Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 13

Minutes (many of them) of introspection

Pondering why I write, sew, or do anything really.

Lol. That could easily be the blurb for this blog! Or life, if life manages to free up a few moments for said introspection. I had some last night after the latest trio of hexagon blocks were attached to Alexandria; I stared at one from the previous round, made with yellow fabric from a fat eighth surrounding some beautiful Kaffe Fassett jewels, with a navy hexie nestled inside them. To the right are upside down Anna Maria hearts in blue, also a big LOVE! I studied this block for a good ten minutes as yawns rang the bell for bedtime. Posted a snippet on Bluesky about it, then promptly went to bed!

Whether writing or releasing a novel or working on a MAMMOTH English paper-piecing project (EPPP), taking a few minutes to question/admire said project seems to happen less frequently than previously. Not sure if it's because lately I've been up to my armpits in STUFF GOING ON, or if aging seems to allow less time to ponder, which might sound strange, but maybe because I'm getting older, with so much I wish to accomplish, I charge straight ahead, not wanting time to slip past. After returning from Thanksgiving, I dived into my tasks, but one has fallen from priority, that of decorating for Christmas. Which I'm not wholly comfortable with in the how important this season is to me, which is then alleviated by if it's such a valuable season, do trinkets adorning surface space negate from its inner message? Okay, so that provides some relief, as do the various table linens I put out before we left, lol, as well as lights on the front fence that have been up since early November, initially for my husband's birthday party, but also meant to last through the first half of January to brighten the winter solstice. I think I'm *FINE* with not putting out Christmas stuff, as doing that has been ticked off my To Do list with very little hesitation. I have my Martin Luther Christmas book on the coffee table, but no Advent candles because since the earthquake two years ago I have given up candles. And anyway, the real meaning of Christmas has little to do with how many items land on surfaces or dangle from appropriate spots. But it does make me wonder if I'm truly getting older and not wanting to deal with that stuff (this year).

Okay, maybe this is more about aging than considering why I invest time in my beloved hobbies. That's *FINE* too, because, ahem, pondering getting older is probably something I need to consider, haha. Or at least acknowledge. And by acknowledge I mean more than noting my joints ache or it takes longer to get around to things, or wondering when I'll write the next installment of The Enran Chronicles, eyes rolling hard. I've had a small triumph handed to me on a shiny silver platter recently, in the form of a novel I wrote a dozen years ago (then promptly filed away) brought to my attention, and yes, I am considering a release for it next month. It's a standalone (thank you Jesus!) about a duplicitous politician, astronauts, and lots of ensuing drama, HAH! To my GREAT SURPRISE, despite being written even before I started The Hawk, it's in very good shape. I literately wrote it, then saved it, then pretty much forgot it in the publishing grand scheme, but then The Hawk took over as did familial hoo haa, so.... And as I recently noted here, I think it was on this blog (LOL, yes I am getting older!), some books aren't for when they were written. Some are for NOW. Like quilts, Alexandria begun two years ago. Sometimes we start things, forgetting about them or merely setting them aside, then it's time to retrieve those pieces of the past. 

Sometimes life is like that.

Anyway.... Introspection, yeah. This is the kind of post I get when I turn introspective. Heaped with many kitchen sinks, because shinies beckon to my soul and I become powerless (occasionally) by their sparkly beauty. But now it's time to do some stretches for my back, hip, and knee. Yup, more signs of aging. Also grains of wisdom, scattered amid the exercises. Lots of exercises, leading up to one heck of a marvelous day.

UPDATE: A 7.0 earthquake occurred about ninety minutes ago, my phone notified me right before I could feel it. Fortunately no damage here, whew! But I am up to my TEETH in December quakes....

Give Her My Love: The Hawk Book One

 

HURRAY! Finally I can trumpet Give Her My Love: The Hawk Book One in all its entitled glory. The official blurb goes like this: In the early 1960s, painter Eric Snyder harbors a secret known only to his wife Lynne. When Eric's latest disappearance raises the suspicions of best friends Sam and Renee Ahern, Lynne can no longer keep the truth under wraps. While the Aherns ponder this phenomenon, Eric embarks upon a search for his father, once again taking him far from the woman he loves.

Of course, there's so much more; a saga befitting those who appreciate women's fiction, historical fiction, and magical realism, The Hawk expounds upon soldiers battling PTSD, couples grappling with infertility, women struggling to find their roles in a decade churning with upheaval. Love stories aplenty as well as solid friendships borne of extraordinary events both on the corporeal and ethereal planes. Set in the Pacific Northwest, this series hearkens across the Atlantic to a woman in Norway, as well as those in Israel while a hawk traverses America in search not only for closure, but to heal a damaged soul, his own and that of another.

