Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 43

A grandmother's flower garden

Special thanks to my hubby for holding this up last night after I finished sewing it together!

If I'm just talking quilt tops, I'd say the removal of papers compares to the final edits of a novel destined for publication. Yes I still have to make the quilt sandwich, baste it, then quilt the whole thing, but having just sewn BY HAND this entire top, I'm feeling pretty damned accomplished.

Much like how releasing a book requires several hoops through which to jump; it's all perspective and of course relative to one's choice of activity. Yet I wanted to share this quilt top because it has been a long time in coming, and it's greatly anticipated by my youngest granddaughter who helped in the making by designing several of the hexie flowers. I'd bring my sewing tote when I visited, basted hexagons in a bag not only for her quilt but to mend pants with blown-out knees. She and her older sister both loved fashioning a plethora of flowers. And she was a little bummed when months ago I told her I was done with that part of the sewing, not truly able to grasp all the light blue, and a few medium too, hexies still for this abuela to baste, then sew.

A hand-sewn English paper-pieced quilt doesn't just happen overnight. It's a LOT like writing a novel, but less time sitting at the computer. Far more nights were spent seated on the couch listening to basketball, then baseball, while stitching together basted shapes, turning those into rows, then sewing rows into chunks, then.... Then the memories emerge as I note some purple hexies basted with red thread; I did those at my parents' house when Mom was at the end of her life, using thread she had stored in her sewing room. Fabric from my granddaughters' other grandma, fabric from quilts I made my mom's sisters after Mom died, fabric accumulated over the last eight years I've been quilting. All those musings are now tightly woven into this completed quilt top like themes in a book, waiting to be discovered in a way unexpected by the maker.

I love sewing in this manner, a slow and methodical application of time and notions, literal and figurative, and so much love in the doing and to whom it will be given. I feel the same about the books I write, but that's a quieter pastime. Quilts are used in a different way, for comfort, for warmth. For fort-building and picnics, for easing the chill, although the same could be said for books on that account. I guess books are applicable for comfort too, and yes warmth, healing the soul with hope and grace. I feel very blessed to participate in such differing manners of miracle-working, if I might be so bold to say. But there are papers to remove, a book to edit, and neither will happen unless I end this post and get to it, lol, so off I go....

Christmas in July

A plethora of lovely designs and colours; can't wait to chain-piece these (and free up the cutting mat for something new lol)!

A couple of days ago I received an order of fabric; some is for myself but most is for various projects that will go to new homes. I tucked away nearly all the cuts, but opening a mini charm pack, immediately I began to play. And now I need to sew those squares into bigger squares as soon as a free moment emerges. No way am I going to transfer all those designs to the quilt wall or stack them up for another day.

Every year I buy a mini charm pack, sometimes Christmas themed, other times from a design that tugs on my heart. I make coasters from them to give to family and friends. I add strips about 1.5" wide for a border, make little mug-rug sandwiches, then machine quilt most of them, a few hand sewn. Slap a binding around them and voila, nice gifts for anytime of year. But not only are gorgeous prints making feel extra blessed; I'm making slow but steady progress on the rewrite while still perusing the latest release for any previously missed errors or grammatical alterations screaming to be righted. Subjective editing I call it, unless I do find a typo, which so far has yet to occur, YES! And while Christmas fabric feels a little odd in mid-summer, even here in cool-ish Humboldt County, to spend a lot of time indoors at my computer working on novels also seems.... Not strange, yet kinda weird. Soon enough we'll have months of dreary weather, God willing. Late autumn and all of winter and a goodly portion of early spring are GREAT for dabbling in fiction, awesome for sewing too. I plan on doing a little gardening next February, sowing various seeds like maybe a Paul Robeson tomato plant, having just harvested my first tom of the year yesterday, WOO HOO! That plant was from my eldest down in the SF Bay Area, probably sown in January or February. More mid-year gifts; right now I feel like Christmas Eve is just around the corner, when truly August is breathing down our necks.

Bonus shot; my first tomato from our garden; a Paul Robeson and my goodness it was GOOD!

