Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 24

Prayers for Kansas City, Missouri

On this first day in Lent, I continue to pray for common sense in accordance to American guns laws. I pray for those injured, for the family and loved ones of the person that has died. I pray for peace in hearts and minds, and for human beings to matter more than weapons of mass destruction.

Quilts and reservations

The quilting side of my creative life has thankfully been smooth sailing. Two baby quilts have been sent to their new homes, a third on the wall waiting patiently for me to spend a few days at my machine. I've made good progress on the Cornflower quilt, attaching rows in a manner that is actually pretty relaxing, but then wrangling a couple of rows is less futzy than all the rows, lol. I have twenty of ninety-four Star blocks made, I have a plan for abandoned Alexandria quilt blocks, which will free up two-inch hexagons so I can perhaps get back to that medallion style quilt in some future date. Future Me won't say if I will complete that quilt, but then she's also keeping quiet about the current state of my noveling existence.

But first, the quilts.... The photos above and right below this paragraph are actually the same quilt! This is the first time I've made a quilt purposefully reversible. I like how in the small square side the perimeter is about half-square sized, as I just added an addition row to the length and width, then very carefully centered the large square side on it, batting in between. I'd planned to machine quilt it, but how I basted it meant the straight lines ran into the ditch on the small square side, looking messy. Instead I hand-quilted it, and am very pleased with the results. I might try this again, but if so, I'd machine quilt it on the diagonal so there wouldn't be any issues with landing in the ditch. Fabrics are from Violet Craft's Fisherman's Bend collection, as well as coordinating Kona solids, also used in the quilt from the previous post. Large squares are 6.5", small are 3.5" before sewing.

 

I'm grateful to have those done, and the one still on the wall will be sorted throughout the coming week. I'm eager to throw something else on the wall, not sure what yet, which mirrors my writing. I'd been excited to start my next story, but after trashing the first chapter, I'm coming to the conclusion the whole idea needs to be shelved. When I don't wake up in the morning dying to write, I know something's amiss. Not sure if it's the entire series, in that I've mentally prepped myself to not release any of it until more books are written. Maybe that's an error, perhaps I need the impetus that spurred me to complete The Hawk, publishing it as I wrote (despite being scared shiteless that I might not finish it). I don't know, need to ponder it. But in the meantime....

Really, more distracting shinies? More novels from my past, and I glance at Past Me for any kind of assistance. She shrugs, can't honestly recall what inspired a book I did indeed write back in 2013, then shelved, not keen on continuing that story, which is SCREAMING for a sequel (at the very least). Instead I left it to simmer, then started The Hawk, but I did complete that tale. Part of my problem with the latest bunch of books is that while I love to write about people and their drama, I've, um, included aliens. And a nasty villain. And sci-fi elements that aren't truly part of my milieu. Now having said that, the story from 2013 is also sci-fi, but maybe I was more brave back then. I was still in my forties back then, dude! I was in a place in my life where time remained plentiful, my parents were alive, and I didn't have grandkids. 2024 is a LOT different.

In 2024 I'm nearly fifty-eight. I still love writing, but indie publishing has changed in that my stories are pretty much for me. And that's fine, but I still want to do justice to what I release, and I keenly recall being slightly terrified when I would publish another section of The Hawk, with plenty left of it to write. Maybe I'm so aware because I'm reading a few chapters most nights, very happy with it, but my goodness it's a long complex story, yet I just wrote and wrote and no aliens showed up, yay! There was plenty of magical realism going on, but only melodrama and families and no evil villains that I have to tame. I prefer drama emerging from the conditions, no serial killers or other psychotic jerks messing around with my characters. But I've certainly built one in my latest series, and placed him smack-dab in some futuristic galaxy, when all I really want to write are the impending love stories. So yeah, a conundrum. Reservations. Oh, and quilts!

