Jaye Marie's Blog, page 1909

Writing Reflections…

This week I have tried hard to reflect on what it means to me to be a writer, and it has been difficult. For a start, I don't think that writing and families automatically go to together. Not in my house anyway.

There are times when I have absolutely no chance at all of picking up a pen and actually writing with it. Something always seems to happen, or go wrong, or need fixing, or finding.

Yes, I know there should be some ground rules, but somehow they don't get enforced around here. So I try and write whenever I can and it isn't always easy or convenient.

Just sometimes though, it is magical. I can forget who I am, where I am and all the things I could be doing instead.

I can feel in my bones that it will all get better, that the struggle will be worth it, because I can feel myself falling a little in love with what I am doing.

   
NEWS FLASH!

I am beginning to believe that I may just be able to create something good, something infinitely readable!

Quite apart from that revelation, it has been a lousy week. Lots of rain (which can be good because it means no gardening!) and I am getting a cold so I have been feeling generally horrid. But I have been expanding my plot ideas, so not a complete waste of a week.


But Wimbledon won't be long... another test of my dedication. I am usually glued to the TV for all my favourite players. Everything is hinged to whichever match I am watching...meals have to wait...hell, everything has to wait until the final ball and the winner lifts the cup.

 

Having said all that I realise that is exactly the kind of dedication there should be for my writing. Why haven't I noticed before that nobodyinterrupts my tennis? Why is it different? I have never insisted on it or screamed abuse, so what makes it different?

Then it came to me. It must be proportionate to my passion. So, once my family know how important (passionate) writing is becoming to me, I should expect the same response from them.

I might have known that the shortcoming would be mine!


P.S.  Am I alone in my struggle, or are there hundreds of you out there with similar problems?

Fractured... or Why I have been Gone for a While...

Some of you may be familiar with most of the trouble I have had, since I began to organise our writing career on the Internet. It is probably simple for all you single people out there, but as soon as you are a partnership, trouble arrives big time!
Not that we could ever separate our writing business, just to make life any easier, as it is all far too complicated. It works for us though, so that's good.

We tried having separate websites, so as not to overcomplicate everything, but as we share a PC, this didn't seem to work. Plus it was twice the work. So we reverted back to having a joint website  http://anitajaydawes.blogspot.co.uk.  Still managed to confuse half the population, including ourselves, but all our links seemed to be working.





There are still a few places that refuse to understand that although we share a PC, we do still have separate email addresses and passwords. I won't name and shame, but they have driven me mad for the last time and I have resurrected my old blog, just to make my life easier.

It goes without saying, that if I had known this marketing and promotion lark was so complicated, I might have had second thoughts, but on the whole, it has been interesting, and dare I say it, fun?

When I saw these lovely fractured pictures the other day, I was fascinated, probably because half the time, my brain is in pieces too.

So I shall be here, all on my ownsome, and not just so some websites will now recognise the fact that we are two very different people. Because now I have my feet back under the table, so to speak, I quite like it.  Feels like a sanctuary, in a way.

Could be our little secret, what do you think?

Blogging...

This blog has turned out to be my own little kingdom, and as it has improved over the months, so have I. They said if you treat it like a child, feed and nourish it, even learn to love it, it will make you a better writer, if not a better person.
And I think it definitely has. The other gift it has given me is confidence.

This blog has also provided much needed discipline, for although it is only a 'blog' it is governed by the same rules as any other writing. The content should be the very best you can do, none of that 'oh, that will do' attitude. I have learned far more about writing since creating this blog, not to mention the wealth of helpful information from other writer’s blogs. People who haven't tried it, don't have a clue and tend to dismiss them as harmless time wasting.
That could not be further from the truth.

Unfortunately, people will not fall over themselves to read what you write, whether it is a letter, blog or full-length novel unless you are well known and/or famous. You have to create a written magnet, one that will attract attention. One that people will love to discover and keep coming back to.

In the seven months I have been building this blog, I have discovered many such magnets and they are as good as reading a book. My day would not be complete without these 'mini reads'!
I have always been of the opinion that if you want to learn how to do something, study those who have already learned and succeeded, for you will discover that they have risen to the challenge and not been found wanting. Some of them will even tell you the right way to go about it!

