Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 27

So much to do

Today's pics are ones I took last night, dried flowers collected by the grandgirls and my youngest daughter that adorn our fireplace mantle.

These post-Thanksgiving days are...strange. Such a big holiday, then a busy weekend with family, traveling included. Now we're home, yet more alterations await; dear friends are coming on Sunday, staying for the week, yay! I need to prep the house, although not put up Christmas decorations, as there is no time for more than stringing lights on our front fence, so necessary as daylight has diminished sharply. There's also a quilt on the design wall that I put up yesterday and want to stitch together before our guests arrive. I wrote a chapter today, WOO HOO, so missing that element of my life. I adore sharing our home with beloveds; it's also great to return to familiar rhythms that bring me so much peace.

  Then I stop myself, realizing how blessed am I to have that peace. This nation is fairly fractured, but not openly waging violent war on itself as in so many other regions on this planet. I have leisure time to engage with my favourite hobbies and the essential goods with which to do so. Maybe I'm still in the throes of Thanksgiving, feeling exceedingly grateful that my life is the way it is, even if I have a LOT on my To Do list. 

Every year, as Advent approaches, I search for candles to replace those beyond their ability to stay lit longer than a few seconds. Maybe I need to buy some online. We're ahead of the usual Christmas shopping/card sending season, in that we took our youngest daughter's family most of their gifts this past weekend, as well as ordering holiday cards that arrived during our absence. Last year was so chaotic, I think this year I'm overcompensating, and that's FINE. Future Me appreciates the organization while Past Me is still wrapping her head around what my family endured twelve months ago. Life flows smoothly, then volcanoes erupt, lava burning all that is familiar and comfortable. One can rebuild, rearrange, reorganize, but the well-trod pathways are gone, or require ages for flowers to again blossom.

There is no To Do list that can accelerate emotional healing. Maybe all that life boils down to is how we react to joys and sorrows, trying to get the laundry done in the interim. Or maybe that's how it is as one ages. A friend my dad's age (or how old Dad would have been if he was still around) dropped by yesterday and we discussed how quickly time passes as we get older. He gave a very astute reason, the particulars which escape me now, but the essence was something like as a child our time span doesn't allow for the bigger picture, but as the window closes, we realize all we have done and still wish to accomplish, or something like that. All the lists in the world mean nothing if we forget the most important elements, that of love and kindness, mercy and forgetfulness. Not that I want to remain dependent on lists or be scatterbrained, but to move forward, injuries of the past must be set aside once they have been resolved in whatever manner permits the best healing. Last year was LAST YEAR. This year is different. Next year is.... Future Me smirks, noting I shouldn't get ahead of myself, while Past Me trembles, wondering how in the hell our family is going to deal with horrific trauma. Quietly I clear my throat, then reach for her hand, which she grasps tentatively. Next year will be better, I whisper, to which she nods. It is better, I breathe deeply. And for that I am very grateful.

More inadvertent occurrences

One small Far & Away square in Brushfire.

The end of the Thanksgiving holiday weekend finds my other half and I home from familial visiting. Dinner has been eaten, we're listening to the new Kurt Vile EP-LP, Back to Moon Beach. I'm working on another Cornflower block that I took with me to stitch, but after getting the inner petals sewn together, I found half of the squares were basically the same hue as half of the petals; DOH! We weren't home more than half an hour and I had chosen a different fabric from William Reue's Architecture School collection. 'Far & Away' in Brushfire was the winner, as well as being very close to the title of my fictional WIP. Then I wondered if I had coined the title from that print, or maybe I dreamed doing so. I had been longing over that fabric once I saw it on my fave online store, and it's been in my stash for a while. Very fun when incidental issues get tangled together.

I've been awake for a long time today, stirring a little after three and not able to fall back to sleep. Instead I made some decaf brews and sat under the narrowest but cozy microfibre blankets where we were staying for the weekend. I proceeded not to sew, because I had to choose alternate squares, so instead I pulled up my Books note on my phone and read over what I had written concerning my series regarding titles for installments of said series. I added a couple of titles and very brief explanations of those titles, then closed my eyes and probably went back to sleep in a tall-backed chair having tucked those beach-towel width blankets securely around my legs. I don't think I dreamed about my novel or the sewing, but I might have.