Sometimes life is hard. The last few years have sucked for everyone. And for many times are still tough; economically, socially, emotionally, mentally.... War in Ukraine continues, mass shootings occur, as though all hell's breaking loose. Yet I can't lose sight of the good, and I don't only mean fabric and prose and tomatoes, although tangible gifts strengthen not just morale, but my soul. But further is faith that despite setbacks, tragedies, and inexplicable wounds there are beauty, goodness, blessings. Quilts and coasters are parts of my heart, books another, and the garden's harvest is a kiss from heaven. And no matter how downtrodden I may feel on a given day, I so need to remember that mourning lasts for a night, but dawn's healing is a sunrise away, or it's a thick marine layer that eventually burns off. Each day is a little, or not so small, miracle; it's vital that we remember this and perhaps I'm steeped in such grace due to the books I'm currently sorting. Both are full of abject sorrow and great hope, one about a fictional realm, the other set right in our galaxy. These novels are serving as reminders that no matter how bleak life seems, peace and joy are near; we just have to be exceedingly brave at times to walk through the darkness. And not stop searching until light appears.

Even in Humboldt the sun shines. Sometimes not until late afternoon, but still it peaks through the cloud, which it's doing right now. Time to check my tomatoes, pumpkins and some coleus seeds sown a week or so ago. Happy weekend everyone. 

Life behind the scenes

Soon enough this side of the quilt will be safely hidden from view. But it's worth a photo, all those basted then sewn together hexies part of a greater good (kind of like how novels are written and sometimes lives are led).

Currently I could use a few more hours in a day; in addition to reading through (and making significant revising gains in) the latest manuscript, I've opened up a published novel from a few years back in the hopes of maybe fashioning a print version. Then there is The Possibility of What If which I am reading through a couple of chapters each evening, searching for typos or other errors that might have squeaked through. It's so nice to peruse a story in eBook form; so far I've only made a few alterations, no glaring mistakes found, whew! And if those three tales weren't enough, I have a quilt screaming for attention (see photo above), plus I finished a Cornflower Quilt block yesterday, with fabric in the post for another quilt for the daughter of a dear friend. One of my pumpkin plants has finally gotten its act together, a blossom having opened, and some cherry toms are starting to ripen. But just between us, right now I'm captivated by the words, which hasn't happened in a long, long time....

Years ago, when our kids were just starting to gaze at their collective twenties, my days were full of storytelling. We had homeschooled while living in England, but all three offspring were enrolled in college and high school upon our return from the United Kingdom. I went from having my brood nearby 24/7 to a very different scenario, which allowed me to focus on fiction. Not until 2014, seven years after we came back from Britain, was my time not mostly my own, but my kids weren't the only ones needing attention. My dad's battle with prostate cancer had moved into its final chapter, chemotherapy every three weeks not doing more than weakening his already taxed heart. Both of my daughters were expecting their first babies, while I took up quilting, the perfect time for it, lol. While I was eking out chapters of The Hawk, meeting my parents for Dad's chemo sessions, hearing my grandkids' emerging heartbeats, sewing was a quiet antidote, not that I was into English paper piecing back then. That came later, when my mom faced her last days. I wrapped up The Hawk two months before she died, having started my first Grandmother's Flower Garden EPP quilt. When it rains, it really friggin' pours....

After Mom passed, I poked around with The Hawk, revising that saga, but not writing anything new. I did a LOT of sewing when not hanging out with adorable grandchildren, groping around for who I was what with both of my parents deceased. For ages I'd been a writer, when not a wife and mother, then I took a side gig as a quilter, then Covid hit and.... And again in the stillness I finally found a cast of characters that pulled me back into noveling. I truly didn't know if I had that ability, something about losing Dad and Mom within three years of each other yanking me from a familiar familial orbit that was permanently altered. During the pandemic my husband and I moved from the San Francisco Bay Area to the Humboldt Bay Area, far from kids and grandkids, more change than we'd known since returning to America from England. I don't often think about all of this until suddenly when I do, like today when I woke at three in the morning, unable to go back to sleep, then getting up for tea and a large coffee chaser, seating myself at a computer, pulling up a document.... And then I'm instigating major changes in a nine-year-old first draft, stirring emotions I haven't enjoyed in a writing kind of way for a very long time. It's been ages since I can't wait to work on this story has rushed through my veins and while I ache to sew hexies together or cut fabrics for another Cornflower block or read through two other books, kneading this draft into something pliable is nailing my butt to the chair. It's sunny outside, but instead I'm in the house, writing this post as a way to share how stories unfold, how books are written, how healing occurs. Even four years on from Mom's death, seven from Dad's, my heart longs to share these triumphs with them in more than an ethereal manner.

