Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 28

When the story goes to heart

Recent Cornflower block finish; at least something's being completed.

My latest novel is up to 50K. Technically that's a strong halfway point, but I need to confess for the plot I previously imagined I should be farther ahead in the story than where I am. That rarely happens, and I'm realizing this tale is doing its own thing regardless of my initial considerations.

Well okay then novel; you be you and I'll take a couple of days off while family visits! Ahem....

I think, within this series, despite it being a collection of kinda-standaloneish-books, I need to allow that it's more like The Hawk. Meaning it's one LONG book broken into these bite-sized hunks, and maybe this one might be the largest. I won't speculate HOW big Book 4 will become, as I don't want to paint myself into an inescapable corner or limit the story, which is nicely meandering as two characters fall in love. Yet the timeline I'd assumed has stretched itself, or shrunk itself depending on one's perspective, to a point where this morning while relatives snooze, here I am blathering on about how this story, like many of my novels, has taken on a brain and heart of its own. Well okay, huh. It happens, but not quite this long and drawn out-like!

Except that The Hawk is LONG, dude! That story took years to complete, in an off-and-on-again manner, chapters accumulating like raindrops we've been graced to watch seep into the ground. We're above one hundred percent of normal precipitation in Humboldt County, the first time since our move here that has happened so early in the year! This novel is being just as aggressive, hmmm. Not aggressive but excited, insistent, ambitious. Yes, it's ambitious like the winter rainfall, the word count going PLOOP PLOOP PLOOP in a way that makes me happy, much like the soggy weather, because 1) Rain is so necessary and 2) I didn't assume I could write with such abandon at, my, uh, age.

LOL!

Now there's writing with abandon merely for the sake of getting one's fictional ya-ya's out. Then there's crafting a worthy tale that might be longer than the previous installment in the series. I won't limit the story for the sake of staying under a prescribed word-count, yet I don't want a 150K bloated whale amid leaner tales. I desire a marvelous novel with just the right amount of chapters for that particular story, and if it has the heart to justify more than the usual length, okay! I want to keep an open mind, not wishing to throttle what has exploded, this is only the first draft. But I'm also mindful that while sagas are great, having one in the mid-section of a series might be overkill.

Or maybe it will be magnificent! All I can do is keep writing, after family is gone, allowing the characters and the muse to mesh in a manner I obviously couldn't predict. Such is the beauty of creativity, the awareness of spontaneity's importance within the process. Goodness knows some of my most clever prose and plotting were borne of seat-of-my-pants noveling, and maybe here such marvelous mayhem strikes again. Remember, it's November, National Novel Writing Month afoot. Let those first drafts go where they will. Reigning them in is another month's journey.

Subtle deceleration

Recent quilt finish that didn't get a proper photo shoot.

This post is about getting older. I use the word deceleration instead of slowing down, in that slowing down insinuates a notion that makes me slightly uncomfortable as I drive pretty fast, lol. But in myriad other manners, I am not the gal I used to be.

I considered this subject before I came home, fully aware that once I came home, writing wasn't going to happen the following morning. It's been some time since I got back from a short trip and immediately dove into writing. I did sit that first morning home and read over several chapters, prepping myself for the next day's work. Yet the writing isn't the only part of me decelerating.

Getting older is a funny thing; it happens gradually of course, but suddenly I feel like, "Wow! I'm, uh, nudging toward my late fifties. How the hell did that happen???" I had a great chat with a friend from my junior and high school days this week concerning this very topic. That aches and pains aside, neither of us feels as old as the numeral delineates. Which is GREAT! What is a number anyway? However....

When the aches and pains emerge, and they truly can spring out of friggin' nowhere, jeez Louise then I really am someone's grandmother, ahem. Let me also say that I am a relatively healthy individual. No prescription meds taken, although I down a few supplements each day (ginkgo, vitamins B-6 and D, turmeric, zinc). I've been lax about my back exercises, for which Future Me scowls, although Past Me shrugs, but Past Me isn't fully aware of what Present Me feels, bless her. But yeah, I'm in pretty good shape.

For fifty-seven, Future Me smirks.

(I never ask Future Me her age, it makes her grumble.)

But there was another reason I wanted to write this post, and for the life of me, I can't remember what it was, probably something related to my deteriorating memory, ha! Seriously, if I don't write something on a list, I forget it. Is that a sign of early dementia/Alzheimer's? Hopefully not, merely another step on the deceleration treadmill. But I am aware of it, in a "Huh, yeah, I am getting older," kind of way.

