Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 42

When a quilt is not like a book

So great to have this completed!
 

As of last night, the Grandmother's Flower Garden English paper pieced quilt is DONE! Washed on tap cold and dried on medium heat, I am pleased at how well the minky backing weathered, not to mention the rest of it. That backing, while adorable, was a bit of headache in how easily the nap is ruffled, but I imagine that element will be a fun distraction while my granddaughter fiddles with it when she goes to bed.

The weight of it is not too heavy, another relief; I worried that between all the extra fabric each hexie possesses combined with my usual brand of cotton batting, a minky back would be cumbersome for a youngster to wrangle. Of course it will be put to the test in a few weeks, but hopefully she will find it cozy and comfortable and what more can a quilting grandma desire?

Yet these two paragraphs, while necessary to frame this achievement, don't answer the question of today's title, which I pondered this morning amid stacks of dishes washed because my stove was littered with pots and pans. A quilt is not like a book when said book is planned as more than a rough draft. I've written LOADS of first drafts that won't see the light of day. But a novel that carries enough heft to pass those initial rounds requires further investment. And a finished quilt just needs a whole lotta corporeal love.

What I mean by the ruffly nap, but it smooths down easily.

Which this blanket will definitely earn, even before I give it to my granddaughter. This abuela will be trying it out nightly, hehehe, making sure that minky backing is truly warm. But after I give it to her, odds aren't high I'll see it more than peeks when I put her to bed when I visit her. A beloved fictional draft remains in my possession until I deem it ready for publication, then like that quilt I send it off to whomever requires hope and entertainment, joy and cuddles via prose. Yet these manners of crafting peace are otherwise similar, or that's how I see them. And what an honor, thrill, and yes at times headache to create these expressions. That minky, oi! It's dang cute but dude, I probably won't use it again anytime soon. Yet by trying something new I learned valuable lessons, which still occurs in the writing. I made the second novel in my current series a pre-order, why it's not a freebie like the rest of my books. I probably won't do that again, but I wouldn't have known that unless I gave a different method a go.

I added the cats near the end of the hexie basting; so many fun prints for a grandgirl to explore!

English paper piecing is certainly an alternate manner in which to make a quilt, but boy I sure love how intricately these quilts come together, how involved were both of my granddaughters in its making, and now I have evening time to finish up another EPP marvel, lol. And while I sew that next one, perhaps I'll ponder a novel-to-be, or just how good it is to have these gifts set into my hands. Passing them along, being from fabric or fiction, is a blessing itself. Gotta keep the pipeline open for further treats to emerge....

Almost done

A very snuggly quilt, with a little Solitaire tucked along the side.

After waxing somewhat lyrically about taking things slowly, I've spent the last two days getting back into a busy-ish routine; made a binding strip and attached it, also started sewing a new quilt top. Last night I sat with the EPP project and began hand-stitching the final seams related to my granddaughter's Grandmother's Flower Garden quilt, which seems a bit odd to write but certainly felt fabulous to sew. I did two sides, then changed positions on the couch, using that blanket for myself, pondering just slightly how marvelous it was to be that close to completion.

Then I found myself nodding off, so I summarily headed to bed, even if it was just eight p.m. Still catching up on rest after last week's adventures, I slept hard this past night, but thoughts swirl about a quilt that for over a year has been in the works, not a huge amount of time for an English paper pieced effort, but certainly worthwhile in the grand scheme. So here's a little bit about how I made this blanket, and the little girl waiting SO PATIENTLY for it.

I suppose the tale begins four years ago, when my eldest granddaughter's EPP quilt was under construction; I knew that another would be made for her sister, but I was merely grateful to have finished one paper pieced throw. Basting hexies with adorable scraps, many of which were given to me by the girls' other grandma, was a delicious fabric treat; some of those scraps were also from a round of quilts I made for my mom's sisters after Mom died. My youngest granddaughter wasn't cognizant back then that a similar quilt would eventually come her way, but fast forward a few years, vaccines finally allowing families to co-mingle, and it was time to start making another flower garden.