Recently I wrote an overview of this series: feel free to access this post for more info. Yet heralding a novel on its initial date of publication is vital, not merely for marketing purposes. I'm closing a chapter as well as opening a trove of prose, because in releasing a new book, I begin to walk away from it, sort of a contrary action. For the next few days I'll be squawking about this tale, so please bear with me, hehehe. Yet other ideas are in the works, about which I'll yak once I get these ya-ya's out.

Give Her My Love (GHML) launches a series I plan to release through the next three years. Ten novels in total, I'll publish the next installment in March, Brave the Skies, an excerpt of which is at the conclusion of  GHML. I hope you'll join me on this trek, or pass along this tale to those who appreciate a lengthy yet intricate collection of threads, loose then knotted, but finally brought exactly where they are meant to be. Now back to making sure all the places I need to note this novel are indeed informed. Happy reading!

Temperature and timelessness (First Sunday in Advent)

Many notions rumble through my mind. Like how 17 degrees Fahrenheit (-8 C) is pretty damned cold! That was the temperature we felt as we entered the cloud bank, pictured above. Not that it had been warm right before we drove into what was freezing fog, but WOW! Nature and weather are pretty amazing elements, let me say.

Thankfully freezing fog was the forecaster's term; there was no fog, only clouds as we headed from Nevada into California on Interstate 395. That icy spate lasted until we turned off Highway 36 for Highway 44, when bright sunshine lifted temps a few degrees, yet the sun's warmth was like stepping into a different realm, for the scenes we encountered on 395 were like an alternate reality. They made me think about a similar scene I wrote in The Hawk, when Lynne and Sam observe an icy vista right before Christmas. Yet I conjured that from my imagination. Driving through it, mile after mile, was wholly something else.

December, and Advent, are similar, in how many on this planet dive into an altered manner of living; decorating and gift-buying and for children waiting with baited breath for Christmas Day. Or wondering why other families seem to have all the trappings that advertisers blare are a must for personal happiness and overall life satisfaction. Yet for me, as a Christian, those details pale when I ponder the personal message of this month, of Advent, of a baby in a manger. I felt that somewhat as I peered at icy shrubs, frosty trees, white permeating the landscape. Thankfully the road was dry, but the horizon was bleak, also beautiful, like tree limbs would snap off like icicles. I have never seen such frozen tundra, with no snow yet frost even clung to power lines. The temperature fluctuated between 19 and 22 degrees F, finally rising to 26 when we reached Highway 44, where trees still possessed frost, but the blue sky allowed warmth to emerge.

Doyle, California.

Bethlehem wasn't that frosty over two thousand years ago when a carpenter left his village, his heavily pregnant wife at his side, probably riding a mule, or I'd like to think Mary wasn't on her feet all those miles. What Advent means to me is contemplation, miracles, love. Waiting not for Santa or presents under a tree but a more timeless, formless occurrence that is commemorated every year by those with and without faith in the millions. Millions, maybe billions, of us anticipate December for this or that reason in the chill and the heat, the sun and the rain, and the bone-chilling cold I experienced yesterday morning. We had planned to stop in Susanville for a snack, but it was too dang cold to get out of the car! Instead we drove through that town, not pausing until we reached Redding, where we had Chinese food for lunch, and where the temperature was a pleasant 61 F. A lit Christmas tree decorated the restaurant's entrance, flashing bulbs indicating it is indeed the season to be.... I breathe deeply, smile, then am grateful to be home where it's not as chilly as Reno, where all my trappings exist, where my family is not, but family is a vague term at this time of year. For what happens later this month, my family is as vast as the ends of the planet, as wide as I wish to make it. Time matters at times, while at others it's as meaningless as the forecast that Susanville was supposed to be sunny. Instead an icy beauty ruled, unexpected but necessary. I don't know why, I just take it on faith that's what was meant to be.

Thankfully perspective

 

Lassen National Forest, California; our trek eastward took us along this route, trees not surviving a firestorm now markers of what used to be.

I enjoyed a brief chat with a fellow author this morning via Bluesky, just my reply to his post from over a week ago, then his appreciation for my musings. Which is always lovely, interacting with other writers. I responded with this not quite three hundred character missive:

It's merely in my acceptance that a theme/message written now or ten years ago isn't tied to this/that point in time. And being brave enough to follow the muse/spirit, not letting expectations (mine or anyone else's) deem what is valuable in the creative process. Aging/maturity helps. (With a smiley face inserted right afterwards.)

Sometimes off the cuff remarks can be incredibly....Valid. Brilliant. Insightful, ahem, speaking for myself, lol. I took a screenshot of that reply because I wanted to remember it without having to go back to look it up later. And not only remember it, but study it, absorb it, then definitely pass it along. Because society is SO USED TO wanting the instant gratification, the quick fix, the here and now injected into our bloodstreams and constantly pumped through our heads as if waiting more than five seconds for anything is torturous.

