Anita Dawes's Blog: http://jenanita01.wordpress.com, page 16

Electrifying Stuff!

The light switch at the top of the stairs had started playing up, always been a bit loose, something that I kept meaning to fix but never got around to. It had decided to stay on, no matter what position you put it in, so I called the electrician, as it was a complicated two-way switch system, where you can turn on the light at the bottom of the stairs, then turn it off when you get to the top.

I have never been a great fan of electricity, and have had my fair share of drilling through cables and forgetting to turn off the mains. I mean that stuff can kill you if you’re not very careful!
The electrician spent nearly an hour, testing every plug and filling the house with an ear-splitting bleep every two seconds. Eventually he had to admit he couldn’t understand why it was behaving like this.


Carpets and floorboards were lifted and more manic bleeping ensued, but he still didn’t look happy. He was standing in the hall, scratching his head, when he suddenly noticed a picture above the downstairs light switch. ‘How long has that been there?’
I had to admit I had put it there the day before. Quick as a flash, he ran his noisy bleeper thingy up and down the wall, and it lit up like the fourth of July!
To cut a long story short, the power was turned off and the cable stripped from the wall. He discovered three holes in it and raised an eyebrow. That’s when I had to admit to trying three times to get the picture in the right place.
That was when he started looking at me as if I were the second coming, saying I was incredibly lucky to still be walking around. What he couldn’t figure out, was why the circuit breaker hadn’t been tripped.
Apart from feeling more than a little stupid, there was a trace of gratitude. Something, which will probably grow, as I consider the enormity of what could have happened. And three times!~~~~~This was not the first time we had avoided an electrical disaster.
I remembered another incident that happened years ago when we were living in a council house. I kept smelling fish in the kitchen. Not so strange you might be thinking. But we didn’t eat much fish in those days. The odd fish finger and that was about it.
But the smell was getting stronger and I knew something had to be wrong. But what could it be?Then one day, I noticed one of the walls felt very warm, and on closer inspection, discovered the fuse box was situated on the other side of the wall. And it wasn’t just warm, it was hot.
To this day, I am grateful for my sensitive nose, as it certainly saved us from a serious house fire that day!

In the Beginning…

For those who were early adopters of self-publishing in its modern form and are now seasoned professionals, it’s easy to forget what a revelation it is to authors who are new to the process. Anita Dawes, who recently became an indie author, shares her delight at discovering what self-publishing can bring to the writing addict.
Two years ago, when I first started hearing about indie publishing, I never thought it would be something I could actually do, as the thought of anything to do with a computer, apart from playing solitaire, that is, filled me with dread.I had been writing for years, and submitted my work to most of the mainstream publishers. Very nearly made it too, but as they say, a miss is as good as a mile! Which was a shame, for many people liked what I wrote.So it didn’t take long for the idea of doing it yourself to become something I was determined to do. I enlisted the help of my sister, Jaye, as she is far more computer literate than I. More stubborn too!
A Steep Learning CurveWhat Jaye had to learn was incredible, and unbelievably hard. I tried to keep up with her, but there were days when even she was pulling her hair out. Some of it was easy, which tended to lull you into a false sense of achievement, but we persevered.Eventually, we learned how to upload one of my manuscripts to Amazon, and I was finally a published author. (Well, sort of)We didn’t stop there. We wanted to upload my other books and create paperback copies too, proof positive that I was truly a writer. One little success meant there could very well be others, and that was the best incentive in the world.Learning how to do all that was a nightmare, but soon, four of my books were on Amazon and we were like a couple of Cheshire cats. We were tempted to stop there; after all, I now had four paperback copies of my books on my shelf, as well as the Kindle editions.
Meeting the Book Marketing ChallengeBut we soon discovered that this was only half of the battle. Apparently, you need a platform, a reader-friendly website to promote my books or they would remain in limbo. Then there was all the socialising and networking. So many writers were publishing their own books; we were a very small pebble in a very large pond!We managed to create a passable website and established a presence on the internet. Not that this is the end of the story, there is no way you can rest on your laurels (that is if you even have some!)Even if I nothing monumental comes from all our efforts, we know we have tried our hardest.But we won’t stop writing, for that’s the fun part!
OVER TO YOUWhether you were an early adopter or are a new arrival on the self-publishing scene, what were your first impressions of this brave new world? Has your enthusiasm waned or soared since you first began – and why? Please join our conversation via the comments box!
© 2015 anita dawes

Mermaids Tears...