And now it's a little after seven in the evening on the last day of a traditionally busy and family oriented American holiday. I've done a lot of traveling over the last eight or nine days as two of my three kids dwell in separate NorCal areas. We couldn't visit all the offspring, but we saw most of them, all the grandkids, and my husband's sister too. I also chatted in person with my BFF, so many great moments that sort of fell into place a little haphazardly, but it's all good, especially since everyone in my clan is home safely and soundly, well, mostly. My sister-in-law will be on this coast for a couple more days, then head back to her Midwestern residence. It's a big state, she said, as we drove her from Silicon Valley to Humboldt County, then eastward to the Sacramento Valley. The weather was good for road trips, and even if I didn't sleep so well last night, I should crash hard tonight with a little better grip on where this series is going, talk about road (and time) trips!

Not that I'll be writing tomorrow, but I'll finish the read-through of what has been accumulated, then dabble with adding another chapter on Tuesday. I have laundry to sort, plants to water, a quilt for my youngest granddaughter to finish, another for her older sister to start, Christmas lights to hang as well! I want to do that before rain falls later this week, even if December hasn't yet started. I'll go more slowly with the rest of the decorating, but it's getting dark so early now, little colourful lights will brighten the evenings. I won't presume to wonder what's inadvertent about those lights, something I'm sure. Or maybe nothing. Not everything is tied to another piece of my life, although this Kurt Vile EP-LP is pretty nice, maybe I can work it into the book somehow. One more Happy Thanksgiving to everyone!

Thankful for....

Faith

Family and their good general health

A great spouse

Dear friends

A comfortable home

Food in the fridge

Plenty of creative outlets

Cognitive cohesiveness

Few aches and pains

Love

Happy Thanksgiving.

All about perspective

Excuse the slight reflection of this shot, taken yesterday.

We're back from our familial celebrations and prepping for the national holiday. Cranberry sauce is cooling; I put in vanilla per an online recipe, and it's pretty dang tasty, if not a little heavy on the orange juice. Notes have been made for next year; I love cranberry sauce, and I try a different recipe whenever possible.

As soon as I woke this morning, once the decaf brews were made, I sat at my computer and picked up on page eleven of my WIP; I'm hoping to read through it over the next couple of days, then we're off to see our youngest daughter, then we're back and I'll finish the read-through and maybe write a few chapters before dear friends arrive the first week of December! I would LOVE to complete this novel by the end of the year, but won't hold myself to that, in that the holiday season is full of surprises, and I want to enjoy Advent without feeling I have to do this, that, and the other, although I have SO LOVED writing this story, completing it would be like a gift to myself, lol.

Time in December seems to go faster than usual, so says Adult Me, hah! I'm sure my grandkids (and most children) would strongly disagree. Time is also altered due to how few hours of daylight that grace the northern half of the planet. Driving home yesterday, I was amazed how quickly dusk arrived, once the sun had seemingly set over dense forests. Yet the barest hint of light remained as we reached our neck of the Redwoods, as though the sky was allowing us a smidgen of the day unseen if we had been inside our house. I feel like that now, reading through my novel; I'm permitted a different view of the characters from when I wrote these initial chapters in the middle of October. A month has passed, where did those days go? Meanwhile, I have fashioned a world where an alien and very out-of-place humans have settled into 1971 as though born to that era. Writing a novel day by day makes for a fascinating time shift all its own.

My husband was driving when we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge yesterday; I snapped the above photo within a flurry while my sister-in-law gushed at the scenery. That bridge has been there for coming on ninety years, WHOA! As I hope to wrap up my book in the next five/six weeks, what are those weeks in the grand scheme? What's that novel mean in the same grand scheme, Past Me smirks. I ignore her, but the question lingers. Rare are the times I cogitate on why I write, other than to explain here every so often that it's simply a part of who I am and to not write seems impossible (even if writing is sometimes impossible). How many cars have traveled over that bridge, how many lives, how many holiday seasons.... Huh. This post is turning into something I'm not sure I meant it to be.