So for a little context: The author wanted to know fellow writers' biggest challenges and greatest triumphs. I proffered that last year I'd written four books, and this year it was all about publishing novels, and maybe next year I'll write something new; that was the challenge. Triumph was accepting books from the past can be novels of the future, perspective and patience being the keys. I'm considering The Hawk, over a dozen years old but soon to be packaged like new. But there's more to it, in the willingness to at times let novels (or other creative outlets) simmer slowly, be that in walking away from the endeavor and letting it breath like a fine wine, or not rushing the editing process, allowing revisions to hone a rough manuscript into the proverbial diamond.

Or a mix of those, which is indeed The Hawk. Or a quilt like Alexandria. Or some part of life that needs space to grow or rest or enact the smallest change(s) that somehow transforms it into whatever makes you, the creator, ecstatic! Or pleased that you have brought this project to whatever close is right for you.

I will freely admit to publishing my earliest novels far too soon for my grasp of the craft. However.... If I had not released them when I did, I would not be here in Nevada celebrating Thanksgiving with my son. If that sounds a little farfetched, well, who knows what might be my life if I hadn't zagged when I probably should have zigged. In adding that to the equation, I don't mean to denote everything previously said. Only to assert what is IS what is. I can't change the past, but I can learn from it. Or have marvelous lessons dropped onto my lap as if from creative heaven. If nothing else, Present Me used to be Future Me, and thankfully Future Me back then was smarter than Past Me WAY back then. Which leads back to Me of the Here and Now on Thanksgiving Day 2024, feeling pretty dang good about my authorial life choices, even if some were kinda dubious. Suffice to say, it seems to all be working out well enough.

I won't ponder what current Future Me thinks of all this; she's got her back to me, tapping her foot in a random pattern. Past Me is basting hexies, not going to bother her either. I'll simply conclude this post giving MANY thanks to Present Me for having the awareness and grace to embrace all that has been and all that will be because that's what I'm called to do. Be in this very moment, grateful as all get-out, for every little thing.

Round and round it goes

I'm quite pleased with this to be wholly honest.

So, about the quilting! A few days ago I completed a round of Alexandria, Jodi Godfrey's medallion pattern. Much to go before I sleep with this one, hehehe, but now I am FIRMLY into this project, which is good because of how much remains, ahem, and that I wasn't sure I'd finish it.

(Kind of like writing a story, then realizing it was going to be VERY LONG, so instead of writing it quietly, it gets released bits at a time even though the author is nowhere near the end. LOL.)

When I gave up on Alexandria, it looked like this.

Pretty, but so incomplete. Why did I abandon it? A pinched nerve made hand-stitching impossible in February of 2023, and once I could hand-sew again, for whatever reason, I dove into Cornflower quilt blocks.

Alexandria laid on a guest bed, or my work table if the bed was needed. I sort of ignored it, busy with writing and sewing other shinies.

Well, I kind of ignored it. I kept stitching the next round of hexagon blocks, then decided blue and green were too much of the same value, and to honor Ukraine, I swapped yellow for green. I kept the green, however, for the next round, which after Thanksgiving is what I'll start to stitch.

Working on this quilt 1) Requires concentration to make sure the blocks go right where they are supposed to. 2) Takes patience in that every two inches, I rearrange the ever-growing quilt top as another side is attached. 3) Is a godsend for keeping me focused not on the melee of American.... Politics isn't what I like to ponder, but it's somewhat impossible to ignore, especially since I, well....

Made another social media account. On a whim. To make up numbers. To give Elon the finger. To, to, to.... Share my output, both sewing and writing, and some photography, with other like-minded creative souls seeking.... What are those who voted for Kamala Harris trying to recover? There's way too much I could ramble about concerning that, and the previous post is enough if you're hungry for my blah blah blah. Suffice to say, I have a Bluesky Social account and if you desire, please look me up.

So, yeah. Social media isn't conducive to not thinking about what's happening in my nation right now, but whatever. Sewing Alexandria is. Immersing myself in The Hawk is. Getting ready to head east for Thanksgiving is, lol. We'll be in Nevada, visiting our son and his partner and her family, and I'm excited, as well as grateful the bad weather was last week. I'll pack a little EPP, some Ice Cream Soda blocks probably. I'd love to take some of those prepped for future Alexandria rounds, but I want any stitching I do over the next few days to be independent of that behemoth. Not sure why, unless I'm attaching too much national hoo haa to that quilt. Hmmm, hadn't considered that. I don't feel I have done that to The Hawk, maybe because it's succinctly set in the 1960s. We made it out of that decade, so I have to HOPE we make it out of this one.