But then for crying out loud, I am fifty-seven. My youngest granddaughter asked me my age last weekend and I told her and she said, "You're fifty-five?!?" I shot back, "No, I'm fifty-seven!" We all laughed, for I don't mind speaking of such things that years ago women went to great pains to avoid discussing. I'm a lucky gal, in that I'm healthy and not on necessary medications and I still have my own hair colour. Which is kind of a mixed blessing, in that one of my sisters asked if I coloured my hair, LOL! Maybe that's why I don't feel as old as perhaps I could/should. When I look in the mirror, my brunette locks hearken to earlier days as though nothing about me has changed.

Future Me is laughing her backside off, might I say. Her hair is my colour, but I won't ask if she has her roots touched up every six weeks. Mostly I just wish to note that getting older isn't as bad as I used to think it would be, but it's also this strange zone of realizing I won't sew as many EPP quilts as perhaps I once thought I might. I won't write as many novels either. Heck, I could get hit by a bus tomorrow for all I know. Future Me is very tight-lipped about that kind of thing, while Past Me still cranks the tunes to eleven. Take those earbuds out of your ears, I shout at her. Tinnitus is a big fat drag, and one of these days you'll stop using ear/headphones when listening to music.

Past Me shrugs, and I think she stuck her tongue out at me. Fine honey, but I've warned you....

Otherworldly considerations

Happy Halloween! I'm home after a lovely weekend spent with my eldest and her family. Pumpkins were lit on Saturday night, hence today's photo. The top left is my youngest granddaughter's (with help from her dad) spooky unicorn, while the left bottom step carving and upper right heart are courtesy of my eldest grandgirl.

Today's title is a play on the holiday as well as what I considered while driving home yesterday concerning a future tale in my current series; science fiction isn't my typical wheelhouse, but I mulled over plot and characters, trying to think outside the box. Not sure if I came up with anything truly bound-stretching, but it was fun to ponder. I also admired the gold-dusted green trees along Highway 101, autumn's kiss prevalent the further north I traveled. Which made me consider how to describe whatever planet my sci-fi protagonist goes to next. This story isn't what follows the WIP, but hovers on my radar, at least in developing whatever turns up, in that while I know the end, leading to that conclusion remains a little fuzzy.

A not quite full anymore moon plays into this as well; I woke today to loads of moonlight spilling onto the ground, offering yet another glimpse of a world normally unseen. It's like how I love low tide, as sand and tide pools emerge as though a newfound realm. Starry skies and crashing waves are certainly eye-catching, but other views are just as magnificent!

I'm great with melodrama and characterizations, but worldbuilding.... Yeah, that needs some fine-tuning, not just the conjuring of said planet but the customs and culture that goes with it. My sci-fi protagonist wants to get home, but to make that meaningful where that person current resides needs to be sufficiently different from Earth. Perhaps I'll seek my granddaughters' opinions of what would be an altered world, they certainly have great imaginations with their pumpkins, also the necessary element, that of one's heart topping the list. I'm good for that, and I'm grateful they too realize the importance. Kindness and compassion are required for any world to remain viable.

Seventy-five minutes and everything changes

Over an hour ago I snapped the photo above. I was going to write a post about completing the binding on this quilt, all to remain being the rest of the hand-stitching, both for the binding and quilting. I tacked on that binding, then did some laundry, made a cup of lemon tea, then sat down to write this post.

But first I felt compelled to check Wikipedia, which never happens when I'm ready to write an entry. I merely sit, type, clean up.... I had already read my Wiki for the morning, hours ago. Hours ago Wikipedia had yet to put on their In the news column the latest mass shooting, this time in Lewiston, Maine. But now I know what happened there last night, and writing about quilt bindings seems rather useless, pointless, irrelevant. Once again many people are dead because someone had an assault rifle and employed it not only as a wide-scale murder device, but as a weapon of terrorism. Some of the dead weren't shot, but killed in the stampede that followed the shooting. I have no words for this, although my prayers are sent to the injured, those mourning their beloveds, and those traumatized by this experience.

