Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 32

Blackberries for the (emotional) win!

Come to me my pretties, hehehe!

Amid fires here up north and a tropical storm far to the south and east, my home state is feeling the brunt of nature's power. I'm feeling better thankfully; all it took was getting off my butt and spending two of the last three afternoons picking blackberries. And quilting, writing, and prayer of course.

But to be honest, as soon as I wrote the previous post, then explored the horizon for blackberries, my mood shifted upward. In two days, an hour each afternoon, I gathered nearly five quarts, about sixteen cups' worth. I gently wash them, basically swirling about a cup and a half at a time in tepid water, then drain them, freezing them first on baking sheets lined with parchment paper for about four hours, then transferring them to plastic freezer bags. All those steps lifted my malaise, especially when combined with elements of my life that usually bring me the the most joy.

Momentary lows beset everyone, the blues for whatever reason creeping upon my heart, perhaps only to get me to start harvesting summer's bounty. I'll pick again this afternoon, slowly wandering from plant to plant, carefully plucking the fruit that comes right off the vines, discarding what slips too easily, lol. Sometimes I collect berries that could have used an extra day or two; they are pink after the initial freezing, but oh well. Most of my haul is fine, some of it a little past fine. A good mix and so many remain, not counting all the green ones. If those properly ripen, OMG we'll have berries coming out our ears all winter long!

I am not an outdoorsy kind of gal, if you haven't noticed. My pastimes revolved around desks and tables and cozy sofas. But being pushed out of that comfort zone is necessary, both in being surrounded by nature and stretching myself within my beloved hobbies. My fictional WIP is veering into a little action-adventure; I wrote a chapter of that genre this morning with which I am pretty happy. In the fabric realm, I'm gearing up for an autumn of angles, whoo-boy! Truth be told, I'll spend this fall learning how to sew angles properly, or I'll do my utmost to keep pointy as many triangles as possible. My marigolds are still blooming, meaning the deer have yet to find them, another victory. Our amaryllis belladonna flowers are just starting to edge their way from the ground. Both my husband and I thought they should have been growing already, but having checked last year's photos, they won't be out in full until September, which is NEXT FREAKING MONTH ALREADY, dude! I hadn't copied pictures from my phone all year long, ahem, and spent much of last night doing so. Photos from late April and early May seem so innocent, in that the days were lengthening, the sky so brightly blue, the sense of summer's approach like a lover's return from ages of absence. Now our skies are murky gray from smoke and lessening light, definitely a season's end in sight. The blackberries are ripe for the picking, autumn knocking on the door.

Despite summer being my favourite season, I am ready for change. Ready for amaryllis to explode not only at my place but all over Humboldt County. I'm jazzed for slow-cooker soups and yummy stews and maybe even making a little bit of jam, we'll see how our ancient apple tree provides. I'm anticipating visits from and to the grandkids, hearing of new teachers and classmates. I'm eager to revel in some previously owned but new to me items of apparel, my autumn wardrobe getting a makeover. And I'm ready to no longer feel horribly guilty about being in the house when the weather is so beautiful outside, although last fall the days were gorgeous through most of October; we joked that this day was THE LAST NICE DAY, then another followed just as pleasant. By then the blackberries will be done, the amaryllis fading, the irises cut back and perhaps even culled. The garden will be long finished, but we'll ponder the almost daily green bean collections, as well as a few last strawberries enjoyed. Probably by October I'll have finished my novel, maybe even started the fourth of my series. I have high hopes, but nothing firmly set in stone. Life changes as we blink. Best to roll with the punches and celebrate the berries, for despite copious plants, plenteous cotton prints, and a plethora of plot lines, these exact moments will not come again.

Life speculation

Finished quilt top.

A quilt came together yesterday afternoon wholly out of the blue. I've been feasting my eyes on a placemat made of scraps from sixteen-patch blocks that have been languishing in a stack upon some surface area in my office. Those nine blocks merely required pinning, stitching, then pressing, but it hadn't been pressing within my soul to do all of that with them, lol. After lunch and laundry folded, I took stock of that stack, brought up the photograph below, snapped back in May when I decided their placement. Confirming which block went where, I pinned, stitched, then pressed. Suddenly I had a forty-eight inch square quilt, ta da!