I don't mean to be so whiny. I just want to write a book and be happy about it. And include some quilting in the writing, hehehe. It's nearly the middle of February, the best time of year for inside pastimes like spinning yarns and sewing cottons. But I'm not feeling the noveling love for my fictional WIP, neither am I certain that I'd do the right thing to a story eleven years from my past, but I'm having fun editing it. Does that count as writing, just faffing about with something that needs a sequel, but I don't know if I have the guts or patience or energy to write it? Arrrggghhhh.... It's hard when distractions are everywhere, too many books or unfinished chapters or halfway completed projects. Maybe it's aging, perhaps in pushing sixty I'm losing focus. I truly am not certain, nor do I want to pester Future Me because she won't tell me even if I ask nicely. She'll just shrug, then gesture toward my computer, as though one of these stories is the correct answer. Which is actually enough to know, the last thing I need is yet another book in progress.

Sigh. Well, at least I've gotten a little of the confusion off my chest. Not that this makes the path any clearer, but there is it. The life of a novelist is full of hoo-haa, not always do I get to foist it all upon my cast. Thankfully tomorrow is another day, we'll see what happens in the morning....

Dazed but not overtly confused

One of two recent quilt finishes, more about those in the next post.

Yesterday I did something I have never done before. I deleted the first chapter, save the last paragraph, of my new novel.

I suppose there's a first time for everything, but wow. Yet, as I wrote that alleged first chapter, I felt detached. I was even, gasp, distracted by my phone. That NEVER HAPPENS when I write, other than a quick glance at the screen in case it's an important text or call. So yeah, a day of writing went down the tubes, except for that final paragraph, which I liked and kept at the end of the rewritten first chapter.

Today I wrote Chapter 2 as though the initial Chapter 1 never existed. I wrote with total abandon, I wrote from a place in my head and heart that cut me off from where I am right now, in February, in Humboldt County. Instead I was in Corning, California in the heat of June, where a twelve-year-old girl was hoping to find the secrets her late mother had left behind. After completing most of the chapter, I saved the work, then went downstairs, starting myself a coffee. Waiting for it to brew, I sat near a window in the sun, which felt good against my legs because it's not ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit here, but maybe fifty. I stared out the window, absently taking in the view, but within me I was far away where it was warm, dusty, but absent of all the information Ryder was hoping to find.

My husband came in, noting that the pork shoulder roast had another ten minutes on the timer until it was time to check it. I said, "Okay."

He then said, "Are you all right?"

I said, "Yeah."

He huffed slightly. I smiled, then added, "I'm waiting for coffee. Just sitting here, trying to absorb what I wrote."

He said, "Oh, okay," or something equally relieved that I wasn't mad at him for an unrealized sleight. Again I smiled, then got up, finding my coffee was done. I put in a little sugar, a fair amount of milk, stirring it well, then returned to my seat in the sun, wondering how odd was it that this novel had such a strange start, but then today I was back to prosey business. How after writing that excised chapter immediately I felt disconnected from it, as though it was written my a different Me, not Future or Past, but Some Other Me Who Had Invaded My Brain For A Morning.

A few minutes later the timer went off, and I headed to where my spouse was taking the roast from the oven. I added a little water to it, then he put it back in. Usually I start the roast, but he did it this time, and I think he appreciated me making sure there was enough water in the pot, which I'll turn into gravy in about twenty minutes. Because after all this, I finished my coffee, completed the chapter, then added carrots, onions, garlic and red potatoes to the pot. Then I returned to my computer to read over what I'd written, cleaning up the glaring mistakes, then saving it to a flash drive. And now I'm writing this, still a little in awe of the whole noveling process.

How a story emerges, or then gets axed, but continues nonetheless. How deeply I become entangled in a world basically real but also of my own making. How no matter how many books I've written, once in a while a story emerges that right off the freaking bat requires a rethink. Well, all but the probe landing unseen on the Martian landscape, hehehe.

I'll deal with the probe tomorrow. For now, it's time to check that roast!

Another Chapter One

A mock-up for my next Ice Cream Soda block; looking forward to sewing this as another yarn is spun.

Starting a new book today, but it's not even seven in the morning and I haven't eaten breakfast and, and, and....

And this novel, originally slated in the number five spot, has moved up considerably. Now it's the prologue, ahem, requiring a little more gravity than previously. Previously it was an addendum, fleshing out a character that emerged offhandedly in Book 3, but much like Seth Gordon in The Hawk, this character has turned into a key player. Stories are funny like that, but I need to go with the flow and see what happens.