One of the biggest joys of making this quilt was how involved my granddaughter was in the design; I would take a tote full of basted hexies to their house where both girls made hexie flowers. And remade hexie flowers; their keen interest in the basted shapes was a distinct pleasure to my heart, and it was a sad day when I told them I had enough flowers for the quilt. We still designed a few more flowers, I think I appliqued them onto t-shirts. Then came the long process of basting the outer hexies, most of which were light blue with a few medium blues scattered for good measure. A lovely fish print made up the top and bottom border while some cute cuts were aligned to the sides (those can be seen in the previous post). Meanwhile my youngest granddaughter would ask, "Grandma, is my quilt ready yet?" How to explain all the steps in making a quilt to a four-year-old; instead I answered that it would be ready for when she and her family visited in October. Which is now NEXT MONTH! Hence my thrill (and palpable relief) that indeed this quilt will be ready for copious snuggles in a few weeks' time.

Starting the final step; I do love me some hand-sewing.

I also hope that despite the distance between our families, this quilt will act as a reminder that love remains strong even when beloveds are separated. And as time passes, hexie shirts grown out of and no longer in fashion, a couple of special blankets will fill in for when Grandma can't be there. I was especially pleased to teach my eldest granddaughter how to sew her own hexie flower block this summer and she's requested making another when they arrive. How precious is the passing down of familial talents to a new generation, as well as the gifts made and shared. I still have a crocheted blanket my grandmother made for me when I was the age of my eldest grandgirl, a priceless keepsake that in this techie world might become even more precious. Yet these handmade expressions of love are just as necessary as they were in decades past, and the teaching of these pastimes remains vitally important. Skills with a needle and thread might not be taught in school, but I've used hexies to patch countless pairs of pants, blown-out knees now sporting a variety of prints. If one day my grandkids ask how to sew, cross-stitch, or crochet, I'll gladly offer my experience. And maybe one day their descendants will seek to know these peaceful, love-bearing skills. And on and on the gifts pass through the generations.

Slowly reentering my realm

Hand-quilting DONE! Now to start the finishing touches.

I arrived home yesterday afternoon, grateful for the time spent with family and equally relieved to be off the road. I do enjoy a journey spent behind the wheel and it goes without saying how much I love being with my children and grandkids. However I am not the spry gal of years before, and I didn't do much once stepping into my house other than eating dinner fixed by my hubby, then managing a little hand-sewing. I plopped into bed shortly after eight p.m. and slept hard all night.

Rising early, as is my usual custom, I drank my coffee and tea while chatting with my spouse; darkness enveloped the landscape not only due to when I woke, but that the sun has moved further along the horizon, the middle of September fast approaching. I'd had a grand plan to start a novel this month, but I was kidding myself; not only have I yet to choose an idea, but quilts are muscling their way onto the docket, as well as a much anticipated visit at the beginning of October from our other daughter and family. I'd rather wait (not procrastinate truly!) until after their stay to begin a new book, freeing my time for some Halloween fabric that I am hoping to turn into at least one quilt, plus a table runner. And if another quilt emerges, all the better.

But first there is completing the EPP quilt pictured above. It was waiting for me, heaped in a pile on my sewing table, precluding any fabric cutting until I give it the proper attention. Which means edging it with a perimeter seam to secure those hexies, then fashioning the binding (strips for which I cut before I left, thanks past me!), attaching that binding, then hand-sewing the binding in place. Oh and don't forget to remove the safety pins, ha ha. How I thought I'd fit writing a new book into my schedule is slightly embarrassing. I'll be doing well getting all this sewing sorted!

I gave little thought to all of this while I was away, absorbed in a wholly different life with two grandsons and their four-month-old pup. Yet I relished being removed from my usual day-to-day, although the heatwave, while great for aching joints, wasn't a thrill. Returning to cool Humboldt County permits quilt making to feel necessary, no need for blankets when it's 113 F outside. My daughter has a newly installed mister hose attached near their patio, from where I took this shot on Friday, pleased for how well the cooling water was captured. And yet two days later I'm thankful for my robe and slippers, hehehe. And to be home where my creative endeavors can flourish.

Mist makes for a cool grandma....

