Been quilting lately, actual honest quilting. Making a quilt is so much like writing a novel, different layers that fall under one heading, but without all of those processes, nothing is accomplished.
I’ve been sewing a lot lately, but thinking about writing. Lots and lots of thinking.
Recently my daughter sent a terrific shot of Buttercup; you can just barely see the rim of white in her eye, her little front paw daintily curled into the blanket. Right now I feel like Buttercup when it comes to novels. I just want to close my eyes and pretend I’m sleeping.
Yet, when it comes to quilts, I feel like this shot of Buttercup; ready to wrestle another comforter until it hollers uncle. Or something like that.
I don’t know why quilts are currently easier for me to reckon; it’s not that I merely twitch my nose and out pops a quilt. There’s quilt math and fabric shopping and seam ripping and…
And a lot of tasks that don’t require too much brain power. This summer it’s been quite hot in Silicon Valley. Perhaps the heat has fried my brain cells. Maybe all the novels I’ve written over the last seven years have left me dry. Or maybe…
There is a time and a season for all things, I know that very well. And while I *want* to write, instead it’s time to quilt, even if it’s been pushing 100 F here for weeks on end, or it’s hit over 100 F. A hot summer, the warmest since our return from Great Britain, but that probably doesn’t have much to do with why I’m not writing.
Today I’ll quilt the other half of the Brother-In-Law quilt. Not sure when I’ll get around to the binding, maybe this weekend. This stage, for me, of the quilting process, is like those last few revisions before publication; the downhill slide feels so good, yet the bottom seems far away, even if you squint. But it’s also close, because no longer is the quilt going to shift, nor will the story experience major changes. Still, I can’t give away this quilt in its present form, nor could I upload a novel unless I knew it was done. And at this point, uploading a new novel lives in a galaxy far, far away.
And for the first time since I started writing, I’m wondering if I missed that last transport back to Mos Eisley. Although, my novels usually aren’t filled with a wretched hive of scum and villainy.
They aren’t filled with bassets or quilts either. Perhaps that’s the real problem…