Anita Dawes's Blog: http://jenanita01.wordpress.com, page 27

Is there First Aid for Everything?

I had a go at using the dice, as I talked about last week, to decide which food mixer to buy. It was supposed to be a simple thing - odd numbers for one, even numbers for the other but for some reason it didn't work.  I just didn't like either one and it was back to the drawing board.
Sometime later I decided to spend the same amount of money on updating my 'Dragon'. Now most of you will know I am referring to the best voice recognition software on the market. I have used it for years and it has helped me a lot. When Anita is writing up a storm, it can be incredibly hard to keep up with her and  do everything else I need to do. Talking to my PC is a wonderful way to put thousands of words on the screen, and the more you do it the cleverer  it gets! Now both of us are writing I need even more help, plus typing is getting more and more difficult for these old fingers, not to mention the eyesight!

So I have been toying with the idea of getting a digital recorder, so I don't even have to be in the same room as my PC. Somehow this idea was triggered by the traumatic realisation that my PC might have a problem. (I didn't really get the connection either!) I went to turn it on on Saturday and nothing happened. Talk about panic stations!

The problem seemed to be the on-off switch on the stack, so I am bypassing that part thereby allowing said PC to go into sleep mode all by itself. This seems to work, although I suppose it will have to be fixed sooner or later, so I'm afraid the food mixer I will have to wait. I'm too busy to do much cooking anyway, which is a shame. (but something has to go, right?) 
I have since discovered that parts of Hampshire (where I live) were also having some kind of PC malfunction that day too, that forced some airports to stop planes taking off. I am not about to turn my PC off to see if it works now but I wonder if there was some kind of connection?


  I can't believe I'm nearly 70. How on earth did that happen? I certainly don't feel that old,  at least I didn't until my hip started complaining recently. I don't like getting pain for no particular reason, and usually know only too well why my knees, elbows or back hurt. If I have just spent the day in the garden, digging,  mowing the lawn or clipping the 40 foot hedge, I know I'm going to be in trouble the next day and I am never wrong!But just lately my hip has been complaining like hell and I don't know why. Doctor doesn't think it's  my hip but the sacro iliac joint. (whatever that is) Something about wear and tear and that I will have to live with it. Unfortunately the strong pain pills he gave me made me very giddy, so it looks like I really will have to live with it!

I find myself checking the age whenever I read about someone dying, checking whether I have beaten them (or not!)  What does that say about me? But I have always cherished the thought that I could go on forever, but maybe that is not a good idea after all and perhaps I will change my mind. Why on earth would you want to if you can't move around much any more?
Plus, I have a sneaky feeling that it's all going to be down hill from here.
  On a lighter note, I am reading Val Poore's book  'How to Breed Sheep, Geese and English Eccentrics' at the moment, and it is like a welcome burst of fresh air. Just when I needed to get away from PC malfunctions, pain, Christmas preparations and the eternal to-do list!
I started to read and suddenly the whole world shifted. It is pure unadulterated fun and you read with a smile on your face,  punctuated by a laugh a minute.

The adventure that Maisie, the main character is hell bent on having a go at, is something I have always wanted to do. Just to be given a list of all the possibilities she has always dreamed off would be a dream come true!
Is it possible that this story is autobiographical? It certainly reads like it.
Thank you Valerie for transporting me to the Elysium Fields of glorious writing!

How are all the Christmas preparations going? See you all next week...

Jay

The Dice Woman Cometh?

Decisions, decisions?

 My brain must be like Emmental cheese these days, soft, spongy and full of holes. I am getting really fed up with trying to think and decide what to do, or even knowing if the final decision is the right one. As they say, if I had half a brain, I would be dangerous!
I can't decide (or remember) if I have always been like this, or if this state of affairs is yet another symptom of my advancing years.

Time is becoming problematic, far too much of it is spent second guessing. Wouldn't life be more efficient if all deliberation could be removed? Easier to pick a Winkle out of it's shell with a pin, I hear you say. But I am heartily sick of wondering which item to buy, which programme to watch, whether to cut my hair, the list is endless.
My food mixer gave up the ghost last week and I have been looking for a new one. There are absolutely millions to choose from!

