Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 10

Right through the hoop, hoop, hoop

Posted on my Bluesky account.

One more post before I go. When my eldest grandkids were tiny, I sang this song to them, the tune that from 'Miss Mary Mack'.

"With Stephen Curry, Curry, Curry

You never gotta worry, worry, worry

'Cause the ball goes swoop, swoop, swoop

Right through the hoop, hoop, hoop."

Steph Curry endorsed Kamala Harris. I didn't note him campaigning for her past that initial endorsement, but I don't have an X account, nor did I follow him when I was on Instagram, so perhaps I missed any further endorsement of her. As my eldest grandchild is about to turn ten, memories of that tune flit through my mind, as does the relative silence of those who could perhaps make a difference at this perilous juncture in America.

I implore those with eyes to see and ears to listen and much louder voices than mine to MAKE SOME HISTORY! Unless you condone the president and Elon Musk's heinous actions, let your opinions be known. What will your brands be worth if this nation is ruled by fascists?

My youngest siblings are black. My youngest sister told me: Unless white Americans denounce racism, nothing will change. Equally, unless Americans with economic clout and widespread platforms condemn the injustices occurring in Washington D.C., those seeking to dismantle our democracy will prevail.

Thanks for reading,

Sincerely, Anna.

Groping for a safe spot to stand

Top and bottom of Red Sky at Night. I love all that colour!

To stand, to breathe, to craft, to make my voice heard. I need to pace myself; it's going to be a long four years.

I spent an hour this afternoon sewing on Red Sky at Night. It's funny writing that, because it's not the quilt I thought it was going to be. 2025 isn't the year I assumed before the election, nor could I have conjured the cruelty, backstabbing, and hopelessness that has emerged. Yet I remain making myself heard, sewing and editing and doing dishes. Life must go on.

My eldest grandchild will be ten years old soon, where has that decade gone? What will the world be like in 2035? I couldn't have conjured the path America has taken in 2015, but maybe some things are better left unknown.

We'll be celebrating with family this weekend, perhaps a bigger deal for us adults than the one turning ten. Probably good to get away for a few days, not that my location will preclude further insults and injuries, but I can revel in the grandkids, commiserate with my children. Try to wrap my head around what has happened and what I can do in my little corner to make it less oppressive.

Have a safe and peaceful weekend everyone and I'll chat more next week.

Nothing but quilt talk

Star in a Star block from Jodi Godfrey's Red Sky at Night quilt.

The last few days since beginning another Kawandi-inspired quilt, I have been in THE ZONE. Not only with that project, but Alexandria, which has been a mild relief as well as a joy. Stitching blocks for that EPP behemoth, I wasn't sure if my colour choices were apt. I think they'll do nicely. 

But let's gab about my Red Sky at Night hand-sewn I don't know what else to call it quilt. It's Kawandi only in starting from the back and going inwards. It was strange, but liberating, to first make the back, not worry about a binding, then finding a mostly appropriate batting scrap to wedge under the back's pressed perimeter. A few bare spaces were filled in with less than an inch wide (but several inches long depending where I needed filler) strips of batting, some of which were displaced as my husband helped move the back and batting onto my office work table. Carefully I measured where the center Churn Dash block would fit, as squarely in the center as I could get. It was safety-pinned onto the batting/back, for which I need to find/make up a name because batting/back is kinda long, although not obnoxious. I affixed the Churn Dash block there with a quick perimeter sew-around to avoid Batting Shift Syndrome, a term I coined in the previous entry. Don't read it if you're looking for only quilt talk.

Bridal Bouquet block, bottom left of quilt.

Maybe that was two days ago. Well, three to make the back, lay down the batting, so Saturday. On Sunday I began sewing, starting with the lower right RSAN block. Stitching along the outer perimeter, I was careful to tuck under any raw edges, which I didn't do with the small Kawandi-inspired piece. This larger quilt will get put through regular quilt paces, and I want it to be hardy. I don't mind taking extra time to tuck under raw edges; time is not of the essence with this project.

Time slips away as I stitch, listening to music, not wearing earplugs or noise cancelling headphones (to ease my tinnitus) as I do when seated at my machine. That's part of the thrill, being unfettered from such sound-eliminating devices. Another is how much I LOVE using needle and thread. I feel in control as well as adrift, very liberating. Hand sewing is VITAL in my crafty realm, and I'd forgotten that aspect, as English Paper Piecing isn't as open to interpretation when it comes to the actual stitching. Small stitches keep basted papers together, although basting those papers is less futzy than stitching them together.

First large scrap sewn onto the batting/back. I truly need another term for that! Meanwhile at the bottom of the quilt are HST blocks sewn together, hehehe.

What else I love is being lost in sewing. Not needing to worry about this, that, or another method, but merely finding pretty scraps, cutting them to size, or adding another if the size was too small. Just stitching and stitching and.... Suddenly it's pushing four o'clock in the afternoon, time for stretches. To be so absorbed in something beautiful, peaceful, artsy, craftsy.... Me and the music (I LOVE MUSIC!!) and thread and needle. A total balm on my soul.

It also feels good to put the Red Sky at Night blocks to use, adapting a machine-based project into my interpretation of it by hand. To stitch random small scraps onto the batting/back (still need a term for that) to avoid Batting Shift Syndrome (BSS), to incorporate a marvelous quilt-making method into my life that fits my needs and enhances my joy. How rare is that in our world? I kept thinking that despite not writing anything, I am writing through making this quilt, pantsing a novel via cottons and slender metal needles. I'm still wanting to write something new, but this is certainly sufficing in the interim.

More random scraps. To say I'm enamored with this process is feeble. I LOVE IT!