Living far from family is at times frustrating; I want to share in their joys and assist with their struggles. But I am happy to reside where my husband and I call home, delving into projects (or putting them off as sometimes occurs) that stimulate my intellect and satisfy my crafty heart. Yeah my hands ache occasionally and I greatly miss those beloveds, yet this place is my home, alongside the man I love deeply and the life we are forging. How books and quilts and don't forget the garden figures into our souls is a work in progress. And regardless of when I next draft fiction or get patchwork squares on the design wall, more important is the slow, at times silent, but very necessary growth of ourselves as people. I might be a grandmother, but who I am to become next requires contemplation, then the actions associated with such alterations. While I reacquaint myself with my life, I accept that life is always changing. Embracing those changes with open hands and a willing heart, even when that heart aches for those faraway, will provide peace of mind, body, and soul.

Wearing my grandma hat

Honeycomb Stars coming together!

I'm off to see family, will be looking after my grandsons for a few days while their folks enjoy a little getaway. A road trip is thrown in for good measure, so today I picked blackberries and tomatoes; I need to remember to refreeze the berries this evening. I have read through the second novel in my current series, cut fabric for autumnal quilts that I'll start when I return. And I finished the blocks for the Honeycomb Stars quilt, although plenty of sewing remains on that project. Something for the middle of October, I'm guessing. And these triangles don't scare me at all....

I don't make this quilt how it's presented in the pattern. Instead of chain piecing groups of colours, I chain piece a row at a time. Makes for more work, but I prefer designing the quilt top, then sewing the blocks. This is as futzy as my machine-pieced quilting gets, but I'm taking some Cornflower blocks that need basting, keeping me busy when free time allows.

It's a little funny thinking this is one of the first times I've looked after the grandkids since Covid. Before 2020, I was often keeping an eye of that collection of wee ones, writing and sewing in between. I can't lament the lost years, for EVERYONE missed out on being with their families. All I can do is embrace this week, even with the high temps, making memories that might be recalled by all I visit. My youngest grandson is three and a half, but the rest of us are old enough to remember.

And maybe one day that youngest grandchild might look up this blog, noting that Grandma was quite excited to see him, his older brother and their parents. And their new pup, ha ha. That I brought stuff to baste, but not hexies. That youngest grandson LOVES hexie shirts, lol! I made those grandsons Honeycomb Star quilts last year, perhaps I'll get some pictures of them. And when I come back, maybe I'll start writing.

Yeah, maybe....

Today peace found

Last night's accomplishment; I love how the elephant is just peeking out and the blue heart buttons too.

Despite an assertive marine layer that over the past few days hasn't permitted more than scattered hours of filtered sunshine, this morning I'm feeling good. Contented. Not quite without a care but certainly quite joyful. The last week or more angst has clouded my heart, yet while mourning lasts a night, morning dawns anew each day.

While I realize some of why I've been blue, other reasons were less clear; one can grumble about the writing or more rightly what book comes next for only so long. And even if I change my mind AGAIN, that's fine. What will be will definitely be and it's not for me to waste time grousing inwardly. Too many good things in this life occur for them to be usurped by what I have no control over.

If that sounds trite, forgive me. Because in this life there are many awful events, and I have no wish to be flippant. Twenty-five years ago my little brother was running on fumes and three days before his twenty-fifth birthday he took his life. Has that looming anniversary fueled my recent stint of the blues? Perhaps. It's difficult to think of him turning fifty; forever he's a young man wholly out of control yet still entwined within me. However today is one that I'll spend cutting fabrics for Halloween quilts, reveling in prints I rarely use. I'm hoping to get three blankets out of that collection, we'll see how it goes. There are chapters to read of the second novel from my current series; I'm planning to release it next month and better to edit any missed errors/typos now than later. What I'd like to write next might land on the table if I can find where I stashed those notes, lol. Then there is a quilt approaching not quite completion but growing nearer to that goal every evening. A Grandmother's Flower Garden EPP project for my youngest granddaughter requires about three more nights of hand-quilting, woo-hoo! I still need to craft the binding strip, might cut fabric for that while slicing through smiling pumpkins and spider's webs. I have greatly enjoyed reliving the hexies basted for this English paper piecing extravaganza, one of the bonuses of hand-quilting. While stitching the hexagons together, I only see the edges of the fabrics used. Every night I work on it, I get to admire the actual prints, like snippets of memory from when I cut them for this very purpose.