Because as Dana Noth says, "Sometimes hope is all we have." True words, as Lucy Sorenson would agree.

Explaining The Hawk (Part two)

 

Evening clouds from last night.

Sometimes things we accomplished in the past weren't for when we did, said, or wrote them. Sometimes those achievements are for NOW. Past Me gets the kudos today, not only for writing The Hawk, but for being patient. Because in a rare moment of living in three dimensions, I'm currently Past, Future, and Present Me, acknowledging why re-releasing The Hawk is vital RIGHT NOW.

(And as these odd snippets of clarity often go, I had no inkling of this two days ago when I wrote the previous post, lol.)

Years ago, maybe even before I wrote The Hawk, I followed a blog written by a young-ish mum named Sarah. She had a daughter named Eliot Rose, who one day told her mum that peace was just a lot of hopes put together. I found that wisdom so striking, and asked Sarah if I could thank Eliot in one of my novel's Liner Notes, and Sarah obliged. I put that here to preface the rest of my explanation, because currently in America and other places on this planet, hope for the future is all we have.

When I wrote The Hawk, it meant telling a long story about faith, injustice, bigotry, and ultimately healing. Set in the early 1960s, I covered topics relevant to that era; racism, The Cold War, The Korean War, and certainly aftereffects of World War II. President Kennedy's assassination and the murder of Malcolm X were included, as well as March on Selma. The cast of characters was stymied by the Cuban Missile Crisis, how just two decades after a planet-wide conflict a couple of world leaders could again throw all of Earth to the winds. At the time I wrote this saga, an administration with little regard to human rights was entering the White House, and perhaps my story was partly influenced by that uncaring group of Republicans.

When I chose to re-release The Hawk in ten installments, the idea that again America would be governed by such disreputable figures was unthinkable. I read through the entire series starting in mid-January of this year, completing it in September. At that point, I still hoped for a Democratic victory. I lobbied in my small sphere for Kamala Harris, wishing those with larger platforms were more vigorous in their campaigns, yet I was dismayed that celebrity endorsements seemed like nothing more than lip service. Now the United States is facing four years of.... The words I want to use are scathing and obscene, but I will refrain. Instead I will let the story of a man who turns into a hawk, his long-suffering wife, their friends and all who they meet remind any who chose to read this tale that biases are WRONG. Duplicity is EVIL. The insatiable quest for power at the expense of freedom is NOT the American way.

Those are big phrases and I'm just one person. But as Eliot Rose said, peace is just a lot of hopes put together. This planet requires peace in GARGANTUAN doses, but action matters too, and in addition to releasing these books over the next three years, I will do all I can to foster in my community and within my country the sense that policies the incoming administration wishes to employ are WHOLLY UNACCEPTABLE in an allegedly democratic nation. Because to remain silent or dismissive of such nefarious schemes is as wrong as those wishing to perpetrate them.

I'm hoping to release The Hawk Book One: Give Her My Love, in early December. In the meantime, here's an excerpt. Stay strong, stay involved! And enjoy a little of what I've been doing over the last dozen years, hehehe. 

 

 

 

She walked him to the back where easels stood.Stanford tried to gaze at the walls, the ceiling, even the floor, but his eyeswere drawn to those canvases, all of which featured the woman still grippinghis hand. Yet these pictures weren’t like any Stanford had previously seen, inpart due to the subject. And because for the first time, Stanford couldn’tpenetrate the model’s soul.

Previously Eric’s themes, be they hawks, mice,sunsets or barns, were transparent. But Lynne Snyder was an enigma, just likeher husband, and Stanford was stunned at how this seemingly affable coupleconcealed such inner turmoil. Nothing about Lynne was obvious, other than herhobbies, and how much she was adored, which to Stanford was for the best.Eric’s background would be rich fodder for the newspapers once it became publicknowledge. And eventually it would unless Eric never returned and his work fadedinto obscurity. That would be the only way for Eric and Lynne to maintain theirprivacy.

Then Stanford trembled; was that why he hadleft her? The dealer stared at Lynne, then swallowed hard. “I know about hisfather, is that where he is?”

She nodded, then motioned to the canvases. “Hetold me he didn’t want these displayed, mostly because he wasn’t sure I’d wantthem shown. But I’ll leave that up to you. If you’d like Lawrence to see them,that would be fine. Of course, I don’t know when Eric will be back, so Isuppose you’re still looking at an exhibit next spring, but….”

“Lynne, why?” Then Stanford sighed. He knewwhy Eric had never spoken of his family; his mother was dead, his father inprison for murder. His father had committed other grievous crimes and Stanfordfelt sick to his stomach. “Do they know, the Aherns, about his dad?”

“Renee does. I’m sure she’s told Sam a littleof it, but….” Lynne’s voice cracked, then she took a deep breath and continued.“He doesn’t know that’s why Eric’s foot’s damaged. Or if he does, he hasn’tbrought it up with me.”

