Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 34

Baby quilt #2

A great day to hang a quilt!

Another finish, that of a fabric variety; this is the second in a brief series, lol. Our grandson is visiting for a fortnight, so time to set aside some of my usual pastimes, although there's always a spare moment for the last few stitches along the back of a binding, then tossing said quilt in the wash and voila! Mild crinkles but much goodness amid solid and print vibrancy. Ahhh, I do like myself a lovely little baby quilt. 

The back is a mix of old and new, in that I've had the Disney princess yardage for almost ten years! The coordinating pink and mint green matching fabrics have been in my stash for a while, and seemed perfect to pair together here. The bottom yellow print I purchased last year, then a thin strip along the side that I used in a previous backing, a great piece of scrap right where I needed it.

Smaller quilts come together so quickly, maybe I should make more of them.

These three and six-inch squares were a joy to sew, and thankfully I have some leftover, hehehe. This was machine quilted with coral and bright green threads, adding to the multi-hued theme. Now to package it up along with a crocheted afghan and some EPP decorated onesies, then ship it to a lovely couple awaiting their first baby. Such a pleasure to craft, then gift. Then I'll move onto the next project on the design wall, as well as teaching my grandson how to use a sewing machine; he's eager to make a coaster after we play some ping pong, card games, board games and enjoy a few episodes of Bluey, ha ha ha....

Finished. My. Story.

March 2012; no idea which book I had just finished, but The Hook is looking fine.
 

Years ago after completing a novel, I would drive to the beach, to The Hook in Capitola to be exact. The trip was a good forty-five minutes over Highway 17, a little treacherous back then, worse now in that most traffic in the San Francisco Bay Area is more hazardous than before, or maybe I think that way because I'm older and possess less patience. Or maybe that's because now a trip to the beach is far more relaxing regardless of how goes the writing.

But the writing, for now, is DONE! This morning I began, then finished the final chapter, and oh my goodness, the sense of relief is PALPABLE! So many emotions attached to both the initial draft and this version, so much hand-wringing, and SO MUCH TO PLAN FOR, lol. The first draft was merely a way to decompress after an awful death in our family. This story is like a rebirth, although I'm still mewling about, trying to decide what goes where and who sticks along for the ride.

Despite a ridonkulous original conclusion, this story begat the notion for a series, which I've been chomping at the bit to dig into, but I had to affix a proper end to this tale, not to mention dig out all the crap that went into it in the first place. That's customary for any revision, but this was different than my previous storytelling methods; this was a real teardown, because from where this began was written by a different person. Me, of course, but a nearby version of Past Me that wasn't sure how to deal with that timeline's version of Present Me, while Future Me, currently Present Me, was waving from the other side of the street hollering, "Hang in there, the fog's not gonna last forever!"

I've lost beloveds before; my parents, a younger brother, my dad's first girlfriend after my parents' marriage broke up. Grandparents of course, an elder brother-in-law. But the death that hit my family at the end of January was the kind of passing that peels off those healed scabs, some very old, a few recent, re-opening a wound that truly thought itself immune to infection. Steeled from pain. Free to be left alone but no. I'm not sure I can adequately describe how the last fifteen months since our beloved's cancer diagnosis, then his passing not quite five months ago, altered all our worlds. Not that we're in constant mourning, but those realities are CHANGED. Plans that we all assumed were solid have been wrecked beyond the December earthquake, hearts cracked, futures reassessed. Future Me nods solemnly while Past Me wipes tears from her face while Present Me takes a deep breath, grateful for the support but still stymied at how wrenches are thrown, upending what seemed unshakeable. Damn but life is short and what matters most is loving each other, being kind, and being true to oneself. Life lessons all over the dang place.

Our current stretch of the Pacific here in Humboldt County; snapped this photo yesterday as the tide was creeping forward.

In writing this story, I attempted to harness what I had just experienced as well as paying tribute to a woman who I have called my sister since marrying her little brother over thirty-five years ago. We can't truly know another's pain, but as a storyteller, I can imagine a similar scenario, then fashion through fictional characters a path of healing for myself and whoever reads the yarn I've spun. And because I follow the Spirit as I spin, a magical manner of remedy sometimes emerges, even if at the time of crafting to drop aliens as the answer was more than a little crazy. But life is steeped in the inane, and better to laugh than to cry if the mood so warrants.