But I wasn't finished; forty-eight inches all the way around was a little small. Scrounging through scraps recently used, I came up with twenty-eight squares, made a top, then a bottom row, then spent the rest of the afternoon completing the quilt, which included ironing the entire top, what with rows pressed up, down, and side-by-side.

By suppertime a quilt was photographed on the laundry line. Meanwhile there was laundry to put away, guest beds to make, our bed too. Dinner to prep, a whirlwind of activities, but somehow a little quilt emerged. I would love to find it a new home, but I'm nervous about the narrow-for-linen seam allowances, and for now it will reside here, unless a very brave soul wishes to liberate it, lol.

I wrote another chapter today, a little bit of fits and starts, kinda aggravating in that before the writing break I was so in a groove. Things could be worse; currently my husband is suffering greatly from either a whopper head cold or massive allergies. I'm hoping it's the latter, as I don't want to get sick. After lunch I pulled out all my flannel and minky scraps and arranged a backing, then proceeded to sew that together. Then I dug through large batting scraps, found three strips of the correct lengths and widths, but the sun was out and I felt slightly guilty for hunkering inside when a gorgeous day beckoned, So now I'm typing this on the back patio, a mild breeze blowing, birds chirping, marigolds blooming. These were started from seed back in mid June when our grandson visited and somehow the deer haven't found them (yet).

For all my getting stuff accomplished, be it crafty or wordy or fold a lot of laundry-like, I'm not feeling happy. My mood isn't sad or depressed, more of a huge dose of MEH shoved down my throat. I don't know why; the weather has been marvelous, our recent guests were fabulous, and hey the washer works! Other than my husband's malady no one in my family is terribly sick. Maybe I'm just in a mid-fifties funk, which certainly occurs once in a while. I'm behind in my sleep, that I know, and if I was smart (and really brave) I'd give up (or at least severely curtail) my caffeine intake, AHEM.

Or maybe it's just that every once in a while life feels hard. Fruitless. Rootless. Those big existence queries seem to weight many tons; why am I here, what's the purpose, etc, etc, etc. Normally I don't ponder too hard those inquiries; I live a life of grace and try not to get all worked up about what is beyond my control. But I'm also very human. I make mistakes. And every once in a while those big questions trip me up. Why am I here, why do I write, or sew, or do laundry? Okay, the last one is easy. But the other two.... 

I like keeping busy, I dislike being idle. Maybe I need to slow down and find joy in just BEING. Writing is great and quilts are cozy, but there is more to life than those activities. LOL. Recently I've incorporated stretches for my back and hips into my daily routine, and while i felt better physically, it was DAMN DIFFICULT to make the time for those necessary elements because I felt I wasn't accomplishing anything tangible. Making peace with exercises took weeks, perhaps another round of personal peace talks needs to occur. A meditative accord, if you will. Maybe over a lovely cup of decaf even; I'll let you know how it goes.

(Postscript... After writing this I got off my keister and picked about eight cups of wild blackberries. It was a slow process, as I didn't wish to rip up my hands, but very pleasurable and mind-clearing. Said berries are washed and in the freezer. And boy it's healing to be outside in the sunshine.)

Chapter 6 while quietly quilting

Another pretty Cornflower block; might be the last one until the hand-quilting is done, lol.

I sat with my novel yesterday morning, reading through chapters four and five. But the necessary motivation to start chapter six was elusive, and after a few moments I saved, then closed the document. Despite so much wanting to write, I didn't have the energy or impetus. And I'm smart enough to not push it.

Instead I basted the Halloween quilt, which was necessary, also soothing, in I wasn't required to think much. The weekend was full of conversation and joy, and when guests leave, I'm deflated. And tired. And the washer repair person was due to arrive, so writing really wasn't gonna happen, no matter how much I wished otherwise.

Usually I'm good at being aware that what is supposed to occur bests what I want to happen. Or I'm adept at adapting on the fly, lol. Yesterday I was out of sorts, but grateful that basting was mindless. I prepped my sewing machine, then it was lunchtime. The repair person arrived, fixed the washer, then I threw in a load. Then I sat at my sewing machine and began to quilt a large blanket.

I suffer from tinnitus, and while I use earplugs and noise cancelling headphones to blunt the sound, the afternoon's activities seemed hard on my ears. They rang as soon as I removed my gear to put more clothes into the washer, and I began to wonder for how much longer can I machine quilt anything; coasters and placemats don't require as much effort as a quilt, but perhaps I may increase the amount of hand-quilting on those items, although attaching the binding will always involve my machine.