This is how I have learnt to cook, knit, wallpaper a wall and even change the carburettor in an old Triumph car. Not to mention all my other craft projects. My theory is, if someone made it in the first place you can have a go too. It's not really rocket science, but the important thing to remember is the quality of your achievement. None of my first attempts were any good, but if you are stubborn like me, it helps a lot and eventually you should manage to create something you are happy with.

The little tree in the photograph below was my rendition of the 'Tree of Souls' from the film Avatar. It took a month to make and involved thousands of tiny pearl beads!


I have always wanted to be a writer. I enjoyed English at school and have written several poems. Ideas for stories have surfaced from time to time, but overall I was much too busy trying to live my life without too much heartache, and failing miserably.

Now I am retired and the misery has moved on. I can finally find out if I am any good as a writer. (Or not!)
And this blog (and others like it) will be my benchmark.
I am now in the process of publishing my first novel, ‘The Ninth Life’. It is with a beta reader now, as I was having serious doubts as to its merit. I will probably have to re-edit it; maybe re-write some of it, as there is a sequel nagging to be heard!Or, if the judgement is bad, I may have to tear it up and start again. I will have to wait and see.

Anita has really gone up in my admiration; she must be a genius, for she has completed five good novels. She recently read the first chapters of ‘The Ninth Life’ and is convinced that I can do it too!

And believe me, as one who unfailingly tells it like it is, she is not just saying that...



Best wishes and see you all next week...

Lollipop Shoes…

A work in progress…

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She doesn’t have any lollipop shoes, like the ones in Joanne Harris’ book, but always wanted some. Totally impractical really, and not something she could wear every day, or ever, come to that. But to own a pair of bright red shoes, to know they were yours, a sign that deep down inside you were a little bit special, different, even a magical person.

As a child, she was taught that to be different was not a good thing, not something to be desired. The fact that she was different seemed to go unnoticed. Or maybe they hoped she would grow out of it.

On the surface, it would seem as though she had, but not underneath. Beneath all the carefully controlled and nurtured normality was a very different person, a person who longs for freedom. Someone who is still sure it is attainable, despite the certain knowledge that it gets a little further away every day.

She resented having to hide her emotions. To hide her true self away from prying eyes for fear of upsetting those close to her, for if for one second they knew what was in her heart, it would destroy them.

Most of the people she knew had no idea she was not who she seemed to be. That she yearned desperately to be free, like the wild wind, or the butterfly carried along in the breeze. That each day she wasn’t, was torture.

There is sadness now, far too much of it, as time takes her dreams and runs away with them. Maybe it is too late in this lifetime for her to be who she needs to be, but the dream isn’t dead yet and sustains her still.

But she knows she may have to wait until next time…

Lollipop Shoes...

A work in progress…


She doesn’t have any lollipop shoes, like the ones in Joanne Harris’ book, but always wanted some. Totally impractical really, and not something she could wear every day, or ever, come to that. But to own a pair of bright red shoes, to know they were hers, would be a sign that deep down inside she was a little bit special, different, even a magical person.
As a child, she was taught that to be different was not a good thing, not something to be desired. The fact that she was different seemed to go unnoticed. Or maybe they hoped she would grow out of it.
On the surface, it would seem as though she had, but not underneath. Beneath all the carefully controlled and nurtured normality was a very different person, a person who still longed for freedom. Someone who was sure it was attainable, despite the certain knowledge that it got a little further away every day.
Why is it, she thought, you must hide most of your emotions. Hide your true self away from prying eyes for fear of upsetting those close to you, for if for one second they knew what was in your heart, it would destroy them?
Most of the people she knew had no idea she was not who she seemed to be. That she yearned desperately to be free, like the wild wind, or the butterfly carried along in the breeze.
There is sadness now, far too much of it, as time takes her dreams and smashes them to pieces, running away with the remainder. Maybe it is too late in this lifetime to be who she needs to be, but the dream isn’t quite dead yet and sustains her still.
But she knows she may have to wait until next time…

Valentine Day post…

Love really does make the world go around…

With the passing of Valentine’s Day this week, I have been thinking about all the different kinds of love there are, and how many I have had the good fortune to have shared. Unfortunately, this also highlighted the ones I haven’t or made a complete hash of, but you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, right?

