminded of them all over the past week and the last few hours.
She plugged the cleaner into the wall socket and it hummed into life, the small bag filled with air like the pot belly of a small animal. The white powder was sniffed into its metal hose like a cocaine addict, disappearing as easily as Dave's life. She was reminded of the frailty and the short time any one of us has, and of Helen, left to struggle through the last years of her life without Dave.
Silencing the Hoover, she knelt down in front of Jack and pushed her way between his legs. Wrapping her arms around him with her cheek against the backs of his arms, she said, 'I'm sorry Jack. I didn't mean to say it like that.'
He let his arms drop around her back and tried to bury his face in her hair. The fresh, clean smell of shampoo filled his mind and he knew he loved and needed her more than words could say.
He said softly. 'It's alright, Maggie.' her hair brushing against his lips as he spoke. 'I need you more than the air I breathe. If I've hurt you, I'm truly sorry. My mind hasn't been my own this past week. Will you forgive me?'
He waited for her to answer, and felt the tide of emotion wash over him as she said, 'I love you, Jack. There's nothing to forgive.'
Her guilty feeling reminded her that at least a part of what she said was true, and the rest she understood. This thing with Danny had put a strain on both of them...

 

#Wordless Wednesday...

More Reasons to Continue…

I am beginning to think that becoming a successful author must be as difficult as winning the lottery. Either that or you have to be born lucky.On my quest for a brilliant book and perfect cover, I have had to stretch my brain quite a lot. Not for the writing, that’s the easy bit, but all the rest of it. All that hunting for the right cover image, not to mention the marketing and promotion.All of this of course, involves that demonically possessed box of tricks on my desk. You probably call yours a computer, but I am not so polite!That thing that crashes or freezes at just the wrong moment, usually when I have spent what seems like hours trying to do something, only to lose it. That place where all knowledge lies, IF you manage to find it and have the kind of brain that can first decipher and absorb most of it.I am not computer literate, but I do enjoy a challenge. The fact that I have managed to learn so much is testament to my stubborn streak and in dominatable patience, remarkably well demonstrated by my latest endeavours.
So, back to the one problem I cannot seem to resolve, which is manipulating images to come up with new and exciting covers and pictures for the blog.I had read somewhere that removing boring backgrounds and substituting better ones was easy, even without Photoshop and I was determined to learn how.I spent more time than I could spare, watching endless demo’s and tutorials, only to try it for myself and fail miserably, cursing my brains inability to understand what must be simple for most people.
I gave up for a while, admitting defeat and resigning myself (and my books and blog) to mediocre images. However, the bit was still between my teeth. I had to learn how to do it, somehow there had to be a way. YouTube is a wonderful place for learning how to do almost anything your heart desires, and it really is amazing what you can find when you look.While I was browsing, getting annoyed that all I could find were Photoshop posts, I suddenly realised that the word PowerPoint sounded familiar, so I investigated. Sure enough, it was included in the Word software I have on my PC. I discovered I could remove the background of any image that I had, and it was sooo easy.So who needs Photoshop anyway? I hear it is expensive and complicated, so that rather excludes me. I try to stay away from things like that.
Who am I kidding? Since then, I have discovered Canva and Picmonkey, both brilliant sites for mucking about with all those images, and managed to learn all about Buffer, which is invaluable if you want to be effective on Twitter.
So the beat goes on, and I’m not finished yet, as I suspect I am barely scratching the surface of what I could learn if I try…