With all that said, again I repeat a vital truth: we are here to love one another. In this novel, its prequel, and whatever comes next, I want to expound upon that theme. Love matters most. Mercy comes next. Aliens have their place, ahem. Future Me giggles while Past Me is still breathing hard, grateful that Present Me finally wrote The End. And little old me is so pleased that tomorrow morning I get to sleep in without a novel calling my name, insert smiley face here!

Long term projects

Tonight's creative endeavor.
In addition to my planned fictional series, there's English paper piecing. Some designs are an eager stitch while others are the kind of thrill I dive into a few times a month, like sewing together these simple Lavender Quilt blocks, then tucking them into a tote. I need to fashion over a hundred of these four-inch triangles surrounded by half-hexagons; each one takes about three and a half lengths of thread, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes of sewing per block. Usually I'm entranced by the Cornflower Quilt blocks, which are much larger and take a few evenings, but they are some awesome shinies (which I know is technically not a noun and shouldn't be made plural, oh well) and currently I have one started and three more basted, whew! The Lavender Quilt will linger far past Cornflower; I don't know why certain EPP projects are more languid than others, but some just are SLOW GOING.

Maybe I like having a project that allows for a very subdued pace. It's like I can always come back to it; the tote lives near the sofa where I stitch just about every night, as though it was here before we arrived, waiting for me to remove the lid and breathe my dreams and heart into it. Sometimes I feel that way about the writing, in that I'll eek out a chapter, but wonder why I bothered, as the prose feels clunky and disorganization. The next morning I'll read it over and ponder if revision fairies invaded my computer, transforming mediocre scenes into decent work. Or maybe I lower my expectations? LOL!

Not every English paper piecing project (EPPP) piques my interest though, a few having fallen through the cracks; will I complete my Lucy Boston honeycomb quilt? What about all those one-inch hexie flowers I stitched a few years ago, neatly stacked in a small tote and dwelling under my large work table. Those require a few (ore several) afternoons of machine applique, and truthfully so do the Lucy Boston blocks, as I'm not going to baste, then sew all the necessary joining blocks. And let's not even mention EPP kits I've chosen but have yet to employ, oh my goodness. I NEVER AGAIN NEED TO BUY PAPER SHAPES, let me announce firmly. I have more than I'll ever use, just like I have heaps of DMC embroidery floss and yeah, plenty of fabric. Much like I have more novel plots than I could ever write, not enough time or energy for all the crafting thrills and spills.

If any of the grandkids need a hobby that has to do with needles, thread, etc, I can totally hook them up! However work done with one's hands requires a tenacious love for slow completions and much patience. Recently my eldest daughter crocheted a large afghan for friends, so yeah, some of these pastimes are being handed down. They might not be gripped as tightly as I cling to my methods of a maker's joy, but it was awesome to hear from her about yarn and so forth. Perhaps the EPP kits will be gifted to future generations, or maybe once I finish the Cornflower quilt I'll set my sights on another marvelous design that struck a chord previously. And maybe one of these days I'll finish the Lucy Boston blocks then cut some large squares in solid hues, then center the blocks on the squares and turn all those hand stitches into a viable quilt top. 

Basted papers to complete this block are in my traveling hexie box. I really need to bring those pieces to where this block waits.

Maybe, one of these days. Long term projects require the right mood from the maker and the perfect moment from the muse. Kind of like planets aligning and novels reaching The End. 

Akin to finding the Wizard

Talk about striking hues; last night I completed the ruffle for this bright baby afghan.

As Dorothy Gale wakes in the deadly field of poppies, the Emerald City waits on the horizon. I feel a LOT LIKE Dorothy right now, having finally pushed through the rewrites, an open expanse of yellow brick road and a green glowing landscape beckoning me to chase after it.

