Just one more post, about quilting and triangles. And The Hawk.
Even though December is a packed month and my entire family was hit by a miserable stomach bug (which morphed into a head cold for a chosen few), and that my husband and I didn’t manage to get our tree up (although we gave it away to a good home), and Golden State lost one game, a plethora of blessings surrounded us. Like we all got sick the week *before* Christmas. And I have no pine needles to hoover. And the Warriors continue their winning ways amid injuries. And I found time to read through the last parts of The Hawk, with only a relative few chapters left to peruse. And I received beautiful fabrics from my daughters, some of which are being transformed into a quilt, not that I require another. I do need some improv practice, as well as triangle experimentation. This project covers both of those issues, as well as some hand-quilting practice for 2016. I am truly falling in love with hand-quilting, especially when the back isn’t flannel. Not sure yet what I’ll use to back this one, but something vibrant certainly, maybe triangle-themed. Who knows what the new year will provide?
I wouldn’t dare to hazard a guess, other than finishing this comforter, as I know I won’t manage that feat in the next two days. I will go on record to say I’ll write, yes, I’ll be that bold. How much…. Um, no, I won’t touch that one either. I did wistfully regale my beloved with the faint notion of perhaps wrapping up the behemoth that is The Hawk, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! He smiled at me with love in his eyes, not batting those eyes. I mean, after all that occurred in the last twelve months, who knows what sits on the horizon?
Triangles in the process….
But certainly words, oh and I would be ever so pleased with a lot of them. Again, we shall see. Of course quilts, one for Little Miss made with fabrics her other gran gave to me, as well as some Christmas gifts, and whatever else catches my attention. Plenty of time spent with my grandkids is on tap, with my nieces and nephew too, and, ahem, some significant birthday celebrations for yours truly, as fifty looms in spring.
But having been a grandmother for nearly a year, turning fifty is small potatoes. More to crowd my thoughts is a cast unraveling since October of 2013, long before The Burrito and Little Miss were even considered. Eric and Lynne, Sam and Renee, Stanford and Laurie and Marek and Seth are back in my day to day, three chapters each morning read and revised, leading up to this coming Sunday, by which time I’ll be muddling through the last bit I wrote, leaving me with open hands and a teeming mind to set the next part of the novel in motion.
As God as my witness, I am ready to get back to writing this book!
During our time in England, long before writing fiction took precedence, the last week of the year was spent watching end of year specials, not to mention trying to stay warm. I don’t recall such shows before we left for Britain, and now I only watch sports. But those eleven years I turned into someone who would return to America as a budding novelist, who no longer homeschooled offspring, who went to the beach, a lot. The last time I went to The Hook in Capitola was two years ago, two entire years! Then in 2014, I started sewing, Dad began chemotherapy, both of my daughters got pregnant, and I was writing The Hawk.
31 December 2013, Capitola, California
Funny that as that book began, my trips to The Hook dwindled. Life is always changing, one can never predict the future, although I sure can dream about it.
My authorial dream is to complete The Hawk, oh man, I so want to finish that novel. I dream about quilts, ha ha, but sewing blankets isn’t as compelling as putting The End to the biggest story my little brain has ever concocted. Or by the love of sweet Jesus one of these days will finally slip from my fingers and…. And send me back to the beach, maybe. Or to my ironing board, or God willing to start another novel.
You know of course, I’m dreaming of other novels too….
Maybe that’s an equal impetus to wanting to put The Hawk into the done column. There’s “The Hounds of Love and War“, which actually started as an epic poem back in April 2013, but it sputtered out around Part 27 (When I say epic, I ain’t kidding….). Yet I’ve not forgotten it, just like the sequel to two other novels still percolating in my aging brain.
Buttercup wishes you all a very pleasant 2016.
I might be turning fifty soon, but there’s plenty left I have to say.
And so that brings me back to triangles, fabric in nature, also puzzling. I only managed a C in geometry, so playing around with those shapes is truly a matter of cut, sew, rip out, repeat. As I’ve been dabbling, I’m indelibly drawn back to The Hawk, not because it’s a cut, sew, rip out, repeat sort of novel, but what remains to be written is so, so, so…. Compelling, fantastic, dramatic, magical, healing. (Not to mention bringing up another story in the lengthy novel-to-be queue….) It’s been an amazing gift to simply tell this tale, as if winning a lottery. It’s been soul searching, and soul-wrenching. I’m being stretched as a novelist, refined as a human being, tested like some Biblical icon, or that’s how it feels. It’s the themes explored, the love stories exchanged, and the personal triumph of just getting one word to coherently follow another.
All I ever wanted to do, amid loving my family, was write novels.
We’ve been back in America for coming on nine years; that’s nearly as long as we lived in Yorkshire, which seems somewhat erroneous, both for how speedily time has passed as well as for how much of our souls still reside in a land far away. But time, and life, is not static. As I prepare to again grasp my writing hat, putting it firmly upon my noggin, I embrace the steps necessary in the process, and yes, sometimes it is cut, sew, rip out, repeat. But mostly it’s steps taken with the lightest heart as I traverse ordinary time to another place in a universe where unlikely events are just as factual as baking pies, where love is found in unusual guises, and where rock-solid trust is built upon the shakiest foundations. And yet, isn’t that how real life spins out, not as yarns but our realities. And as reality goes, one of these years will be the year I finish The Hawk, closing that chapter (ha ha) of my life. Then immediately another door will open, maybe with a quilt top dangling in the door frame, or an ocean beckoning, or grandkids tugging on my hands. And as I drift into the next realm, I’ll fondly recall this one, if only for fleeting moments.
Quilt as of last night, a few triangles popping up.
And before I know it, triangles will have emerged, less ripping out, more repeating. Triangles and tales of triangles I’m certain, hehehe….
Updated 30 December 2015: inadvertently I added some triangles to the piece on the far right, making a statement of sorts. My husband called it pop art-like. I am simply thrilled for how without any planning triangles are making this their own, hee hee.