Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 14

Not painstaking but...

Page one of two....

Certainly time consuming; doing my civic duty these days means more than half-heartedly paying attention to the barest news items. In addition to signing up for American of Conscience Checklist, I'm pondering other avenues of using my voice. Today I wrote down all the Republican U.S. senators, their office phone numbers, and the end year of their terms. You never know when you might need to call an elected representative.

I've never been an active activist. I vote, I stay informed in a manner that doesn't push me into lasting depression. I pray. I've signed petitions, made my opinion about the incoming administration pretty damn clear on this blog and other social media accounts. Within my books my feelings are best noted; all people are treated with respect.

Page two. I double checked the phone numbers, hopefully they're all correct.

I am flummoxed to the level of bigotry and fear that continues to pervade my nation; equally I am aware I will not outlive it. What I can do for the rest of my life is continue to speak out against injustice, write stories that remain true to my beliefs, teach my grandchildren that love is an essential element in our existences, and not be afraid. Fear is the weapon of those who wish to control others. I must remain stalwart in my opposition to such intolerable, bigoted practices. It takes time out of my day to make my viewpoint known, hours I could be writing or sewing. Yet living my faith and wanting this democracy to thrive matters as much as the yarns I spin or quilts I create. I didn't wish for this, but sometimes the best laid plans become lists of names and contact numbers. Not to get preachy, but if liberty and justice for everyone means something to you, act on it in whatever manner you feel able. Just as I write and sew by the spirit, I will do all I am called to until my country is guided by different leadership.

Much taken on faith (Second Sunday in Advent)

 

Peace is the theme for this coming week. Peace, peace.... Easy to wish for others, not always easy to claim for myself, mostly because I'm living with one foot in this realm, another beyond the veil, and corporeal human life these days is....difficult.

Not on a health-level, not economic. Not in most face-value manners, so outwardly my life is happy. Fulfilling. Yet.... Yet my nation is fraught with BS politicians and billionaires and it makes me wanna puke. Hard to be peaceful when so much shite is stirred up, so much hypocrisy, so much.... I've already swore once, don't need to belabor the massive wrongs awaiting. Why it's hard to be at peace, that corporeal foot feeling stuck in concrete.

But what about my other leg, another possibility? Can I take on faith that all will be well, no matter how futile the outlook seems? Can I seek a different render of the future, perhaps many years from now, maybe beyond my presence, or even tomorrow? How bleak must life have seemed for Mary and Joseph as they trudged toward Bethlehem, with no booked accommodations, no family waiting, and Mary in a very precarious situation. That is what Advent is about, preparing for new life, a new heart, a new opportunity. Taken heavily on faith; it was all this couple had. They had faith, then soldiered on, uncertain of maybe ninety percent of what was going to happen. Ten percent was a baby. After that, nothing was assured.

This is what I must cling to when peace eludes. Or even if I'm feeling buoyant, because that sense also feels artificial, so downcast am I not only by what my nation has chosen for the incoming administration, but the unwillingness of so many to vote. Is that how Joseph felt when inquiring for just one room for his pregnant wife? Could anyone spare them a decent space, give them a break? According to the Gospels, no one did, and Mary had her baby in barn. They were poor, not local, unwanted. How many politicians miss the frigging point on the immigration issue by conveniently looking the other way, especially at this time of year (not to mention how many of these politicians claim to know Christ)?

Both my feet are wobbly, what happens when I get judgy. High horses are tempting, but when they throw me to the ground, OUCH! Suffice to say, peace is better when my backside isn't aching. Peace is mine for the taking, if I can set aside my anger and disappointment and embrace the possible. Had anyone done that for Mary and Joseph, a baby would have thrilled their hearts, and if they had possessed opened eyes, that particular newborn might have done even more. Shepherds heralded this baby, wise men brought gifts. The paradox of Christian faith is that in the meanest, most unassuming moments, grace thrives.

May I have the grace, and patience, to grasp that this month and beyond.

The painstaking work

Going through a manuscript with a fine-toothed comb, or the equivalent method of revising. Or deciding the next stage of a medallion quilt. Or how to use one's energies to oppose a false democracy.