However, while on this corporeal plane, I will do my utmost to make the most of my time. I'm one of those types that twitches if I'm idle. Good thing I've got more shiny's than I know what to do with....

Drawn into the story

Another new shiny; such a fun block from Jodi Godfrey's Cornflower Quilt.

A few mornings back I woke far too early. Eschewing the usual cup of tea, I sat at my computer, pulled up a file and began to read a story I wrote in the summer of 2013. I didn't start at the beginning, jumping into about the last third, as I knew this draft possessed a rough introduction. Yet where I read, the prose wasn't bad. By that part of the draft, I had a feel for the characters, and when it ended, I was a little sorry it was over. I was really tired too, ha ha, but the next day I perused it from Chapter One, not minding all the blah blah blah that needed to be excised. By Chapter 6 the writing was decent, and I decided to make this story my next project.

(Not that I need a new shiny, but....)

What's intriguing about this novel is that as far as I can tell, from the few notes taken, I have no idea what spurred the plot, no frame of reference other than where it sits in a list of all I've ever written; begun in late July, it was completed at the end of August 2013. Fortunately I made copious notes when I was done drafting it; I clearly recall scribbling in pen major plot points for the necessary sequel. But that continuation never materialized; I began writing The Hawk two months later and for the next five years my writing life was consumed by that saga. And a lot of personal upheaval to boot.

I can tell you why the sequel never happened; I thought The Hawk was going to be a short story. Insert BIG EYE ROLLING EMOJI HERE. I was going to write that short story, then get back to the summer book, but instead my dad's journey with cancer took a detour and The Hawk became its own behemoth and suddenly my father's end of life was butting up against my daughters both becoming mothers as I continued to work on one story. I started quilting then too, which was easier than writing in the picking it up, then putting it down. Yet I trudged onward with one novel, said hello to a first grandchild, goodbye to Dad, howdy to another grandchild.... The last nine years have been full of familial alterations as well as books, which seems to have led me to a few early mornings ago with a story that has been patiently waiting.

And now I'm all in, hook and line and sinker, but this is a different sort of helplessness than when I initially wrote this tale. I'm nine years older, a grandma a few times over, in a far different location geographically as well as emotionally. Plus there's the 'Let's take a really rough draft and see what happens' aspect, but I'll analyze that in a future post. For now I'm balancing this new tale alongside the current series, not worried about mixing up the books. Keeps it fresh, as well as maintaining perspective. Novels come and go, and sometimes they return when least expected....

Stepping away from the work

Wildflowers and sunflowers I grew from seed, unbothered by our coolish weather....

Well kind of moving aside, this post notwithstanding. Yesterday I uploaded the second novel so it can be sampled by prospective readers while The Possibility of What If hit other online retailers, that was exciting! So this morning instead of plopping down in front of a computer, I parked my behind on the sofa and picked up a big English paper piecing project that is sort of near completion. A Grandmother's Flower Garden quilt for my youngest granddaughter only needs the rows sewn together, but that's a lot of hand-stitching, kind of like finishing a first draft then saying, "All I have left are the revisions!"

Ah revising; there's no beast quite like picking apart a paragraph and putting it back together. I've sat with two or three of those in the last few weeks, trying to figure out the best way of saying this or that, or wondering what I was on about originally. Yet there is an ease to editing, not coming up with everything like when I wrote the darn book, ha ha. It's like quilting, how there are the choosing of fabrics, the cutting up of fabrics, the basting of papers or arranging of prints upon a design wall. Then those scraps are sewn together by machine or hand, how a quilt top is born. In writing there are steps to follow; plotting either tightly or loosely, writing, revising, then if one chooses there are paths to publication. Books and quilts don't just make themselves.