Books do that, so does cranberry sauce; I put in too much orange juice, but the quarter-teaspoon of vanilla I threw in at the end saves it. Will my current tale require something that revelatory? I won't know until I reach that part of the novel, and I don't know when that will be. Maybe by late December. Hopefully by late December! I'm a kid when it comes to writing, overly eager to achieve completion. But this time, I need to savor the journey. And freeze any leftover cranberry sauce to drizzle over lactose free vanilla ice cream when I reach The End.

When love, writing, and fabric meet inadvertantly

Having finally united the lovers within my novel, I find myself getting up very early to write. Well, my right leg is being troublesome, so that also plays into these well before the crack of dawn noveling sessions, but most of my enthusiasm at truly ridiculous hours of the day (night) is based upon itching and aching to further the story. That's an immense blessing and I'm extremely grateful for it.

Strangely enough, I am not dropping off for sleep at six or seven or eight p.m. at night! I'm not getting a ton of hand-stitching accomplished, but last night during the Kings/Lakers game I completed a Cornflower block, pictured above, and was struck at how it perfectly, but accidentally, represents my novel. Space-themed inner petals are bordered by hearts; dude that's my story to a capital T! This block originally had a dark blue floral print for the squares, but after I basted them, it just didn't feel right. I had a strip of the hearts print leftover from my youngest granddaughter's quilt, a fabric she chose in July that I too loved, and was thrilled to have enough left for some random scrap requirement. I had other blocks to prep, so yesterday afternoon I cut fabric for more squares, petals, and octagons, enough for what I think are the last three blocks of the quilt, yay!

Fast forward (or back up) to the basketball stitching; I was pondering my book, exited for what was going to be today's chapter, which entailed the morning after for my lovers. I didn't know how that would begin, and let me just say I'm pleased with the results, lol. Meanwhile, as LA was getting creamed, I was pondering those adorable hearts, then realizing like a sledgehammer up my skull how apropos were all these prints in regard to what else has been making my heart flutter. Not at all did I consider that when I swapped in the hearts for the previous squares, only that the petals were kind of irregular and this quilt is built on scrappy, and my fictional series is much the same. Women's fiction, romance, sci-fi, a little bit of literary too; no kitchen sink yet, but wait for it. One might pop up from nowhere, much like these hearts, this block, and if I want to get esoteric, my whole life, ha!

Not to get too esoteric, but.... There's just something so thrilling, so all the planets aligned, so damned cool when the inadvertent falls into one's day-to-day. It lifts the sorrow, breaks up the mundane, reminds that there is a purpose beyond prose and prints. Love makes this world go round and round and I love to feel that reinforced within my life by accidental fabric swaps or a cathartic book turning into an unintentional series. How marvelous are love stories, by the way, also reinforcing how random meetings can turn into life-altering detours not in a bad way. My lovers aren't young; they are pushing forty, having suffered their separate trials, and are willing to give happiness one more go. And I will let them be happy. For a bit. LOL, as I stitch up the last three blocks of my quilt, another serendipitous melody of art, beauty, and scraps. Scraps aren't the dregs; scraps are the miracles arriving in slivers of shiny light, sending sparkles of sweetness into hearts made for joy here and beyond.

That's my novel, this block, and love in a nutshell. May a ton of accidental scrappy-happiness be yours today!

From dark to light

 

A dear friend is enduring similar heartache to mine from earlier this year, a beloved diagnosed with a very serious illness. We chat regularly, having known each other since our England days. That's over two decades ago now, time slipping past at a rate I really don't want to analyze. But right now time is strange, how a year ago my brother-in-law was ailing, how at the beginning of this year he died, and now it's again November, but this year others are where my family was in 2022.

Right now my life is focused on writing my novel, still emerging at a rate that makes me wonder for how much longer will the plot keep barreling down Storytelling Hill. Till it's done I guess, or I hope. I'm nearly finished with youngest granddaughter's quilt top, will probably wrap that up tomorrow. We're going away this weekend to celebrate a birthday with our eldest, then will host my sister-in-law who is managing life without her husband. Traumas occasionally last a long time, sometimes they are fleeting and the aftermath lingers. When I chat with my friend, my updates are pretty innocuous, which both of us appreciate. She knows where my crew was a year ago, in a place no one wishes to be, but we don't always get to make those kinds of choices.