Added to my inability to choose anything, is the sure and certain knowledge that which ever one I pick, it will be the wrong one. Always is. I never get anything right on the first try.

Which brings me neatly to an idea I had the other day. Could life be more like plotting a book?
Now, I know that most writers do not believe in plotting Their characters seem to do most of the hard work for them, (I have experienced a little of that, and wish it happened all the time) but other writers firmly believe in careful plotting, even a story board.

Now, I am still virtually new to this writing business and I tried plotting... you guessed it all ready, I can't do that either!  I could hardly improve my life that way. All these decisions, so what to do about them.
Then I remembered something. (it does happen sometimes!) I once read about a man who always made every decision with the turn of a dice, and apparently his life was glorious. Maybe it was worth a try...

They say there are 'two sides to every story' and 'everything happens for a reason', but what if neither of these things are true? What if it is as simple as right or wrong?
Could it be that when life gets too difficult, we are simply trying to force wrong into being right?

I got to thinking back through my life and all the different choices that had to be made. To that small, persistent voice that nags you, insisting you do this or that. How many times had I ignored it, thinking my own choice was better, usually for all manner of reasons. Would my life have been better if I had obeyed that still, small voice? If I had not always chosen the path of least resistance, the path that always looked inevitable. Maybe the choice that looked the hardest, the most impossible would have turned out better than what actually happened?

Maybe then I wouldn't have so many things to be sorry for, so many people I should apologise to.
If there is such a thing as reincarnation and I get another chance to live a better life, I hope I remember some of the things I have done wrong, some of the people I have hurt, and do it better next time.

Because this website is published out there in the ether of hyperspace, I want to formally apologise for all my mistakes, to say that I am truly sorry. I can honestly say that I did not know what I was doing most of the time, and if I do get the chance to do it all over again, I hope to do a better job of it, for all our sakes!

God Bless and see you all next week...

Jay

This week we are welcoming one of my favourite authors, P...

This week we are welcoming one of my favourite authors, Paula Weston. Her Rephraim Sequence really captured my imagination and I have fallen in love with the characters in 'Shadows' and I am enjoying 'Haze' just as much, if not more.
Her personal story is such an interesting and inspirational one, so over to you Paula...


Paula Weston
Tears, red wine and letting go (aka my journey to being published)

