If life goes in a circle
Why am I walking a straight line?
If life goes in a circle
Why am I walking a straight line?
My son decided he would take me out for the day
He wouldn’t tell me where.
We drove for a while and soon enough
I could smell the sea.
After lunch, we took a stroll down the local high street
Dragging me into a toyshop, crammed to the rafters and I worried I might be buried alive. I found a gold and blue trinket box.
The young man serving said it was a wishing box.
“Write your wish on a bay leaf”, he said. “And place it in the box.”
I had no desire to engage, so I paid with a smile.
Back home, I decided to give it a go. What did I have to lose?
Keep it small, I thought. I had seen a pair of suede shoes, over my price range and was hoping they would come down in price with the help of the wish.
I have my shoes now. The next day I almost broke my ankle when the heel snapped. I wondered, nursing my ankle, was it the wish or the box?
Where did the misfortune come from?
Writers the world over must be grateful that someone invented Indie Publishing, but I wonder why they didn’t invent a better way of marketing the books we create while they were at it?
By better, I mean a way we can understand and implement, a system that actually works?
Now, I know I have a problem with technology, but I have tried my best to make head or tail out of it, and, overall, I have managed to understand and even utilise some of it.
Most writers are not wired to master marketing. We want to write, not blow our own trumpets. The mere thought of being more visible than we have ever been in our lives is enough to chill our blood. We understand that we must make meaningful connections on social media, have book trailers on YouTube, for marketing is all about knowing, liking and trusting, but we also know there is so much more to it.
The experts say it is okay to begin with baby steps, sharing everything we do, but where do we go from there?
Make a plan for our marketing activity?
Get excited about our progress and share the excitement?
Keep pushing the boundaries of our comfort zone?
Learn new techniques?
Try paid advertising, even though it is an expensive nightmare?
Keep changing all of our keywords, hoping to hit on some that work?
Need a newsletter, podcast, more trailers, FB ads?
Have we checked we are doing all we can on all the media sites?
There is no easy way we can implement everything we learn.
There is also the writing to consider, as this is the most important part of your marketing campaign.
Somehow, writers must learn to manipulate time, prioritise until our brains bleed, and hope we stumble upon the magic formulae…
My first book, Nine Lives came into being mainly because I became intrigued by the notion that most of us hear voices in our heads at one time or another.
From Pinocchio to Joan of Arc, people have been hearing things and sometimes a little voice can change history, and not always for the best.
Kate Devereau, the ageing artist in my book, has been hearing a voice all her life. Never sure if this is good or evil, she makes a point of ignoring everything it says. Would her life have turned out differently if she hadn’t?
Some people call this the voice of our conscience, a bit like Jiminy Cricket, but how many of us really listen or even obey its commands?
I personally don’t hear any voices, but sometimes I just know I should have done things differently, and have suffered the consequences…
When I researched this topic, I was amazed by just how many famous people have heard voices, going back as far as Moses. Some of these people were convinced they were hearing the voice of God; some thought a heavenly host had visited them. Whereas, on the other side of the scale, if a voice talked you into committing a crime, they usually lock you up and throw away the key.
Personally, I like the idea of a wise voice, advising and helping us with life’s problems. Pointing out the error of our ways would be very handy in our house.
But how many of us would dare to trust it?
Excerpt from Nine Lives
… as the pain rolled on and on, Kate just wanted to die. She knew no one was going to rescue her, they never had before and it was a little late to start believing they would now. For some reason, she knew it was her lot in life to suffer, to be alone and be miserable, no matter how hard she tried to make her life any different. Surely, it was time for the curse on her life to stop? The voice in her head had said otherwise, apparently, there was much worse to come. But what could be worse than this, she thought.
Once the pain started to make her want to push, it all became a little more bearable. At least she felt more in control of the situation, not just lying there helplessly, being tortured.
The baby, a boy, was born that evening and nobody could have been more pleased it was over than Kate herself.