Well, I know what's gonna happen, or I think I do, lol. I've also decided that instead of publishing this series starting this year, I'm going to wait. I won't release it like I did The Hawk, piece by piece as it was written. This series will emerge much further into its creation, even if the novels are presented in a kind of standalone manner. Why am I going to keep these books under wraps? Mostly because having moved this installment from #5 to #1, I can't be sure where other planned novels will fit. And will more emerge? I just don't know.

It's a strange feeling to write something that has evolved into MUCH MORE than what I initially envisioned. I thought The Hawk was its own animal, but my goodness, this series is something else entirely. From humble cathartic beginnings to a space opera well grounded on Earth to.... The character I'll investigate in this novel is a woman consistently living on the edge, albeit with those around her who she knows will always pull her back. Yet when an opportunity arises that possesses no boundaries, Ryder Renavier considers taking her biggest leap ever. Expecting her family to again rein her in, this time a truth emerges that cuts Ryder to the quick, unfastening her from all safety nets.

If that wasn't enough I'm going to intersperse this story with chapters set in Ryder's past, perhaps non-linearly. I only decided that yesterday, as well as learning that optimal travel to Mars would be in 2052 not 2056 as I had initially considered. Okay, a quick revision to that, but otherwise.... A brand new cast awaits my attention, ha ha! More people in this series than maybe needs to be, in that I can't follow all their adventures. Some are merely for this or that book, like Duncan Hodges-Llewellyn, who as of now will only shine brightly within this installment. Or maybe not, which is the quirkiest part of telling these tales. I don't know who is going to stick around or who will be jettisoned to make room for further shinies. All I know is I NEED TO WRITE THIS STORY. But not this minute. I also need breakfast. Lol.

After breakfast I will start this novel. Insert smiley face here.

Prepping for a new season

Amid a break in yesterday's storm, I snapped the nasturtiums pictured above. The sun shone as though it was May, although today's a flat gray wet mess. Still a month of winter remains, but thankfully February is short, even with the Leap Day. I'm ready for spring, but in the meantime....

There are books to start, EPP blocks to fashion, even some gardening to consider, if no more than admiring the nasturtiums I HOPE won't succumb to a crazy late winter frost in the next few weeks. Despite all the precipitation, I haven't noticed any overt achiness, my hands and knees feeling pretty good. Daylight increases every morning and lengthens each evening, and here in Humboldt the grass is thick and green, albeit super squishy. I wear wellies (rubber boots) when walking outside, which lately hasn't happened much as it's been SO DARN WET. But again I'm grateful we haven't lost power, the basement isn't flooded, and tonight I'll build a fire, enjoying the coziness of crackles and pop amid warming flames.

Mostly I'm excited for a new novel, planning to start that maybe as soon as Wednesday. I'm also jazzed about cutting into fabrics that have dwelled in my stash for over two years, maybe three. Crystal Manning's Lady Bird collection is steeped in flowers, a few birds too, and I've spent recent mornings at my ironing board. I've amassed a decent pile destined for English paper pieced projects, also a few four and a half inch strips set aside for patchwork. All those pretty hues and flowers are definitely getting me ready for spring, although I don't think they'll play into the new fiction much. That's fine, writing and sewing aren't always joined at the hip in my life.

Different colourways make for gorgeous options within one collection; Crystal Manning's Lady Bird.

My life is awash in water, words, and cottons, blending in a manner that makes each day seem not long enough. I spent my late morning reading through The Hawk, reaching the end of what will be Book 2. Where have those fifty-three chapters gone? Where did the last twelve months go, nearly a year since I started my current series. Do I mention time's passage more than I should, yet winter is on the downhill slide here in California, even in Humboldt. Although I write that, then recall it was late last February when snow fell, ahem. Not that I want to get ahead of myself, but yeah, I'm mentally done with winter, ready for a new season, new story lines, new fabrics. Not new nasturtiums though, lol. Those gracing my flowerpots can just keeping growing.

Going my own way

A very Kaffe Fassett block for my Flock of Stars quilt.

Since my last post I've had a brainstorm amid the lull between storms where I live. Physically I reside on the North Coast of California, but lately I've felt adrift between Earth and some far off galaxy where my novel also takes place. Flitting back and forth between these realms has been fine, but I've also been hurled against how to present my stories, and now as the flat gray sky breaks into streak of blue, I'm grateful to be back on the indie publishing train. It's truly the only way for me.