Maybe it's the music; yesterday I listened to B artists: The B-52s, Beachbuggy, Big Star, Belle and Sebastian. Sometimes I get up and change the song, but mostly I sit and stitch. When I sew in the evenings, my husband and I are listening to sports, well, I'm listening to sports. And that's fine, I'm not grousing. Yet afternoon stitching in the office sessions are all in my wheelhouse, from what I'm doing to what softly drifts into my ears, tunes of my choice not muted by earplugs and headphones.

Perhaps that counts for more than I realized.

Today I'd like to attach the RSAN blocks that go on the top corners, again to avoid BSS, as well as, well, do something different. Kawandi begins from one edge, going around the perimeter, then moving inwards. What I'm doing now isn't that, and maybe I'll never make another quilt in this exact manner again, tacking down the corners first, securing the center and interior. I did love the circular nature of traditional Kawandi, but right now I need something else.

Something vaguely familiar yet experimental. Something grounded but aflight. Something that isn't new or old but fresh to me as well as comforting. Hand-stitching has been in my life over twenty-five years, starting with embroidery. Kawandi-inspired quilting is another extension of that, and where it will lead makes me smile in anticipation! Is it afternoon yet? Soon, I grin. I wonder what I'll listen to then.

Red Sky at Night reconsidered

Washed and crinkly! My first Kawandi-inspired quilt.

Meanwhile zoning from joy to despair (and not quite halfway back again)....

So yeah, a new plan for Red Sky at Night. Going to morph some of the EPP blocks into a Kawandi-inspired quilt. Yup, that's what I'm gonna do.

I gotta do SOMETHING outrageous that won't land me in jail or further emotional depths. Maybe not outrageous, but unplanned, beautiful. Crafty, but not evil, just saying....

Making the art quilt pictured above, I was truly in THE ZONE OF HAPPINESS. Arranging (and often rearranging) scraps on a fourteen-inch piece of batting underlined with most of a fat quarter, I listened to lots of S artists on my computer; Steely Dan, Stevie Nicks, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Supertramp. Most heartening was Stevie Wonder, especially songs from his 1974 LP Fulfillingness' First Finale. "You Haven't Done Nothin'", pointedly aimed at Richard Nixon, made me smirk. Learning what Elon is trying to do to the Treasury Department makes me shiver.

Anyway.... Even before I finished the art quilt, which doesn't have a name or purpose other than to totally put me in a Kawandi-style mode of making quilts, I wanted to incorporate some of the RSAN blocks. Because what else am I gonna do with them? I'm not going to make that quilt, despite how pretty it would be or how I have a scant amount of machine-sewn blocks prepped. Or in finding nearly a dozen pinned HSTs waiting to be stitched, which I did yesterday because I'll put them in a Kawandi quilt too. A Kawandi-inspired quilt, because my method will involve tacking down some scraps in the middle to hopefully avoid Batting Shift Syndrome. I don't need to wrestle more than is necessary, 'nuff said.

But is it enough? How much of America's current events (shit show) do I need to analyze here, in my head, within my heart.... Effing MOFO president and all who associate with him! Maybe effing MOFO is redundant, but wholly deserved in my opinion.

Okay, maybe that's outta my system for a few moments. Future Me shoots me a smirk. Yeah, I know, stay the friggin' course, blah blah blah. Red Sky at Night blah blah blah. Which is EXACTLY how I've felt about this project since.... Not since completing all but one of the EPP associated with it, but further back, when I first experimented with Half Square Triangles, etc. I spent much of August wrapping my head around basic quilting techniques that never before had I attempted, true story! My first flying geese, HSTs, churn dash block, which might end up in the center of my next Kawandi-inspired project. EPP blocks of a little over nine inches square in the corner, a few HSTs scattered around, or maybe placed strategically along the border. Then scraps; gorgeous vibrant scraps! Because that's what this whole dang planet is made of, a wide variety of humans, all with their hopes, dreams, and a few (or many) nefarious schemes, the MOFO's. Harsh? Maybe. Also truthful because what is happening in America and Russia and North Korea and China and too many other nations to list is EFF'ED UP! Let people be themselves, be free, be happy. Stop trying to force your ugly hatred on others. Stop trying to gain all the fucking (okay, I said it) money in the whole damn world and forfeit your soul. Even Hitler had a soul, he loved his dog Blondie, maybe even Eva Braun. But his soul was strangled by the thirst for power, the need to dominate, the aggression to deem worthless Jews and so many others, his soul had no room to flourish. What the hell is all that about anyway?

Deep breath taken. Rant over. Red Sky at Night blocks, yup, that's the point. The point is last fall I hand-stitched twelve pretty blocks, then left the edge papers in the perimeters because I wasn't sure how easily it would be to press flat the seams, then machine sew yellow sashes along the sides, hoping I kept the points intact. But that wasn't their purpose in my world. In my world, those blocks will be used as-is. Well, I'll remove the papers, lol. Then place them accordingly. Maybe I'll press inward the outer seams of the churn dash block, or leave it, I don't know. I don't know much, lemme tell ya, other than it's another day. A new day! A nice day, no matter what.

Stay the course, Future Me hollers. And yup, I sure will.

A difficult but relieving decision

Over two hundred hearts awaiting their rightful homes within a stitching WIP.

Just want to note that despite all my wishing to write something new soon, I just can't commit to it. Too much is going on, both in prepping books for release as well as life, to assume I can pull a completed draft outta my backside.

Last night I started stitching my Mr. Carter quilt. Not that evening stitching interferes with morning writing. But I got a little maudlin, almost teary, in sorting the hearts on the sofa by relative colour. The photo above doesn't begin to tell their stories, wondering what the future would hold. I assumed I'd be writing as I cut fabrics, basted shapes, stitched together jewels. Maybe even last night I thought, "Yup, gonna start a new book soon!"

At some point this morning, reality kicked in. The reality of, "If I plan to publish two novels by the end of April, where in the world am I supposed to find time to write one?" That's a pretty sobering reality, both for the joy of two books heading into the wild blue yonder and just when in the hell am I gonna pen something new???