I didn't know what I wanted to write about today until the above photo appeared on my screensaver. That quilt was completed two years ago for my youngest grandchild, a light to dark to light Honeycomb Stars pattern from Rachel Hauser. It was a futzy thing, but turned out beautifully, and as I sat at my computer, wondering what I wanted to say in this post, today's title popped into my head. I found where the photo was on my PC, then pondered how our lives are steeped in hills and valleys, the good and the bad. Everybody experiences some level of heartache, no one is immune. My friend mentioned that she didn't want to bring up memories of my late brother-in-law, but I told her that a trial makes the sufferer more equipped to later lend support and show compassion. At least I try to make that my mindset when rocked to my core.

Right now I can breathe easily, but my heart goes out to others in need. I say prayers, send positive vibes, and keep a mind open to miracles because sometimes they happen. When the worst occurs, it is heartbreaking. Yet time keeps passing, because here we are on 14 November 2023, over two years since I photographed that quilt-in-the-making, almost a year after a death in my family. From dark to light, and light to dark; love is all the little triangles between the hexagons, keeping everything and everybody together. That's really all this life is about in my opinion.

Acknowledging abundance

This applies to all areas of my life, but as this blog focuses on the writing and sewing, I'll limit my appreciations for those aspects (and still write a long-arsed post, heads-up!). I just finished my second chapter of the day, oh my goodness. I told my husband this morning over breakfast how this novel is pouring from my head and fingertips, and then I took a shower, considering what might happen next, then proceeded to start another chapter for the day (the first completed before eating).

I haven't written like this IN A LONG TIME. One day last week I wrote two chapters in a day, not sure from where all this novelistic enthusiasm springs, maybe due to it being November and I'm channeling my prior NANOWRIMO days or making up for last year's spectacular fail. Whatever it is, I'm VERY GRATEFUL to be so prosy, lol, although I do need to get some housecleaning done this week, ahem. But relishing this rather I'll just write myself thank you very much story is essential, because sometimes writing IS a spectacular fail, or it's fraught with so much hand-wringing. Sometimes writing is like pulling snot from one's guts, so damned painful that a writer wonders, "Why the heck am I trying to do this anyways???" I know that sense all too well.

But then the skies clear, the rainbows sparkle, stars twinkle, rain falls, sun shines, whatever kind of weather makes you ecstatic. That kind of weather drops all the words from heaven, and I don't ask twice, catching them all in my fingers, then decorating the virtual pages until however a chapter ends. Today's chapters ended like this:

Chapter 22: She began to cryhard, wondering if what she had said was true, and if so, was that why this manand Gilly mattered as much as they did.

Chapter 23: By then Sooz hadslipped from the room, but Chella called after her in silence, imploring Soozto make a full confession.

Whoa, those are some endings! But it's a love story, 'nuff said. I'm still a little in shock, racking up six thousand, six hundred and twenty-six words today, DUDE! Maybe taking off a day made the difference. Or maybe this novel is one of those that clears its throat every few minutes, stomping its feet saying, "Hey, pay attention to me!"

Sometimes novels do that, just let me say. And sometimes sewing projects do the same; yesterday afternoon I designed, then stitched together the above pictured sixteen-patch block. I had squares left over from my granddaughter's quilt, which I still haven't started sewing, ahem. The red with gold decor is definitely Christmas themed, even if she chose it in July, lol! I pulled out my bag of Christmas fabric to top up the design, then swallowed hard: I really have A LOT OF FABRIC. I have more than I will probably use in my lifetime, or darn close. I have enough that I don't need to think about buying more, so I am going on a fabric shopping hiatus, and not just for Christmas prints, but all fabric. I have solids and prints in lots of colours. I have low volume and high volume and totes dedicated to this, that, and a few other collections. I have a stash that's been accumulating for the last nine and a half years, scraps still from my earliest forays into fabric establishments. I have quite an abundance, and now I need to USE IT UP.

Uh, okay, so you have a lot of fabric, Past Me says. Isn't that what the quilting industry wants you to have?

It most certainly is, Future Me frowns.

Why are you frowning, Past Me smirks.

Because life isn't merely about obtaining all the toys before one dies, Future Me chides.

It's not, Past Me inquires.

No it's not, Future Me sighs.

Huh, Past Me shrugs. Who knew?

