Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 44

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.

Perusing the possibilities

The beginnings of a Myrtle block from Jodi Godfrey's Seedlings Quilt book.

Probably two months ago I cut fabrics for an EPP block, the prints from Karen Nyberg's gorgeous Earth Views collection. Those cuts and their coordinating paper pieces sat in a sandwich bag, along with a nearly finished bobbin of thread for basting, all tucked away in my hexie box, what I call my portable sewing makeshift Tupperware. I'd forgotten all about them until recently, then made that my focus when we went traveling last weekend. Upon reflection however, I need to alter the initial design, outer colours too similar to the blue squares seen above.

Similarly I'm having a little trouble deciding what to write next, which isn't an altogether bad situation. But too many choices, and a current WIP to revise, kept me from going back to sleep at 3.49 AM today. Okay.... I will note that by getting up early I enjoyed seeing some bright stars that really are planets in the not too cloudy sky, while everyone in my household slumbers peacefully. We have guests this week, longtime friends that are making their way home, stopping by our house for a few lovely days of renewing bonds that are kept taut via emails, etc. After they leave, however, I need to figure out what I'm gonna write (and sew) next....

Part of my trouble is what I'd REALLY like to explore is yet another long-ish notion, and I am slightly apprehensive about committing that much time and energy into something so encompassing. I don't have those sorts of qualms when considering  a paper-pieced quilt, probably because a quilt can live in a tote, casually set aside from my day-to-day. I have a few EPP projects safely snoozing in plastic containers not at all preying on my mind. Novels are far different, even if they too are stored away in a hard drive; once I start writing a book, I don't stop until it is done.

And lately, as in the last nine years, writing long stories has been my milieu. Which means pondering a lengthy investment not merely in the writing time, but the intrigue upon which such a saga demands. One idea has been pestering me for over a decade, but if I haven't felt compelled to write that story by now, will I ever get to it? Another plot beckons, and again it poked me hard this morning while I gazed at those amazing stars, wondering if Saturn was among them. I'm no astronomer, but what a thrill to view larger than usual stars, aware they are so bright because they are planets! We aren't alone in this galaxy, in that Earth is but one of several globes, why I found Karen Nyberg's fabrics so special, although I really need to cut more squares to finish up that block.

But choosing appropriate prints is far easier than picking one novel idea, or maybe I need to just cool my authorial jets and let that book come to me. The Hawk emerged from a dream, digging itself under my skin to the point I had to sit at the computer and.... And the next five years of my life was dedicated to that collection of fabulous folks, but five years is A LONG TIME. However, where I am now in my life, five years is like living at light speed, so.... So maybe what I really need to do is cut those fabrics, rearrange that block, finish what I'm currently faffing with (AHEM....), then think about the next writing shiny. Despite how much I like having an agenda (or three), it's probably best to let my subconscious guide the story endeavors. And if I'm led toward a behemoth of an idea, that's better than not writing at all.

Reflection of another kind

A shot taken yesterday in the Lassen National Forest along Highway 44.

Returning home yesterday, we traversed the upper half of California, some of which sports burn scars from various wildfires. With less than two hours to go, we ran into smoky skies, the Six Rivers Lightning Complex burning without containment. During part of the drive, as blue skies hung over the distant western mountains, a hillside across from us sported flames, separated by what was probably the Trinity River. Plumes of smoke rose from spots along that mountain ledge, and I wonder when we next head east how much of the landscape will resemble the photo above, taken in the Lassen National Forest, an area altered forever.

I don't think I could write a novel about such devastation, leaving that for others to ponder. But it was otherworldly to drive for miles and miles amid what the 2018 Carr Fire had wrought, the fire last summer in Lassen, the August Complex fire from 2020, and then speeding through an ongoing blaze. Once clear of the smoke, nearly twenty first responder vehicles raced past us, heading to areas currently under extreme threat. Only a little smoke had traveled west, our skies mostly clear. Right now we're under a heavy layer of marine cloud, but I wonder once that lifts for the day, will smoke be more prevalent; we saw a good deal of it in 2020, no place in Northern California was spared.

While I am so grateful to be home, being home is a relative term for thousands affected by wildfires and flooding here in America. Elsewhere war and political divisions across the globe have uprooted countless people, with no end in sight to those crises. I touched on that subject in my latest book, but from a distance. And I'm thankful to be a very safe distance from those fires again engulfing my home state, praying for all those involved.

Time for reflection

After many cloudy mornings, this was our sunrise today.

We're going away for a few days, will see most if not all of our kids and grandkids. I have been so plugged in to the writing that last night I dreamed about merging what I'd been rewriting with something else I'd written, although upon waking I realized the something else was a figment of my nocturnal musings. It was about ducks of all things, and I smiled, aware I needed to unplug from my fictional wanderings.

Yet I don't get far from those notions, as I'm taking a notebook connected to the real story in addition to some English paper piecing as recreation. I'm never far from the quilting/fabric/sewing life, how intriguing those two interests have woven themselves so deeply within my soul. I harvested another big tomato yesterday and some smaller ones, larger than cherry toms but not by much. Baby pumpkins are attempting to attract pollinators and I'm looking forward to when I return to examine if they were successful. And I'm thinking about ducks that somehow survive desolation, but honestly I don't believe there is any way to merge a duck into the rewrite.

Yes, time for me to uproot myself from the familiar into the familial. What fictional and not so far from reality mischief will I get into upon my return, hehehe....

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.