The relief I felt upon making that choice was palpable. Honest. Disappointing but heartfelt, which solidified my decision, as well as confirming that yes, I am creeping up in age and I don't have the seemingly endless energies of even a few years ago. A few years ago, well.... A few years ago I was barely scratching out the first written work since Mom died. And that was like pulling teeth, making me wonder if I could write. The Enran Chronicles blew me away for how freely those stories emerged, which made me think, "Oh boy, I am BACK!" That was two years ago, well, eighteen months thereabouts in the middle of the noveling free-for-all. A good whirlwind, which makes this pull-back even more bittersweet, in that just because I went whole-hog in 2023, 2025 is another animal entirely.

It's the year of the snake, in more than the Chinese zodiac. But my dearth of writing has little to do with more than what's in my head, heart, and soul. It's not the time to write, for whatever reason. It's time to stitch hearts into a quilt. It's time to read books to prep for other novels' releases. It's time to breathe deeply and accept what I can't change but endeavor to alter all that's in my wheelhouse, which starts with my own expectations for myself. Huh. That's...fascinating.

That's the nature of creeping toward fifty-nine. Wrestling with personal truths. Acquiescing to what I can truly accomplish and not grousing (too loudly). Maybe a little grimace, then I move on. Story ideas rarely slip from my gray matter, part of my problem. That novel isn't going anywhere. Patience, I hear Future Me whisper. Have patience and stay the course. Stay the course, I mumble under my breath, nodding reluctantly. Stay the course and....

Be grateful. 'Nuff said.

Work table (and life) nonsense

Clockwise from bottom left corner: jewel stars for Alexandria, hexagon blogs for Alexandria, hearts for Mr. Carter quilt.

Um, hard to pin down on all aspects of the corporeal plane....

Coming home, whether from a brief holiday or lengthy vacation, means reassessing. And laundry, but that's already underway. While I did the unpacking yesterday, much remains to sort, like all that English paper piecing pictured above, ahem. And books.... Oh my goodness frickin' gracious! I have about as many book notions stirring as EPP projects, oh and don't forget the quilt WIP on the design wall or Kawandi stitching I want to dive into as soon as one single free moment emerges.

But, what do I turn to first? This blog, lol. Why? Because I'm waiting to start another load of clothes. And this is singular and easy to complete. And I love blogging, been doing it for nearly twenty years, although not at this site, hehehe. Blogging helps me think. Or I think it does, hah. It certainly helps my PMA, which is required in the TRUCKLOADS right now, 'nuff said. Or I could say more, like if you are an American, please consider calling your senators and congressfolk to give them your feelings about the recent attempt at a Federal funding freeze. Effing SOB president.

Anyway.... Just a few tidbits I want to highlight, one being I gave the granddaughters haircuts last weekend, and both were THRILLED with the results. Eldest wanted her long tresses altered, now she has a just above the shoulder bob that angles toward her face. Youngest requested a fringe (bangs), and looks so dang adorable! She also had a necessary trim to just past her shoulder blades. Yes, a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, I was a hair stylist.

The other exciting bit to feature is now that Splitting the Sky has been released into various online retailers, I have added it to my Books To Read page, which now includes a link to my Bluesky account! Previously only the heavy hitters on social media were available to link to, but D2D has expanded that list, so now I can proudly sport two sites on my page. Yes, it's subtle. That's my way. Lol.

Not so silent are all the sewing projects I want to dabble in, or the books.... I had assumed that in coming home, I'd dive into writing. Uh-huh. Maybe not today. Or tomorrow. Or this weekend. Like wishing to inundate myself with Kawandi, a new-to-me form of hand-quilting an entire quilt. I was twitching inwardly all weekend after coming across a sample of it, but it's nearly ten thirty a.m. now, and there are jewel papers basted with dark fabrics I need to stitch together while the natural light is good, laundry to check, the bed to make.... Stuff interrupts the creative work flow, and while I am INDEED GRATEFUL for the crafty impetus, there's nothing I do to circumvent what needs to happen first. Um, like this post.

This is writing, maybe not the writing I long to achieve, yet for years I have blogged here, there, and way over yonder. A few are gone, hopefully tucked onto a hard or flash drive. One remains for family. This site emerged nearly three years ago when I decided I was going to again kinda-sorta take seriously this writing gig. Mom's death derailed the previous WordPress address, so back to Blogger I went, and here I remain. It's free, easy enough for me to navigate, and scratches whatever makes me want to blah blah blah whenever the mood strikes. It's become slightly more political, which probably won't alter until America's leader does. Or maybe for the rest of my blogging life I'll interject bits of my take on society's governmental schemes. Yet it will focus on books and quilts, sidebars to Future and Past Me, nuggets about the family, some about my faith. Right now my faith is holding me aright when so much seems absolutely screwed. I've called my congressman, both senators, speaking with one's aide, not getting through to the other's office, his mailbox full. I'll try again when I'm done here, just for grins. I'm thankful to be in a blue state, although my mood would be better served within a red state to let those politicians know that helping people is FAR BETTER than hurting them.

Okay, off my high horse before I tumble and break a hip. I'm inching toward fifty-nine, or I'm entering the last quarter of fifty-eight. Two times twenty-nine has been one hell of a year, what with finding myself releasing a slew of stories, happily engaging in brief quips upon Bluesky, more EPP than I know what to do with, as well as Kawandi, which I really hope to enjoy. Because in sewing three rows with my machine, my ears are crying UNCLE, and perhaps my days with a beloved sewing machine will dwindle. As long as my right arm holds out, that is.

With all that, I just heard the washer's chime. Or the dryer. Either way, time to investigate. Which I hope you'll feel inclined to do with some other level of my crafty life. And if you continue enjoying this blog, thanks from the bottom of my authorial blah blah blah heart!

