Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 44

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....

Doing what feels comfortable

Four and a half inch squares basted for some stitch-in-the-ditch fun!

Gripped in the throes of allergies, I am opting out of pottering in the garden. Instead I'm formatting my WIP for release, although referring to it as the work-in-progress seems a little lame. Right now I'm kinda middling, so forgive me for any lapses in grammar or judgement.

But back to what's going on; so I'm formatting, which means making a title page, inserting page breaks between chapters, writing up Liner Notes which end all my books, then making sure all the t's are crossed and i's dotted. I am also working on a quilt that has been hogging the design wall for MONTHS. That it has been there that long testifies to how the garden as well as the writing usurps my attention. But right now being outside makes me sneezy as all get-out and I'm not sleeping great and.... And it's time for something different.

This quilt isn't anything monumental; it's going to be for the car, which means it doesn't require fancy stitching or cozy backing or adorable binding. It's for function, not decoration, and honestly until yesterday, when I spent much of the afternoon sewing the back, I wasn't sure what it was meant for. Then I considered it would be great to have in a vehicle for any kind of emergency requiring a comforter. Right now I need some relief, maybe it was a subconscious decision. I love writing and my garden, but man they take a lot out of me. Sewing, especially by machine, is less intensive. Sewing by hand is nice too, but my fingers are achy because I'm not as young as I used to be, ahem. So I've been happily seated at my single stitch Brother PQ1500SL, letting it do the heavy lifting. And after I complete this post, I'll cut some binding strips and again allow my machine to do its thing.

There is something to be said for taking a step (or several) back from one's usual routine, especially as aging occurs; I am NOT the woman I used to be. Writing has lessened in the word count, I can't weed for hours at a time, nor can I pull a quilt off in a week. But I can sew four sixteen-square rows in a morning, then a day later attach them to four previously sewn rows, then sew all that to eight rows that I completed in early March. Plus making the back for a sixty-four by sixty-four inch square quilt top, even if said quilt top is going to live in a car. Lately a few issues have been weighing heavily upon me, stirring the inevitable query of: What's the friggin' point? Unpleasant current events collide with personal worries, making me question why publish a novel, why weed the tomatoes, why won't the Long Island Cheese pumpkin seeds sprout huh? Why bother sewing together squares of fabric that aren't my faves but have been in my stash for far too long? Why, why, why.... Oi! But sometimes in life there are no good answers other than Just Because or Why Not? Why shouldn't I publish my story? I spent a good hour online this morning trying to find something similar just to reference the tags associated with it. Nothing appeared at all like my book, which perhaps is good, means my story is quite original, ha ha. I had to remind myself I don't write the typical genres, what makes independent publishing so valuable. Maybe coming up with tags is more tricky, but que sera sera....

Whatever will be definitely isn't for me to argue with, just to do where my heart leads in the best manner my fifty-six-year-old self can manage. Often I don't feel my age, so perhaps when I do that makes it more unwieldy. I've never thought about it like that, hmmm. Yes, that's my answer to this hopefully short-lived funk. Usually I feel spritely for my years, but no one can escape the relative ravages of time. And on that realization, I'm off to sew a quilt binding. Because it's certainly not going to make itself.

A book like a biennial

Glorious Sweet Williams (and a bonus ladybird to boot!)

Yesterday I finished the final read-through of The Possibility of What If, the first novel in my series entitled That Which Can Be Remembered. There's plenty to do before I release that initial part of the series and today I didn't manage anything related to writing. There were errands to run, groceries to purchase, laundry to wash.... Being a writer takes a fair amount of my time, but not all of it. Yet as I came inside this evening, having given my pumpkins one last inspection of the day, a sight stopped me, demanding my camera. A ladybird was perched on one of the few Sweet Williams not munched, bringing my attention to how my latest story came to be....

Some of my novels were instantaneous, but this series began in fits and starts two years ago this month. I can't recall how the characters wormed their ways into my brain, but trying to write during a pandemic was difficult, and ultimately I gave up before summer's end. Another plot kept me busy in autumn, but again I abandoned it, wondering if The Hawk would be my last completed work. However in January of 2021, I found myself needing something to do while waiting for the vaccine, so I picked up where I'd left off the previous summer, then suddenly found my authorial footing, which in itself was a major relief. Another year passed before I wrote THE END, but I never worried about hitting that milestone. And now it's about time to publish it, as though it was as simple as scattering seeds in the ground, waiting for them to sprout.