  The greatest magic on this earth is to be found in water. Any kind of water, whether it is the powerful oceans or the peacefully slow moving rivers.I have found magic in mighty waterfalls and simple rock pools, and love nothing better than being close to it. I have spent many happy hours beachcombing, looking for shells and driftwood, and the occasional piece of sea glass.
Sea glass, or mermaids tears, as it is sometimes called, is just ordinary pieces of glass, chemically weathered and tumbled beneath the waves to produce beautifully smooth frosted pebbles.This process takes a long time, and each piece contains its own mystery of where it came from and how it ended up in the sea. It could be from a shipwreck or a message in a bottle, the possibilities are endless. It can be almost any colour, but black is supposed to be the rarest, although it must be hard to spot among the pebbles on a beach.


Sea glass has been called a reverse gem, for most of the gem stones that we recognise have been made by nature and refined by man. Sea glass is the opposite, but I suspect it is a lot more complicated than that.One thing has always puzzled me. Why isn’t there more to be found? I have searched for most of my life and only found a few pieces, probably because I am looking in all the wrong places.
Whatever the truth of it all, I think it is magical and I treasure my collection.


Maybe it is because I too am flotsam, thrown up on life’s beach. Waiting to be found and treasured by a fool like me…
copyright 2015 Jaye Marie

Baby’s Got Blue Eyes…

“Someone is dumping bodies on DI Ted Darling's patch and he's not happy. Ted is a good solid copper, in an old-fashioned way, with an excellent clear-up rate. He also happens to be gay and has his own unique way of dealing with any prejudice that brings him. But this killer seems to be running effortless rings round him and every promising lead just takes him up another blind alley. Then it starts to get personal …”

 I am a great fan of crime fiction, as I write them myself and can appreciate how difficult they are to get right.
It would be far too easy to fall into the well-trodden path of this typical genre, but this book was refreshingly different for many reasons, mainly for the extremely likeable, although far from typical lead character in Ted Darling. (Lovely name!) A small, fit and matter of fact man with the habit of karate kicking whenever riled.
There were times when I was so caught up in his lovely relationship with his partner Trev, that I forgot he was a detective.  I particularly liked the occasional reference to real cases, which gave the book an air of credibility.
L M Krier, an established author, has not written in this genre before and occasionally it shows, but not enough to ruin what is a very good read.




About the AuthorL M Krier is a pen name of former journalist (court reporter) and freelance copywriter, Lesley Tither, who writes travel memoirs under the name Tottie Limejuice. Lesley also worked as a case tracker for the Crown Prosecution Service. 

Pay Attention to Detail...

I happened to catch an interesting programme on TV the other day. Wiesmann, a famous car manufacturer was building one of their luxury sports cars, entirely by hand. It was incredible.I love making things, and have attempted many different projects in my time. I also love to watch how things are made, so I was riveted. The attention to detail was simply amazing.

Everything was meticulously planned, from creating the bodywork, cutting out the expensive leather, to all the extras a luxury car commands. Cars are very complicated machines, and seeing one being built from the ground up was amazing. The dedication and teamwork were inspiring to say the least.These days, we are shown how most cars are built by robotic machines. That is truly amazing too, in its own way.
It suddenly struck me that what I was watching was very similar to how everything is built. Or should be built. First comes the idea, then the planning. Sourcing the materials comes next, then all the groundwork and experimenting. Assembly is the most important stage, knowing the right order to do things and a good eye to ensure accuracy.I could be talking about a car, or even a house. A sofa or a book. Could be anything really. But apart from a set of plans, you need something else.