Or I can’t, anyway…

I miss not knowing my dad and I really wish I had never known my mum. (But that’s another story altogether!) Then there were two husbands one after the other that I’m glad I don’t miss in the slightest.

I was told once a long ago that I had two brothers somewhere, and they are possibly what I think I miss the most. Sometimes I watch Anita’s son and daughter and really envy their relationship. They do fight and argue sometimes, but they are always there for each other, instinctively knowing what each of them needs and offering it before the need to ask.

It would appear that missing things is one of the saddest aspects of growing old and I don’t care for it too much. I don’t want to spend the time I have left complaining about this and that, bemoaning what was or what could never be. My life has been what I could make out of it, good or bad and I have come to the conclusion that I’m not the kind of person who will waste any time worrying about all the ifs and maybe’s. What’s done, is done. (Or not, as the case may be…)

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I was wondering what to write about this week, when I realised Valentine’s Day had come and gone. It got me thinking about all the people and things I love now. (And what with the weather and all, I did need the reminder).

I love that I have the strength of my family around me.

I love that I still have most of my health, and some of my mental faculties. (More important than I ever thought it could be)

I love that I have learned so much these past months, mainly from all the wonderful people I meet online each day. (And I thank you all from the bottom of my heart)

I love that I have finally written my book. (And loved every minute)

I love people like Carol Hedges who, through her advice, patience and humour has inspired me so much. http://carolhedges.blogspot.com/

And Jeff Goins who always has brilliant ideas to help you be a better writer. His ‘500 words a day’ system really does seem to work. http://goinswriter.com/

The brilliant Valerie Poore for being a friend when I needed one. If I could be like anyone, it would be Valerie. She is an extraordinary writer and she lives on a boat! http://wateryways.blogspot.com/

And for friendly technical advice, there is always Jonathan Gunson. His book ‘The Merlin Mystery’ drove me crazy for nearly six months, but everything he writes is like opening a treasure chest! http://bestsellerlabs.com/

Claudette J Young, for taking the time to explain to me exactly what ‘thought verbs’ were, and how much better your writing is without them! http://claudettejyoung.com/

And the brilliant Roger Colby for his helpful advice and support when I needed it most. http://writingishardwork.com

This list could be longer, as I have so much to be grateful for and so many people to thank. As and when my brain remembers who they are, I will post their names here, for you are all beautiful people.

See you all next week…

Jaye

Love really does make the world go around...

With the passing of Valentine’s Day this week, I have been thinking about all the different kinds of love there are, and how many I have had the good fortune to have shared. Unfortunately, this also highlighted the ones I haven't or made a complete hash of, but you can't make an omelette without breaking eggs, right?
Or I can't, anyway...
I miss not knowing my dad and I really wish I had never known my mum. (But that's another story altogether!) Then there were two husbands one after the other that I'm glad I don't miss in the slightest.
I was told once a long ago that I had two brothers somewhere, and they are possibly what I think I miss the most.  Sometimes I watch Anita's son and daughter and really envy their relationship. They do fight and argue sometimes, but they are always there for each other, instinctively knowing what each of them needs and offering it before the need to ask.