The garden is similar and after lunch today I did some revising there too; I pulled eight tomato plants that were put in the ground too late for our mild summer here in Humboldt County. It was a little sad yanking them from the dirt, good root systems that in many other places would proffer plentiful toms throughout September. But I couldn't justify the water they would require just to stay alive, and I have plenty of other plants with fruits that I might actually get to eat before our first frost or the sun dips too low past the trees. This is our first year of gardening here, so much has been an experiment. I'll try Black Krim tomatoes again next year along with cold-tolerant varieties that I can get in the ground sooner next spring than when they went in this year.

Much of life is the willingness to try, possibly fail, then do it again. I keep a gardening journal and today's entry will be all about the toms that went in the bin. Blogging here is like keeping track of the writing, and of course I have a quilt notebook with details about various projects. Mostly what matters is enjoying all the processes, be they for public or private pleasure. And letting each have some breathing space; I don't garden every day, I change out the quilts-in-progress, and for as much as I love writing, it's vital to separate myself, even just a bit, from that marvelous endeavor. Then I can return to it with fresh eyes and eager typing skills ready to create or overhaul whatever feels right. It's indeed a blessing to have these awesome treats to not merely keep myself busy but to exercise the creative spirit that feeds my soul, and maintains my sanity. Now if I can just figure out a good place to sow seeds gathered from today's photo where the critters won't cause overt mischief....

Post-publishing post

Having released my novel, I turned a little attention to some EPP...
 

The days following a novel's release are full of.... Well, I'm still busy with books; I've spent recent mornings reading through Gracious Mysteries, the next installment in this series. I've also pondered what I want to write next, hehehe. I've done laundry, pottered in the garden, worked on some English paper piecing, also taken a lovely drive along Highway 101 not quite as far as Orick but close. I given great consideration to what it means having released another novel; I've been publishing books since 2011, eleven years of poking about with plots and characters, at times wondering why I feel compelled to share these slices of my gray matter as well as chunks of my heart and heaps of my soul. Yet here I am, still at it. Let me tell you why it matters....

Self-publishing is a misnomer; I'm deeply grateful for Smashwords, through which I distribute my stories. I've been blessed with great editors and those who have created beautiful book covers. My family, especially my beloved husband, have supported this effort throughout my writing career. But this career isn't what most would describe as such; maybe they would call it a hobby. Yet over the last fifteen years much of my free time has revolved around writing. My kids were teens when I began crafting fiction, now I have grandkids, ha ha. I love to make quilts and tend to plants, I adore spending time with my spouse, our family, and dear friends. But the need to tell stories never diminishes. I have SO MANY lists of things to do, however writing never falls on any of them. It's instinctive, therapeutic, at times a bit of a buttinski, yet if I had my rathers, I'd be sitting at a computer typing someone's wonders and woes.

I always wanted to be a writer, yes I am one of those people. That I'm still at it is a testament to remaining faithful, both to a dream and to where that goal leads. I try to do right by my characters to the best of my ability; to paraphrase NANOWRIMO founder Chris Baty, no one else can tell MY stories. Until I run out of ideas, stamina, or the ability to pound a keyboard, I imagine those tales will emerge as seems necessary. I might not always publish them, but I can't honestly ponder such a creative manner of self-expression disappearing from my wheelhouse.

That's my credo, mantra, whatever you wish to call it; I write novels because I can't not write them. And because I can publish them, I do. If you'd like to read my books, that would be AWESOME! Check out my newest release, The Possibility of What If, or peruse my back catalogue at Smashwords, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble, Kobo Books, Scribd, and Odilo.

The Possibility of What If

The Possibility of What If, my fifteenth novel, is now available for download!