But not all plants are easy; my beloved Sweet Williams are their own saga, especially the few I have this year due to hungry deer, sigh. The ones above are planted where critters rarely roam, and that four different colours are represented is a blessing I don't ignore. Their origins were humble; a seed packet sent by a realtor wanting to represent us, although at the time we had no plans to sell. I tossed the missive but kept the seeds, scattering them in a sunny space in our small back yard. They came up quickly, then didn't do much of anything. In my ignorance, I had no idea they were biennials, but once I realized patience was required, I stopped examining them, wondering how they would do the following year.

They didn't disappoint, blooming spectacularly in late spring of 2021. A variety of shades made me fall in love with their long-stemmed beauty, great for cut flowers as well as admiring them in the garden. I saved their seeds, then we moved and I planted them in various places, not thinking the deer would bother them. Oh I was so wrong! But to my surprise in one spot four different hues are thriving, and I'll collect those seeds, planting them in that same area. My latest series is so similar, taking forever to get going but giving me great pleasure. And the ladybird is a cherry on top, much like how after all that writing, giving up, more writing, then editing now I have a book to release. Or three books, but let's take one at a time.

No matter what else comes my way, I find myself back at my computer, allowing characters, plots, scenes and sometimes great sentences onto virtual pages. I've been writing fiction for over fifteen years, having wished for that occupation even longer. The words aren't as plentiful as previously, but what matters is they still emerge, like my few Sweet Williams, making the process even more meaningful. How this series will blossom remains to be seen; it could be like giving a bouquet of gorgeous flowers. Or maybe like sending out random seed packets, assuming few, if any, responses. Either way, I'm grateful to still be spinning yarns, another couple of ideas already clamoring to be freed, lol! 

Moment by moment

Baby coleus I started from seed and over which I am greatly pleased!

I'm watching the French Open final between Rafael Nadal and Caspar Ruud. A tennis fan since Boris Becker won his first Wimbledon, I have a fondness for Grand Slam events, especially when one of the finalists is newly thirty-six years old and coming back from injury. Nadal took initial set, has just broken Ruud's serve to bring this second set back to even. A long morning sits in front of me as I savor amazingly played points, typing here and there, muting commercials then peering back at the TV as history is made.

Yet within the enormity of worldwide sport, there is the intimacy of right now. It rained much of yesterday, but all my potted plants are in the ground along with five hills of various pumpkins. Three woeful spider plants and a pot of four nasturtiums got me outside before the storm hit, and I didn't even water them after getting them planted, aware the rain would take that task for me. Right now my garden is fully hydrated, weeds waiting for my attention, ha ha. But that chore is for later today; after tennis I have edits to sort, maybe a couple of chapters that I'll peruse in this last look of a novel I hope to release at the end of the month. Plans remains, I can't live without some element of structure. But life is fluid, best to be enjoyed in a manner that takes advantage of what is happening RIGHT NOW. The last few days I put a lot of plants in the ground, wanting them to soak up all the precipitation. With that accomplished, beside weeding, my garden is set for a while, other than deadheading petunias and harvesting copious peas my husband planted from seed back in February. The pea vines have usurped where he also planted strawberries, a lesson learned for next year. Again the present crashes into the future, but I need to stay right where I am, on this sofa as Nadal has gone up two games in the third set (he won the second). Not sure if I'll finish this post before the match is completed, but I am very happy for Nadal to be playing so well.

I'm also pleased both for the state of my garden and novel in progress. And I managed some machine quilting on a little comforter made a few months back that has been clumped on my work table along with loads of scraps from making masks and fabrics cut for hexie shirts. Meanwhile Nadal just won, taking the third set 6-0, having taken ten or twelve of the last games of the match. I'll watch the entire championship ceremony, then finish this entry, having a cup of tea in the middle of it all. 

Okay, wow, heartfelt statements by both players. Nadal has extended his Roland Garros dominance, will he play at Wimbledon later this month? How will my garden look by then, will my novel be ready to publish, lol. I could touch on current events, but I'll leave those alone. Right now my world consists of tangible aspects; the garden, writing fiction, sewing hexies, and the shot at the top of this post, some little coleus plants I started from seed MONTHS ago. Before we left on holiday I transplanted them into a shady place, but had no idea if they would survive. Three of the five are indeed still growing, and I am thrilled for their existence. We'd hoped to put several plants in this bed, but this year it belongs to these wee seedlings, and one succulent my husband didn't have the heart to put into the bin. Instead it rooted, one never knows how a cast-off might thrive. I have to remain patient, also committed, to all tasks where I am led. And right now a banana is calling my name. Snack time and blog posting go hand in hand, one moment at a time.