This post isn't going to rail against lackadaisical American gun laws. I do wish to say how terrifying is the result of someone using any kind of gun to harm another or themselves. Two within my family used handguns to take their lives, so I'm not speaking as a loudmouth on a soap box. The pain that resulted was immense and immutable. I cannot fathom what those attached to this incident or any other mass killing must be experiencing, because it's not only the needless deaths that occur, but the terror afterward. That horror is real, and even years later may surface at any given time.

Life is beautiful. Life can also be brutal. Life is most definitely precarious and precious and in some people's minds rather cheap. Possessing a weapon of mass destruction matters more than one's liberty to bowl on a Thursday evening without fearing for one's life. Life. Life matters. Guns should not.

Mulling over the bigger queries

My latest quilt prepped for basting.

Writing science fiction isn't my usual gig, but it is beneficial for stirring within my gray matter questions I rarely ponder, the Why am I here and What does human culture mean in the grand scheme and What if there is life beyond our planet, those sorts of notions. Especially when I wake early and the house is quiet and it's dark outside and for all I know in those brief (or lengthy) minutes perhaps I am alone in this big wide universe, or all that I am is merely a curious soul wishing for answers.

Not that I mean to go off on some tangent, lol, but there's life as we all see it, then there's our imaginations or ruminations or whatever one ponders when all the usual flies out the window. My current novel is set in 1971, but a main character is from a distant galaxy, and despite being human, she has little in common with those she now associates. Putting myself in her shoes, I can't help but wish to push the boundaries, as she is finding her life hemmed in considerably not only by standards from over fifty years ago, but limitations due to her gender.

Wow, that's a lot to chew on so early in the week! Yet these ideas are worth at least a smidgen of my time, if only to better flesh out my character, and what about Present Me? Future Me grimaces, as I have put here a spoiler for the series, and Past Me is just happy I'm not bothering her. Well gals, this concerns all of us, because I'm quickly becoming Past Me as the seconds tick by, and Future Me, you need to get over yourself as the gatekeeper, hah! Yeah, it's that kind of day, maybe just from getting up well before dawn appeared, although daylight is growing so limited that dawn doesn't arrive until well after seven a.m.

What would someone from another cosmos think of us, not just those like me dwelling on North America, but humans in general. Would we look barbaric, civilized, boring... Of course it would heavily depend on from where said being traveled, their experiences butting up against ours. Yet we think we've come a long way, and in comparing 1971 to 2023, yes we have technologically. But wars still rage, illnesses ravage, people go hungry, die needlessly.... The human condition is better off overall, but in the grand scheme I don't think cell phones and infinite television channels are good indicators of a decent society.

Yet, maybe all this navel-gazing provokes me to be a more thoughtful writer. To bring to this story an element that matters deeply. Or maybe it's not about the writing at all, just some personal growth that may or may not end up touching a story or a quilt. I really don't know, other than more now than ever before I am trying to look outside the box, think creatively, set aside what I know. I want to grasp my perception of life and shake it like a snow globe until not merely does the fake snow swirl, but what's inside the globe alters. And I'd like to do it free from hallucinogens or other external stimuli, lol. Just permitting my mind to wander, to ponder, and to keep doing so, at least until another shiny idea appears.

Leaving well enough alone

Last night's sunset.

After a little internal deliberation, I have left the melancholy chapter mostly untouched. A few minor edits have occurred, but despite its unplanned emergence, today I merely added onto the story, nine chapters now accumulated.

The word count is rolling along nicely, this book not causing me overt issues, other than Chapter 8, ahem. Sometimes a novel has a Chapter 8 that sneaks up, throwing the expected plot slightly askew. Yet much has emerged since I last wrote, which was only two days ago, but sometimes a little break is necessary, or maybe a detour adds to the urgency. Whatever it is, or was, all is fine for now. And that in itself is plenty of OKAY.

I like to think of writing as a safe outlet for my active imagination. It's better to write the melodrama than live it, which at times is easier to think than do. It's certainly more preferable, but heartache increases our level of empathy in the best scenarios, leaving us better able to live compassionately. Or that's how I try to eke out my days.

I have a very strong connection to my characters, especially within a series. Even those that only emerge for one novel seem to cling to my shoes, as though I came from a clan of fifteen kids with heaps of extended family on both sides. I can't honestly say why I write what I do, other than within my head ideas scream to be liberated. Who wants to go around with all that noise clamoring in one's brain?