That had been what most turned Stanford’sstomach and again it made him wish to be ill. He glanced around the studio; itlooked like Eric had planned to return, but with cold nights, these canvasesshould be in the house. “Are you going to leave these out here much longer?”

“Actually, I was going to ask you and Lawrenceto help me take them in tonight. I wanted to show you these Stanford, I wantedyou to see what he….” She paused, then composed herself. “Eric is a greatpainter, maybe you’re aware of it, but if not, I want you to know when he comesback he’ll need time to recover. After he does….”

“He can have all the time he needs Lynne, myGod, of course. And yes, Laurie and I’ll help bring these inside.”

Stanford realized the slip as soon as he saidit. Lynne gazed at him, but said nothing. Then she nodded as Renee called theirnames. “Time to eat,” Lynne said softly. “We can get to these after supper. Infact, Sam and Renee can help.”

“They’ve seen them, I take it?” Stanford spokeevenly, but sweat poured from him. How could he have been so careless, using Laurie instead of Lawrence?

“They saw them after he left. And they feltshowing them to you was best.” She hesitated for seconds, then smiled. “IfEric’s angry, he shouldn’t have….”

“Left them for a nosy dealer to find.”Stanford chuckled, hoping she couldn’t hear his pounding heart. “I’ll tell himI badgered you mercilessly.”

“He’ll know we’re both liars, but he won’targue about it. He’ll probably thank you for being a nag. He wants to showthese, it was me he wanted to protect.”

Stanford wondered who was the biggest liar ashe stared into Lynne’s cloudy eyes. “Of course. He loves you very much.”

“And I love him and these are just the tip ofthe iceberg, like the barn. Something’s waiting when he returns Stanford, ifyou’re willing to be patient with him and if….”

“Lynne, Mr. Taylor!” Renee hollered, then shestood at the studio doorway, but didn’t step inside. “It’s, uh, time. Forsupper,” she coughed.

Lynne nodded, then clasped Stanford’s hand.“We’re on our way. Tell Sam that afterwards Stanford and Lawrence will help us getall these into the house. Then we’ll reward ourselves with pie.”

“Oh, um, okay. Are you sure?” Renee stayed inthe doorway.

“Uh-huh. Stanford, you ready to eat?”

He reacted at the sound of his name, but had alsoflinched when Lynne spoke it and Laurie’s together, although she deliberatelysaid Lawrence. “Yes, I’m, um,starving.” Suddenly he was and he gripped Lynne’s hand. Then he eased thepressure, but she squeezed back, smiling at him.

“I’ll tell Sam you’re on your way. And aboutthe, uh, after supper task.” Renee stepped from the doorway, then scurriedalong the path back toward the house.

Lynne led Stanford from the studio, but didn’tlock the door behind them. Hand in hand they walked through the garden, hearingmumbled voices growing louder as they reached the house. Stanford smiled atLaurie as Sam spoke to his wife, then gazed at Lynne. It was then Stanford knewthat while Sam had seen those paintings, he was unaware about Eric’s father.But Renee knew, of that Stanford was certain.

Explaining The Hawk (Part one)

Finally a break from the incessant rain/gray sky/rain/brutal winds/rain. The above shot was taken at 11.05 PST, noting not only the BLUE SKY, but how low the sun has dipped behind the tree line. Yes, it's the twenty-second day of November, one month left till the solstice. (Heads-up, LONG POST.)

I am *HOPING* to release Book One of The Hawk next month. It's in a pretty good place revision-wise, maybe one more read-through to confirm I have eliminated as many typos as possible. Also getting rid of unnecessary that and just too, lol. Basically making myself feel like, "Yup. This novel is DONE. (For now....)" 

For now? Really? After all it's been through? As an indie author, my novels are MY OWN and if one day I feel (STRANGELY) compelled to again read over this series and make changes.... Future Me smirks, for which I'm glad. Because while I LOVE this set of stories, I am currently feeling like it's time to, ahem, move on from them.

Having said that, there are ten books in the saga. So moving on is a relative term, hah! Why so many installments? Have I properly backstoried this tale previously? Probably not, so here's a quick rundown of The Hawk and how I wrote it.

In September 2013, I dreamed about a renaissance-era guy who turned into a hawk. Maybe it was medieval times, I don't recall anymore, but after a few nights of this dream, I KNEW I had a story to write. But not set that far back in time. At the time, I was writing short stories, so I merely figured this would be written in that vein. Lol. LOLOLOLOL. Because very quickly The Hawk turned into something far beyond what I had initially imagined, and within a couple of years, I had a saga on my hands.