Well OKAY Very Recently Past Me, ahem. Very Recently Past Me (VRPM) seemed to be teetering on the edge of her high horse, but sure, I'll run with this prompt. Uh, yeah....

I'm only hesitant because VRPM made this post because 1) I mostly liked the title in conjunction with editing a new (LOL) book. Not that Give Her My Love: The Hawk Book One is old news, but I do like me a shiny, the shinier (and seemingly more labor intensive) the better. Okay, so that's the main reason for this post.

The current round of pink-ish and green hexagons is halfway done, woo hoo!

The second reason is.... 2) The above quilt! Or what's emerging as nightly I ecstatically stitch away on Alexandria. OMG I am SO IN LOVE with SEWING this QUILT! I'd been deeply (DEEPLY) concerned if a medallion-style pattern would drive me round the bend. On the contrary, it's driving me deeply (DEEPLY) in love with this manner of quilt (EPP-style) making. Part of it is how large (2") are the pieces; wrangling them into place, then sewing them together, is such a stop-start effort, although let me be totally honest; hand-sewing a medallion quilt is VERY stop-start, and I'm exceedingly grateful I upsized Jodi Godfrey's design.

And then the third reason, not that in ANY WAY SHAPE OR FORM do I support the incoming administration. Only that this blog has been free of political-type blah blah blah for a few entries now, as I've wanted to concentrate on GOOD THINGS. Newly released books, newly discovered old manuscripts, newly (kinda) reclaimed old quilts that I am SO FREAKING in love with, lol. Yeah, lots of good things. Life is heaping with good things, uh, yeah. Heaping. Heaping piles of shite are about to invade my nation's capital with policies and rhetoric that make me wanna hurl. Yeah, hurl. But I'm doing my part, in a small way, by 3) Having subscribed to Americans of Conscience Checklist, and passing along that organization here. It was started by Jennifer Hofmann when the current president-elect went to Washington last time, and it's a great way to feel like my one voice matters. I'll post more about that soon, so Very Recently Past Me just hang onto your hat, and let Present Me talk about other painstaking tasks.

Like choosing an old book off the hard drive shelf, opening it up, and finding its purpose. Not for when I wrote it in the summer of 2012, but for now. Now I'm revising a story relevant to present day, after having given it a read-through during this past week. The kind of read-through that merely determines IF it 1) grabs me by the throat and makes me read until I'm done. 2) Isn't beyond the pale in regard to massive rewrites. And 3) I feel inexplicably drawn to hoist it from the vault, dusting it off, myself as well, then diving into....

The painstaking work. The painstaking work is the kind of chore you know you hafta do, but it's so far down the list it only happens when absolutely necessary. Like cleaning a bathroom or wiping down baseboards, you know what I mean? Okay, maybe not that unpleasant when it comes to a beloved hobby, but every pastime, no matter how enjoyable, has its baseboard moments. Reading my old manuscripts doesn't happen often, those I deliberately filed away for posterity. Yet several nights ago I went to bed with a story on my mind, and the next morning I opened it up, read a few paragraphs, then became giddy. A new book, a new shiny, and one that has NO FRIGGIN' SEQUEL! 

You know me, long-winded (Like how this post is turning out, sorry about that!). But this book is purely a standalone, WHEW! And YAY! Because that singular element lends itself to my wanting to turn it into a gem. Which means after I've read it and loved it, then comes the slicing and dicing. Yes it's good story. No, it's not perfect. But I'm older, wiser, a better reviser than I used to be, hehehe. I'm not a bionic writer, nor do I play one on TV or within this blog. But I'd rather reconstruct a novel than scrub the shower or loo any dang day.

So that's what I'm doing, some painstaking edits for a possible release on Monday, the twentieth of January, 2025. Inauguration day, snark. Was this planned last month, weeks previously? Heck no! It's one of those things that when the spirit/muse says JUMP, I don't ask how high. I merely read, make corrections, wash, rinse, repeat. And sometimes that's how a novel goes from the hard drive to your device, dear Reader.

Well, hmmm. A long post, huh. I'll close with the notion that yes I still need to talk about a quilt-in-progress. A much-loved quilt, recently realized. A quilt I started two years ago, then set aside. Because sometimes life is like that. More on Alexandria, The Hawk, and Americans of Conscience soon!

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.