Yesterday at the post office I saw the Maya Angelou stamp sign, and while the quote isn’t from the poet, it rang so true for me. Especially I can apply it to writing, and it’s most applicable with the WIP. Six chapters remain to revise of The Hawk, and then…. Then I will dive back into telling this tale, one word at a time.
But not because what I’m creating is the answer to the world’s problems. At the end of the day, it’s simply a story, regardless of scope or themes. But it’s a yarn I feel compelled to spin, if for no other reason than I have been enabled with the gift to put one sentence down followed by others, crafting paragraphs into scenes into said chapters. And in about two days’ time, I’ll add another, stepping back into a creative realm invisible to the naked eye.
Writing is nothing like quilting in that aspect. I could pepper this post with shot after shot of the wall hanging of the moment, but one suffices; yesterday I sewed this monster into one long strip, chose fabrics for the back, sewed those together, cut batting, basted the whole thing, even started quilting diagonally with some rather loud yellow thread. Much more quilting remains, but it’s now held tight not by pins but polyester string. The binding is prepared, and within a few days this project will be on my bedroom wall over the closet, case closed.
Yet The Hawk has no set timeline for completion, thanks be to God that I’m nearly back to writing it even! Over lunch with a friend, I extolled my excitement for the commencement of that activity, because while revisions are necessary, if only to reacquaint myself with all I had added to this tale, editing doesn’t hold a candle to the thrill of indeed enlarging that fictional universe. How much bigger it’s going to get is unknown, and I don’t even want to ponder that aspect.
It will be as lengthy as is required. Ultimately, the requirement is for me to sing this song as best as I can. And that is what I need to embrace, the simple singing of the song. For how many years did I want to write, oh jeez! Decades, to be honest. And for most of this past decade, I’ve been writing, again thanks to God. How often do we get to realize our dreams, and accept those blessings without strings attached, no one grading our efforts, but merely the moment to sing whatever song stirs within our hearts and souls?
I like to sing, maybe that’s why the quote hit me, there in an innocuous post office, not the sort of place where deep truths are known to land. But I was there sending books to my nieces; books are wondrous gifts, and The Hawk is the same, if only to me. Maybe dreams aren’t realized because we dreamers don’t understand how important is the follow-through. All the rough drafts I’ve tucked away are just as meaningful as the saga I’m currently sorting, for they have led me to this spot in the writing. These quirky wall hangings are practice for future projects, every step along the way building to the ultimate culmination of….
A song to be sung. La la la, humming along for no other reason than to hum. But that sound resonates further than what I can hear. Closing my eyes, I give away that tune, that tale, those pieces of fabric, and allow the magic to continue. The magic of life is a most precarious and precious work. Who I am to presume more than the blessings within my hands, but if those treasures aren’t released….
La la la, here they are! Now back to the singing, sewing, um, and the laundry….