A little like recalling someone long dead yet still so meaningful, even if my brother's life was a chaotic mess. A meth addict, also a type 1 diabetic, and I knew he wasn't destined for the long haul. Twenty-five years now seems like a fragment of time, some sliver of this big wide world's tapestry, but he was a part of it for reasons known only to God. I don't presume to understand why he was here, other than to impart upon various lives lessons that weren't fully peaceful but for some distinct outcome. How his death altered me, well, I can't begin to tally the changes, like trying to count the stitches in my granddaughter's quilt, adding up to a whole that might eventually fray around the edges but will stay intact until.... Well, I'll be long gone, none of us live corporeally forever. Yet I know he's waiting for me in a place where pain and trauma are forgotten. Maybe he's wrapped in a quilt made from my prayers, the fabrics of which proffered the gentle balm of love that remains after all these years. It's what comes from my heart with every quilt gifted, every word written. And today I'm immensely grateful for that peace returned. This is what life is about; giving back the blessings given freely amid the tumult. And being aware love will always triumph, no matter what.

Forever adjusting my attitude

These calendulas were flattened by a tree but one would never guess from their amazing recovery. Certainly something for me to remember.

Last night I was perusing blogs, one of my own long forgotten and a few quilting sites that brought me to where I am today in the sewing. Two quotes gave me plenty of pause for thought, one about fabrics, the other more personal. Yet Sarah Ruiz's statement concerning quilting struck a deep chord, that after a decade she still isn't sure about who or what she wished to be in the quilting world.

I SO NEEDED TO READ THAT, although my insecurities are wholly related to the noveling. As a quilter, I am totally an amateur. Sewing triangles scares me, I have no desire to learn partial seams, and y-seams are great only if I can baste paper pieces and sew them by hand. But as an author, jeez Louise.... Yes I write books. And some of them are pretty good, if I might say so myself. However what does a career as an author mean to me, indie or traditionally published? I have had a stop-start go with it since my first novel was released by a small press in early 2009. Family issues didn't derail the process until my mom died in 2018, then I closed up a somewhat active Wordpress blog, going into hibernation. I don't regret those few years of living under the radar, not that I had a large social media footprint. But restarting a blog this year, the going is slow. Which is OKAY. Because the second quote I discovered made me realize that regardless of how together I think I have my act going, there is always room for improvement.

Maybe I'm afraid of myself at peace, content, not worried, and even more, SHOWING that joy. Not allowing the world to get under my skin, and being just FINE with that sort of attitude.

Whoa! Those are my sentiments from 15 July, 2009. I was forty-three, man that seems young. I was trying to grasp what I wanted from a writing career, but more importantly I was mulling over some pretty intense internal struggles that TO THIS DAY continue to dog my steps. Well, all right then. Personal growth doesn't happen overnight, and not over a decade either. My childhood was fairly chaotic, but whose wasn't? Yet damage lingers, even after a few stints of therapy. I like to say that by writing heaps of melodrama, my personal life remains fairly stress free. That's a nice quip, and maybe it's partially true. But how do I live out that joyful demeanor, especially in current times? And from where do I find the path that gives me the most inner peace....

Well, writing brings me joy, except when I can't decide what next to write or what to do with it when I'm done. Do I wish to continue releasing novels independently, fully aware their scope is limited or will I query whatever it is that emerges next, and if so, does that mean I'm actively seeking representation? Well, I guess it does, if I spend time fashioning query letters. Recently I joked with a friend that it's like playing a lottery, only costing me time and energy. But what if an agent wanted to take on my next novel. DUDE.... I really can't contemplate that, yet it's an element that requires consideration when my next story comes into being. Before that occurs, perhaps I should try wrapping my head around those words in italics: Not allowing the world to get under my skin, and being just FINE with that sort of attitude.