When 4.50 is really 3.50 in the morning

A star for Alexandria that is now completed and tucked in the hexie tote

Sometimes our eyes play tricks. Like when I checked the phone at my bedside and I would have sworn it read 4.50 a.m. Instead it was an hour earlier. But by the time I realized that, twenty-five minutes had past, by which time I was awake. At four fifteen in the morning.

Okay! Um, I guess. Lol. Right now I'm visiting my eldest daughter. We're having a lovely time, those grandgirls taller than when I last saw them five weeks ago. I'm so grateful that despite the distance, I can travel to see all of them with relative ease, and while I miss my spouse, such is the life of a long distance grandparent.

Even when you wake at 3.50 in the morning.

But I've done my daily stretches, read some about Kawandi quilting which I am SUPER EXCITED to try when I get home. That was a marvelous rabbit hole down which to tumble and might possibly answer my unmentioned but authentic issue with using my sewing machine to make quilts. I wear earplugs and noise cancelling headphones anytime I sit at my beloved machine, my tinnitus unable to deal with even basic sewing, much less machine quilting. That's a big fat drag, but maybe Kawandi quilting will permit large-ish quilts without the noise, albeit as slowly sewn as English paper pieced comforters.

I'll see how that goes when I get home.

As for waking up at a seemingly stupid hour of the morning.... I'd like to grouse about it, and maybe later I will. Or I'll take a nap, hah! But I wouldn't have had time to read in minor depth about Kawandi quilting, plus the stretches are done, and soon the rest of the family will be alert. I've been managing on less than seven hours of sleep since I started revising Splitting the Sky and I haven't lost my cognitive abilities yet, lol. Not going to ponder it deeply, just going to keep on.... Being a grandmother not currently far away, being a quilter in whatever manner the ears and hands will permit. Being grateful despite so much I cannot comprehend because it beats feeling defeated.

Because even if 4.50 is really 3.50 a.m., eventually it's 6.25 a.m., and life goes on.

(Written on my phone so forgive book titles not being italicized, no labels, and any other random grammar/punctuation errors. And I've been awake A LONG TIME ALREADY.)

Breathing space

Upsized, non-diagonal crazy quilt. Uh, sure....

After a book release, some necessary non-writing days are required.

So yeah. I haven't done more with the novel-gig than read a few chapters of A Love Story, which actually does need to happen, as I'm planning to publish Book 3 of The Enran Chronicles in March. Have to remind myself of the plot, lol, although losing the plot seems to be America's current theme, however Bishop Mariann Budde is a Christian ROCK STAR, not meaning to belittle her bravery. Sometimes rock stars don't wield guitars or drum sticks you know. Sometimes it's all about the heart.

My heart has required non-noveling pastimes, like throwing an obnoxious quilt onto the wall, pictured above. A bunch of smallish cuts I recently acquired hashed/clashed out with solids from my scraps stash, to be embellished with HEARTS! Dangit, why can't anyone in the new administration think with their heart right now?

Ahem, Future Me huffs, giving me a slightly understanding smirk. 

What, I ask, a little more than righteously indignant.

This isn't the last crappy thing that's gonna happen, you do realize that right?

I shudder, roll my eyes, then give her a sharp stare. You can't be serious, I say in the most courageously snotty tone I possess.

She shrugs, then clears her throat. I'm just saying that shit happens all the damn time. Don't let this totally screw you up.

How the hell am I not supposed to.....

She glares at me for seconds, then her face changes to one of immense compassion. Stay the course, she says softly.

What course?

Rarely does Future Me approach Present Me, maybe there's some space-time-corporeal plane continuum she can't breach. She looks like me, weathered certainly, her hair gray; from how far in the future has she traveled so I can see her this clearly? She stretches out her hand as if to grasp my shoulder, yet refrains from making contact. Heaps of queries race through my mind; can she touch me, what does she know? How bad will the next four years be....

It may be that the day of judgment will dawn tomorrow; in that case, we shall gladly stop working for a better future. But not before.

Tears well in my eyes; that's a Dietrich Bonhoeffer quote. Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a German theologian who spent the last years of his life in German prisons for subversive activities and was ultimately hung weeks before the end of WWII for his participation in the plot to assassinate Adolf Hitler. His bravery, wisdom, and of course faith are well known, but do we take for granted how terrible was that war, those years, that time? Are we so far removed from that horror that we look upon what is now occurring, fearing the worst? Yes it's ABOMINABLE that once again fascism is prevalent, no amount of facepalms to denote the massive, the massive.... Here I lose the words because Future Me does squeeze my shoulder, so briefly, and yet now I know. I know in a minute sense the courage necessary, not to merely wade through the utter shite that's coming, but to remain hopeful. Bonhoeffer did it, I can do it too.

Then as quickly as all that occurred, Future Me is gone. I'm alone in my office, wondering how real was that, but I guess it's as real as WWII, as America today, as the tears rolling down my face. This life is very real, at times too fucking real to be believed. Yet we are not alone, in that we have each other, we have saints from the past reminding us to stay the course. Stay the course. Stay the course.

Stay the course in whatever manner we can rightfully, safely, and sanely achieve. It's truly all we can do

Re-releasing a novel (and other beloveds)

Dark starry sky from 5.21 a.m. PST today.

The act of publishing a book. Then actually letting it go....

After the first death (or goodbye of whatever sorts), others accumulate. It's the nature of life, which is consoled by new shinies that distract or ease or heal said losses. Maybe that Splitting the Sky is a standalone, rare in my noveling wheelhouse, makes it harder for me to simply walk away. And yes, it's only been one friggin' day, but somehow yesterday felt.... Bereft. Perhaps the new administration added to that sense of WTF, well, of course it did. LOL not LOL, yet that wasn't the only reason I kept feeling like my heart was empty.

Well, not empty. Depleted. Askew. Changed. How you feel after one much loved passes. Or something similarly disturbing. Or altering. Or whatever. Whatever dude, what the eff ever.