Every published author has a story about his or her road to publication. I’m still not sure if my story is an inspiration or a deterrent, but here it is…
 I’m the author of the YA urban fantasy series, The Rephaim. The series was first signed by Text Publishing in my home country of Australia in 2011 and has since been picked up in the UK, US, and Canada.
At a glance, it all seems to have happened rather quickly. In reality, the journey to get to this point was a tad longer: it was 16 years from my first rejection letter to that contract with Text.
Over that decade and a half, I wrote six full-length manuscripts, two plays (which had performance seasons) and was short-listed in a national short story writing competition. For most of those years, I was submitting to publishers myself, riding that torturous rollercoaster known by its more civilised name: the submission process.
When I first started submitting my work in the mid-90s, it was all done by post. Responses could take months. The advent of email made the process quicker, but it turned out that a rejection email is just as soul destroying as a rejection letter.
 All writers familiar with the submission process know there are degrees of rejection: rejection based on a query letter, rejection based on sample chapters and – the big one – rejection based on a full manuscript. And the closer you get to the possibility of an offer, the harder it is to fall short.
 I must say, though, that my rejections steadily became more complimentary. I was being invited to send full manuscripts, and a couple of editors even gave me feedback. In several instances, they offered to read any future work I produced. All very encouraging. But I was still unpublished.
I’d already accepted that regardless of whether or not my work made it into print, I would always write. Because by then, my pattern was well established (familiar to many writers):
Have a great idea for a novel.Commit a year or so to writing, editing and honing that novel.
Commit six months to a year submitting to publishers and agents while continuing to edit and tweak.
Exhaust all options.
Fall in a heap. Doubt myself. Think about taking a break from writing.
Have a great idea (about two weeks after falling in a heap).
Starting writing again…
And then in 2008, a high profile agent in Australia decided to take me on. It felt like winning the lottery. My agent (Lyn Tranter) signed me on the basis of the fantasy series I was writing at the time and I’d already had some initial interest from a publisher. I thought it was only a matter of time before I finally had that elusive deal.  Two years later, I was still unsigned. We had come close on two occasions, but both opportunities ended the same: no offer of a deal. It helped having an agent because I wasn’t dealing with the frustration and disappointment alone, and Lyn believed in me. But it still didn’t stop the thoughts that always crept in at rejection time (around the same time as my second glass of red): Was I kidding myself about getting published? Through all this, I was working full-time while also building a freelance business. I was frequently exhausted. Maybe I needed to let go of the dream?
Ironically, it was the last rejection that led to me writing Shadows, the first book in the Rephaim series. (Because of course I didn’t let go of the dream.) I’ve always loved urban fantasy and paranormal stories, but it never crossed my mind to write one – particularly because I was so focused on more traditional fantasy. But I’d had an idea bouncing around in my head, which I’d kept shoving aside because I was working on the other series.  After an especially crushing rejection – and subsequent soul searching – I decided to play around with that urban fantasy idea. For fun. I wasn’t worried about getting published. I wasn’t worried about what anyone would think. I just let go and wrote for the hell of it. Perhaps not surprisingly, the characters flowed and scenes poured out. (It was only in hindsight that I understood just how much sub-conscious self-censorship had been going on with my earlier work.) Long story short, I wrote 50 pages that first weekend. When I reached 90 pages a few weeks later, I thought I’d better tell Lyn what I was up to. She liked those early pages, told me to go for it, and a year later I had a new manuscript that I loved and an outline for a four-book series. A few months after that (thanks to Lyn), I had an offer from Text Publishing. Needless to say, I was ecstatic!After all those years and all the frustration and disappointment it seemed to ‘just happen’. Text initially bought the rights to the first two books in the series. By the time Shadows was released, the publisher had also signed on for books 3 and 4 and on-sold the series to Orion/Indigo in the UK and Tundra Books in the US/Canada.This chapter of my journey doesn’t end with me showered with life-changing advances and instant commercial success. I’m now simply another writer in the marketplace hoping to find readers and build a long-term career as a published author. But, like so many writers before me - including those with the courage to self-publish - I’m grateful to have that opportunity. If I could go back in time and give myself advice, it would be simple:Write because you love it. Write what you want to write. Learn from rejection. It’s going to make you a better writer.And don’t give up – because you never know what ideas and opportunities are just around the corner. www.paula-weston.com

Thank you so much Paula...

See you all next week,

Jay

It's a Giveaway Alert!




Hi folks,

Part of this weeks post is a thinly disguised attempt to garner some much needed feedback. To do this, we have decided to offer a free download of  Anita's books in return for a review on Amazon. You can choose just one book or all of them, but we really do need a review for each one if you would be so kind.
Basically, it's your opinions we are after, good, bad or indifferent, for without them, how can we improve and develop as writers?
 So if you would like to participate, please e-mail us with your details.



the Jay


This is Jay speaking, and no, I don't look like the Jay in the picture. I have decided that it is time to get down and personal, in fact it is probably overdue. I have been writing this blog for a while now and most of that time I have been hiding behind the picture of a pine bonsai tree.

But I have recently been informed, quite bluntly I thought, that I am the only person who doesn't like what I see in my mirror. Apparently, all my friends and family think I look just fine.
So I have decided to be brave, grit my teeth and show the world my face. Apologies in advance for any meltdowns or malfunctions that may occur!

Another reason for my reluctant honesty, is the fact that quite a lot of people think I am a fella! Apart from those who think I am a bonsai tree, that is. So I have come to the conclusion that I cannot hope to establish any kind of a relationship with anyone if I don't show my face. Plus, Anita has insisted. I forced a much detested photograph of her on the world for a while, and she says she will not forgive me if I don't do this. So here goes. This is definitely me and it's no oil painting. Sorry!


where on earth did that thought go?

Come to think of it, I don't look as if I'm nearly seventy, so that's something I suppose... See you all on Friday, and we have a guest! The brilliant author Paula Weston will be joining us with an inspirational post for all fledgling writers everywhere...