Present Me clears my throat, and sheepishly raises my hand.

Future Me nods, then smiles, seemingly relieved for my awareness that more fabric isn't necessary.

Past Me then clears her throat. Is too much fabric like too many books?

Both Future and Present Me stare at her. There can never be too many books, Future Me says.

It's a John Steinbeck quote, Present Me adds.

What's the difference, Past Me says with a snark in her tone.

The difference, Future Me begins....

Is that writing is at times different than sewing, Present Me says.

How so, Past Me asks.

It doesn't cost me anything to write except my time, Present Me responds. Fabric is expensive and seeing it in totes makes me twitchy.

Oh, Past Me shrugs. You people are weird, she adds.

You don't know the half of it, Future Me says, rolling her eyes hard.

Giving myself permission

So many stitches (and quilts and books etc...)

I'm suddenly realizing the enormity of certain projects, and oddly I'm telling myself, as in Present Me to even more Present Me, to just stop, breathe, and DON'T RUSH. It's a weird thing, like Present Me is suddenly Past Me, but not snarky, impatient Past Me (sorry Past Me, but you need a serious dose of get over yourself), but a frazzled yet willing to listen Past Me that seems to possess a decent amount of self-awareness. Or just that surprisingly, I'm wising up to what I can and can no longer accomplish.

And what I might complete in the future, hehehe.

For starters, a few days ago Present Me (or Recently Present Me) realized that while I would LOVE to sew two lap quilts by the 26th of this month, I just cannot manage it. Instead said quilts will be Christmas gifts for the grandgirls. They chose the fabrics months ago, but this abuela doesn't have the wherewithal to do that much sewing while trying to write and prep for a guest, ahem.

The peace I inhaled after making that decision was MONUMENTAL. The girls won't even care, in that it's still not cold in the Bay Area and they have PLENTY of quilts (and other cozies) if it does get chilly. And it's far more important that I sew these quilts with peace in MY HEART, which will transfer within each stitch placed. 

And speaking of stitches.... The photo above was snapped last night, a Cornflower block in my hands. I have several EPP projects ongoing, am actively curating (and cutting) fabrics for another, AND.... I'm pondering one more Jodi Godfrey pattern that would be marvelous, but maybe not for this year. Or perhaps I'll bite the bullet or pull the trigger and go great guns.... Why are all these phrases weapons-related? Hmmm. Anyway.... I'm allowing myself to ponder (merely ponder as the kit isn't released for two weeks) diving into a Pirouette Quilt. Check out Jodi's IG account for pics, but suffice to say, life is short and English paper piecing is long-term, but then so are novel series and why not start plotting out a(nother) gorgeous hand-sewn project? I sew by hand nearly every evening, and last night I also did some hand-quilting. Maybe it's daft to even consider ONE MORE HAND-STITCHED QUILT. But I am, so there!

But, um, speaking of writing.... Just this morning, part-way through today's chapter, I realized that Book 4 is not going to be some typical 80-100K-word manuscript. I Googled Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry and The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough (two marvelous books and a couple of my all time faves) and gleefully found they were high up in the word count; approximately over 300K for LD and upwards of 200K for TTB. Oh my goodness, I was... Relieved! Inspired! Relieved! Did I mention I was relieved? LOL! Why am I so relieved? Well, currently the WIP is at 72K and nowhere near the end, uh, yeah. Yeah. But that's okay because a lot is going on in Book 4, and if the above two novels can push those word count boundaries, so can I!

Wow, that's a lot of personal permission slips granted. But you know what, why the heck not? Why not indulge in creative joy, why not take my time on quilts either in the machine-piecing or hand-stitching? Why not write a long-arsed love story that introduces another clan to my probably even longer-arsed series? Well's a deep subject, but I came up with an awesome addition to that including why, and why not? So much of our world is tied up in boundaries, by the opinions of others, by our own self-doubts and detours. But my goodness gracious, who is to say that choosing beautiful expressions in a myriad manner is wrong? I'm fifty-frigging-seven years old and if I want to have a few (or, ahem, several) totes with fabrics and paper pieces, so be it! My husband collects vinyl records, and CDs too. Will he ever listen to all of them to the point where they become unlistenable? No, but he still loves collecting. I probably have more fabric and plots than sense, but sense is relative to how it relates to happiness. And today, the tenth of November, 2023, I'm giving myself permission to be happy, to stitch pretty projects, to write with abandon, and embrace the processes. Embracing my present self and all that I am, slow sewing and prodigious noveling all wrapped up and tied with a rainbow, la!