Okay, this is definitely related to yesterday's hoo haa. Did I predict that sense of WTF-ever when I decided to release a book on Inauguration Day, obviously NOT. But it's done, the book is out, our country is.... Um, nope, can't go there this dang early in the morning. This morning I woke at a stupid-early hour, even though revisions aren't breathing down my neck. Only this nagging sense of, "What next?" Or "Why goodbye?" Why goodbye to those so decent, to whatever seemed impossible to ignore, like a novel that came outta left-freakin' field, taking over my whole damn life for several weeks, then is gone as if all that attention and love weren't real. I dunno man, I really don't know.

Yet (YET!), all is not lost, nor is this post meant to be a whine-fest. This entry acknowledges that no matter how much we yearn for something, or feel it is wholly and forever permanent, life moves on. Books are released, people die, administrations change, and though we feel battered and anguished, confused and frustrated, hopeless even, not all hope is lost. A trite homily? I don't think so, mostly from my faith, but also from the simple nature of life on this planet. Shite happens ALL THE FLIPPIN' TIME. Has Earth crumbled into dust in the midst of such turmoil? No. Have humans obliterated each other completely? No. Will I close up the noveling shop and retire from active authorial duty? Not on your sweet life! (Have I had some caffeine to prop me up having been awake for nearly three hours already, hell yes!) Hell yes I'll keep publishing books, maybe even write another along the way. The way to healing is this: Mourn what has been taken, then take a step forward. One step. Nothing impossible, although it might hurt like a scab ripped prematurely. But take that step. Then maybe another. Or pause, breathing deeply. Pain still persists, our lungs screaming for the past. Past Me wrote that novel twelve years ago when America's first black president was running for a second term. I assumed my nation had turned a page on our bigoted history. I was wrong. But (BUT!) I also didn't know the grandkids were coming. Or that my dad would only live long enough to meet one, Mom cuddling three of the four. Shit happens all the damn time, but then a dozen and a half years later, I released that book, which yes addresses corruption and the miseries that result, but also LOVE. Healing. Joy. Not the thrills expected, but something different. Unplanned yet not the complete end of the world. It might FEEL like the end. But it's not.

Future Me gives nothing away. Past Me is grinning from this unexpected triumph, not merely of Splitting the Sky, but that Present Me is writing about moving forward. From loss, from grief, from disbelief. From what seems to have no effing purpose, however it's a new day. Maybe a long day from how early I woke, but a different day nonetheless. So yeah, we lose some; loved ones, novels, a sense of democracy. Equally (although nothing about life feels at all equitable) we gain...something. I don't know what yet, but something.

Hold onto that hope, because as Dana Noth says, "Sometimes hope is all we have."

Splitting the Sky

Ooooohhhh! Always nice to post about a new novel! Splitting the Sky went live this morning, and is available for free on Smashwords. Coming soon to other online retailers, yay!

So here's the story: One corrupt leader, six missing astronauts, and an uncharted dimension collide with a damning secret as bereaved families mourn their beloveds. But what if those rocketeers aren't dead?

Science fiction meets psychological drama while love triangles bump into political intrigue! Set on Clatham, a planet a whole lot like Earth, those astronauts are entangled not only in their rocky interpersonal relationships, but find themselves inexplicably linked within the pilot's mind after a cataclysmic explosion sends their crew cabin into...The Split! D'Rozen, the pilot, harnesses all within his head, determined not to lose any of them, especially Tarryn, whose husband Lee back on Clatham knows his wife is still alive.

That's the synopsis. But let's step back a little to explain why this book, originally written in August of 2012, is being released TODAY. Or maybe I don't need to delve into that too deeply, what with a duplicitous head of government as a main character in this tale's drama, ahem. Yes I chose to publish this novel on Inauguration Day to make my own subtle statement. I also decided to release it now because I badly required a distraction that has indeed kept this author plenty busy for the last several weeks. I'm exceedingly grateful to my husband for his phenomenal support, as well as my dear friend Catherine Lucas, who graciously provided the amazing cover photo. Past Me gets huge kudos for writing this book, which balances my slight irritation with her for subsequently chucking the notes for it, and several other early stories, but who knew back in 2012 what 2025 would require.

Fortitude, patience, intense inner strength, calm, tenacity.... Did I mention mettle? I think I did. Because yes, a whole lotta something is on the horizon, but better to focus on creativity, on peace, on love. Love swirls through this story, love and sacrifice. The sacrifice for one's crew and kin bests all the nasty machinations. Gotta remember that.

I'm immensely pleased, and yeah, a bit proud, to talk up this tale. A standalone, Splitting the Sky taps into my fondness for love stories, science fiction, familial relationships, and (Spoiler!) happy endings. Or relatively happily ever afters. If any of this strikes your fancy, download your copy FOR FREE (as always) on Smashwords. I'm hopeful it will be available in wide online distribution by the end of the week. And here's the first chapter, hehehe.

Chapter1

 

 

 

TheTeháche Mountains loomed all about Estén like another arm or leg. Breathing incrisp morning air, he also noted coffee alongside an odd freshness. He smiled,glancing to the campfire. He didn’t smell burning wood, a scent as ingrained asthese peaks. Yet the coffee was sharp, as precious as the cool breeze tingedwith glints of sunshine. He turned back to the tent, hearing gentle snores.D’Rozen remained asleep, his drones turning to rumbles.

