Last night I finished my Pre-Washed quilt top. The final three rows were an after-dinner thought, in part that I wanted to have a relatively fresh slate for this morning to indeed begin revising The Hawk. The clean slate is qualified, because I need to sew the binding, not to mention quilt the quilt, but this morning it’s all about writing.
Or it will be, as soon as I finish this post.
It’s funny, not ha-ha or strange, but more like stepping into a new world funny to compare writing and quilting. Outwardly they are completely different animals, or pastimes, but inwardly… Inwardly I place them equally within my soul, even if one has been around for ages, the other new on the scene. Part of it is how much I mentally peruse those hobbies; I was dreaming about quilting last night, and I came up with the plot for The Hawk in a dream! But aside from that, it’s like my invisible purpose is writing, and what is seen are quilt tops, flapping on the clothesline, getting in the way of a rather determined hummingbird feasting upon the honeysuckle last night as I was waiting to take these shots in the waning light. But I couldn’t shoo him off, Verde I’ve called him, for a translucent green stripe down his tiny little back. Verde was too dang adorable to pester, as the light faded, as my quilt top sat in my arms, as I wondered about just what this life is all about.
Last night it was about a very warm evening (temps hit well over 100 F in our neck of Silicon Valley yesterday), a huge sewn together accumulation of pre-washed squares, one adorable hummingbird, and a novel sort of about another kind of bird. This novel is also about change, war, love, sacrifice, and sanity. It is not about quilting however.
That’s for my next book, one of these days…