Scarlet Ribbon...

Scarlet Ribbons...


This week I thought I would share the first chapter of one of my favourite books with you. Anita wrote it in 1995 and yes, I edited it, but the fact that it stays at the top of my best read list is proof enough of its excellence. At least I think so. Please feel free to comment, I would love to know what you think.


                                             Scarlet Ribbon ... by Anita Dawes
I can still remember the icy touch of that cold September rain against my face and my husband Jack screaming, 'Maggie, watch out! Run Maggie, run!The sound of panic in his voice should have made me move, but instead I turned to him, just in time to see a dirty blue car mount the wet pavement and come hurtling towards me. Everything seemed to slow down. I tried to move out of the way, make my legs carry me to safety, but it was as if time itself was gradually stopping. Biting shards of pain sheared through my body as the car smashed into me and carried me along the pavement. The sound of breaking glass as I crashed through the supermarket window seemed to be happening somewhere way off in the distance. There was a sudden flash of noise and colour as people ran screaming in all directions, looking for cover. As I lay on the cold, ceramic tiled floor, I remember thinking, I've seen this film. The heroine wakes up in a clean hospital bed, her make-up hardly smudged and hair still neatly in place. There will be a handsome hero by the bedside, holding her hand and gazing adoringly into her eyes.But it wasn't a film star lying on that shop floor, it was me, and my Jack was holding me, his hands shaking, telling me that everything was going to be all right. I couldn't tell him that I'd seen the film and knew they lived happily ever after, because just then someone turned out all the lights, leaving me in total darkness. Everything vanished, the blinding strips of fluorescent lighting, the chilly, rain spattered floor-tiles, and mercifully, all the pain.The faces that had been looking down at me had gone, but I could still hear Jack's voice, a long way off, saying my name over and over again. Someone else was talking now. A man was telling Jack that it was all right, 'We'll take care of her now, mate. Stand back and let us do our job.'I felt my body being lifted and the pain returned in a blinding rush, tearing its way through my body. I screamed, and the darkness dragged me away, where there were no thoughts or memories, just a warm feeling of peace. In the darkness time ceased to exist and I was in no hurry to find a way out, back to the pain.I realised that I had reached a place of safety. A place where there was nothing at all, no pain or hunger and I don't just mean for food. That awful longing for something you can never put a name to, but know exists. Here in the dark, somehow I knew I was in the place where everything began, and this time I wouldn't let them throw me back into the pain and the light. I wanted to stay, but the darkness was changing, fading, turning grey and growing paler. Like someone slowly washing the dirt from a window so you can see through it. I didn't want to look; I knew what was out there. Pain, misery and hunger, most of all the hunger was everywhere, even in a stranger's eyes if you cared to look.The light was getting stronger. Washing the last dirty marks from the window until I could think clearly again and the memories came flooding back. I'd been hit by a car, smashed through a plate glass window, but I wasn't dead. Thoughts began to run through my brain like the rush hour at Waterloo Station. Why didn't I feel any pain? Why couldn't I see Jack? The darkness seemed to be gone, but I couldn't see anything at all. There was a clean, empty sound and I could feel Jack's hand on mine. He was talking to someone.'Look, there are tears on her face, Nurse, she must have heard me... it's a good sign, isn't it?' His voice was all shaky and excited. I heard a young female voice answer him.'Mrs Haynes is my first coma patient. I'd like to believe it's a sign, but we just don't know enough to be sure.'Jack gripped my hand harder and whispered, more to himself than anyone else, 'It has to be a sign.'The word 'coma' flashed like bright neon lights in my brain. Was that what was wrong with me? How long had I been like this? Why didn't someone say how long? If I can think and hear, why can't I speak? If only I could open my eyes, Jack would know I was still here. But it was like trying to fight my way out of thick, sticky syrup. My body had gone on strike and was refusing to obey any orders I gave it to speak or move.There had to be a way to let them know I was listening, that I was coming back. I'd read too many books and seen too many films where they pronounced you brain dead, turned off the machines and the sad relatives are led away; all because their stupid machines weren't clever enough to pick us up from where we were. They just didn't understand. The young nurse had said it all and she was right. A sudden rush of panic threw me back into the darkness as if I'd been hit by the car a second time. It felt different now, not quite so safe and protective. I supposed it was because my mind was my own this time. I knew I had to beat this thing, find a way out, a way back to my life...
 That was the first chapter and I hope you enjoy it. As I said, any comments would be appreciated, so feel free!
Scarlet Ribbon has five star reviews and been downloaded over 400 times on Smashwords, www.smashwords.com/profile/view/anitadawes, but is only .77p on Amazon at the moment, www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B009T6ANUS.