Not sure what happens next

For days I've been trying to write a post-vacation entry. Part of my hesitance has been trying to clear the backlog of things to do; laundry and gardening have taken precedence, a little housecleaning, some editing and sewing which have been necessary for my mental well-being. Because much of my silence here is related to how relevant is this blog to what is happening in America concerning mass shootings. It seemed inappropriate to start a post about writing fiction when again people have been murdered. What does it matter how hopeful are my novels when guns are so easily accessible and politicians so unwilling to enact the proper safeguards regarding that accessibility.

I grew up on a ranch, my dad hunted deer. Some of those deer heads adorned our living room walls and I never gave that aspect of life a second thought. When I was sixteen my dad's girlfriend took her life with a gun. I don't know what kind, a handgun I assume, but the deer heads remained although my father didn't go hunting as often as previously. When I was thirty-one my twenty-four-year-old brother killed himself, again with a gun. My father rarely talked about those losses, but they made an indelible impression on me; I am staunchly in favor of gun control as you might imagine. Yet today for the first time I considered how the recent raft of mass shootings could be labeled as domestic terrorism. I then Googled mass shootings domestic terrorism, finding the teenager accused in the Buffalo killings has been charged with domestic terrorism, as well as hate crimes, which is wholly appropriate. A few articles posed my query, if mass shootings could be deemed as domestic terrorism. But in my albeit brief search, there wasn't a clanging gong as was suddenly ringing in my head.

On general principal I avoid the news. If something makes it onto Wikipedia's front page, then I know about it. Right now the shooting in Tulsa isn't listed, but again to me, that's domestic terrorism. The shooter could have stalked the doctor who performed his surgery, killing him in solitude. Instead the shooter went to the hospital, causing TERROR, just like the young man who went to Uvalde's elementary school. Again I will qualify my feelings as solely MINE, because not everyone considers that mass shootings are acts of terrorism. But I think they are. And while it won't make a whit of difference in prosecuting a dead person, it will matter if the Buffalo suspect is found guilty. And perhaps, well past my lifetime, mass shootings will happen infrequently because eventually owning an assault rifle or a semi-automatic assault rifle will be viewed as how I consider it; a way to take many lives in a minimal amount of time with the maximum amount of damage and terror inflicted. An assault or semi-automatic assault rifle is thusly named due to the mayhem borne of its use. I have nothing against people who employ guns for target practice or hunters of whatever animal someone can legally shoot. But an assault or semi-automatic assault weapon isn't to kill deer, or in my opinion to defend one's home or self. It's to destroy human beings.

And to openly flaunt a manner in which to take the lives of others feels like terrorism to me.

I can't envision the pain felt by the families of those who have been killed, nor do I wish to experience that agony. Several youngsters call me Grandma; I don't desire to outlive them. Having grown up in a family where guns were prevalent, yet with so much sorrow attached to weapons, I can comprehend others not wanting their rights to be taken away. Yet what about my right, and of those I love, to attend school without fear, go in peace to the store, a hospital, a nightclub, a church? Near the end of my father's life, he asked if I wanted any of the family guns, or did my husband. It took all I had to only say, "No Dad, we don't have any use for weapons." Even with all he had lost, my father was still an avid gun-lover. And with this post, I'm not trying or hoping to change hearts and minds, I'm merely posing a question. Like I said above, this situation won't alter in my lifetime. But perhaps someday this nation's obsession with bearing arms will lessen. I don't know how many Americans will have to die and how many countless others will endure those premature passings to change attitudes and laws. But to think the status quo will remain is defeatist. I will continue to write novels promoting love and respect for all. And I will keep praying for those hurting due to gun violence and those who perpetrate it in all forms, either by firing the actual weapon or permitting what I see as domestic terrorism.

Back home

We enjoyed a lot of sunsets. Pondered the state of our nation and the world at large. Wondered what kind of future our grandchildren will inherit. Came home to a garden in need of attention. The improbable butts up sharply against the mundane, yet I have to remain optimistic that my small contributions in all facets are not only helpful but necessary, from prayer to stories of hope.

More in a few days. For now, it's good to be home.