Walkingto the edge of their campsite, Estén gazed into the canyon. Always this spotfelt theirs, as though no one else had ever tramped this flat, gray slope. Hesmiled, then went for the coffee, a strong brew he preferred. His brother wouldbitch, but if D’Rozen wanted it weaker, he could get up before dawn and makeit. Steam rose from the cup and Estén inhaled it, a ritual from his youth.Drinking coffee was as necessary as breathing or standing on a wide precipicethat led to…. Estén returned to his perch; from the smooth landing he observedthe sky, some clouds, but mostly a wide blue horizon, framed in spots by tipsof rocky crags. It took the better part of a day to reach this site, but the brothershad been making the pilgrimage since they were ten and twelve. D’Rozen had twoyears and a few months on Estén, yet memories had stuck from around the sameage, like their lives were on one timeline. Recollections were tinted; no onesaw everything equally, but they had rarely been separated, experiencing allthe same things. Except for this time of the day, which D’Rozen always missed.Estén smiled, tiny sips of coffee attempted. It was still too hot, so insteadhe sniffed the comforting warmth, caffeine right along the cup’s edge. Esténblew at the steam, swirling into the air, hoping none of the essence was driftingaway.

D’Rozenwould have laughed at him, fully aware of his brother’s worries. They mightpossess nearly all the same memories, yet this place brooked no dissent,offering a balm, also one last moment for natural solitude. Estén tried anothersip, the flavor right along his tongue. He kicked a small rock, heard no soundas it flew along the breeze, traveling to the bottom of the canyon. How long ofa descent was it, how many minutes would pass before that pebble reached itsdestination? Not a final resting spot; someone would find it eventually, sendingit soaring. How many stones had Estén hurled into space, into other rocks, intoD’Rozen’s shins? A younger brother laughed richly, clashing with heavy dronesleaking from the tent. Estén smiled, then took a proper drink. Now the day hadbegun.

 

Theytrekked around Muala Hill; every time it seemed to shrink, what Estén thoughtas D’Rozen led the way, muttering it was too damned early, even if they hadeaten lunch right before they left. Now it was nearly two p.m.; they would headback to the site soon, not like how they used to hike for hours. This was ateaser of a vacation, or barely that. It was what both required before being sequestered.Some sense of their youth, of a vast space that possessed firm boundaries.Mostly firm, Estén noted, having slipped on a few rocky places. D’Rozen hadlaughed, then grown quiet.

Theirtransport would be waiting in two days, one of which would be spent getting downthe mountain. That took more time than what they would spend hiking orsleeping, but this elevation required a sacrifice. Estén inhaled with that,then stopped walking. “Hey, slow down.”

D’Rozenpaused, hands at his sides. “What?”

“Shit,just stop a second.” Estén glanced around for effect. “I can’t get a good lookwith your pace.”

D’Rozennodded, then drank some water. Estén didn’t need to admire the scenery; it wasas permanent as any other important moment of their lives. They might notconsider the landscape with equal depth, but brown eyes took in scrubby hillsringing a green meadow, small yellow buttercups swaying in the afternoonbreeze. Estén was hungry; lunch had been small and hurried, for he’d wanted toget walking. Time here was limited, but before each launch, this was required,like coffee, sleep, a good piss upon waking. He felt the urge, then walked fromthe trail toward the wood.

“What,can’t take a leak out in the open?” D’Rozen teased.

“Fuckyou.”

D’Rozen’slaughter followed Estén to the edge of the hill, where a small stream ran, afew animals scampering into the wood. He wouldn’t piss on the trail or themeadow; that seemed immoral; had their father taught him that? Some memorieswere lost, or maybe blocked. Estén pondered it while unzipping his fly, thenforgot it as a deer’s bright eyes peered from the thicket.

Theonly sound was urine hitting the ground, not even the brook intruded. Esténcouldn’t even hear his breath; he hadn’t seen a deer since he was maybe fifteenyears old. Perhaps longer, he thought, still observing that deer, which staredright at him. Did it know why they were there, was it intrigued by bodilyfunctions? Or was it deeper, as Estén always assumed, but never said aloud.D’Rozen thought all of that was shit, but Estén could sense that creature’sintellect.

“Areyou done yet?” D’Rozen yelled from the trail.

Hoovesand tail flashed as the deer bolted into the thicket. The brook sang its songas Estén zipped his jeans, then he turned around, D’Rozen tapping his foot,hands on hips. Estén smiled, glancing to where that deer had stood. Then herejoined his brother.

 

Theyate dinner as the sun set, then sat in front of the fire, not speaking. Theystared at the jagged horizon, light bounding from behind it, but growing dim.As dusk settled, D’Rozen stood, then rubbed his arms. “You get enough of it?”

Esténnodded. “All ready to go back?”

“Sure,I mean….” D’Rozen walked to the perch, gazing at the falling night, cool airforcing his arms around him. Then he turned to Estén. “Gonna be a long trip.”

“Longerin isolation than we’ll be up there.”

“Shit,when’s it not?” D’Rozen laughed. “Like coming here for two nights, but it takestwo days to reach it. Still, it’s worth it, even if it’s a bitch going up anddown.”

Esténnodded. He hadn’t thought about the trip, that wasn’t why he was there. He wasthere to leave that behind, which had been accomplished. Even before he saw thedeer, but those seconds, perhaps a minute, would hold him until they returned,maybe in a year’s time. It might be less, but probably not. Three monthssequestered in pre-flight training, two in space, another six weeks of downtime; missions required long stretches of his life, but other than D’Rozen, whowas there to satisfy? Besides, D’Rozen had done this to him last year. Fair wasfair, even if it wasn’t.

“Youready for bed?” D’Rozen asked.

“Yeah.Tomorrow’ll be here soon enough.”

“Soonerfor you than me.”

Esténsmiled, standing from his seat. “No shit. Gonna have to rise your ass if we’reto get to base in time.”

“Nottoo early,” D’Rozen said, gazing at stars.

Esténstared toward the sky. Night seemed to have fallen like a blanket, but thedarkness was littered with white specks, how they appeared from here. Inmonths, the stars would be close enough to snatch from inside the ship. Yethere they always looked more real. He didn’t mention that, D’Rozen wouldn’thave cared for any theoretical bullshit. Estén smiled, then patted hisbrother’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming up.”

“Sure.Don’t have anything better to do.”