So after plenty of assistance from some awesome folks, I am so pleased and a little proud to announce the release of my latest novel, which introduces a new series to my collection! The Possibility of What If is the first book of That Which Can Be Remembered, and I cannot thank enough my husband who is more than my beloved spouse but also my tech champion when things get dodgy. Self-publishing is such a misnomer, why I prefer the term independent publishing. But before I get off topic, let me share what this fantasy/women's fiction series is all about....

While mourning her husband Thaydon, Vodali refugee Brynn Dahl learns that her Yunka spouse might still be alive. During a widespread plague Brynn and her family take to the road in search of the veteran, meeting up with other Vodalis along the way. Meanwhile Strivek, an amnesiac welder, dwells among other vets on a faraway ranch. The only clue to Strivek's past is a small scrap of Vodali cloth, its design like a tattoo imprinted along his skin.

Such a thrill to finally release this book, as well as start off another series; not sure why I enjoy writing lengthy tales, but this three-part collection has been a pleasure to create. Book Two, Gracious Mysteries, is already up for pre-order; it will be out in early to mid October, or maybe a little sooner if the garden permits, hehe. I've listed these novels in the general fantasy genre, along with a side order of women's fiction; set in a different realm where cell phones and computers don't exist, Brynn and her clan rely on telegrams to inform those in other districts and nations. With a nod to my own childhood spent on a ranch, Natagonians Yasbek Timral and her younger brother Molarn figure into the story, as well as Ronan, a former child soldier from Malapy. Plenty of characters require more than just one book, and I look forward to sharing all their hopes, heartaches, and heroism with you!

Wrapping up the prep process

After a rainy weekend, dahlias remind that despite the darkness, beauty awaits.

Amid the tragedy in Highland Park this week, I've been trying to maintain an even keel. Soon I'll release my next book; there is much to do between the final edits and watching as a tale goes live. Synopses are written, tags chosen, covers are sorted, so many elements that I should have a list, although I don't. Does that mean I wing it with every new release? Maybe. But for now I'll keep with my usual routine.

What is that routine? It's a combination of formatting the manuscript in Word, although this book was written in Open Office, so fingers crossed when I upload it as a Word Doc all turns out as it should. Covers are my most tricky element, but now that they are ready, all I have left is reading through a few chapters just to confirm that the story is.... It's done, it's been vetted, it's merely a day or so from going from my possession to whomever deems it worth their time. This is the intangible part of writing books, kind of like having children then watching them go from teens to adults. A parent nurtures as best they can, then steps away, hoping their offspring finds great joy and purpose in this crazy world.

It's difficult to separate the thrill of creative endeavors from the distress of current events. I want to enjoy this moment for all it is worth, a couple of years of hard work culminated in three books which espouse optimism, celebrate survival, honoring those lost in conflict. Meanwhile this nation is gripped by an indecipherable lust for violence; parents are left to grieve, children have been made orphans. I cannot fathom anyone's mindset who supports a teenager's right to purchase semi-automatic assault weapons. That is so far from my experience, despite growing up in a rural area where hunting was deeply ingrained as sport. The divergence of what gun ownership in America means seems unnavigable, yet the consequences are chilling.

And here I am, trying to make a difference with books; why is that? I can't offer more than I am a writer, hoping to entertain while giving pause for thought. This impending series focuses on those caught in the midst of a pandemic, having survived a long war. Their struggles are many, but they wish for peace, happiness, freedom. And of course love; while I don't claim to be a romance author, love always figures into my books. And love has to come first, love that seeks the betterment of others. Ultimately who we evolve into as human beings will be based upon our love for others. And I believe love will eventually triumph, despite that victory currently feeling very far away.

Passing along the gifts

Just a little wordy fun from yesterday....
 

Our seven-year-old grandson has been visiting and amid that blessing I squeezed in a quick trip to see the granddaughters and their mum and dad. Needless to say not much authorial work has occurred lately but I have played countless games of Sorry, Crazy 8's, Go Fish and just yesterday a turn at Scrabble. Not played for points, I taught my grandson the basic aspects, although his grandpa is a much better Scrabble enthusiast. For now my descendant's appetite is whetted to make more words, and he wants to count those points, hehehe, so our next endeavor will be fascinating.