Years? Yes, years, and I say that somewhat under my breath as Past Me glances up, shooting me a 'You must be kidding.' stare. I don't know where she is in that tale, but yeah, years. Why years? Because also at that same time 1) My dad was starting chemo for cancer. 2) My daughters were expecting their first offspring. 3) I was traveling between home and my hometown to help with Dad, my youngest daughter, as well as traipsing around the Bay Area to visit Eldest daughter. And learning to quilt, which could be deemed as 4). Quilting picked up the slack for my creative life when writing felt too difficult, but then I would turn around and there another novella-length stretch of The Hawk would somehow have been crafted.

In 2015, a few weeks after my father died of cancer and my first grandchild had arrived, I published the first section of The Hawk. Its release emerged due to wanting to make sure I FINISHED the tale, and looking back, by putting out sections without THE END anywhere in sight was 1) Stressful. And 2) successful. I swore I wouldn't do that again, and I've *mostly* held to that, although The Enran Chronicles has a lot left for me to write, but I've assuaged my conscience by telling myself the novels are written in a standalone manner. Cliffhangers yeah, but if a reader looks past those.... LOL. Anyway, I began releasing The Hawk as I grieved and rejoiced, because a few weeks after Part One came out, grandchild #2 was born, and then I was REALLY BUSY. Babies are amazing, and I dove into the role of grandma with all gears on. I made them quilts, cloth diaper wipes, a few bibs, more quilts, and sometimes I wrote. I wrote about people in the 1960s also having a baby, a man still turning into a hawk, as well as an ever-growing cast of characters all wanting their moments in the sun.

Part of why The Hawk became so vast was those characters, most of whom weren't on the radar when I started the book. But you know how secondary characters can be, strong-willed and chatty and important. Because by 2016 or so, this story wasn't merely about an artist and his wife and their best friends and the painter's art dealer. It was about PTSD from both the Korean War and WWII. It was about faith and finding faith. It was about LGBTQ Americans and racism in The South and European Jewish refugees in Florida. Oh and a Polish emigre in the Pacific Northwest reconnecting with a woman from his past. And several kitchen sinks, just for good measure.

So when all of that is factored in to a tale, thirteen novella-length parts end up being written, then the final section was released less than two weeks before my mum died unexpectedly of cancer in June, 2018. Meanwhile another grandchild had arrived, and one more was due that fall. But I had completed The Hawk right before my family learned why Mum was feeling so crappy. And I'm very grateful to have found THE END when I did, because after Mum died, I fell apart. I deleted my Wordpress blog, couldn't fathom writing another damn thing. I held it together for my kids and grandkids, but beyond that, I was a mess. I made four quilts for Mum's surviving sisters, aunties that offered their love and support, but were mourning as well. It wasn't until 2019 when I started coming out of that morass; therapy helped, as did the grandkids. Yet writing anything felt impossible, although I released Heaven Lies East of the Mississippi, an older novel written in 2013.

Then there was Covid, bleh. While we didn't get sick or lose anyone close to us, time with family went down the toilet. I used those months to edit The Hawk into a three-volume set, but still nothing new emerged. In late 2020, we bought what is now our home in Humboldt County. We didn't plan to immediately leave the Bay Area, where my husband worked, but in spending time far north of Silicon Valley, we pined for some manner in which he could retire early, allowing us to change our residence. Yes, we'd deeply miss our eldest daughter and her family who lived nearby, but life can be short and....

And I had started writing, but not finding much success until spring of 2021, working in the new house. That Which Can Be Remembered (TWCBR) was the series to push me back into being an active author. Then my younger sister's husband died. (My goodness, this post is going to be as massive as The Hawk!) While he was an older chap, his death from a sudden stroke brought to our attention that our existences upon this planet could be most precarious. We made the big decision to move from the Bay Area, my husband retired, and by autumn of 2021, Humboldt County was our new home.

In the summer of 2022 I published The Possibility of What If, the first novel of TWCBR. It had been three years since I had released anything new. By that year's end, Gracious Mysteries and That Which Can Be Remembered were out, and I felt like yeah, I'm still an author. Those books didn't come easily, but after all I had dealt with, I was SO GRATEFUL to be producing good work. Those books were released during my brother-in-law's fight with cancer (my goodness cancer SUCKS!), at which time we all thought he might beat it. He battled so hard, enduring debilitating treatments, yet.... In January of 2023, I was with him, my sister-in-law, and others devoted to that side of the family. Stan died at home, surrounded by beloveds, making me wonder what the hell was again happening.

Okay, it's nearly lunch time here. I didn't mean for this post to become a tome in itself, but I have a lot left to say and suffice to say, I'll return to what happened next soon. Maybe later today, perhaps tomorrow. For now, thanks for getting through this post, and I promise to conclude ASAP.

Bomb cyclone

Lonely mailbox post.