Dude! I can't quite wrap my head around where I am in the writing; for what feels like ages I've been wresting and wrangling with this story, finding myself tangled within its confines. Over the weekend, I gave myself permission to not expect a finish anytime soon. Did that liberate me to get my arse in gear, lol. Regardless, tomorrow I will write something NEW, in that the scenes I've added recently were to pad out a chapter or plot line. Wednesday's task remains mysterious and boy I can't wait!

Like Dorothy, I'm curious, albeit hopeful; did she ponder just how magical that wizard would need to be to transport her from Oz to Kansas? Did she consider where her friends would end up, and if they too would receive their hearts' desires? I have a lot of hearts to assuage as this story wraps up, my own included. Not that completing this book will suddenly make grief disappear, but I will be less apprehensive about crafting a series, in that I have fretted plentifully over finishing this section. I don't know exactly what will happen once it's done, in that we have guests arriving soon and I don't plan to start the next story until the house is relatively quiet. That might not occur until August, allowing me time to read through parts one and two, then see what the heck I've got on my hands! Horses of all sorts of colours is how I'm currently imagining this series, each book its own tale that could stand apart from the rest if a reader so desired.

That's no small feat, let me say, a notion that remains far in the distance, like Kansas to Dorothy as she approaches a massive green castle at the end of the yellow brick road. In this post, hopefully I've dusted off not only the snow but the sleepy poppy residue. Onward I march toward the last few chapters of my story. What lies ahead within my wonderful world of Oz remains for later days.

The goal or the method (or some of both)

Talk about one stop on a long process, that's what another Cornflower Quilt block is all about.

I love writing. I also enjoy completions, lol. This morning I started reading at the beginning not only of the WIP but what has become the second in a perceived saga. I had *HOPED* to complete the rewrite of this novel before next Sunday. Not sure if that's gonna happen, que sera sera.

In reading the first scene, I was struck at how this story (and whatever comes of it series-wise) has framed my year, which started off with saying goodbye to one deeply cherished. At the time, the WIP was merely a way to immediately process what I had just witnessed, it truly wasn't meant as the basis for what it has become. Maybe I need to acknowledge that to myself; for all my desires to wrap up this story by Father's Day, better is a slower path, especially since so much will follow. I WANT to finish this book, but indulging in the journey could be significant.

The destination vs the expedition; does there need to be an or between them even? Editing this novel has felt like an OR if ever there was one; I need to dig through the rubble, locate the jewel, then I can start afresh on the third parcel in this still only in my mind series. But the jewel has been placed deeply within the prose, in my heart, set hard into my soul. How to extricate such a treasure by assuming it was merely a manner of add this plot twist, don't forget that character, and for goodness sake plop those aliens here, here, here, and oh yeah over there too. Initially this story contained no extraterrestrials, but in fashioning an end when I first wrote it, I casually dropped creatures from beyond our galaxy into the narrative as though all along they had been in the thick of things. LOLOLOLOL! A crappy way to complete the story, I thought at the time, but at the time this story was only for me. For Present Me, might I add. Past Me and Future Me had no right to it because it was borne of excruciating grief that required an outlet. But then the aliens showed up and....

Suddenly all efforts between myself and Future Me were harnessed into hammering a prelude, while Past Me gripped tightly to what had been a cathartic endeavor. Artistic too, but mostly therapeutic, which it remains because relative sudden death is still damn hard to fathom months down the line. But more important is the love shared not only during one person's last week of life, but what was accrued over the years and what has since been freely experienced. Past Me is trying to find the meaning while Future Me nods gently and kindly, grasping to her chest an armload of stories. I can visualize her keeping safe the tales related to one little story, maybe that permits me to back away from my previous timeline. Those books are waiting for me to write them, they aren't going anywhere.

I don't know how many parts this series will possess, although I have a vague notion of how it will conclude. It began on February ninth, 2023; wow, four months have passed, plus one day. On this day, I'm giving myself full permission to spend as much or as little time in reaching conclusions as is necessary, not only for the WIP but all that follows. I took five years to write The Hawk, which ended up being about ten full-length novels worth of story. Yeah, I'm a decade older now, but when the muse starts pointing toward a definitive path, I know better than to stare at distractions along the ground. Past Me hollers from behind to keep my eyes straight ahead while Future Me grins, still clutching all those books. I can't tell how many, but her beatific smile beckons me to set aside particulars. Just write, she calls out, and leave the deadlines be.