Lots of commas in the entire statement; I love using them in an initial version, whittling them down considerably through various edits. What within me needs to be altered so that desired joy is fully grasped and shared with others? I try to do that in my writing, drafting uplifting themes, proffering messages of hope. I shed a few tears in discovering those sentiments because it's not to my own creations I need to turn to find inner peace. A less tangible force that requires quiet contemplation is where I need to go. But prayer is a lot like my current career, hidden away from most. It's like reading a book or removing errant stitches, pulling oneself into necessary solitude that initially feels like being put into time-out. Yet the results can be like no other satisfaction in this world.

My faith has been a lifetime in the nurturing and only through that faith do I truly get anything worthwhile accomplished. And while I have quilts to complete and book ideas to ponder, perhaps my biggest TO DO is to set myself into hands far greater than mine will ever be, trusting in a love so encompassing that all my hedging and whinging is not only set aside, but turned into something that I can then share in a novel or quilt to do good for another. Maybe this post is nothing more than a long-winded way to say to myself: You first need to take care of YOU before thinking you can write or quilt to help anybody else. Huh, well yes, that's very true. I want to thank Sarah Ruiz for her honesty, and thank past me for similar truisms. And hope that future me can one day be less worried about what is beyond my control. And that present me will make a cup of tea, then take a walk without my phone, a book, a notepad and pen and certainly nothing sewing related. Maybe I don't even need the cuppa. Just time to breathe, pray, and listen. Then do it all again.

Why the crafting matters

The next Cornflower Quilt block.

One quilt is done! Another I have begun sewing. A third has six completed EPP blocks and the photo above is another I just basted and hope to start stitching tomorrow. I can't write more than one novel at a time, but juggling quilts is different.

Okay, once I wrote three novels all in the same month; it was my second year of National Novel Writing Month, 2007. I was forty-one, which seems a lot younger than fifty-six. Those books are tucked far away; I have a lot of first drafts that will never be more than steps in learning how to craft fiction. Some of my early quilts are that way too, but the level of nigh-incompetence of those initial books is far greater than the quilts. I was thinking about that today as I started piecing a Honeycomb Star quilt from Rachel Hauser; all the stories written over how many centuries that aren't published, known only to the persons who wrote them. And how few of those books might survive to the present day.

Once I got into a chain-piecing groove, making Honeycomb Star blocks was actually a breeze.

My novels, even the crappiest ones, are on a computer or two, in flash drives as well. But until word processors and computers became commonplace, novels were handwritten or typed out, at times solely for an author's need to set down characters and plots, themes and entertainment. Those countless stories were borne of dedication, hard work, and for the majority the probable knowledge their books' existence was mostly a silent one. Quilts are visible, often well loved to the point of falling apart. Yet writing and what comes from it is an act of solitude, the reward of a finished novel mostly enjoyed by the one who spent so much time struggling to complete it.

Special thanks to my hubby for assisting with this picture. Don't yet know where this quilt will land, but it has a purpose nonetheless.

I don't know why I found this notion so captivating, maybe due to finally wrapping up the languishing no more quilt. For all my caterwauling about what I'm going to write next, so many novels exist, but I do plan to add to that unfathomably long list. Maybe a book isn't as valuable as a quilt in that a quilt can keep someone warm. Yet a novel can proffer many important points, even if it is never released. The joy of finishing a book, even if it's only an extremely rough draft that the author knows will never be more than that initial expression, oh my goodness! Perhaps that is why books continue to be written, one person telling another how good it felt to finally WRITE THAT NOVEL. If you are contemplating writing, be it tomorrow or in November for NANOWRIMO, let me just say to go for it! Don't put off writing because you think you don't have enough of a story plotted out or you're worried it's not going to be any good or that no one will read it. Write that book because it means something TO YOU. I made my first quilt under similar fears, that I didn't have a sewing machine or an ironing board or cutting mat or rotary cutter. That blanket was hand-sewn all through until it came time to fashion a binding. Then I borrowed my daughter's machine. I then gave it to my dad, who was undergoing chemotherapy at the time, and he loved it. It was the kind of quilt a parent could most appreciate, but if you are the only one who reads your book, that's fine too. And if you write it and never read it, cool! I have a few of those novels myself. What matters was that for whatever crazy reason, I wrote them. And I have a few quilts like them as well.