Last night I began hand-quilting, which I do enjoy, but it was different this time, as though admitting my hearing issue is demanding a permanent shift in my beloved hobby. I like hand-stitching, don't misconstrue, but hand-quilting takes much more time, and so many more stitches to produce the super-crinkly look that machine quilting provides. I never mastered free-motion quilting and now I'm glad, because giving that up would be painful. But ringing ears hurt too, just like sitting at my computer and not feeling able to write. Thankfully that passed; chapter six emerged today with few pauses. I need to be grateful for what I can do, and not lament what is slowly slipping from my wheelhouse.

Fascinating times, I'll say. Most fascinating....

Autumn approaches

Autumnal fabrics shine in this Cornflower block completed recently.

I know it's not even the middle of August. In SO MANY PLACES it's hot as hades. Yet the angle of the sunshine has dipped, and despite being extremely pleasant here temperature-wise, the sense of summer's cessation lingers in the air. Perhaps it's due to when we lived in England, summer seemed to end as September began, which was when autumn started on the UK calendar. Blackberries are still getting ripe, marigolds planted late are blooming, bees are buzzing, and as I noted it is just mid-August. Still I'm feeling the altering season wrapping around me.

Our weekend guests left this morning, so I dived right into making a backing for the Halloween quilt top. Working on that project adds to the feeling of fall, not that I'm eager for cool weather, but rain would be nice. We had a bright morning, I actually witnessed the sunrise! That sun has moved to the south coming on 7 weeks since the solstice, which is a little more than a quarter into the latter half of the year, if one considers the year over at the winter solstice. Regardless, each of these days slips us further into 2023, and where has the darn time gone?

Recently I went through my fabric stash, what waits on a low bookshelf and of course the totes. Ah totes, several of them residing under my large work table, housing scraps as well as a few collections. Those totes aren't being emptied immediately, but now they are labeled, lol. Definitely an autumn kind of organizational activity.

I'll get back to my new novel this week, baste a Halloween quilt, then throw another onto the design wall. Fall-themed placemats require my attention, as do the blackberry vines; I'm hoping to start harvesting fruit that will be frozen for next year. And our washer is being repaired tomorrow! The part has arrived and fingers crossed in twenty-four hours I'll be busy folding clothes. Not that laundry has anything to do with autumn, but hopefully I won't need to make a trip to the laundromat, ha ha. Whatever your weather, enjoy your week!

Five chapters and a quilt top

Ta da, an autumnal/Halloween themed quilt top!

Since Saturday, minus Sunday, I have been splitting my waking hours mostly between one quilt and the new novel. A little laundry muscled its way into the fray, but now something is wrong with the washer, so.... That leaves more time to write and sew, lol. And write and sew I have!

We have guests arriving tomorrow, thusly I wanted to finish the quilt so they wouldn't worry about loose squares on the design wall, which resides in the guest room, sigh. But it was a great reason to machine-stitch all seventeen rows across and down, and I'll make the backing for it next week. I was so into sewing the squares, then pressing various lengths of rows, then nesting seams, sewing those rows, aligning them correctly, then more sewing, more pressing.... I like mixing eight-inch squares amid the four-inch squares, sewing two rows at a time, which might or might not make the whole thing come together more quickly, but it feels advantageous to plop two finished rows on the wall, then start two more. Other than the first row, those subsequent have some part of an eight-inch square within them. I don't get overly ambitious, but keep the larger squares in the same two rows. I love sewing, but not complications.

As for the novel.... Not since writing The Hawk have I felt so liberated, unfettered, dude! It's hard to explain, in that I'm still using two hands and the same brain, albeit it slightly aged, yet this process feels so altered, I've been writing in my pajamas even. If that's TMI, I do apologize, but this is how much I yearn to tell this story, I can't even be bothered to dress for the day.

Today I realized a bit of foreshadowing, wholly unplanned previously, which only enhances my joy, and the sense of when I don't overthink a story, it knits itself together in beautiful manners beyond my level of imagination. Last fall I plotted out an idea within an inch of its life, tried writing it for National Novel Writing Month and what a spectacular fail that ended up, bleh. Yeah, I'm inventing aliens like they're going outta style, but pantsing a book is often the best way for the Spirit to move my muse into high gear.