That's what I know on this rainy Sunday morning. Half an inch sits in the gauge, although yesterday was sunny and pleasant as though future precipitation was the last thing on the weather's mind. I trimmed a blackberry bush, mended some socks, finished a Cornflower quilt block, watched the Diamondbacks lose to the Phillies. We enjoyed a beautiful sunset last night near Humboldt Bay, pictured above. I thought about how when in my current novel one of the protagonist's views such a sunset, she will describe it as shiny ribbons in bright yellow and orange-ish gold. Or I'll write it as such. Storytelling never gets far from me, perhaps it never will.

Where does the story go next

After and before, whatever!

The weeding is done, as the photo above shows. Yeah I still need to trim the scraggly irises, perhaps a task for later today. Right now I'm feeling contemplative, because in today's chapter events took a turn I had not anticipated.

Sometimes surprises are good, like forgetting one is supposed to get a flu shot at eleven a.m. instead of at four p.m. That also happened yesterday, lol, but fortunately we were heading out to run errands when my phone alerted me that we first needed to stop at the local pharmacy where I did get my flu shot. Would that preclude the scheduled weeding I had planned for later in the day? It did not, whew, in fact my arm feels FINE, and the irises look so much better, and the sunshine was awesome and I went to bed last night feeling so good for all that had occurred. The writing is coming along with gusto, hurray! Garden maintenance is proceeding to plan, woo hoo! I'm all caught up on necessary vaccines, YES! But then this morning my novel took a strange turn that occasionally happens when the muse feels so inclined. I paused at the end of a sad scene, ate breakfast, then did some hand-wash, putting those items on the clothesline because this morning we have some sun slightly obscured by thin high cloud. But enough light shines that it was imperative to do the hand-washing, because who knows when we'll have another fog-free morning.

The weather has no bearing on my writing. I'll write while the sun shines, the clouds obscure, the rain pours. The only impediment is if the power is out, ahem, otherwise as long as I'm feeling compelled, my butt's in the chair, my face gazing at the screen while words slip from my fingers, plot and character and theme a'plenty! Yet this morning a wholly unconsidered twist emerged, slowly at first, then at a pace I knew was unstoppable. And it works nicely into the assumed plot, but not in a kind manner. It was a sad disturbance, I told my husband over breakfast, my mood not its usual pleasant tenor. I'm still feeling meh, despite completing the chapter, seven of them now neatly moving the story forward. I think tomorrow I will not write, permitting myself to either step away entirely for a day, or if I wake stupid early, I'll read it all from the beginning to see how it's.... It's certainly coming along, no question, but not as I had envisioned, but that happens, and I do try to not overthink it too much, in that what I think is going to happen sometimes is not at all what does happen, for better or worse.

Better for the book, but at times worse on my heart when this or that beloved character or idea gets axed. I am fully committed to these folks and their foibles, and today's events, while indeed beneficial for the protagonists, makes me a bit blue. Or maybe I am in sore need of a writing break, just one day mind you, but that has been my schedule for the last few years; write six or seven or even five straight days, then take a day off. Or a few days, if guests are here or if I am away for the weekend. I'm perfectly fine with those sojourns from the prose; I am not the writer I was seventeen years ago when this whole fiction gig began. In 2006, our last autumn in Yorkshire, I began my first book, writing every day. I amassed over one hundred K in November, merely in that I finally had a plot worthy of such efforts, and through National Novel Writing Month a group and virtual place to garner the necessary support. For a few years I wrote A LOT. I wrote all the time, lol. I wrote and while much of it was crap, I kept writing and got better and kept writing and that first novel, Drop the Gauntlet, was released through a small publishing house. I wrote more and released my own stories and then my dad's cancer became a doorstop to publishing my work. For a while. Then I started releasing The Hawk in sections as I wrote it, which I swore I would never do again. And I won't, but this series is separate books and, and, and....

And this novel, the fourth, isn't what I thought it was going to be. Which is FINE (it really is). It's fine because I never planned on Seth Gordon in The Hawk or writing the fourth, fifth, and sixth novels for Alvin's Farm (or the seventh, for that matter). Nor did I think I'd come up with a great story for the cast of That Which Can Be Remembered. And if I'm being brutally frank, when I started this current series, I was only trying to work out my own grief. But it has turned into something far beyond consoling my singular heart. I won't dare imagine who else might find it so soothing, but it helps me, except when it's confounding. And boy if that's not life in a nutshell, what is?