When I was younger, I worked for a dress designer. Not on the glamourous, side of things either, or one of the machinists who sew all the dresses together. My job was quality Control and I had to check every seam and stitch to ensure every single dress was perfect..
The designer insisted that nothing left the workrooms without being meticulously checked with a fine toothed comb for anything that was not up to standard. Now everyone involved with the creation of these very expensive dresses had done their very best work, from the cutters right down to the finishers, but you would be surprised what my trained eye could spot. It only takes a bad day, or a row with a husband, or the baby keeping you up all night, and mistakes can happen.
Have you ever bought something, got it home only to discover a seam coming undone, or a button missing? A battery that won’t fit, or work when you do manage to get it in?How many cars are recalled because they have been released with a fault, sometimes a dangerous one?
Quality Control is obviously not what it was, and it’s a shame. We pay good money for things and we deserve better.

This is what has been happening in the world of Indie publishing a lot of the time, I have heard. In our haste to be published, substandard work is being offered to the public. It is so easy to self-publish now, and if you do mess up and miss something, you know you can always pull it back and change it. I know, because I have been guilty of this too in the beginning.
I have heard that some books are being uploaded without proper editing or even a spellcheck! I thought I could dispense with the bother of having my work beta read, but I was mistaken.It has to be wrong that it is so easy to let standards drop like this. In the beginning, I thought I would never get the hang of any of it, but I soon learned how. And because of all the mistakes I made along the way, I can now do things better.
Should it be easy to create a masterpiece?From my own experience, if anything is too easily accomplished, it usually means something is missing or has been overlooked.
What do you think?

Season of mists...

My garden was full of webs this morning, each one a mini work of art. The early mist and dew had combined to illustrate just how many were usually invisible to us...







You will notice the total absence of spiders, something I was quite grateful for... Wonder where they all went?

<a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/1388398......

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The End of Things...

The cat was asleep on the chair behind her.  She could hear him breathing. Like a baby, small sounds, soft and slightly pitiful in the silence of the room. He was growing old, his movements slower these days; she could see a degree of stiffness in the careful way he moved.She caught him staring at her sometimes, as if she held the answers to all his questions. But she was near the end too and had no answers, no way to know who would go first or when.Is this what happens to everything as they grow old? Do they see the end of things everywhere they look?She looks at growing things, and where she once felt joy in their creation, now all she sees is the futility of it all. Just a series of small steps, leading ultimately to nothing.She wishes he would wake up and stop making that plaintiff sound, but he seems to be getting louder, filling her heart with more sadness than it can possibly hold.She wonders if he is ready to go, if he is finished with this world, pleased to be done with it. She used to think she was, but now, when it is inevitable, she is not sure any more…
© 2015 Jaye Marie

Paper Wings...