It would appear that missing things is one of the saddest aspects of growing old and I don't care for it too much.  I don't want to spend the time I have left complaining about this and that, bemoaning what was or what could never be.  My life has been what I could make out of it, good or bad and I have come to the conclusion that I'm not the kind of person who will waste any time worrying about all the ifs and maybe's. What's done, is done. (Or not, as the case may be...)
I was wondering what to write about this week, when I realised Valentine's Day had come and gone. It got me thinking about all the people and things I love now. (And what with the weather and all, I did need the reminder).
I love that I have the strength of my family around me.
I love that I still have most of my health, and some of my mental faculties. (More important than I ever thought it could be)
I love that I have learned so much these past months, mainly from all the wonderful people I meet online each day. (And I thank you all from the bottom of my heart)
I love that I have finally written my book. (And loved every minute)
I love people like Carol Hedges who, through her advice, patience and humour has inspired me so much.  http://carolhedges.blogspot.com/
And Jeff Goins who always has brilliant ideas to help you be a better writer. His '500 words a day' system really does seem to work. http://goinswriter.com/
The brilliant Valerie Poore for being a friend when I needed one. If I could be like anyone, it would be Valerie. She is an extraordinary writer and she lives on a boat!  http://wateryways.blogspot.com/
And for friendly technical advice, there is always Jonathan Gunson. His book 'The Merlin Mystery'  drove me crazy for nearly six months, but everything he writes is like opening a treasure chest!  http://bestsellerlabs.com/
Claudette J Young, for taking the time to explain to me exactly what 'thought verbs' were, and how much better your writing is without them!  http://claudettejyoung.com/
And the brilliant Roger Colby for his helpful advice and support when I needed it most. http://writingishardwork.com


This list could be longer, as I have so much to be grateful for and so many people to thank. As and when my brain remembers who they are, I will post their names here, for you are all beautiful people.
See you all next week...Jaye

This Weeks Post…

Fit for Purpose

I have always enjoyed reading books. Mostly for the sense of escapism involved. Somewhere you can forget all about your own life and live someone else’s, albeit vicariously.

It has been a blessing, sometimes more than at other times, depending on how my own life was going at that particular moment.

I honestly believe that reading books has kept me sane. They have taught me practically everything I know, for if I need or want to know how to do something, I turn to books to find out. Nowadays of course, we have the internet, but in my youth all we had were books.

These days, something else has been added to my enduring love affair with the printed word. Putting it quite simply, they have inspired me to write. You could say that the art of reading could do this anyway, to anyone. But up until recently, I was not aware of this. They were my retreat, my sanctuary. Nothing else.

But everything has changed.

I was a compulsive reader, consuming anything I could get my hands on. I didn’t discriminate and read everything. Asked to list my favourite authors, I would have been hard pushed, for I loved them all.

Somewhere along the way, I seem to have developed a ‘criteria’. I no longer just read a book. My brain seems intent on sifting the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. Who knew it could have that kind of opinion?

Two pages into a book, and if it is not talking to me by then, I discard it and try another. These days I love the kind of books that inspire me and make my fingers want to pick up a pen. Not to copy or emulate, but to write down the way the author has made me feel. Sometimes I find myself with a book in one hand and a notebook in the other.

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It’s as if a doorway has been opened in my mind. Artists say colours work for them, for me it’s the power of the words and the way they are used.

Something else has changed in me. I have always considered myself reasonably adept with the English language. It was my favourite lesson at school and over the years as I have said before, it has saved my sanity on many an occasion.

For the first time in my life, I have doubts, and they are growing all the time. I have helped other people edit and proofread their books, and been totally convinced I was good at it. Many people (including an agent) said that I was. I have also reviewed dozens of books along the way.

But then I picked up a pen and wrote a story of my own. I never expected it to be as hard as it turned out to be, as words usually came easily to me. But I discovered a very important fact about writing a book. Not only must it have a beginning, middle and end, it has to flow, make perfect sense and be interesting to read.

It also had to have a structure, sub plots and the list went on and on. I discovered to my horror that I was not as clever as I thought when the pen was in my own hand! Words tend to come at me in a rush, short spasms of prose that seem quite eloquent at the time, but appear quite truncated when you attempt to join them all together. So much so, I nearly gave up on The Ninth Life several times.

I began to seriously doubt I could ever be a writer, that this wasn’t something I could simply learn how to do.

But I persevered, did my absolute best, and after my edits and even more soul searching, I uploaded it onto Amazon, thinking my work was done.

Now I know I was wrong.

In my haste to achieve something that will hopefully out last me, I forgot the most important step of all. Someone else should have read it first. Someone objective, who would come to it afresh, with no desire or agenda to bin it at the first error.

I have learned that it is impossible for you to see your manuscript with a subjective eye. You cannot possibly hope to, because you have lived with it for so long. I wrongly assumed the reverse would be true, that the fact you created every word would make you more than qualified.

