It’s been a few months since I’ve done more than write blog posts, well, I participated in NaPoWriMo last month, but daily usage of my keyboard has been minimal since around mid-January. I bring this up because over the last week I’ve been retyping poems created in April, to publish them in what will be a slim volume of poetry to be released one of these days. And in retyping those poems, I’ve reacquainted myself with an action that over the last eight years has been employed far more often than not.
Well, most of the last eight years, from late 2007 to late 2013. Since October 2013, my writing output has been scattered, although prodigious when I get around to it. But getting around to it has been a chore, what with life intruding. That’s the cranky old writer in me talking, bless her heart. The last decade I was blessed to turn into who I had always wanted to be, an author. Along the way I’ve become a quilter and grandmother, amoung other gifts, and it’s been a little tricksy, as my eldest likes to say, while the writing and sewing have met, danced a bit, then sulked to other corners of the auditorium while family took center stage. Family still rules the roost; that eldest is just waiting for her baby to appear, as are the rest of us. But I’m three-fifths of the way through The Hawk, and once I complete this round of edits, I will start writing. And in the meantime quilts appear, or disappear into the washer to make an even more lovely reappearance. Yesterday I finished the binding on the Dadland flag, and currently it’s being washed, although I tried it out last night while watching Houston and LA in the NBA playoffs; it’s long enough for me, wide enough too. Just needs some grandkids crawling all over it, what my eldest texted after I shared this photo.
So, in this past week, as I’ve typed poetry, making small revisions, a slightly noticeable ache crept into my shoulders, which made me smile; I’m exercising some important muscles, the writing muscles. Not too much mental fitness being stirred, although that’s waiting, I can sense it as I delve further into The Hawk, edits becoming more prevalent than in the previous chapters. And that’s good too; the first half of that novel has been revised, but these later pages need a good looking over. Still, there’s a difference between scrolling through a few chapters each morning, and writing a chapter. And while I can’t do much about getting my brain ready, other than being familiar with where I left off, typing four or five poems here and there has reminded my upper body of what it takes to pound out a novel.
Butt in chair, yes. Shoulders straight, no slouching, and deep breaths are just as important in the writing process.
Oh, the writing process…. I could wax on that for ages, but more to matter is appreciating that I can and do write; for how long was that my heart’s desire? I have to be honest; I never dreamed about making quilts. That crept into my life on very stealthy feet, then sledgehammered me into submission one cut of fabric at a time. But writing, ahhh…. Colour excites and music soothes, but my true (he)art is the written word, be it prose or poetry. April is a good month for me to grind out a poem a day, even if calamity swirls, reducing the output somewhat. Now April has passed, and so have some of the storms. We’re waiting on a baby, and I’m chugging along with The Hawk, eager to set that story back into motion. And yes, other cottony puzzles ache to be solved. But the sewing will just have to amiably learn its place, which after my impending granddaughter and her burrito-boy cousin and the rest of my clan comes after the writing.
Last year it was about quilting. 2015 is all about hawks, or so I hope. I won’t be naive enough to assume that I’ll complete that novel by New Year’s Eve, but I want to make headway. I made a note from yesterday’s reading, and it strengthened my resolve about this story; Lynne and Eric are talking, and Eric ponders his wife’s faith, and if he’ll ever endure a similar trial. And suddenly the end, which I’ve held in my head from early days, meant even more. What happens later to Eric will be a test of his faith.
Hehehe…. Now that’s what stirs this author, more ways in which to torture my characters. Which is not at all torture for me; it’s fulfillment. Boy, what does that mean? Nope, not going there. Just going to end this with a grateful nod to my Maker for blessing me with grandbabies and fabrics and words and more love than I can hold even with palms pressed close. And the acknowledgement that if one opens their eyes and heart wide enough, the desired treasure rains down abundantly, along with gifts unconsidered, yet just as beautiful.