So yeah, I'm feeling a little unsettled. But that is okay, in that the writing shouldn't be so predicable. I need to be flexible when characters throw wrenches or the plot makes a detour. I can't control the fiction any more than I can the weather, which is now cloudy, hah! But as long as it doesn't start to drizzle, the hand-wash will stay on the line till later today. I have fabric to cut, a book to let simmer, maybe some gluten-free cookies to bake. This is definitely a day for chocolate chip healing goodness if ever there was one.

Making the most of a mostly cloudy day

It's been a wet start to the rainy season here, for which we are definitely grateful! Already over an inch and a half of precipitation has fallen, although the rest of the state remains pretty dry. Hopefully that will alter soon, in that what drifts over the top left corner of California will eventfully become the norm, however rainfall in this part of the country remains an unpredictably tricky beast even for the best forecasters.

However, when clouds give you fog and rain, best to keep busy with indoor activities, for which I am well-versed. The novel is progressing nicely; I'll work on Chapter Five when this post is complete. And speaking of completions, maybe by the end of this day I'll have another quilt top ready, lol. Pictured above is how it looked when I started yesterday afternoon, four rows still to stitch, as well as sewing the whole thing together. Currently it's waiting on my big table with a two-inch strip of Kona Magenta pinned to one side; I'm in the process of adding a border because it needs a little more breadth, height too, and sometimes a border is very good at keeping the fabrics from running away. Lol. I rarely use borders, in that by the time I finish stitching all those squares into one collective bunch, I am feeling rather DONE with the whole process. Yet borders are pretty, especially purple ones, hehehe. If not today, then certainly tomorrow this project will be ready for the next phase.

Yet tomorrow the weather is supposed to be very pleasant! I have heaps to do in the garden, so my afternoons will be dedicated to pulling weeds and trimming blackberry vines. This time of year requires judicious consideration on what to do when; when it's gray outside I will happily hunker down in the house. When it's sunny, I am obligated to be soaking up the rays. Obligated is a little harsh; I want to be out when it's gorgeous, but wow I love to sew, or cut fabrics for EPP, or hand-stitch basted shapes, or make notes for the next novel.... I am indeed extremely blessed to have the luxury of abundant leisure time, and I VERY MUCH DISLIKE wasting said leisure moments. Hate is a terrible word, so I won't use it, but hopefully dear reader, you get my drift.

Like right now, it's, well, early in the morning. I don't quite have the wherewithal to write Chapter Five, but a blog post doesn't require that level of concentration. I was thinking about this post yesterday as I sat in front of my machine watching the fog lift, then return, then finally around three p.m. the clouds thinned out so the sun could shine. That beautiful sunshine tempted me to head outside, yet I remained at the machine, absorbing it mentally while fashioning a long seam connecting two sections of the quilt top. I mused how yes, very soon even the sunny days will be chilly, but earlier that fog had been so thick, the perfect time to sew. Fortunately my computer faces a wall, haha, so rarely do I have such distractions when I write.

Maybe all this pondering on time's usage comes down to unconsciously (but certainly somewhat consciously) realizing I'm not getting any younger. Twenty years ago I never thought about it, or I rarely gave it any due acknowledgement. Not that I fret over it now, but.... The truth is that despite being in pretty darn good health I am three years away from sixty. Jeez, that's a little stark. Fifty-seven sounds better, or am I just being silly? I do have to parse out the gardening, why being aware of the forecast matters until those irises aren't choked with weeds and blackberry vines reaching the ground are tidied appropriately. I could have pushed myself to attach those marvelous magenta strips to the quilt yesterday, but no longer do I have the, the, the.... Internal energy or mental brazenness or physical wow-factor to run myself into the ground. Nope, not going there anymore. Future Me nods and claps her hands while Past Me snorts and frowns, but hey there honey, check yourself before I'm wrecked past saving. I'll make the most of every day to the best of my current dang ability, thank you very much!

Meanwhile back on this day, it's time to finish the cuppa, wrap up this blah blah blah, have a look at chapter four, then see what happens next!

Book 4, Chapter 2

Amid machine quilting the blanket above (and stitching yet another Ice Cream Soda block), I 'started' my next novel. I put quotes around started because I actually wrote the first chapter in May of last year, then immediately filed it away, moving on with the next literary shiny. Talk about a purpose for scattered fictional prompts!