This is Jay, signing off, see you all next week!
 

Remember, remember...

copyright VladyslavDanilin/Dreamstime.com

   This has been a funny old week. It started on an unexpectedly sad note as I was watching a programme about the 'Unknown Soldier' who is buried in Westminster Abbey. It had not really occurred to me that there was a real soldier in there and I wondered who he was. I had supposed it was a symbolic kind of thing, not involving a real person.

As a war baby, I feel a connection with the last war, probably because my father never came home from it.
I always get a little emotional when I see all those poppy petals falling in the Albert Hall during the service of remembrance, and like to think that one of those petals was for him. Although I know all about him, I never met him, something I have regretted all my life; for growing up without a father is one of the saddest things. I have missed him so much, how is that even possible if I never met him?
I have been thinking of trying to compile my family tree again to discover more about that side of my family, but the last time I tried it seemed so complicated, I gave up.
Do you suppose somebody somewhere knows who the unknown soldier is? Maybe it would be nice to know, so that we could honour him properly. It could even be my dad, who knows?


This weeks thought...



 I have just read Bru's latest post (February Grace/Pitch Slapped) and it should be illegal how much that girl suffers. I personally can fully empathise with her, for some of her problems are mine too. Medication side effects are something else, and some days I wonder if taking all these pills is doing more harm than good. Take statins for example. I'm supposed to take them to prevent another heart attack, but they have seriously affected my kidneys and given me such violent muscle spasms that I no longer take them. I also have neuropathy and suffer excruciating pain in my feet making walking almost impossible. The drugs that were supposed to help, actually did for a while but soon the effect faded, needing stronger doses. Eventually I became almost comatose or so it seemed and I decided enough was definitely enough. The medication for my high blood pressure is depleting my calcium levels and given me vertigo, but I am forced to take them as I am not ready to shuffle off any where just yet. Far too much living still to do, and there is such a thing as quality of life, we have to grab it when we find it, don't we?

On the literary front, I have been writing furiously (and hopefully well). I have been encouraged to join Pinterest (see button) and I don't know much about it yet, or what good it will do, but intrepid as ever, I had a go and it was easier than I thought.

I just hope we start to make more progress soon, as I don't think I will be capable (sensible capable that is) much longer, for I am having all kinds of trouble with my vocabulary. I have always been proud of my command of the English language, but just lately it has been letting me down and I find that the right words are eluding me. I know they are in there somewhere, they are just refusing to come out.
Even a simple crossword puzzle is becoming a bit of a battle. I don't want to get too old to do all the things I love, that would be absolute torture.  Maybe I should be taking fish oil or something?

On a lighter note, Carol Hedges, one of my favourite writers and blogger, is in the running for Blogger of the Year and if there is a God anywhere she deserves to get it. She is like a beacon for all of us lesser mortals, so please vote for her at  skelat.com/voting.html until 15th December.

By the way, does anyone know anything about WattPad?

Best wishes, see you next week...

Memories that shape who we are...

one of my fondest memories...
Memories are funny things, aren't they? The way certain things suddenly pop into your head, and you think - hey, I know about that, and you remember.
I wonder what makes some memories surface and not others? You could say it's down to something you have just heard or seen, but I know that's not always the case.

Just lately I have been remembering a specific time in my childhood, and never realised before how that time must have influenced me. Or was it that threshold of childhood, the time you really start to think and question things? To imagine a future for yourself, that you won't always be just idling along, not really caring if it snowed, depending on others to organise your life.

This particular time was when I lived in Kent, in a small village called Birchington, a few miles from Margate.. I was about 8 or 9 years old, and up to that point I didn't really think about anything much. So much had happened to me that I had got into the habit of not questioning anything. Not much point really, as I knew I couldn't change anything.