Not in recent memory have I experienced sustained hurricane-level winds until yesterday, as a bomb cyclone sits off North America's West Coast, spinning the atmosphere into an extreme tizzy. We haven't lost power, thank the Lord, although the internet is glitchy, why I'm writing so early in the day.

My goodness those winds! Gusting, howling, knocking a large geranium pot from its stand, blowing down a young tree, making the house rattle and keeping my husband and myself on edge all day. I stayed up long past my usual bedtime, listening to the wind, then the rain, which held off until evening. We're in a small rain shadow in our neck of the North Coast, and I'm eager to learn how much rain is in the gauge once there's enough daylight to see (one inch I found).

I'm hopeful this weather pattern is the kind that doesn't produce as much rain as forecasters predict; how often is that the case? Yes, it's better to edge toward the worst-case scenarios, but we've found that for whatever reason forecasters overemphasize the totals. Allegedly we're supposed to receive upwards of nine inches, NINE INCHES. That's a DANG lotta rain! 

Another stretch of high winds is due for Thursday night into Friday morning. I'll be keeping my computer shut off that evening certainly. Makes me grateful I finished my non-linear edits on The Hawk Book One yesterday, backing up that and Book Three of The Enran Chronicles on all my flash drives. There's regular storm prep like making certain enough bottled water and generators/battery packs are full. Then there's twenty-first century tech to sort. Right now I think we're covered.

When I started this over an hour ago, it was still dark outside. Now we find our mailbox was ripped from its post, but fortunately it was trapped against a wooden panel, not escaping, lol! It's now reaffixed to its post, whew! The internet remains wonky, but if that is currently the biggest issue, I will not complain.

Best I post this now while I can. Stay safe, stay hopeful, stay involved!

Big sewing (And books!), small sewing (And books?)

 

Last night's accomplishment. Blue and yellow blocks are to remember Ukraine's struggles.

To my utter JOY (and no small relief) I am FULL of ENTHUSIASM in my return to Jodi Godfrey's medallion designed Alexandria quilt. W-H-E-W! I've been pining over it for months, but couldn't work on it until after my husband's party because it already takes up space and is only going to grow. Two nights ago I brought down the center, stitched nearly two years ago, then rummaged through the living room tote for hexagon blocks. Then I went to the office looking for another Alexandria tote for basted diamonds. Two totes for one quilt? Oh yes!

Meanwhile, I pondered how these medium-to-large EPP projects mirror my medium-to-large book series, lol. Indeed a few parallels going on in my life right now.

So, about this quilt. Currently I have four of twelve outer hexagon blocks attached, and am planning (hoping, praying) to continue adding two per night, which includes sewing the blocks together and adding perimeter diamonds for the next round. I spent much of yesterday afternoon seated on the sofa, sewing and sewing and.... You get the idea. LOTS of hand-stitching in this quilt, including making more hexagon blocks for the subsequent round of EIGHTEEN. Yes, eighteen blocks will surround this group of twelve. Most are ready, some still need to be basted, then sewn. One thing I enjoy with this project is the variable sizing of it; stitching two-inch hexies to stars is a quick fix, pretty too. Sewing those hexagons onto an ever-expanding array of colourful cloth is plenty for my brain to absorb, which recently is a Godsend. 

Yes, I need all the distractions I can get.

While I have much organized, a good chunk remains elusive. Which is FINE (la-la-la). I don't need everything nailed to the floor, or to my hands, or wherever it wants to be. Like Book Five of The Enran Chronicles, AHEM. (Or Books Six, Seven, Eight....) Yet that loosely considered story, firmly in the grasp of Future Me, still wafts through my brain every time I listen to Jars Of Clay's "Work". I hear Bobby and Luiz jamming like father and son, or cousin and cousin. I consider where Noth might be, or what is Tama doing? I ponder a cast that currently resides in two released books, both written in a standalone fashion, with one hell of a cliffhanger attached to each just because that is how I roll, novel-wise, quilt-wise, as though I need an entire field for all my hobbies to play to their creative hearts' contents.

Why craft such intricate quilts, why write such LONG books? Why be creative at all? HAH! Why not, I say, having spent this morning reading over five assorted chapters of The Hawk Book One. Still hoping to release that story next month, need to get a cover sorted for it. I'm grateful to Past Me for having the guts to finish that tale, as well as stitching all those hexagon blocks, then storing them for right NOW. Right now I'm in a kinda complicated sewing mood and God willing I'll soon be in a Book Five mood. Book Five might be a standalone too, or maybe Book Six will be its companion. I don't know, kind of depends on Bobby, Tama, their families and whatever Future Me has cooked up wherever she's hanging out these days. Maybe wrapped up in a completed Alexandria quilt? Or sitting in the Humboldt County sun, thinking about the mid-November week in 2024 when the heavens opened and rain POURED upon California. An atmospheric river is forecast for our region, but I have sewing to pass the time, novel ideas to ponder, pea soup to make. Big sewing (and books), small sewing (and books?) and hopefully the basement won't flood too badly.