(For fun, here's the first scene. The setting is summer, 2023....)

Beinga Sunday, Lucy Sorenson had already made cocktails. Condensation had collectedin the outer crevices of a large glass pitcher’s fluted edges, ice meltingrapidly on a sultry August afternoon. Lucy didn’t mind the brandy and lemonadesluicing together, although if Dana didn’t arrive soon, another glass of icewould be necessary.

Squintingwestward, Lucy saw no sign of Dana Noth. Grumbling softly, Lucy refilled hertumbler. A sudden gust of wind cooled her neck, making her shiver. She closedher eyes, quickly permitting sounds from inside the house as a distraction;murmured conversations collided with twittering birds, crickets chirping, frogscroaking. Lucy opened her eyes, then smiled; Dana was exiting her house at theend of their shared street, waving as she took her porch steps, her full cottonskirt rising with another gust of wind, revealing old bike shorts snug on herlegs.

Neitherspoke, but Lucy waved back, hoisting her glass in the air. Dana nodded,approaching Lucy’s house, which overlooked the narrow bay separating theirsmall hamlet from what most villagers still considered as the mainland,although what had once been deemed an island hadn’t been so isolated since Lucywas a toddler. Did Dana remember the flooding, Lucy mused, sipping her drink asDana sauntered through the open front gate, gathering her skirt in front of heras another strong breeze threatened to again swirl the fabric aloft. “Damnedwind,” Dana muttered as she reached the front steps. “Thank goodness it’s supposedto die down soon.”

Lucydidn’t flinch from Dana’s observation. “Pour yourself a drink before it needsmore ice.”

“ThatI shall.” Dana filled a large tumbler, then sat next to Lucy. The wide porch accommodatedseveral chairs, but theirs were set to the right of the front door, profferinga view not merely of the bay. If Lucy wore her glasses, she could make outDana’s shop two blocks down on the corner of Main Street. But Lucy had left herspecs inside, and until the pitcher required topping up, she wouldn’t go backin.

Insteadshe again peered at the bay. “Low tide,” she said as Dana tucked her skirtunder her legs. “Does that affect business?”

“Notreally. I shouldn’t have bothered opening today, it’s been so slow lately.”

“It’sa good distraction,” Lucy said, then finished what sat in her glass.

“Iguess. Any news?”

“I’mso sick of listening to birds I could puke.”

Danalaughed abruptly, then placed her drink carefully in her lap. Removing ascrunchie from her wrist, she twirled wavy gray hair atop her head, thenwrapped the scrunchie around it. She sighed, collecting her glass, swirling thecontents for a few seconds. Then she chugged the beverage, handing it to Lucy,who sat closest to the pitcher. Lucy needed no direction; she refreshed Dana’sdrink, and the women said nothing as Dana ingested what seemed so necessary,not merely that it was a lazy afternoon. Lucy was forty-seven, Dana fifty. Howmany Sundays have we boozed away, Lucy wondered as noisy wildlife continued toleak from the living room windows.

“Who’swith her now?” Dana asked.

Lucyfurrowed her brow. “Everybody I think.”

“Shit,that’s a crowd. Surprised all we can hear are the damned birds.”

Lucysmiled. “She gave everyone a scare earlier. I almost called you but I figuredshe was faking.”

“Don’tcall unless she’s….” Dana sighed, untucked the left edge of her skirt, thentucked it back in again. “Unless you want the company.”

Lucypatted Dana’s leg. “Got more company than brains right now.”

Sippingher drink, Dana nodded. “Any idea how much time’s left?”

“Nope.”

Danagrasped Lucy’s hand. “That okay?”

“Idon’t know. Well, it’s fine with me but….”

Someonestepped from the house and both women glanced at the front door. Nathan wasdressed in shorts, an old t-shirt, and sneakers. “I’m going running,” he said,walking behind them. He first kissed Dana’s head, then Lucy’s. Then he chuckledsoftly. “Leave me some for when I get back.”

“Sheokay?” Lucy asked as he took the steps.