I was with foster parents by then with several other children, all from broken families; and surprisingly it was the first time I felt relaxed enough to appreciate the peace and quiet of the countryside, not to mention the freedom from all my mother's problems.

Every Sunday we all went to church, and right outside the church door was a very impressive grave stone. It was made of a beautiful piece of marble and I thought the writing on it was very ornate and posh. I looked at it every Sunday for a while, when it suddenly struck me that this had to be someone quite important. But why was he buried here in this tiny village?

Dante Gabriel Rossetti
The name on the stone was Dante Gabriel Rossetti  (12may 1828-9april 1882) and I remember being very impressed by the sound of it, resolving to find out more about him. I was about the right age for romantic flights of fancy and the more I discovered about this tortured man and the life he lived, the more intrigued I became. He was a poet and a painter and some would say that he wasn't very successful, but history will always remember him as a founder member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood with William Holman Hunt and John Everett Millais.

I learnt about Rossetti and how he had ended up a recluse in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea after a nervous breakdown, finally retreating to Birchington for rehabilitation only to die less than a year later. Perhaps he should have spent more time in Kent, for it was making me feel better!  I secretly sympathised with the mess he had made of his life, determined that my life would be better than it had started out to be. I just needed to be old enough to set the wheels in motion.

So you see, I tend to think he was my friend back then, right when I really needed one, guiding me to where I am today...

Best wishes, see you next week...

Halloween, scary or Holy?...

image courtesy of Simon Howden @FreeDigitalPhotos.net


Hi folks,

I think it must be true that time speeds up as you get older, for it is pumpkin time again, and it doesn't seem that long since the last one finally shrivelled and was thrown away. Here in England we don't seem to celebrate Halloween with quite the same fervour as other countries, but we try. The shops are full of bright orange pumpkins, both real and plastic, witches cauldrons and all kinds of scary things, I wonder why we enjoy being scared so much? I don't think Halloween was originally intended to scare the pants off the population. The word 'Halloween' means 'hallowed or holy evening' and that day was originally dedicated to remembering the dead and honouring their memory, in readiness for All Souls Day (1st November)which is quite a departure from ghouls, ghosts and scary pumpkins.    I have always believed  (I am a bit of a pagan at heart) that it was an ancient Celtic religious festival called Samhain (31st October-1st November) along with Imbolc (31st January-1st February) Beltane (30th April-1st May) and Lughnasadh (31st July-1st August). You will notice that these festivals are meticulously spaced throughout the year, and the equinoxes slot tidily in between and that has to mean something. Not just a scary day if you see what I mean. There is quite a sad legend about the carved pumpkins or Jack-o-lanterns. A miserly character called Jack was fond of tricking everyone, including the devil, and when he died he was turned away from heaven due to his life of sin.
But the devil wouldn't let him into hell either and he was cursed to travel the earth for ever.
As he left the gates the hell, the devil threw him a hot ember to light his way. Jack put it inside a hollowed out turnip and the legend was born...


Well, happy Halloween and good luck with your trick or treating whatever your feelings on the subject. I think we human beings are a little obsessed with death because we can't really understand it, and therefore tend to fear it. But we have discovered over the years that if we make light of this fear with a traditional festival or celebration, we can bring it out into the open where we can all look at it in the company of other people.
And have fun at the same time, of course...

See you all next week, God bless...

very interesting week...

This week started out badly so I was assuming there would be more of the same, but for once I was wrong.
On Monday, my doctor prescribed some new medication for the giddiness and nausea that has been plaguing me for weeks. He says it could be some kind of vertigo of all things, something I could pretty much do without. At least it doesn't bother me while I am sitting at my computer, so I am very grateful for small mercies!
I came home and took some, but within an hour I felt really bad. I fell asleep and don't really remember what happened to the rest of the day, so I won't be repeating that experience, thank you very much!

I managed to wake up properly on Tuesday and the day wasn't too bad. I managed to catch up on some paperwork and complete another 2,000 words of 9Lives. Why is it that some days are easier than others? The characters are starting to help me out a little, although I am beginning to realise that fact alone may make my job even more complicated. But hey, I chose to do this, didn't I?