Sometimes quilts are made on the fly, but only in the realm of digging through scraps. Funny how that works, one pastime considered quite literary able to thrive on minimal prep while another truly lives up to its potential with a modicum of consideration. And now after a few BUSY days, I'll not write (although depending on how late guests sleep I might read through what emerged this week), nor shall I sit at my sewing machine (but I will definitely park my behind on the sofa and stitch some EPP while my friend knits). Instead I'll do other things, lol. And until the washer is sorted, laundry won't be one of those tasks.

I'm not so good with spaceships

Nine of seventeen rows completed, but my fictional series has a long way to go.

My husband likes to say he's not so good with colours. Which is a little funny, what with me and fabrics. But while I thrive in writing about relationships, spaceships are another animal. Or beast, or whatever. I'm not so good at hard tech or action adventure or that kind of thing. Yet I'm three chapters into the new draft and LOVING IT!

I realized yesterday, or maybe Sunday, that despite bringing a character over from the previous installment, said character has undergone some...changes, ahem. And despite introducing two new characters, I know them well because they originated from a single chapter of a tale deeply pondered but not completed. It will be the book after this one, so while this novel fills in their backstories, they have been in my heart a long time.

Huh, fascinating! And then there are the spaceships. LOL. Spaceships, really? Really really! Well, o-kay.... Yeah, that's what I'm yammering about, because a novel about the future set in a different universe means sci-fi, but I take a very low-key approach to the nitty-gritty, instead focusing on how people communicate when languages are far apart and how the protagonist deals with being SO FAR FROM HOME, ahem #2. And how a newbie (but an oldie and goodie) grows not on me, but on the protagonist, the reader, and well, me too, in that I know her quite well but as one who has a surprise in her past (and a big shock in her future).

Well that's a vague mouthful! I can't reveal too much because of SPOILERS, but I need to clear my head of all this fictional hoo haa. It's great to be so enthralled in the writing, even if I'm a little leery of spaceships. But even on spaceships people discuss their hopes, their failures, and maybe even share some good jokes. Science fiction is the imagined future technological advances and/or major social and environmental changes (thanks Google). Many genres fall under sci-fi, and what I write is my own variety; steeped in an emotional element that binds people from all places and backgrounds. And their ships too, certainly.

Chapter one

Adorable purple pumpkins were the impetus behind this block, combined with scrappy Art Gallery fabric that isn't hard to EPP. Sherri Lynn Wood's amazing book underneath the block is a real winner and not merely for improv quilting.

Despite starting a new book yesterday, I'm not writing today. That's not typical of how I approach a first draft, but I'm so glad to be back on the storytelling path, I'm not overly bothered.

So, a new manuscript, hehehe. I read over that initial chapter a few hours after completing it, making notes for some immediate alterations, which I put into place this morning. It's early here, I didn't sleep well, but having mentally prepared myself to NOT WRITE today, I was only good for small revisions. That's a funny mix of go with the flow and stay the course if ever there was one.

This series is all about spontaneity and structure intersecting in a manner I can't try to overthink. Yesterday's writing was a little stop and start-like, but once a few paragraphs emerged, I was lost in a different world, and I don't merely mean a new fictional realm. This novel is set way in the future far from this universe. Far Away from Home is the working title, and it will be followed by a story that twists that title just a bit. I'm introducing several new characters, and two will figure heavily in the next book; currently in this series two novels are tied closely together, kind of a neat trick, yet while I know how the plot will evolve, I don't have future stories paired in this manner.

But I have a first chapter under my belt, woo hoo! And a pretty Cornflower block under construction, as well as a new quilt on the design wall, three rows already stitched together. Here it is in grayscale; I'll post a colour version once I'm further along in the sewing process.

Lots of crafting underway, which makes me feel good in a get my creative ya-ya's out manner. Now if I can just find a better sleep schedule, lol. One issue at at time....

Why I do the things I do

I don't remember the designer, but how adorable is this holiday print?

A few months ago I bought some Halloween fabrics. I made two quilts and heaps of coasters last year and wanted to sew a couple more H'ween quilts this year, aware I would require a wee bit more fabric. Those prints were immediately tucked into a tote, and while not summarily forgotten, they were certainly out of sight, out of mind.