Happy Monday everyone. Stay dry, stay involved, stay hopeful. And if you like, keep those hands and minds busy with what brings you joy!

Last quilt of the year

Not to box myself into anything permanent, but.... What you see above is MOST LIKELY the last completed sewing project for 2024. Currently it's in the dryer, but since it hasn't rained today, I decided to hang it on the line, snapping one picture, then hustling myself and said quilt back in the house. It's chilly out today and I have a small cold and 'nuff said about being outside in those conditions.

I hesitate to write this, but perhaps (PERHAPS) this is the last quilt I'll display on the ancient laundry line. We're hoping for some home improvements in 2025, and if that occurs, the laundry line will be removed, oh my! Kind of funny to even consider that because the home improvement plan has been in the works for a couple of years without anything occurring. Because sometimes life is like that.

Anyways.... Who knows really? Maybe I'll get inspired and quickly machine-sew some kind of impetuous comforter. Maybe a Christmas quilt. Maybe something else entirely. Or maybe I'll wind down the stitching year that is fast coming to a close, it is the middle of November already, WHOA! Maybe I'll English paper-piece myself into a creative tizzy. Or I'll meander as I have been, a little of this, a tad bit of that, a tiny smidge of who-knows-what over there. And if that's the case, then yes, the quilt at the top of this entry is the last one for this calendar year, hung on a laundry line over one hundred years old.

That's a long time, you know. A long time for a house to be standing, a long time for any human being to exist in this corporeal plane. An AGE for a quilt to last (or a REALLY LONG TIME FOR A QUILT TO BE CONSTRUCTED). Oh, that's an idea, to start a quilt on such-and-such a date, then ask one's kids, grandkids, etc, etc, etc to JUST KEEP SEWING. Never finish this quilt until over a hundred years have passed.

Huh. Never thought about that before. Wild.

I'm feeling a little silly right now. (A little? Future Me smirks.) Not that I'm jacked up on NyQuil or any other cold medicine, although I did just enjoy Rocky Road ice cream with some vanilla to cut the chocolate. Not lactose-free either, but lately I've been okay with lactose, so.... So it's a Saturday, in the middle of November, and a quilt I put together on a whim, then with focus, is twirling in the dryer, la-la-la-la! Soon it will be done as though the weeks (but not as many as it takes to make a century) were mere seconds and I made that quilt by snapping my fingers. A quilt I hand-quilted in its entirety, la-la-la-HAH! A quilt that initially was going to be for myself until I realized that by adding an old crocheted blanket over my half of the bed obscured the quilt already there, so why make myself a new one when no one even sees the old one huh? Better to adjust my quilt parameters (and the design) and give it to someone I care about, right?

Right?

(Future Me is now standing with Past Me, both with their arms crossed over their chests, staring at me like I did just chug a bottle of something.)

Anyway.... I'm feeling feisty, or as full of myself as my cold allows. I'm feeling pretty darn great, the sniffles notwithstanding, because I'm done with the hand-quilting, the quilt, the Red Sky at Night blocks (for now). I'm done with sewing tasks I set for myself and it's not even the end of the month, la-la-la-la! It's only the middle of the month (of November, ahem) and I can freely dabble in whatever sewing project that tickles my fancy. Like Ice Cream Soda blocks, or the Alexandria medallion quilt. Or a Mandolin or Myrtle block, made with the same fabrics, la-la-la-la!

I could make a cuppa to go along with the sewing, although I don't need any more ice cream, la-la-la-ha!

I could ALSO wrap up this odd little (or NOT SO LITTLE) entry. Not that I could keep writing for the next hundred years because then I'd be 158 years old, and that's kinda implausible.

(Hmmmm. Maybe there was something in the Rocky Road????)

All I know (and I really mean ALL) is that a quilt I had been fretting over finishing in time is DONE. In the DRYER. TUMBLING and everything. LA-LA-LA! The RSAN blocks are D-O-N-E as well, ha-ha-hah! (Unless I do decide to stitch the large center block, but I'm not going to ponder that until like January or something.) My husband's birthday bash has come and gone and while there are other familial birthdays to prep for, at this small current moment of time, all I need to do (and need is a relative word) is find an end to this post, then retrieve the quilt from the dryer, as the chime just went off, telling me it's DONE.

DONE!

DONE.

Done, la-la-la-la! Just like this post; finito, cerrado, fin. Future Me and Past Me are walking away, shaking their heads, but I bet they'll be back, ha-ha-ha!