“Justfaking,” he smiled, reaching the front gate.

“WhatI thought,” Lucy replied. “You have your phone?”

“Nope.If I miss it, sue me.”

“Goon,” Lucy said. “She’s not going anywhere.”

Nathannodded, gesturing to the bay. He stretched briefly, then began to jog slowlydown the slope where a concrete path encircled the hamlet. Within seconds hewas past where Lucy could have observed him even with her glasses.

Danatook a long swig from her drink, then again nestled it in her lap. “Lord, he’sa beautiful man.”

“Heis,” Lucy smiled, “and barely knows it.”

“Ohhe knows, but doesn’t give a damn. I wonder if he ever did.”

“Maybeback east, but not here.”

Dananodded, retrieved her tumbler, but didn’t do more than grasp it. “He doesn’tlook any older than when I first met him, shit that’s been twenty years.”

“I’vebeen thinking the very same.”

“Isthat all you’ve been thinking?”

“Sometimes,”Lucy sighed. “Life’s a funny thing, but maybe that goes without saying.”

“Funnyisn’t how I’d describe it right now.”

“Haveanother drink, then it won’t seem so depressing.”

“IfI do that I’ll need help walking home.”

“Nathancan escort you,” Lucy grinned.

“I’msurprised he didn’t take his phone.”

“Wherewould he have put it?”

“Maybein his shoe,” Dana giggled.

“Maybe.”Lucy briefly closed her eyes, allowing sounds from the house back into her head.If Nathan had felt comfortable in leaving, the rest would soon start filteringoutside. Or maybe the little boys would go upstairs. Glancing at the depletedpitcher, Lucy stretched her legs. “Should I make another?”

“Noton my account.” Dana finished her drink, then set the glass under her chair.“You want more?”

“Iwant one, but….” Gripping the armrests, Lucy sat forward, gazing at the nearlyempty bay. Glancing past it, she studied houses on the other side of the water,boats tethered to small docks, long piers with iron benches affixed.Mainlanders, she sniffed, then smiled at the outdated term. “You hanging outthe rest of the afternoon?”

“Ican. You tell me what to do.”

“Shirl’sin charge of dinner, not much to do but gossip.”

“IfI don’t have to think about cooking, you have me the rest of the day.”

Lucynodded, then gripped Dana’s hand. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

Scooting back in her chair, Lucy didn’t releaseDana’s hand, but she did take a deep breath. As she exhaled, a wave ofhelplessness flowed from her chest, clearing a slight blockage. Upon inhaling,she immediately noticed the scents of despair mingling with the sweetness oflemonade-tinted brandy, hedged by sodden mud. The fragrance of my adult life,she permitted, squeezing Dana’s hand and not letting go.

Profound truths realized and other treasures

I just LOVE these hues! Not completely rainbow, but multicoloured and just gorgeous.
My hubby and I just got back after spending a few days with our son. It's lovely visiting with family, yet always a treat to return to one's own domicile. I admired the results of a very wet winter; green flora flourished EVERYWHERE! I deeply considered my novel-in-progress, making notes not in longhand but on my phone. I did a little hand-sewing and a dab of crocheting, completing a blanket proper and starting the ruffle. Okay, maybe saying I 'completed a blanket' doesn't ring true until the border is finished, but it felt like a win regardless. (Unlike how I managed to center this paragraph inadvertently, quite a fail....)

The above picture is one of the treasures. The truths came about like drops of scattered rain, concerning my writing mostly, but not merely the WIP. I pondered why I only publish novels as ebooks, accepting my place as a simple storyteller who takes full advantage of twenty-first century tech to release my yarns in an unobtrusive manner. Yarn, ha ha; I've been crocheting for coming on thirty-five years, writing for over sixteen. My books are similar to blankets I've crafted, either with acrylic yarn or those created with fabric; I give away stories because I've written them, just like I gift blankets of various sizes. My novels aren't perfect, nor are the quilts and afghans, but they are distributed freely and with much love in every sentence and each stitch.