The Ninth Life is now with two beta readers, and never having done this before, I have no idea what happens next. What they will find or how long it will take. Or, more importantly, what I will do with their findings.

What happens next is anyone’s guess, but I will keep you posted!

Fit For Purpose...

Fit for Purpose
I have always enjoyed reading books. Mostly for the sense of escapism involved. Somewhere you can forget all about your own life and live someone else’s, albeit vicariously.It has been a blessing, sometimes more than at other times, depending on how my own life was going at that particular moment.
I honestly believe that reading books has kept me sane. They have taught me practically everything I know, for if I need or want to know how to do something, I turn to books to find out. Nowadays of course, we have the internet, but in my youth all we had were books.
These days, something else has been added to my enduring love affair with the printed word. Putting it quite simply, they have inspired me to write. You could say that the art of reading could do this anyway, to anyone. But up until recently, I was not aware of this. They were my retreat, my sanctuary. Nothing else.But everything has changed.

I was a compulsive reader, consuming anything I could get my hands on. I didn’t discriminate and read everything. Asked to list my favourite authors, I would have been hard pushed, for I loved them all.
Somewhere along the way, I seem to have developed a ‘criteria’. I no longer just read a book.My brain seems intent on sifting the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. Who knew it could have that kind of opinion?
Two pages into a book, and if it is not talking to me by then, I discard it and try another. These days I love the kind of books that inspire me and make my fingers want to pick up a pen. Not to copy or emulate, but to write down the way the author has made me feel. Sometimes I find myself with a book in one hand and a notebook in the other.
It’s as if a doorway has been opened in my mind. Artists say colours work for them, for me it’s the power of the words and the way they are used.Something else has changed in me. I have always considered myself reasonably adept with the English language. It was my favourite lesson at school and over the years as I have said before, it has saved my sanity on many an occasion.
For the first time in my life, I have doubts, and they are growing all the time. I have helped other people edit and proofread their books, and been totally convinced I was good at it. Many people (including an agent) said that I was. I have also reviewed dozens of books along the way.But then I picked up a pen and wrote a story of my own. I never expected it to be as hard as it turned out to be, as words usually came easily to me. But I discovered a very important fact about writing a book. Not only must it have a beginning, middle and end, it has to flow, make perfect sense and be interesting to read.
It also had to have a structure, sub plots and the list went on and on. I discovered to my horror that I was not as clever as I thought when the pen was in my own hand! Words tend to come at me in a rush, short spasms of prose that seem quite eloquent at the time, but appear quite truncated when you attempt to join them all together. So much so, I nearly gave up on The Ninth Life several times.I began to seriously doubt I could ever be a writer, that this wasn’t something I could simply learn how to do.
But I persevered, did my absolute best, and after my edits and even more soul searching, I uploaded it onto Amazon, thinking my work was done.Now I know I was wrong.
In my haste to achieve something that will hopefully out last me, I forgot the most important step of all. Someone else should have read it first. Someone objective, who would come to it afresh, with no desire or agenda to bin it at the first error.
I have learned that it is impossible for you to see your manuscript with a subjective eye. You cannot possibly hope to, because you have lived with it for so long. I wrongly assumed the reverse would be true, that the fact you created every word would make you more than qualified.The Ninth Life is now with two beta readers, and never having done this before, I have no idea what happens next. What they will find or how long it will take. Or, more importantly, what I will do with their findings.
What happens next is anyone’s guess, but I will keep you posted!

White Mice…

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A cold wind rattled the window frame and whistled through the cracks, lifting the faded cotton curtains like a summer skirt. It was dark outside, but Ruth hadn’t noticed, so intent on keeping warm.

The last of the coal was gone, nothing but ebony dust in the scuttle. The embers were nearly cold. Time to go to bed, she thought, at least it would be warmer there.

A loud knock on the front door made her jump, but she made no move to see who was there. It was probably those rotten kids from the Council estate again. They were always knocking on her door and running away.

There was another knock on the door, followed by another. This was unusual, she thought. They didn’t usually knock twice. But who else could it be?