Throughout the ordeal, the voice had kept up a running commentary about her life being ruined. How she had wasted every opportunity and how sorry it was. The last bit surprised her, for she had always thought it disliked her. It had never said anything with any hint of kindness in it before. If it was simply trying to depress her even more than she was already, it had succeeded…
My brain must be like swiss 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 its 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.
Added to my inability to choose anything, is the sure and certain knowledge that whichever one I pick, it will be the wrong one. Always is. I never get anything right on the first try.
Could life be more like plotting a book?
I know many writers don’t believe in plotting. They believe their characters will do most of the hard work for them, and I have experienced this first hand too. But other writers firmly believe in careful plotting, even a story board.
All my life, I have been a ‘winger’, hurtling from one idea to the next. Sometimes getting it right, but more often not. Advancing age has changed all that. I no longer have the time for hit and miss. Decisions I make now, have to be right, although how this will happen, remains to be seen.
Now, I am still virtually new to this writing business, and with the idea of getting it right first time (could be a novelty in itself!) I tried plotting. With a lot of practice, I’m getting better. So much so, that my latest WIP has been thoroughly plotted, storyboard and everything. But this is not something you could really do with your life. Too many decisions, and so many ways of dealing with them.
In addition, other people tend to make your life awkward, sometimes it seems, just to be bloody minded.
Could it be as simple as throwing a dice?
Then I remembered something. (It does still 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, as my way was getting me nowhere.
On second thoughts, that sounds worse than ‘winging it’.
But if I were younger…
They say there are ‘two sides to every story’ and ‘everything happens for a reason’, but what if neither of these things is 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?
Should we blindly follow our instincts?
Recently, I have been thinking back through my life and all the different choices that I had to make. 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, all of the people I have hurt, and do it better next time…
How many times have you moaned about manufacturer’s insistence on changing and improving things?
It’s never for the better, is it?
It has recently dawned on me that I am guilty of the same behaviour, I am ashamed to say.
My problem is that I am never happy with anything I have created. At first, I am, but then the doubts start to creep in. What seemed brilliant in the beginning, starts to look shabby and inadequate, and nay I say it, inferior.
By this time, of course, I just know I can do better.
I do this with most things, but the ones that give me the worst trouble, are our book covers. They are so important to get right, aren’t they?
We have many books under our belts now, and I am not happy with quite a few of their covers. Some of you may have noticed, (and admitting this makes me cringe) just how often I change them.
When a dirty blue car mows Maggie down outside her local supermarket, she becomes trapped in the nightmare world of a coma patient.
In this very different world, she manages to rescue an abused and neglected child. But when it looks as though she will finally wake up, she cannot bear the thought of leaving the child behind.
But is this other world real, or was she just dreaming? And if it is real, can she help this child?
“Maggie is a likeable character who is easy to engage with and I found myself willing her to find the courage to embrace happiness. If you like a story that is more than just your average romance then I thoroughly recommend this one…” Amazon Reviewer
I have just changed the title and cover for Anita’s book, Scarlet Ribbons, mainly because the story is about just the one ribbon. It was only when I realised what else I would have to change, I began to see the enormity of my dissatisfaction.
The cover had to be changed on:
New posters had to be made, and replaced on just about every site I ever visit.
All of this took two days, and so far, so good, but I just know there will be other places I haven’t thought of yet, but right now, after doing all of that, I never want to change another cover.
There is one that could be better…
DI David Snow has another killer to catch, a killer as mysterious as the crimes he commits.
Betrayal and lies come to the surface as Snow struggles to find the truth, but is he looking in all the wrong places?
Can he outwit the killer, or will the truth cost him his life?
‘Do you know why we have brought you here today, Ann?’
Ruth thought she would ease her way in, rather than accuse her straight off, for triggering any hostility wouldn’t get them anywhere.
The woman stared at Ruth, her pale, colourless eyes searching for clues. ‘Nah… but I ‘spect you’ll get to it pretty quick…’
Ruth indicated a brown paper bag on the table beside her. ‘We found a pair of work boots at your house, Ann. According to your husband, they’re not his. Are they yours?’