Esténnodded. “I’m going to bed. You close it up?”

“Yeah.And tomorrow don’t make the coffee so damned strong.”

“Getup and make it yourself.”

“Fucker.”

Esténchuckled as he headed to the tent, his brother softly grumbling.

 

D’Rozenwoke to Estén’s deep snores. It remained dark outside, but he needed to pee sobadly, not even night could preclude it. He slipped on shoes, got out of bed,then stepped from the tent, shivering. Night was cool, yet a sliver of morningteased over the far horizon behind the tent. D’Rozen pissed back there, hearingthe splash against the ground while Estén’s rumbles hovered.

Kickingdirt over the dampness, D’Rozen gazed at the morning. Who knew the exact time,yet it was a new day, their last together for a year, perhaps more. D’Rozen hadthe next liftoff, but he hadn’t told Estén that. They would see each other inpassing when Estén returned, D’Rozen in training. Then another eight or ninemonths until they could return here. When they did, it would be for a good longstay, nine or ten days, maybe two weeks. The longest they had camped here was amonth, when they were twenty-one, or when D’Rozen was twenty-one. Their ageswere so close, D’Rozen never thought of his brother as younger. Yet Estén wasalways the little sibling, even though he was taller by a good three inches.They looked alike, dark brown hair, rugged faces sporting more years than theyowned. No one ever guessed their ages, thirty-three and thirty-one, whichhelped at work. Most astronauts were in their late thirties or early forties.Two brothers almost twins bucked that trend.

D’Rozenheaded to the tent, but Estén was snoring so loudly, there was no way D’Rozenwould go back to sleep. “Bastard,” he mumbled, then smiled. The coffee would bemore to his taste on their last day. He wouldn’t start it until right beforethe sun rose, until Estén was nearly ready to wake. D’Rozen grinned, then saton a large, flat rock, watching the other side of the sky still lying inslumber.

 

Brotherswere experienced climbers, but D’Rozen insisted on leading them down the cliff.Estén had complained that the coffee was barely more than water, but D’Rozenfelt it coursing through him, or maybe it was the rush of the descent, alwayshis favorite part. Being at the campsite grew old after a few days, although hewouldn’t have minded another week. In departing, he knew an odd sadness, wasn’tsure from where it originated. He said nothing to Estén, who would have talkedit to death. D’Rozen only asked if his brother was all right. Estén said he wasfine.

Unlesssomething was wrong, they wouldn’t speak again until pausing for a break.Footsteps noted their presence, drifting into the warming air, leaving thecooler altitude. Maybe that was what D’Rozen craved, being so far aboveeveryone else. It was why he loved going into space, looking down on theirplanet. It was spatial, also arrogant, which wasn’t an isolated trait. Manyastronauts thought highly of themselves, but a certain amount of conceit wasnecessary to endure the training, not to mention the education preceding it.D’Rozen was typical of his compatriots in the program, a little vain, but hewasn’t an asshole. Neither was Estén, probably one of the most humble withinthe organization. If they didn’t look so much alike, many wouldn’t realize theywere related.

Itwasn’t selfish pride, only awareness of how privileged they were, how hard theyworked. It took guts to put one’s life on the line; every flight was anotheropportunity for failure. It was never rote, not like these mountain treks,which both brothers felt could occur in their sleep. They had been coming heresince just out of childhood, but entering the upper atmosphere was fraught withanxieties. At least they had no one to worry about them, not girlfriends orspouses, or parents. A sudden chill crept over D’Rozen and he halted theirprogression. “You all right?”

“Yeah,are you?”

D’Rozensmiled. “Of course. We’re halfway down.”

“Noshit. Keep going.”

Theyshared chuckles, then continued the descent. Now the air felt hot, or perhapsit was the energy expended. D’Rozen took several steps, reaching a smalllanding. Base could be seen, if he squinted. Not that he needed glasses; bothbrothers had perfect vision. Another hour and they would be there.

Esténreached the flat, then stepped to the edge, taking a piss. D’Rozen smiled.“Don’t hit anyone.”

“We’rethe only ones here.”

D’Rozennodded. It was nearing the end of the camping season, why the mornings had beenso cold, night falling quickly. During summer, a transport arrived severaltimes a day to ferry campers, but they had to arrange it for this trip. D’Rozendidn’t worry about missing the transport. For what he had paid, that van wouldwait all night if necessary.

Asthey checked their packs, Estén cleared his throat. “What?” D’Rozen asked.

“I’llnever forget that deer. Been years since I’ve seen one up there.”

“It’llgive you something to brood over when you’re bored stiff in two weeks.”

“Yeah,”Estén laughed. “I’ll be floating in zero gravity, wondering about that fuckingdeer.”

D’Rozenstared at him, then smiled. “Yeah, you probably will.”

“Weused to see them all the time,” Estén sighed. “I wonder what happened to themall.”

“Noidea. Let’s get going.”

Esténnodded as D’Rozen resumed their descent.

 

Twentyminutes later D’Rozen was considering that deer, which he had barely noted. Theway Estén pondered things like that somehow wound their way into D’Rozen’shead; he would probably be thinking about that damned deer for the next sixmonths! D’Rozen grunted, then looked down. Base was easily in sight, but notransport vehicle yet. That was all right; they could eat what food remained,take another piss, walk out this trek. By then the van would be waiting.

“Hey,you still thinking about that deer?” D’Rozen called.

“Nope.”

“Uh-huh.”D’Rozen didn’t believe him. “Well, I am now, damn you.”

Esténlaughed.

“That’sright, fucker. Got that stupid animal stuck in my head.”

“Servesyou right.”

D’Rozensmiled, then gestured toward the van, arriving at the base. “There it is.”

“Isee it.”