At the top of my blog I previously labeled myself as an author and quilter. As of today, I'm changing author to storyteller, a title less formal but more apt. Formality has its place, but no longer do I wish to be more than I am, a woman in her mid-fifties who enjoys telling tall tales when not fashioning warm fuzzies, although I hope the books do that as well when the plot calls for it. I desire to impart grace and love with prose and prints and a crochet hook if I have extra skeins. While I have stories to share and a technological method available, I'll keep releasing books as they emerge. I'll stitch quilts and crochet baby blankets the same. That's where I'm at these days. Keeps me mostly outta trouble at the very least.

Suspect sewing tools and never-ending revisions

A view indicative of revisions methinks.

A few months ago I ordered new hand-sewing needles; I like Clover both for sewing and their little clips. However the size ten needles, labeled for applique, aren't as long as they used to be, and are pretty useless for hand-quilting. That was a disappointment, but I had a few of the old production line stashed away, although I wasn't sure what would become of the truncated needles. Well tonight I found a use for them, in basting paper shapes! They are still VERY SHORT, but at least they won't be wasted.

Meanwhile I'm still fiddling around with my novel. Today I wrote a brief scene as well as rewrote a scene recently added. Dude.... Not quite a facepalm moment, but certainly an Aw Shucks sort of sensation that previously might have made me go GRRRR. But revisions are what they are, a reworking of a draft that desperately needed reworking, ahem. How the editing evolves is merely another day in the life of a writer, ba-dump-bump!

Rewriting is better than finding one's sewing needles are too short for their intended purpose. There's nothing I can do to lengthen needles, but boy howdy I can whittle away cruddy prose or pile more back on as necessary. This round of edits has meant a lot of going back in the draft to check this and confirm that and add more notes and delete dialogue written in the last revision, as I did today. The End feels further away than I had planned, but it's just a matter of actively perusing this novel within an inch of its multiple draft life. One of these days I'll get to start the next story.

I'm grateful the Cornflower blocks come together a whole heap faster than these revisions are plodding along. In the last couple of days I've basted shapes for four more blocks, whoa! Two more blocks require basting, and tonight I basted diamonds to complete the block begun a few days ago. It's great to put together these pretty assortments of octagons, petals, and squares in a variety of prints, bordering them all in green eight-point diamonds in myriad emerald hues. Of course the hand-sewing together of all these blocks won't be a speedy endeavor; that will take about as long as what these revisions have seemed, dribs and drabs of edits that Future Me holds to her chest like a special completed treasure. Past Me feels the same about this particular manuscript, but in a different manner, as though a sweetly scented healing balm that emerged as I tried to wrap my head around grievous loss. So while this novel currently drives Present Me more than a little nuts, my other selves are begging Present Me to just CHILL OUT, lol.

Sure, fine, whatever. I'll chill out. And do more revisions (and hand sewing) tomorrow.

A pretty finish

Eight-inch squares full of rainbow joy alongside some batik jelly roll scraps and Kaffe Fassett magic make for one happy quilter!

Last night I completed the hand quilting on this beauty. I had already bound it and after trimming the strings on the back, I tossed it in the washer this morning, then into the dryer and voila! Another finish of a quilt I would LOVE to keep, but it has an awesome home already in place.

This happens often; I'll sew up something that truly strikes my very own fancy, yet with the full awareness it won't remain in my possession. Yeah, I could design something similar, but it wouldn't be the very same, in that many of the skinny pieces were scrap and I used them all, ha ha! Also those exact solids aren't part of my stash, but boy I was pleased working with them. And of course the backing fabrics can't be replicated easily, neither can the binding, and, and, and....

The fish are courtesy of Violet Craft's Fisherman's Bend collection and the small squares are Kona Berry.

And I don't get to keep every quilt! Oh my goodness, what chaos would ensue if I did, LOLOL! Yet just as satisfying is making them, especially when hand quilting provides even more time to admire the gorgeous prints. And what joy is reciprocated when they are gifted, which fills my heart with stitching euphoria. Scraps from this quilt have already been incorporated into a few Cornflower Quilt blocks, allowing me to possess this rainbow magic on a manageable scale.