Earlier this week I retrieved that tote and said fabric, pleasantly thrilled for Past Me's choices, which included stashed away non-Halloween prints that matched in colour. The last few days I've been cutting all these cottons into simple squares, then yesterday I started plopping said squares onto the design wall. The first quilt isn't going to be small; my two grandsons need plenty of yardage to snuggle together. The second is for my sister who LOVES Halloween. If she could eat and breath skeletons etc, she would. Hers will be a large lap-sized blanket, enough space on the sides for her kitties. Whatever fabric is leftover will be used for the backs of these quilts, in that other than Christmas, I'm not a big collector of holiday prints and despite just ordering a gob of cotton, I'm trying to use my stash whenever possible.

While we live in a cool-ish climate, over the years I've constructed enough quilts that for my own household I'd never require additional blankets. That leaves sewing for others, whether it be a full-size comforter, lap quilts or anything in between. Then there are coasters, placemats, tablecloths, and cloth napkins. I've made reusable baby wipes, burp cloths, doll blankets, baby blankets, duvet covers.... While I'm leery of crafting apparel, if an item merely requires four relatively square corners, I'm all in! And if I can gift said creation, all the more reason to buy additional fabric and sew some more.

Writing is *kind of* like that, in that I don't write novels for my own reading pleasure. In gifting my stories, I garner the joy of sharing this or that plot idea/viewpoint with no designated recipient. It's a very ethereal manner of crafting, both in the writing and what happens afterwards. And of course in the overall creation of said novels, lol. I write as I sew, directed by an inward spirit propelling said pastimes.

Last night, while stitching a Mandolin block, I realized another purpose behind the writing, maybe the sewing as well. As a youngster I was told my life had little worth. It wasn't a subtle admonition, made by one whom I trusted as a source of love and comfort. This haunting untruth laid to waste my relationship with this party, not to mention my own self-esteem, which suffered greatly for a long time. Forty-plus years later I'm still affected, albeit it in minor matters, for which I am exceedingly grateful in the minor department, and I guess not surprised by the still affected arena. Scars remain scars, long past the healing.

What does that have to do with my hobbies? To me, books and quilts proffer love. They provide other kindnesses too, but love comes first: snuggly warm quilt love. Pretty placemat love. Cozy coaster love. One of a kind, handmade only for you love. And now it's turning into a let me show you how to sew and pass along the love kind of love, which is meaningful in a way I fully can't describe. Sharing a skill with my grandkids, just as I taught my children to crochet and cross-stitch, WOW! That's a reciprocal sort of love that goes a long ways in mending my at times weary heart. Writing is a different sort of therapy, in that hearts are broken constantly within the fiction, yet when stitched back together, I hope to relay how strong are these new muscles, how compassionate, how giving. That's the key to emotional healing; setbacks will happen, but if overall a person can harness renewal to love more, somehow the brokenness is but a faint shadow. It never truly fades, but is melded into one's soul, making the heart larger, more capable of embracing others.

I've known this a long time, within the writing and elsewhere in my life, but it was odd considering it last night in relation to how I release books; nearly all are free. Writing is a gift, and I'm also grateful that I don't need to turn a profit. Maybe some small part of me doesn't think my books are good enough, or perhaps it's more that since I permit writing as a blessing, to charge for my stories isn't right. Maybe I publish seeking affirmation. Possibly (or more likely probably) it's some combination. Whatever it is, here I am going on and on about it. And for whatever reason that is, again I'm thankful for the wherewithal to write, to sew, and to be cognizant. And mostly to love despite damage and cruelty. That is why I do these things I do.

Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping....

A not-quite-complete Cornflower block, the perfect pictorial example of Past, Present, and Future Me.

This past weekend Future Me and I crossed paths, but not in our usual way, her in the distance and me trying to ascertain what she's hoping I'll gather from her scattered pearls of wisdom. This time we practically sat side by side as I chatted with sisters from my various walks of life. Conversations about knee replacements and shoulder surgeries were rife between myself and these marvelous women while Future Me quietly cleared her throat, grasping my hand tightly as though trying to maintain her presence as well as keep my attention focused on so many subjects; precarious health as one ages, gratitude for recovery, thankfulness for friendships, and the knowledge that all of us aren't as young as the grandkids clamoring for our attentions.