Ann Taylor glared at Ruth. She seemed to be enjoying the interview, her arrogance showing through the previous nervousness. ‘Dunno, can’t see them can I?’
Ruth undid the bag and placed the dirty boots on the table. Most of the mud had dried and fallen off, but still didn’t seem like the kind of boot a woman would wear. ‘Are these your boots, Ann?’
Without looking at the boots, she shook her head. ‘Nah, I don’t think so.’
Ruth looked at Snow, but not for confirmation. She wondered why he was choosing to stay silent. What was the point of sitting in if he wasn’t going to contribute? Not that she cared, one way or the other. She had only looked at him to signify inclusion.
She looked back at the woman. ‘Are you quite sure, Ann?’
The woman shrugged her shoulders and refused to speak.
‘For the benefit of the tape, Ann Taylor has refused to answer.’
Ruth decided to read out the coroner’s report, detailing every bruise and damage to the child’s body. When she read the part about the boot imprint on the child’s back, she slid the photograph across the table in front of the mother.
‘Did you do this, Ann?’
When the woman didn’t answer, Ruth decided it was time to play the ace card, and she looked forward to it. This cold-hearted bitch of a woman was about to be arrested, but not before Ruth had enjoyed herself. ‘Are you aware that the person who wore these boots would have left significant DNA inside them?’
Ruth paused, watching as the realisation sunk in. ‘And are you also aware that we have tested your DNA and it has been proved that you are the owner of these boots?’
The fear and shame were beginning to show on the woman’s face, and Ruth watched, wondering what she would do now. She didn’t have to wait long to find out.
Ann Taylor’s face seemed to implode, as the terror of being found out took effect. ‘I swear I don’t remember that part… I know I were angry, but when she fell over and banged her head, I thought she were dead…’
‘So what did you do then, Ann?’ Ruth knew what had happened next, but not which one of them had done it. ‘Were you aware that Amy was still alive when you dropped her into the canal?’
The horror was all-encompassing, as the woman realised the enormity of what she had done. She looked around the room, just once, before she started screaming…
I am in the habit of changing my screen saver/background image quite often. I like to have something lovely on my computer screen, as it is the first thing I see every morning.
This picture appealed to me for several reasons. I love trees and this one is lovely but also ethereal, the mist hiding most of the scene. I particularly like the contrast between the nakedness of the sleeping tree and the tree covered in blossom.
I have recently found myself ‘skimming’ when both reading and writing, and I am not seeing or describing anything enough which is not good. This post is an exercise, not only for my eyes, but also for my imagination. I don’t want to think of my old age robbing me of so much of my enjoyment of life.
The blossom tree in this image attracted me first, being frustratingly out of focus enough to prevent an easy identification. The blossoms are pure white, no hint of colour on them, and the petals are delicate and small. The branches look old, but the slender double trunk would suggest otherwise. Are there any more clues in the picture?
The tree is blooming very early. The companion trees are still bare, their branches stark and austere looming through the mist. Winter has not long departed, as I imagine the chilly dampness of the morning on my skin. The shrubbery in the background is sparse too, confirming that Mother Nature is not fully awake yet.
My mind sifts through my knowledge of flowering trees and comes up with a likely choice. Is it a Magnolia, one of the small flowered varieties, maybe Stellata?
Moving on from the details of the image, my mind is not finished. I wonder where this lovely little tree is. The setting would suggest a park, for the area seems too big to be someone’s garden. There are vague images hiding in the mist, indicating far more space than first thought.
Could that be a roof I can see? It doesn’t look like the roof of a house though…
My mind yearns to explore this scene, to visit the tree and then walk into the mist to see what I can discover…
When will you love me as you did before?
When will I feel your arms reach for me across the bed to pull me close?
When will I feel your breath on the back of my neck?
When will I feel your kiss good morning, noon and night?
When will we fill that empty space between the sheets?
Tell me, most of all, that you love me again as you did before…