Last night, with my hubby’s assistance, I got the over the bedroom closet door wall hanging hung. It’s been finished for probably a week, but time is a precious commodity, or maybe we’re just old and lazy. I’ll note the former, and give thanks that project is finally where it’s supposed to be.
He took pictures, in his somewhat imaginative, wonky style, while I laid on the bed, admiring that improv piece. I was tired last night, having spent much of my day with Little Miss and her mum, then enjoying a long Skype chat with The Burrito and his mother. While gazing at the primary-hued quilt on the wall, I considered how blessed is my life, an abundance of riches, from family to fabrics. And, of course, words.
The Hawk is moving right along; the first three days back, I felt sluggish, creeping along with 2,500 word chapters, which is nothing to be sneezed at, yet certainly a little slow out of the gate. On Wednesday, ideas were bubbling, and I managed 3,800 words. Yesterday was an off day; I don’t write every day, finding in the last few years that I am more creative if I go three or four days on, a day (or sometimes two) off. I’ll write this morning, probably as soon as I wrap up this post. And when I wrap up this post, I’ll also step away from the blog, for a while.
I’m not sure how long, maybe a month, a week, a couple of years. So much has happened this year, jeez! Or maybe a lot happens all the time, but sometimes it feels like more. Or perhaps aging makes me less competent to handle the big moments. Two grandchildren were born, my father died, I started piecing fabric however I pleased. And again, I’m plugging away on a story that is bigger than the word count, which isn’t small at all. The Hawk is about art and grace, love and war, life and death, clarity and madness. It’s also the sort of book that is leading me to places unknown, like the forest in which Marek finds escape, or the skies where Eric falls to Earth, or the pies Lynne bakes as if her eyes were closed. The writing of this novel has become a journey unto itself, and I’m so thankful to again be on this road.
This road is call the new normal, and it encompasses new faces, while one has been left behind. I feel I’ve blogged about all I can on family and fabrics and fiction. Right now, a curtain needs to be drawn, while I step behind the veil, allowing the mystery some room.