Itlooked how Clatham did, small but comforting. Every time D’Rozen ended amission, his planet appeared like a beacon, round and odd but home. He had onlyflown three times, but it stuck like these descents, somewhere never removed.It was probably Estén’s fault too; this would be his third flight. Maybe theirshared memories overlapped to the point where even space flight felt communal.D’Rozen laughed, would never tell his brother. Estén would tease him for ages.

Ashe chuckled, he missed small rocks rolling from under Estén’s boots. D’Rozennoticed a tug on the line, then heard a sharp scream. Then he gripped the cord,but it didn’t keep Estén on his feet. He stumbled past D’Rozen, slamming intothe side of the mountain, a dull thud following. “Estén!” D’Rozen shouted.“ESTÉN!”

 

Thetransport van struck bumps and potholes as D’Rozen gripped his brother’s limphand. If not for the driver and his companion, D’Rozen wasn’t sure if Esténwould even be alive. It took all three of them to rescue Estén from the smallcrevice, then gently haul him to the base. Estén was unconscious, which D’Rozenthought was good. The jagged angle of his broken leg nearly made D’Rozen illand the driver had gagged before getting into the van. His partner wascertified in first aid, but couldn’t do more than cover Estén with blankets,hopefully keeping him from going into shock. D’Rozen thought it was enough; hisbrother was only thinking about the deer.

D’Rozenwasn’t sure how he knew that, yet that damned animal was spinning throughEstén’s mind. Not the fall or the pain, just a deer with wide peering eyes.D’Rozen shut his, but that creature teased, better than recalling the deadthump when Estén hit the cliff.

Reachingthe main road, an ambulance waited. D’Rozen thanked the transport driver andhis partner while paramedics eased Estén onto a gurney, then into the emergencyvehicle. Carrying his pack and Estén’s, D’Rozen joined them, sitting near hisbrother’s feet. The ambulance’s siren was loud, but didn’t dislodge that deer,or again D’Rozen was compensating, easier to consider that than the bustle aroundhim. Yet he didn’t miss the initial diagnoses; a badly broken leg, headinjuries, shock. An IV was inserted into Estén’s hand, fluids administered.Hopefully painkillers as well as whatever else they thought was necessary;D’Rozen was an astronaut, but medical care went over his head.

Reachingthe hospital, D’Rozen wondered what would happen first; probably surgery forthat wrecked leg. A CAT scan too, discovering any hidden injuries. After exitingthe ambulance, D’Rozen spoke to a nurse, giving information. Glancing aroundthe lobby, he saw no one familiar, but didn’t expect that to last. Murmurswafted; an astronaut has been wounded. D’Rozen assumed some governmentmiddleman would arrive before the night ended.

Theevening was warm, emergency room doors opening and closing regularly. D’Rozenstood alone as the nurse returned to the reception area. Then he was approachedby a doctor. “Are you family?”

“Hisbrother. Is he all right?”

“Hisleg’s a mess,” the physician sighed. “He’s in mild shock. Initial scans show nointernal injuries, but he’s got a concussion. He’ll live, but will be here awhile.”

D’Rozennodded. “Good, I mean….”

“He’sgoing into surgery now, I just wanted you to know the preliminaries.”

“Thanks.I appreciate it.”

Thedoctor cleared his throat. “Are you from around here?”

“No,we live about three hours away. We were camping at Teháche. Been doing it sincewe were kids.” D’Rozen’s throat grew tight. He blinked, that deer all he couldsee.

“Well,why don’t you follow me, you can wait in the surgical lobby. There’s a placefor you to shower and sleep if you want.”

“Yeah,that’d be great, thanks.” D’Rozen hoisted the packs, then took slow stepsbehind the doctor.

 

Heslept on the sofa until a nurse tapped his shoulder. “What, how is he?”

“He’sin recovery, everything went well.” The nurse motioned to another man, seatedacross the small room. “You have company.”

D’Rozenrubbed his eyes, then gazed at the figure, arms crossed over his chest. Thenurse walked away, leaving the men alone. D’Rozen sat up, stretching his shoulders.“How long you been here?”

“Acouple hours. Sounds like he’ll be all right.”

D’Rozennodded, perhaps Holtz knew more. “He just slipped, I have no fucking idea howit happened. Suddenly he was falling past me and….”

“Allthat matters is he’ll recover. That’s the best news.”

D’Rozenwondered if Holtz was spouting a line. “Yeah, that’s all that matters.”

Holtzstood, as tall as Estén, older than the brothers. He paced around the room,then stared at D’Rozen. “I know you have plenty on your mind, but you also knowwhy I’m here.”

“Theydidn’t need to send you to tell us he’s off the next launch.”

“Weneed to fill that space. They want you to do it.”

“Me?”D’Rozen struggled to his feet. He was starving, also exhausted. And shaky, buthe approached Holtz with firm steps. “Right now all I care about is Estén. He’smy priority.”

Holtzglanced at the floor. “You guys aren’t impervious you know. Santos was in a caraccident yesterday and Gibson’s condition won’t allow any travel for at leastanother year. I realize the timing’s shitty, but….”

“Mybrother could’ve died today Holtz. I am not gonna….”

“Youdon’t have a choice, all right? Either you accept his place or….”

“What?You’ll terminate me? Shit!” D’Rozen felt nauseous, wanted to stand under a veryhot shower. He closed his eyes, then opened them, that deer all he couldponder.

“D’Rozen,we need you. Your country needs you. This mission isn’t just another trek intospace.”

D’Rozenstared at him. “Yeah?”

Holtznodded. “Estén knew, I guess he kept quiet like he was directed.” Holtz gazedaround the room. “I can’t detail it here, but Estén’s gonna be fine and thiscan’t wait.”

D’Rozen’slast mission was a classified assignment; was this a similar case? “Is this todo with….”

Holtzblinked, then glanced at the door. “D’Rozen, we need you.”

“Esténdoes too.”

“Weneed you more.”

D’Rozen shook, then found himself nodding, the pit of his stomach ablack, aching hole.