Maintaining one's heartpeace

A selvedge reminder of what matters most.

Lately I've been in a sewing jag- the previously mentioned long-neglected quilt is almost done, heaped on the sofa alongside my granddaughter's quilt; I switch back and forth between them in the evenings, hand-stitching the binding on one, hand-quilting the other respectively. In the mornings I've been working on EPP blocks, nearly wrapping up another in the Cornflower Quilt collection. Yesterday I pulled out my bag of Christmas fabrics, rummaging through them for binding prints; two Christmas coasters require that last element, while six others need to be fashioned into basted mug rug sandwiches. I cut five WOF strips, sewed them into one long piece, pressed it and now it's a matter of putting the walking foot back on the machine, then attaching some binding to whatever is ready for it. This is what I do when I'm not actively working on a novel.

Of course there's the garden, but in a way right now it mostly takes care of itself, other than watering and harvesting tomatoes, blackberries, and flower seeds for next year's planting. We've had some gorgeously sunny days, once the marine layer burns off, yet after a while outside, I scoot back into the house; I have always been an inside gal, while my younger sisters preferred the outdoors. Maybe if we get a boatload of rain this winter, I'll slightly lament not spending all my time in the sun. If that happens, I'll greatly rejoice over the precipitation, probably with some sewing in my hands.

Perhaps I'll be seated in my office, stealing peeks at the rain from an easterly facing window while writing; I have so many ideas for autumn, it will be fascinating to see what shakes out onto a document in what will be weeks from now. Our sunshine is already acquiring that late summer appearance, and when the sun does flit from behind morning clouds, we see it has moved south along the tree line; September is just around the corner, all the grandkids back to school. We may see two of them this weekend for a brief visit, my bestie also coming our way. No big plans with that intriguing collection of guests other than tomato and berry picking, boys helping their grandpa harvest green beans while a dearheart and I sip cups of tea, noting how our lives have evolved after forty years of friendship.

Tumultuous times grip this nation, people suffering around the world. There's nothing new about it, which in a way is sadly staggering, that for whatever reason the human race cannot rise above what divides and instead embrace what binds. I can't write enough words or sew quilts to change the world, but I am able to keep within myself a focus that protects from being pulled into the abyss; that focus is gratitude. Just from all detailed above, there is so much for which to be grateful.

Far more could be stated about this topic, perhaps I'll revisit it. For now I'll wrap my arms around it, appreciating the peace. Yes, the world is going to hell in a proverbial hand basket, but that's been the case for a very long time. Yet at this moment, which is all any of us truly possesses, a choice can be made: peace or anger. Gratitude or dissatisfaction. Grace or.... For me, grace defines. And by embracing grace, the anxiety stirred by what I can't control slips away, enabling me to concentrate on the beauty, the good. Then sharing that good with others. I won't change this world, but perhaps my grandchildren will, or their descendants. My role is to instill in them, and all I meet, the choice of peace. And that peace has to start inside myself.

Socking away for future days

Yesterday afternoon I had planned to finished machine quilting a comforter I started months ago; that poor blanket has NOT been feeling much love, as it lingered on the quilt wall half sewn together, then has languished after I finally got it basted and ran some of it under my machine to stitch together those layers. Instead I spent time in the garden gathering flower seeds; calendula and ornamental poppies, California poppies and Sweet Williams, and marigolds. I have more marigold seeds than, well, sense. I want to scatter them next spring in what will be a wide patch at the back of what used to be a chicken coop. All the while as I harvested seeds, I considered the quilt awaiting my attention. And a book that has been patient for much, much longer.

Not that I'm assuming I'll get to that story this autumn; I received a jury summons for the middle of next month that could delay the writing. But if I don't end up serving, I'm still not certain I'm ready to invest myself in an encompassing plot. Leaving a quilt dangling makes me a little uncomfortable, mostly in that it gets in the way. But I've written LONG books, and my goodness they require more than patience. They insist upon dedication, not necessarily uninterrupted, but certainly I won't write anything else. Perhaps it could be said, "Well, if you don't feel able to completely commit to this novel regardless of its scope, then don't write it." That is a perfectly valid argument to keep setting it aside. Except for this photograph.