Releasing my own books isn't flashy. It is self-satisfying. Independent publishing demands a lot of work, or not, depending on how much visibility an author wishes to obtain. Self-publishing is a term I'm not fond of because I don't do this by myself. Yet if pressed, that's what it is. I publish fiction on my own rather than shove novels in a drawer or leave them cloistered in a hard drive, languishing until the computer dies or I'm long gone.

What brought about this change of direction? My previously mentioned chat with a fellow writer is part, her words encouraging me to write for myself a necessary reminder of why I write at all. Then there's that brainstorm, hehehe.... Suffice to say the planned book in the series is what I'll tackle next, but it's not going to fall where I thought it would. I may start writing next week, we'll see how I'm feeling, but I did loosely sketch out some characters, full names and birth dates. Need to figure out occupations for some of them, perhaps I'll do that while hand-sewing later today.

The creative journey is full of introspection, but those queries, while essential, can't overwhelm the essence of why someone crafts this, that, or a few other beautiful works of art. Reading through The Hawk has also played a part in my soul-searching, the joy I've experienced while reading a story written without any notion other than telling it. That is what I do, tell stories. And I am the only person who can relate these highly personal tales. Thank goodness for indie publishing; no longer do vital voices remain silent.

Not glamorous but necessary

 

Much more of this to come!

Last night I began sewing together rows of my Cornflower Quilt. Compared to how long I've been stitching the beautiful blocks, this part will be a faster finish, albeit laborious. Wrangling rows is a little tricky, but having taken out as many of the papers as was possible makes it less cumbersome. And as each row is added, the marvelous sense of completion rises, proffering me the essential impetus to JUST KEEP SEWING.

Sometimes that kick in the butt is crucial, pushing one past the tallest hurdle or most mind-numbing element within a project. I haven't done anything writing related for a couple of days, trying to catch up on sewing. I spent my usual book time this morning basting a quilt that I've made on request, which is always a thrill, like getting a five-star review on a novel. I'm hoping to jump back into the writing next week, perhaps starting off with some revisions, then we'll see where that leads. In chatting with a fellow author recently, I received some much needed support to continue writing in my own eclectic style. Only I can tell the stories that are within my heart.

Intricate blocks are fabulous to create, as are intriguing characters and vital plot twists. Yet both require anchors to showcase them to their full beauty. I have some keen ideas for my novel series, but those plans aren't worth much if they linger in my head. Likewise, all the fabric in my sewing room is lovely to admire, but better when put into some sort of quilt, be it machine or English paper-pieced. I'm still undecided what to do with my current book series, but dealing with an agent feels less important that it did a few days ago. Occasionally I am terrible for vacillating, may I just admit here. But I'm also aware that nothing is happening tomorrow with the first installment, or on Friday, or next week even. Maybe I'll write all the books, then begin to release them, which is not a bad idea, as I fill in small gaps as the story progresses, getting a better handle on what this whole saga is about.

Kind of like how I thought I was missing five squares for my quilt, until I realized that no, I didn't need squares along the bottom, only triangles. I still feel ridiculous for that error, but no matter. Whatever I decide about writing or sewing, the results might not be flashy, but will be suited for me. And sometimes they delight others too.

A post-Stan world

 

Snapped yesterday on another excursion to the shore.

I just finished reading through the first novel of my current series. It was going to be the final revision before leading to publication, but two days ago I felt compelled to look up a few more agents, despite submitting this series to over thirty last fall. I'm waiting for a sci-fi novel to arrive, written by woman who I just learned this morning currently lives here in Humboldt County. Once her novel arrives, I'll give it a read, then either feel compelled to query this series in a very limited fashion or get a book cover made and release it myself. Life in this post-Stan world is full of inexplicable notions.

My brother-in-law Stan died a year ago last week. My husband and I went to the beach recently and the southern end of the shore was basically GONE. A huge shelf where we took our granddaughters last fall has been sucked back into the Pacific, such power the ocean possesses, but lately the waves have been huge and erosion is as endless as the water, as lives appearing then ending. Makes me feel not sad, but aware that change is as much a part of the human experience as the calm we crave, or the peace we should be seeking. But even that peace is fleeting because something is always emerging to stir it up far beyond our feeble attempts at maintaining it.

