This morning I sat under my scrappy quilt, pondering how those gathered fabrics now held distinct meanings, from those included in my dad’s chemo quilt, to the ones in my youngest daughter’s whale comforter to batiks bought especially for my eldest’s Mijos quilt. I especially appreciated the simple straight lines sewn through long ivory strips separating the scraps, for those lines reminded me of a tale spun over ages of time. Which led me to thinking about The Hawk.
I haven’t said squat about that novel lately, but it’s never far from my mind.
Lately my brain has been chock-full of medical hoo-haa, some of it unpleasant, much of it thrilling. One grandchild is due in a matter of weeks, the other in May. A grandson will arrive first, followed by a granddaughter, and if I’m not sewing baby quilts, I’m crocheting baby blankets. Writing feels like an ancient pastime that has long passed me by.
But in the quiet of this morning, after prayers were said, while I snuggled under that scrappy quilt, I ached for a moment where my ill father and those blessed babies didn’t intrude. I needed a minute, or three, where I could escape, and where better than to poke my nose back into a book that hollers to be completed. Quilts and baby blankets are easy to finish, or they require a finite amount of attention. A novel is wholly different, and the comfort it gives this writer is just as complex. It’s like that long straight stitch, going from one end of the quilt to the other. Follow that seam, and you’ll find a story intact.
I’m not sure I’ll manage any writing today; perhaps it was just enough to read most of a chapter, tweaking sentences here and there. But my authorial heart has been stirred, what I require for myself not as someone’s mother, daughter, or grandmother. I love to quilt, and to crochet. Yet my mind aches for the creative force that writing provides, and after several months of sitting silently in my computer and resting on flash drives and in email accounts, maybe the start of 2015 also means The Hawk will take flight.
These characters are as much a part of me as my dad, my daughters, and those impending grandkids. Actually, Sam, Renee, Marek, and the rest are even closer, because I know them like the back of my hand. And I cannot wait to continue telling their tale. I have no control over what happens to my father, or how my descendants will turn out. But to those within The Hawk, I am in charge. In very few situations do I get to boldly make such a claim. Going to enjoy it while I can.