There is a time for everything, be it noveling, quilting, blogging even. And while before I never stopped mid-first draft to read through what had been accumulated, The Hawk is a unique project. The Hawk has broken the 300K barrier, and has arrived at that 40-60K marker where I read through those words, what I’ve been doing since the first 40,000 words were written.
Since those initial chapters, I’ve been doing something previously unthinkable; reading and revising the book as I go along.
But, The Hawk isn’t an ordinary novel; dude, it’s epic! Um, well, at the very least it’s very large. And oddly enough, it didn’t begin with such a grandiose vision; it was going to be a short story. (Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha…) Ahem, well it was, but now it’s not, and I don’t even know if when I finish it, how I might publish it: as the grand tome it seems to be veering towards, or broken in more manageable parts. However, that’s ages away; right now it’s in that lull stage, where once I complete this blog, and make another cuppa, I’ll dive into where I started back up last month, at Chapter 74, I think. No, Chapter 75. And when I pick back up the writing part of crafting this novel, Chapter 91 awaits.
Sometimes, this is just how a book gets written.
But that’s perfectly fine; no two books are alike, much like quilts. And children, ahem. Or anything else that falls under the same heading, but their manner of creation differs from project to project. I’d like to base the future of this novel on something I’ve already completed, but even that falls way short; my Alvin’s Farm series also started out as a short story notion, but quickly blossomed into three novels, then another three. However, each of those books was a separate story, cliffhangers aside. I churned out those first drafts in a month apiece, my previous manner of producing books. But never before have I written a novel where the story just flows as it will, no visible end in sight. Nor have I revised a novel as I write it, but it sure makes writing this behemoth a whole lot easier.
And it allows this novelist time to catch my breath, sewing around the edges, while reveling in the start of football season.
It also permits early morning blog entries, which is fortuitous, as sometimes I like to spill my guts early in the day. There is much to writing that cannot be shared with one’s partner, offspring, or besties. It’s more fully appreciated by those who understand the process, even if my process is yards away from your process. For, as no two books (or quilts or children) are the same, neither are the manners in which those books (and quilts and children) are created. Still a common thread ties all writers (and quilters and parents) together, and the bliss in sharing with a like-minded soul one of the deepest joys of my life is, well, a pretty big thrill. That’s why I blog about writing (and quilting, although I skip much about the children, substituting Buttercup the grand-basset instead).
Ahh, Buttercup. She has little to do with writing, although I do suspect one day a very special beagle-basset hound will muscle her way into one of my stories. I don’t see her nosing her way into The Hawk (Where would I put her?), but I’ve also learned to never say never when it comes to much of anything. A new US Open men’s champion will be crowned today in Flushing Meadows, the big four nowhere to be seen. Because I’m not writing this morning, I will have ample time this afternoon to watch Kei Nishikori and Marin Cilic battle for that crown, while I hand-sew the big sister quilt’s binding. And tonight, during two NFL games, I’ll start to sew together the dad quilt’s rows, which have been waiting patiently for their moment in the sun. Or under the sewing machine, whatever.
There is a time for everything; it’s only a matter of acknowledging that truism, and not getting one’s knickers into a twist. I’m sure Buttercup wholly agrees.