Dylan lived with his mother on the fourth floor of a block of flats, on a poor housing estate in Balham. His mother never imagined she would end up there after his father died, six years ago.  Dylan had been celebrating his seventh birthday when his father collapsed and died.
For Dylan, that was the day his whole world turned black. No matter how hard his mother tried, she could not bring the light back for Dylan. He spent hours alone on the small balcony, his castle in the sky. People didn’t matter, they were small like ants. Insignificant beings that had to stick together just to be heard or to feel big.
His mother worried about him and this latest thing about a girl coming to his room late at night. Her neighbour and friend Cathy, said, ‘It’s something he’ll grow out of, Alice, like acne.’‘I don’t think so.’ She knew Cathy meant well. Alice had been married for twenty-two years to a man that meant more than life to her, and Cathy mentioned him now. ‘Maybe losing his father, then coming to live here, after that big house you told me about, had more of an effect on Dylan…’
Alice had this same thought many times. The classic response to the loss of a parent, but she didn’t believe it. Her own father had died when she was ten and no imaginary boy came to her room at night. There had been a great feeling of emptiness, his armchair, his place at the table. It took a while for Alice not to see him sitting there. Nowadays, it was hard for her to remember his voice, his face, and his large hands as he carried her to bed. She could no longer feel them; over the years, she had tried to remember his touch.
Her mother spoke about him for years, as if he were still there. ‘Your father would have loved this film… he loved snow, maybe we will have snow this year. He loved the seaside, do you remember, Alice?’
Despite her words, Alice felt as though her mother had pushed her father’s memory to the darkest corner of her mind, until one day he just fell out and she lost him somewhere along the way. She had learned the many different ways people dealt with loss.
Dylan’s father had been gone for three years. For some people a short time, for others, long enough for the boy to pull himself together. Let people think what they like; there was one thing Alice knew. Dylan should not be rushing to his room minutes after his plate looked empty enough not to be told to sit down and finish his tea. With the door locked, Alice knew she wouldn’t see him until morning. No amount of pleading would bring him out.
Alice tried bribery too. ‘We could go to the shops, find something you would like for your birthday. You’ll be a teenager soon, we should mark it by doing something special. Or we could go away for a week end…’
Nothing worked, there was no response, it was as if the dark room had taken him from her.She would often sit at the top of the stairs, listening to Dylan’s voice. Talking to the girl, using her name, Amber. Alice only ever heard one voice, Dylan’s’He had spoken to her once about this Amber. She was the same age as Dylan; her long hair was black, dark blue eyes, her fingers long and slender. She played the piano at her school assembly. Alice had asked what school, but he wouldn’t say or didn’t know.
All Alice knew, was that he seemed less lonely, less sad with this Amber.Before Amber, Dylan felt as though he lived in a dark tunnel. Reaching out he could touch nothing, hold nothing. How could he make his mother understand what he couldn’t understand himself?Amber held the promise of a life he felt he had shared with Amber in some other space or time. He spent every moment of his day thinking about her, his mind rushing through the hours, trying to call the night closer. He didn’t care about school, there were no friends to worry about.He had heard the teacher talking, ‘He’s a strange one, gives me the creeps.’The other teacher’s reply gave Dylan something to think about, and he played it over in his head. ‘There’s a darkness about him, makes me feel as though death walks beside him…’
Dylan had spent the last six months making paper wings, each feather cut and glued with love. Amber often sitting beside him, encouraging him, telling him they would be together again. Tonight he would be ready, he would fly to her. Had to be the right moment though, his mother had told him he was born at ten minutes past twelve at night, now it would be the time of his death. Many would mention the time, think it a coincidence.
But Dylan knew better, it would be life he was reaching for. He stood at the window. Four floors is a long way down. He felt no fear in his heart, the dark night called him on.
As he flew through the air, he felt her holding him and remembered their love and their life together.Three days later, Alice found a short message on his Facebook page…’I am with Amber, be happy mum, I love you… Dylan…
© 2015 Anita Dawes

The Time Machine

 (reposted from http://jenanita01.wordpress.com)

While walking through town the other day, passing all the familiar shops and public houses, I noticed a blue plaque on the wall outside The Old Drum . These plaques are put up to commemorate a connection to someone important and I wondered who it could be. I also wondered why I had not noticed it before.I crossed the road to have a better look and discovered that H G Wells, the famous author, used to lunch and write there.There are many old buildings in Petersfield, so it shouldn’t have surprised me that someone so important had visited us, but we are lifelong fans of his work, The Time Machine in particular, so could be excused for being more than a little enthusiastic!
Herbert George Wells 1866 – 1946, wrote some of the best science fiction of all time. The Time Machine, The Invisible Man and The War of the Worlds , to mention a few.

We have a very special reason for loving the fact that this man has walked the same streets that we do. Since watching The Time Machine (the original one) we have fantasised about having our very own time machine. Think of all the wonderful places we could travel to and see them as they were. Like the pyramids…or Jerusalem. Or Cornwall and Wales, following King Arthur and Merlin, see first- hand the truth behind all those myths.We even have our very own model of a time machine, beautifully made for us by a very clever gentleman in America, a Vince Winskunas.  www.timemachinemodels.comA perfect replica of the one in the film, complete with the tantalus box to keep it in. The lights flash and the dish revolves and it cost a lot of money, but as a connection to our fantasies, it is priceless.
Not sure if H G Wells actually lived here in Petersfield, but it is likely he did. No record of it though. His mother worked in Uppark, the famous country house quite near here, and H G worked as an apprentice in a Southsea draper shop. Apparently, it was the magnificent library at Uppark that inspired him to venture into literature.He spent time at Midhurst Grammar school too.

Unfortunately, due to circumstances beyond our control, we have to sell this iconic treasure. It will be painful, but necessary.At the moment, it is for sale on ebay, under the heading "H.G.Wells Time Machine and Tantalus"
I would love to think it has gone to someone who loves the film and will appreciate it as much as I have...