Pulling the old knitted shawl closer around her shoulders, she shuffled in her shabby slippers to the front door. She peered through the peephole, but its field of vision was quite small and distorted. But even in the darkness she could see there was no one there. She turned and made her was to the kitchen, thinking a nice cup of cocoa would set her up for a good night’s sleep.

As she passed the living room doorway, her mind played the same familiar trick again and she saw Jim, her husband, sitting by a blazing fire. His snow-white hair flopping over his eyes the way it always did. As she opened her mouth to ask if he wanted any cocoa, he slowly vanished; taking the blazing fire with him and her heart sank. She missed him so much, especially at this time of year.

They had never made much of a fuss about Christmas. Something nice for dinner, and maybe some shop bought mince pies. And every year without fail he bought her two white sugar mice. She had confessed her love of them when they were courting and he always managed to find some every year since. This would be her first Christmas without him. She prayed every night that she would be allowed to go to him, but no one was listening and every morning she woke up in an empty bed.

Ruth had no family and no real friends. Days would pass when she wouldn’t see or speak to anyone. One of her neighbours would wave if she saw her at the window, but that hadn’t happened lately.

Sipping the hot milky cocoa in her chair by the dead fire, she listened intently, hoping to hear the carol singers again, but all was silent. Not even any traffic to prove she was not really so alone.

She sighed and struggled to her feet, intent on rinsing her cup in the kitchen. Just as she reached the hall, a muffled sound from outside the front door drew her attention. Two more knocks, and she moved slowly to have another look. Again, there was no one there; at least she couldn’t see anything. But someone had to be out there, for she could hear something.

Then a very small voice said, “She must be asleep,” followed by a giggle.

“Knock again, and then we’ll give up…”

From where Ruth stood, she could hear small scrabbling noises, moving up the door to the letterbox.

Up close, the door echoed with another knock, accompanied by several giggles. She looked through the peephole again and saw nothing. Convinced she was losing her mind, she turned towards the stairs. The sound of the gate swinging shut stopped her. Someone was there. What on earth did they want at this time of night? Knowing they were probably gone now, she slowly opened the door.

On the doorstep was a small boy, clutching a small pink paper bag that had reindeer on it. Another child, a girl by the looks of it, was swinging on the gate. “I told you she was in,” she said, and as she smiled, a dimple appeared on her left cheek.

“These are for you…” the boy said. “Me mum made ‘em.”

Ruth reached out and slowly touched the paper bag. It had been used before and was wrinkled and soft. He pushed the bag into her hand and let go. Ruth didn’t know what to say. What should she say? That it was far too late to be banging on her door? Or would a simple thank you be enough?

But it was no good. The emotions racing through her mind had rendered her dumb. That someone had thought of her and brought a gift, overwhelmed and saddened her in equal measure and her eyes filled with tears.

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When Ruth looked up, she noticed the mother, standing just a few feet away on the other side of the hedge. She looked thin and worn out, but somehow peaceful, watching her children with a small smile on her face. “Come on now, you two,” she called. “Say good night now.”

A chorus of good nights and they were gone, leaving Ruth standing there, suddenly stupid for not saying anything. She should have said something.

As she closed the front door, she wondered what was inside the bag. In the kitchen where the light was better, she opened the crumpled paper and looked inside.

What she saw made her heart leap with unexpected joy.

Inside, lying next to each other, were two white sugar mice…

******************************

This weeks promo spot goes to ‘Simple Says’ by Anita Dawes, and yes, she is my sister, but she does write exceedingly good books… and I’m not the only one who thinks so.

5.0 out of 5 stars Disturbing, but compelling and heartwarming 3 Oct 2013

By Rivergirl

Format:Kindle Edition

This is a story about some very tough and mean people somewhere in the backwoods and mountains of America. It is told from the perspective of a young girl whose mission in life is to protect her big, but simple-minded brother from harm. The story is compelling, frightening and sometimes brutal in the manner of the film Deliverance, but it is also a heartwarming story of loyalty, love and deep affection. It was not what I was expecting, but I’m glad I read it. It has an unforgettable quality about it and the characters are complex but convincing. It really is a great story and unputdownable.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/b009e8wkuc