Sometimes creativity is a fickle (tricky) beast

I can't wait to sew this together!

The writing is going well; I had a big day yesterday, another good smattering of words today. The subject matter is tricky, in that I'm dealing with racial issues set in 1971. But there's the love story too, of which I am giving all due respect to the drawing out of a twosome aching to come together. Stark are the repercussions of a split, hard for a child to grasp why someone so beloved wishes to leave. Not to give away too many spoilers, but my duo is in that holding stage, waiting for someone to make the first move.

And sometimes it's not one within the relationship to push things over the edge. Sometimes another character nudges one toward their soulmate. Arranging all these folks to their correct spots is like laying a quilt on the wall. Square by square fabrics are placed, then replaced. By the time I'm a good third of the way along, I start moving down beyond where it's easy to navigate, then I have to rearrange just to make sure rows are lined up properly. Kind of like foreshadowing in a novel, lol.

The quilt above is for one of my granddaughters. I have a stack of squares ready for the sister-quilt, but I'm in no rush. These will be for Christmas, mostly because there's no manner for me to sanely and peacefully finish them by the end of the month, 'nuff said. I don't have a timeline about completing my novel; there's no sane manner for me to wrap it up by 30 November, although yesterday I, um, wrote two chapters. Haven't done that in a long dang time, let me say, but the muse said WRITE and I didn't ask how much.

Being open to one's creative forces is so important, be it in writing or sewing or, well, whatever outlet a person uses to express that inner sense of making something. Not all attempts are successful, in a finished kind of way or in "I really like this!" manner. I don't LOVE all my quilts, but I like most of them and some I wish I could keep, hehehe. As for the noveling.... Many of my initial unpublished drafts are crappy, not merely in the storytelling but the plot itself. Some are great and I wonder if those will ever see life outside of a flash drive. What I've written in the last ten years and have released are.... They are novels I am proud to call mine, hah! Not all were easy, but here I am, still at it. I feel the same with sewing, even if the design is simple patchwork squares. My granddaughters picked out most of the fabrics, and it's my pleasure to sew them together like a snapshot back to this summer when the prints were chosen.

Yet one difference between writing and sewing is that while I decide upon the fabrics and pattern, the plot and characters often tap on my shoulder, asking for their stories to be told. This series is like that, and in the current WIP, folks are turning up suddenly, wanting their moment in the sun. The sun is shining today, but dang it's low in the sky, our treeline obscuring most of the rays. Still I'm happy for the brightness, thrilled by telling yet another collection of tall tales rooted in reality. And while sometimes reality sucks big time, the silver lining remains. Love matters, kindness is imperative. And remembering history is vital to keeping this human race at relative peace with itself and with our planet. Learning from mistakes and not repeating them, whether in creative junctures or on the wider stage, is how we're all going to have a happily ever after.

Anger through the eyes of a child

Cars that topped the list with my granddaughters this past weekend when Hot Wheels tracks came out.

My chapter today was mostly through the POV of a five-year-old. The idea of writing an unpleasant meeting between a few characters came to me last night, not that the child is insulted, but those beloved by the little girl are injured. Having read over said chapter, I'm glad I wrote it through a youngster's view, a little easier on my heart as well as including those often overlooked when emotions turn bitter.

I've been told that my novels are character-driven, and that I have a deft touch with all ages in a cast. I take a little pride in that, because children aren't merely bystanders; they hear, see, think, and feel. Their reactions are often more honest than adults, although they can also remain silent, not wanting to absorb the wreckage left by the storm. A shouting match would have been too easy to write; better is the youthful observation of irregular reactions by those familiar, and the wish to disappear as if to make the upset also fade away.

How this plays out remains uncertain, in that a definite schism has erupted between the little girl's father and the woman he loves. I won't use the little girl as a conciliatory factor, but I have an idea how to smooth the raging waters. This is a love story, a happily ever after required. If that's a spoiler, so be it. How the little girl develops remains to be seen....