After getting no requests for my manuscript, I came to the conclusion that this story, and the series evolving from it, were simply meant for a very small audience, ha ha. I was fine with that, and still am. I'm actually feeling unsettled at the prospect of querying it again, although I'm not bothered by waiting three more months before I publish it, assuming no one again bites. That gives me more time to figure out cover art and tweak it a wee bit more, and maybe write the fifth book in the series. Revising The Hawk as I have been most nights for the last few weeks will satisfy the itch to put out a new story, then the new series will see the light of day sometime in May unless God has other plans for it. I'm not bothered either way. Well actually, I am a little leery of getting others involved. Isn't that funny? I was so hoping an agent would request it four months ago, now I wish to grip it tightly to my chest, not wanting outside interference, not that a few query letters guarantees instant interest, but the possibility of a request for the manuscript remains if I send those letters.

If I send those letters.... I won't know until I get the novel in the mail, and none of this would even been a consideration if Stan hadn't died. If he was still alive, I never would have written the second book in the series in the first place.

That's a slightly crass way to put a wonderful man's death in perspective. No, it's pretty damn crass. Or maybe it's me in my late fifties accepting those I love who were older than me weren't all gonna live as long as I would have liked, and moving on is essential. Stan died, I came home, then a few weeks later I started writing a cathartic exercise loosely based on how he died. I gave it a great twist, then a deplorable ending, grousing for a couple of days. Then I realized I could incorporate an abandoned chapter written in 2022, turning one long novella into something else entirely. And now a year after Stan's death, I'm allowing God to continue whatever is supposed to come from that man's passing, because ultimately, what else is there for me to do? People die and life goes on, and we harness who they were to us in whatever manner we can, then hopefully use that influence to be better than we were and help others. Picking ourselves up and dusting off the sorrow, we gaze at the horizon, uncertain where it leads, but acting fearlessly in accepting that forward is the only positive way to go. It's the way of growth, further change, although hasn't there been enough alteration already? Can't I just arrange a book cover, write a little blurb, then put out this novel?

Maybe I will, in May. Maybe these few query letters will be as unsuccessful as the rest. Maybe I'll read Becky Chambers' book and say to myself, "Yeah, I'm not on that level." Or I'll read her book and think, "My novel is this well-written, but I'd prefer to not seek representation." Because despite all my wishing for authorial recognition, anonymity is nice too. Well, it's less work, lol. And since Stan's death, I'm not as young as I used to be. 

I'll never be that youthful again, but that's fine. The aging process cannot be stopped, deaths of loved ones impossible to erase. Appreciating each other has to become paramount, also accepting the changes we never wished would have occurred. Like the shore eroding. Like books birthed from grief. Like another day in my life post-Stan....

Pressing (and revising) takes longer than sewing (and writing)

What a colourful little quilt this shall be!

I'm nearly halfway done with the above quilt top; three and a half inch squares are futzy, also mindless. Six rows are currently stitched together, another two waiting to be attached, that leaves nine left, which I'll tackle this weekend. But I am taking special care while ironing the seams open, spritzing them with my spray bottle to make sure they lay as flat as possible. That's a plentiful amount of open seams for the back, and smoother is better when I make that quilt sandwich.

Yesterday as I stood at my ironing board, pressing and pressing and pressing, I considered how so much time is spent standing there as opposed to sitting at my machine. If I'd been told that when I first started quilting, I'm not sure I would have believed it, lol. Then I pondered how writing is similar, at least for me, in that a first draft spills from my brain onto the keyboard, but much effort remains to shape it into something I'm comfortable publishing. Quilters don't often talk about how many hours they linger at their pressing stations, but I bet I'm not the only one to come to such a conclusion.

I don't use the steam function on my iron, in part that Humboldt County is already so humid, I'd worry my iron might get icky inside. Instead a water bottle lives near the ironing board, but in the last year or so I gave up spritzing as I pressed seams, not sure why other than it was ONE MORE STEP in the pressing process and at that point I just want to SEW and not IRON. Maybe I've mentioned how when I began quilting a decade ago (fodder for another entry) I didn't even own an iron. My daughters thought I'd been taken over by aliens when I told them I was getting both an iron AND an ironing board. But even then I had no clue how many hours I'd be standing at that board. I just thought I'd sit at my machine, blithely attaching one fabric to another, the mystical ironing fairy sprinkling special dust on the seams. I was such a novice back then, again fodder for a later post. And the same could be said for how I got into writing.