That single chapter, and the five characters within it, became an inadvertent link to a manuscript I wrote at the beginning of this year after a beloved died. I'm all over inadvertentness, because what is attached to inadvertent is really not that off the cuff or out of the blue but fated from far beyond anything I can imagine, and I have a pretty attuned imagination, might I say. It's kind of like making lemonade with a inordinate amount of citrus, although I'd give up the rest of my writing life to bring back someone so dearly loved. However, all of that is out of my hands, so instead I'll start another book and see where that takes me.

In the meantime, there's the quilt pictured, a sixteen-patch with two random-ish rows of squares at the top and bottom. I adore the fabrics and the backing, whoa! It's a flannel-minky extravaganza that will be oh-so-cuddly as our days grow less warm and bright. It's a lot like the first chapter of Book 4; blocks made, then set aside, then pulled out and sewn together, bordered by some extra prints and suddenly it's the new shiny of my quilty life! Well, those Ice Cream Soda blocks are vying for first place in the how can I distract myself from the Cornflower quilt blocks so I don't finish them too quickly race. Oh my goodness I feel torn in about eight different sewing directions, while the current quilt on the design wall harrumphs, "What about me???"

Yes, yes, I hear you blue, purple, and pops of yellow quilt! But this afternoon my hubby and I sorted firewood and I had dishes to do and this post to write and.... And inadvertently I will complete that quilt one of these days, or weeks, lol. Maybe this week I'll finish the top. One step at a time, like one novel at a time, one quilt idea at time, one unwitting moment followed by another slotting themselves together perfectly into our universe.

Projects to which I must refuse

The smaller version of the Ice Cream Soda block; while I adore this block, an entire quilt of them isn't in the cards.

 A few weeks ago I considered taking on yet another English paper pieced quilt. I bought some papers, just to make a few blocks, which I did, and while I enjoyed stitching those blocks, when adding the attaching diamonds, I realized fashioning an entire quilt in that manner wouldn't actually be something for which I'd be thrilled. I then made the same block in small shapes (see above), mostly because I already had the smallest pieces basted, inadvertently tucked away for this precise moment in time. Past Me nods, with a sly smirk attached, while Future Me shrugs, not willing to give anything away. But in my heart, I've accepted that this particular pattern, while still tugging on my soul, isn't for me.

Book ideas are similar, characters and plots that call to me like sirens, aching to be realized in manuscript form, not merely languishing in my head. And yet.... Instead I'm writing something that hit me with a sledgehammer earlier this year. Will those other stories ever emerge, I can't say. Well probably not, but I'm not going to carve that in stone. Yet most likely those tales will live in my memories, some sketched out in longhand or in brief notes on my phone. Yes, I make book notes on my mobile because sometimes I don't have pen and paper but I usually possess my phone.

Half of Alexandra, the other side much the same.

It's tough saying No Thanks to a design or idea, in that when something catches my fancy I feel obliged to give it all due consideration, assuming it's a go until it's really not. I still have no plan for my Alexandra EPP (shown above). Right now it's a large circle, taking up space on the banister (not to mention all the basted pieces, many stitched together, that dwell in a tote downstairs). It could be hand-appliqued to a large piece of fabric, made into a wall hanging or enlarged with borders, becoming a lap quilt. Then there's a 40K story that I haven't written off completing, begun shortly after we moved to Humboldt County, based upon said county, lol. Maybe when I finish the current WIP, unless upon completion of that saga another plot muscles its way into the fray, bumping off older ideas like an assassin. Somewhat brutal, I accept, but that is often how projects usurp one another in my crafty life. One helluva plot or pattern stage a coup, and the hapless remnants slink away, hiding in totes or flash drives for an opening.

It's just how life goes sometimes, great ideas unable to come to fruition. I don't (overtly) berate myself for moving on because life is short and positive creative output sometimes looks a little devious from the outside. Maybe orphaned books aren't salvageable, but experimental EPP blocks will eventually be put to some use. And those stories gathering virtual dust in my Novels Not Currently Under Construction folder upon my computer had some worth, even last year's NANAWRIMO bust, which I lamented in a previous post. All writing and sewing matters, if only for the practice of the craft. Yet not only for practice, but purpose, in that I did write this or that, just as I sewed this or that. Nothing may come of any of it, other than self-satisfaction of time spent doing something I love.

That's why I write, sew, etc. I am actively engaged in something so meaningful to me. Quite a blessing indeed.