Such is the pleasure of sewing with the right hand, then giving away with the left. And now our sofa is less cluttered, freeing my evenings for more English paper piecing while a machine-sewn quilt top in progress requires my afternoon attention so it can go into the finish column. Kind of a never-ending marvelous cycle of quilting karma. Not that I'm making tremendous strides in winnowing my fabric stash, but maybe by year's end there will be a definite reduction, hah! Time will certainly tell....

Storytelling on the fly

Sweet Williams in myriad colours thriving where the deer can't nibble them.

In reaching the near-end of my fictional WIP, I'm feeling my way around as revisions bump into fresh additions, dribs and drabs of new writing, lots of reading previous chapters to make sure everything makes sense. Yet I'm enjoying how this new configuration is coming together, making notes in brackets so I don't forget too much of what remains to be included. I haven't been rushing myself, wanting to savor the experience, yet I'm also aching for the next book, which means I'm hooked on these folks, itching to share their stories. This is the best part of writing, having fallen in love with a quirky cast and wanting to expand their horizons further.

Yet I am taking off the upcoming Memorial Day weekend; a break is necessary, then I can return to writing with a recharged battery. This series has hit me so squarely in the face, I'm trying to find the required space so I can do justice to these folks and their foibles. I keep to a pretty regular schedule when writing, going five to six days straight, then off a day, then back to it. This longer break will be fascinating when I return for how easily I can dive into where I've left off, kind of in the middle of a chapter, lol. Yet for how disjointed these last few chapters have been, perhaps it's fine to merely need a scene or two short ones to complete said chapter. Writing in this manner of lots of dismantling, then restoration, is unusual for me, but when I wrote this 'book', I gave it a half-arsed ending which it didn't deserve, yet inspired me to write its prequel, which put me into series mode, whoa! Definitely a unique manner in which to begin a lengthy project, but change is good.

There is no right way to construct a novel other than to write and rewrite, telling a great story with compelling characters. Seventeen years after delving into spinning yarns, it's refreshing to find myself challenged by the method. I'd be untruthful if I said I want to write like this all the time, but again change is good. Or if nothing else, it makes me appreciate my typical routine. Total teardowns are occasionally necessary, but minor tweaks are fine too.

Piecing a book one paper at a time

I grew up with irises so these remind me of my youth.

I thought about this last night while sewing basted paper shapes; I stitch a bunch together, then set them aside as blocks pile up, waiting for a good long while as I still need to sew a dozen more blocks, plus baste loads of four-inch squares. then sew all of that together BY HAND, ahem. Writing my current series needs to be considered in a similar labor of long-term love manner.

Assessing my fictional WIP in such a way was liberating, because I never berate how much time I put into a paper-pieced quilt; those projects always emerge through a lengthy lens, no way to sew by hand as fast as machine piecing. Each block is akin to a chapter, yet for this series, it's more like sewing a few EPP quilts, lol. I just need to write/revise a little bit most days and know there's a great ending waiting for me.

I actually did some writing today; I've come to the the part of this second book where much required alteration, so a half-chapter has been plumped to a nearly complete chapter, which I might or might not finish tomorrow. Past Me is chomping at the bit for this languid pace while Future Me nods in appreciation. Present Me takes a deep breath, then another, and another. Writing a series takes patience by the bucket load.

Today's photo is from our garden; talk about being patient! These irises came with the house, and our first spring one bloomed. That autumn I thinned them, then last year we had several, and this year almost two dozen! Yet by mid-June they will be spent, and for the next few months all they will be is greenery. Thankfully some beautiful gladiolas and dahlias share that space, along with poppies, like the one pictured below.

I planted mixed colours of poppies between the irises; this is the first to bloom!

That flowerbed is a mix of spring joy and summer flourish. By fall I'm sick of the ragged irises, eager to chop them back and this year I will again thin them out, planting the excess in a nearby concrete planter that is currently filled with weeds and some Sweet Williams that so far the deer have ignored. Deer (and other critters) seem to leave irises alone, although they do eat gladiolas. And this post originally about writing and sewing has trailed off into the state of my flowerbeds, huh.

Okay well, time for some dinner. And playoff basketball. And paper piecing. Which takes a long time, like writing. But the results are as stunning as the perennials in my garden, yay!