Ten years of quilting, over sixteen of noveling; that's a chunk of time spent doing things I love. Which includes ironing and editing, although I like editing more, but I can't excise either from their respective pastimes, so pressing and revising go hand in hand, in a manner of speaking. Books and quilts don't magically pop out of thin air, but anything worth doing well requires behind the scenes efforts that aren't flashy or glamorous. We don't see all the training athletes endure, only what they exhibit on the court or field. But they must enjoy it as much as I love reading over a story for the umpteenth time or yet again placing the iron over seams, guiding it slowly so adjacent seams aren't disturbed.

Little tricks of various trades that I have come to appreciate as much as the thrill of awesome prose or pretty fabrics placed side by side. I'd much prefer to stand at my iron than train for a marathon, just saying, but that's what makes me happy. Grasping the necessity of all parts of whatever hobby or joy keeps the perspective where it belongs, that nothing worth doing happens overnight. With that, time for me to get to some revisions, hehehe.

Facepalm

 

Grateful and grimacing at the same time, such is life as one gets older.

Last night I sewed four-inch squares onto the sixth row of my Cornflower Quilt. I lamented the five missing squares, but didn't stew obsessively, as I have another quilt requiring hand-stitching as a distraction until I am ready to deal with those absent squares. Yet, as I headed to bed, laying that sixth row under the fifth row, I sighed softly, wondering how long I could put off basting five more squares to complete that part of the quilt.

Dressing for bed, I was grateful for our relatively warm winter temperatures, many Pacific storms leaving Humboldt County drenched but not chilly. I snuggled under blankets, closed my eyes, receiving a tender goodnight kiss from my hubby. He turned off the light, departed the room, leaving me with some last musings for the day. I considered how I could sew triangles to the first row, filling in gaps before conceding those five missing squares were truly beyond my possession. Or I could do the same to the last row and....

Facepalm. The last row DOESN'T REQUIRE FIVE BASTED SQUARES. The last row ONLY NEEDS TRIANGLES. The last row NEVER HAD FIVE BASTED SQUARES TO BEGIN WITH. 

Wow.

WOW!

Uh, yeah.....

Recently Past Me is overcome by mild comfort and a stupefying sense of embarrassing stupidity.

Future Me is giggling uncontrollably a few feet away, smirking as well, although she smiles tenderly, knowing at one point she too had been driven nearly insane by what in the hell had happened to the missing squares that were never missing to begin with.

Present Me is.... Grappling with how aging assails a reasonably sane individual with less of their brain than what they had days or weeks ago. I won't go into months or years, that level of acuity belonging to Past Me, who is rolling her eyes HARD at the rest of us, assuming something so inane could never happen to her.

Laugh it up honey, Recently Past Me growls. You have no friggin' clue what waits ahead.

Future Me shoots Recently Past Me a snarky gaze. Be careful there with that anger. It's not that big of a deal.

Recently Past Me grimaces. Not a big deal, are you kidding me? How could I have forgotten there was no need for another set of squares! I've basted triangles for the perimeter, why didn't I see those missing squares weren't required, how did I....

Get over yourself, Future Me barks. Now all you have to do is baste the remaining triangles, then sew the whole thing together!

Meanwhile Present Me is grateful for their bickering because it puts a little necessary space between where I was last night, realizing I was never missing any squares in the first place, and recounting the tale here, ahem. Present Me is also VERY GRATEFUL that no longer do I need to search for said squares, as they never existed in the first place. LOL. Um....

LOL, Recently Past Me hollers. LOL? Are you serious?

LOL, Present Me grunts. Because life is too short to beat myself up for forgetting that I didn't need those pieces in the first place.

LOL, Past Me guffaws, pointing her finger at the three of us a wee bit older than her.

Lol, Future Me shrugs. Now, let's all move on. As someone use to say, getting old ain't for sissies.

How true that is, Present Me sighs, closing this post as well as the case of the five missing squares.