Future Me tagged along as I went from household to household in my hometown, stealthily admonishing me to revel in these exquisite discussions that veered to talks about Lego goats and Bluey, lol. Much time was also spent chatting with my daughter and grandsons, but Future Me slipped away, probably for a coffee, during those sessions. Future Me reemerged when I was paired with a beloved my own age, not as a warning that my time with that sister was waning, but more to bolster the sense of how far we have come since being four or eight or twelve or thirty years old. Our achy knees and other creaky joints certainly remind of our advanced years, but something else was fueling Future Me's rare agenda so closely tethered to Present Me. Which is now Past Me, but only just, a little confusing I understand, but aligned to my current fictional WIP, steeped in temporal displacements. Not that my timeline is askew per se, but rather I'm starting to grasp how time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping...into the future.

Present Me grasps how tenuous are these moments that separate Past Me from Future Me, however Future Me wanted to integrate herself into the NOW, as though saying: Despite how good you feel today, no longer is youth something to claim or desire or lament not possessing. Right now is all that matters, and while I exist in your timeline, live as though no future awaits. Seize this minute. Dwell in this beautiful, marvelous sliver of time. Excise regrets. Embrace current limitations, for they will only increase in number and severity. And foremost, express love and kindness until your eyes are either brimming with tears or closing from exhaustion.

Well okay, uh-huh, you got it, ahem! Yet I didn't roll my eyes at her treatise. I patted her leg, silently thanking her for these priceless nuggets of pure gold, glittering as though the real treasure. Driving home yesterday I didn't feel old or irrelevant, although I was hot, itching to be back in my temperate Humboldt County. I wished for cool weather while pondering a new chapter in my life, that of an elder within my family. My mom died five years ago, but in no way was I prepared for the mantle of matriarch. Subsequent passings have recently crystalized my place among those I cherish, not that I want to rule anyone's roost but where I call home. Yet home is a fleeting term, as we are transient beings. Future Me suddenly seems able to breach dimensions, not that I felt she wished to set roots in the here and now. But my here and now isn't how it was when the grandkids were tiny, or even what it resembled twelve months previously. Here and now is this post, a cup of delicious Yorkshire Gold tea (with a splash of milk), and some Halloween fabrics in dire need of being turned into four and a half inch squares. Here and now is fast turning into flashes of memory which finds me grasping healthy hands and knotted digits as Past, Future, and Present Me begin a journey once considered eons away. No matter your age, I pass along Future Me's manifesto: Embrace this moment; it will never come again.

Gracious gifts from the novel fairy

Container nasturtiums on the back steps that scratch my gardening itch.

With forty pages left to read, I am over the moon with my series starter. Often after I step away from a manuscript, I wonder if during my absence, a sprite accesses the story, sprinkling magical dust throughout the novel. When I return to give it a read, I find the prose is snappier, characters are well-rounded, plot lines are taut. Did I actually compose these scenes, form these sentences, shape these protagonists? If it wasn't me, then definitely a pixie has infiltrated my computer.

No guarantees the second installment will seem this pleasant, lol. Yet I can only deal with one book at a time, and right now I'm quite enjoying what I have tentatively titled A Love Story. Not the most singular name, I grant you, but each part of this series will also possess an overall moniker, reinforced with a numeral, then a secondary title. I don't mind giving away the secondary title, but will keep the main identifier under wraps for a while. The Hawk was differentiated merely by Parts 1, 2, etc. Alvin's Farm was the name of the first book of said series, the following novels each with their own title. And while my current saga only has two manuscripts completed, the next two are clear in my mind, relative to the wide scope of what I have envisioned. Those titles are firm, but after that, I might be seeking the Novel Fairy for assistance.

I don't know when I'll sit down to start Book 3; August is shaping up to be another month teeming with friends, maybe family too. I have quilts to start, which means fabrics to cut. The garden is its own animal this summer; green beans both bush and pole are starting to produce, but the bush variety is lackluster, and both belong to my better half, ha ha. My sunflowers are doing well as are late-planted nasturtiums and sweat peas, the petunias still blooming. Flowers are about all I can ponder growing in the foreseeable future, our summers here not warm enough for me to bother putting random veg into the ground. I'd rather sow plot twists, nurturing characters and their foibles. I'll weed out the unnecessary punctuation and whatever else is redundant, pruning chapters into well-shaped collections of glorious story-making. Or the pixies will, lol. If nothing else, my heart is happy in a semi-writing vein; maybe the sprites sprinkled dust on me too.