The weather seemed to be deteriorating, strong winds and heavy rain were predicted for Hampshire. They said there was a possibility of thunderstorms too, but I knew I would believe that when I saw it. I love a good thunderstorm, but we never seem to get them anymore. They say we will, but at most all we get is a few weak flashes and maybe a halfhearted grumble and that's it.
But what happened on Tuesday night was amazing. For almost two hours a huge storm raged above us. The thunder was loud and angry and the lightning simply and gloriously amazing. One thunderclap in particular nearly gave me another heart attack, it was so vicious in its intensity.
But I loved every minute of it, really made my week.

courtesy of Tanikewak ' Dreamstime Stock Photos


What happened on Wednesday night was unbelievable, but I am not making any of it up, believe me. We had all gone to bed as usual and were all snoring gently, (I presume) when the smoke alarm on the landing went off. Now, I am not at my best when disturbed from my slumbers, so you can picture the scene. An angry, naked and confused woman, trying to shut the darn thing up. Who apparently had forgotten how to get it off the wall and was bashing and yanking at the offending, extremely noisy alarm. My sister couldn't help for laughing, but it finally shut up. I removed the battery, assuming that was the problem and every one went back to sleep.
Two hours later, it went off again. I kid you not.
This time it was the same naked but confused woman wondering what the hell... when it went quiet again. I double checked, and yes I had removed the battery. It should not be capable of anything let alone a neighbour waking din. So I am not sure what to make of it. Did we buy the only haunted smoke alarm in the shop, or do we have a chain smoking ghost? Are they all capable of behaving like this? You have been warned...




On a lighter note, look what I found the other day. (see above) The horses you see under construction in Falkirk, Scotland are Kelpies. Thirty metres high, they are supposed to represent the mythical horses in some Scottish legend. I have heard about Kelpies before, somewhere in my befuddled brain, but never imagined they would look like that. But they will be magnificent, don't you think? The stuff they are cladding the structure with is reflective, the picture doesn't really do it justice, but when it's finished it will look amazing. I just wish I lived in Scotland... Never thought I would ever say that, it's cold up there...

See you all next week...best wishes...

If you can dream...

I don't know how he did this, but it's amazing anyway!
 
I am beginning to wonder if I have come to writing a little late in life, for I seem to remember it was never this difficult when I was younger. English was always my favourite lesson at school, my mind could conjure up such a feast of descriptive prose. I even wrote poetry for God's sake!

Despite all this soul searching and analysis, I have reached 20.000 words with my fledgling novel, 9Lives, and still think I don't really have a handle on this writing lark. Why is it that some days my pen is crammed full of words, so that you almost have to run to keep up; while other days it is like giving blood?
I have no idea if this is perfectly normal or just peculiar to me. But whichever it is, the word count is growing and I am reasonably pleased with my progress. I just wish I could stop finding all those extra bits that simply have to be included.

I also wish someone would stop me from constantly editing. Yes, I do know that is supposed to come after  but I cannot seem to stop myself. Comes from years of doing it for a living!
But we all write differently I'm told, and the proof of the pudding... and all that.




Another amazing feat, see above. I think I am hoping some of their brilliance and daring rubs off on me. Well, I can hope, can't I? 

I think I have made some bad mistakes in my time, but how about the publisher who included parts of another authors book inside yours?  I wonder who was most annoyed, David Jason or Helen Fielding? Funnily enough, it did seem like something that Bridget Jones might have done.

You may have noticed that we have changed Anita's book 'Ruby' back to 'Bad Moon'. It didn't seem right to change it and felt wrong somehow. They say you should never judge a book by it's cover, but we do, don't we? 

You will also have noticed that Anita's photograph has vanished from this blog. She really didn't like that one, so it had to go. You don't  see one of me either, my face tends to break cameras. But we have talked about it and we intend to find a solution. More about that at a later date.

Before I close, has anyone any feedback regarding NaNoWriMo? I was kinda contemplating having a go this November, but I'm not sure if it's a good idea or not. More for the experience than anything maybe...

Good talking to you all, see you next week...