Who these people were, or maybe still are, is wholly unknown to me. I found this snapshot in an antiques store a decade or so ago, and was beholden to buy it because while these children are anonymous, I knew who they would become. No names on the back, only the year, 1935, written both in pencil and inscribed with a stamp by Bear Photo Service. The only other bit of information is that this was taken in Ashland, also handwritten. Yet it's Archie, Helen and Muriel Nesmith in my mind, and if I don't tell their story now, when will I do it?

The novel attached to them has altered over the years, perhaps abbreviating the tale somewhat, but it's still a long story mostly concerning the Nesmith sisters and a woman both love dearly, Teri Anne Leahy. Their backstories are well preserved in my subconscious and copious notes exist in a folder where this photo and others relating to the plot also dwell. I've had a playlist attached to this cast for years, whittling it down as sub-plots have been excised, but today I added two more songs, both from the most recent Eurovision song contest of all sources, yet they seemed destined for this saga, the name of which has stayed the same, but I'm hesitant to put it here, in that what if I chicken out and don't start this in a few months? Then I glance to the right of my desk where that picture now leans against a mug of pens and crochet hooks. If I don't tell their story soon, will I ever do it?

Recently I was perusing old posts on one of my favourite quilt blogs, Stitched in Color. Rachel Hauser commented after finishing an intricate project that a quilt can be seen as a journey or a destination, or of course somewhere in between. Writing is similar, in that all through the crafting, THE END is eagerly anticipated, at least in my experience. In growing a wee bit older, reaching the end of a book, or a quilt, is definitely the goal, and I cringe at thinking I am beyond a novel of this scale. Maybe I can take my English paper piecing as inspiration, a few of those in-progress quilts tucked away in totes, not to mention how randomly I picked up, then set aside The Hawk during its creation; some projects can weather long gestations. Archie and Helen's smiles contrast greatly with Muriel's not quite a grin, and there's a reason for that. Perhaps I need to just start at the beginning of the book, then see what happens. For all I *think* that I know about these characters, more importantly is what I learn about myself. Hah, kind of forgot about that nugget. Their story is my story, or vice versa. And with that, I have a quilt to run under the presser foot. If not now, then when indeed.

Grateful to publish as I wish

An artistic forest amid the marketing trees; photo taken on Saturday at a nearby Redwood grove.

Lately it's come to my attention how differently I approach what I write compared to other authors. I've been reading material provided by Draft2Digital, the company who distributes my novels, learning a lot about marketing strategies. The takeaway seems to be write for a narrow audience, then distribute widely. Kind of a contradiction in my opinion, but authors who follow that advice and turn a profit permit my small meandering manners of crafting from my heart, then publishing what makes me happy.

I have to admit I was bothered by the recommended ethos, not only that it seems fraught with contrasting logic, but what of the creative spirit? I follow the marvelous suggestion National Novel Writing Month founder Chris Baty proffered, to craft a novel only I could write. That advice has been the backbone of my authorial life, and I've traversed some unexpected themes and genres. I've never set out to write this or that kind of book; more I am guided by the characters as well as the yearnings of my soul. Yeah, sometimes a message sneaks in, a few of them on occasion. But such is my way of writing, and that I can publish my books for free, or a nominal fee in the case of pre-orders, is quite extraordinary. No complaints there.

Yet I'm still troubled by D2D's limited marketing scope; it's not very inclusive, which in our current climate feels somewhat dangerous, further separating people. Or maybe I take the notion of independent publishing way too literally. Perhaps genres will always rule how readers choose their next novel, the squeakiest wheel getting the most grease. Again I need to remember how precious is what I do and how cool is it to release novels outside traditional methods. And to be mindful that most important is being true to myself in the words written and stories created. If the day ever comes that Draft2Digital no longer permits freebies, I'll be thankful for all the books I did get to release, and move forward in another direction. For now I'll keep writing as I have been since 2006, penning novels straight from my heart and soul.