Last week I taught my eldest grandgirl how to sew. She asked about making her own flower hexie, and sure enough when given some basted paper pieces, a needle, thread and instruction, she sewed all six hexagons to the center hexie, even attaching two petals together. While I gain much joy in finishing a novel, an even better thrill emerges when teaching a beloved some skill associated with my life. My grandson helped me deadhead petunias yesterday, he's been assisting his grandpa with various outside tasks. It seems like only recently all these rather big kids were toddling about, yet suddenly they are quite independent, and often brilliantly hilarious. When presented with the notion of one hand clapping, my youngest grandgirl slapped her palm on the dinner table, a sly smile on her face. The rest of us burst into amazed laughter as a four and a half year old grasped a concept in her own clever manner. They are aging fast, turning from wee babes into folks eager to follow in a few of our grandparental footsteps, a pretty magical moment of time.

Time and all its flexible possibilities figures heavily into what I'm hoping to write next, but time itself is a tricky beast; that my grandkids aren't babies anymore is occasionally a tripping hazard. That I'm a grandmother also gives me pause, ahem. Weaving through all of those alterations, words grip my hands be it at my computer or the game-playing table; I have never been a Scrabble fanatic, but that may change as seven-year-olds turn into eight, nine, and ten-year-olds with burgeoning vocabularies and heady desires for victory. It's marvelous to pass along visions of hope in my books, but the better lessons are what youngsters soak up in the day-to-day. Not that I'll stop writing, but peaceful coexistence is necessary when family visits. And if someday one of them asks about crafting fiction, I won't hesitate to give them the best advice; conjure up some good people, an interesting setting and unexpected story line, then see where that adventure leads. Not quite as simple as pulling tiles from the Scrabble bag or sewing hexies, but certainly a pleasant way to pass the time.

Grounded by the words

Finding these so ravaged made me heartsick. I'm hopeful they'll bounce back by the end of the month.

I spent much of the morning with the second book of my series; having double spaced it, I confirmed all the chapter numbers were correct, then read through several of those chapters, finding a few typos; one can never be careful enough as honesty mistakes slips through or the on table instead of on the table. Those made me grimace as well as smile, better to find them now than after it's released. In one instance I swapped out experienced for endured only because later in the sentence I used during and didn't like the sound of endured and during so close together. Maybe that seems a bit picky, but to me good writing means a smooth flow of words without overt redundancy. I can't make it perfect, but I'd like to achieve something darn close.

Perfect writing isn't possible because like all art, a novel's quality is subjective, to a point of course. I try to hit that ceiling as closely as I can, but still keep my fingerprints intact; it is my story, my POV, my heart and soul enmeshed in scenes and paragraphs. Thankfully I like revising; in some ways it's easier than writing, although occasionally it's a tricky beast, kind of like the deer that roam near our house. I like watching their antics, but when they feast upon my nasturtiums, I get livid. The photo above is of three plants now living in the enclosed garden; once they recover, a safer place than where they previously dwelled will be chosen. I haven't figured that out yet, better to be up to my eyebrows in revisions. Dang pesky deer!

Currently the garden is in the swing of plants simply growing (or recovering), leaving me plenteous time for novel fun. And I'm grateful to switch gears a little bit; despite my love of digging in the dirt or cutting up fabrics I prefer sitting at my computer creating new worlds or chipping away at messy manuscripts. Something about writing satisfies like no other hobby/pastime endeavor and that hasn't changed in the last decade and a half since I went from a homeschooling mom to all kids in public school or at university. Loads of free time was suddenly at my disposal and I ran with that liberty straight to a keyboard and monitor, lol. Kept my butt in a chair and pounded out lots of hoo haa which has led to today's alterations of experienced for endured when during comes later, although I'll never be immune from honesty mistakes or the on table. And that's okay; typos are just as much of the process as deer munching on my beloved flowers, ahem. Merely a matter of catching both the errors and errant animals before the damage is permanent. And remembering that writing is for my entertainment as well as a form of necessary self-expression. What I wish to convey might not be what is taken from it, like how the deer find so tasty what I see as a gorgeous decoration, ba-dum-bump....