Gratifying emotional endeavors

Two blocks made from Art Gallery fabrics and some beautiful leafy linen.

Despite a still niggly pinched nerve, satisfying work has been accomplished. Today is the second in a row of decent writing, a new book finally emerging after a few weeks of hand-wringing amid personal upheaval. Yesterday I sat at the same machine where I am right now, slowly but steadily churning out a twenty-four hundred word chapter. I cannot put into prose how awesome that felt, then amazingly I did the same again this morning! Three K was added, and I feel it safe to say another novel is underway.

More about that in a few; meanwhile I am definitely up to my armpits in blocks for a sixteen-patch quilt, another project desperately needed both for practical and soul-bandwidth purposes. I'm sewing together 4.5" fat quarter-length strips, then chopping those into 4.5" wide strips, swapping two, then nesting seams. Fairly mindless but so full of pleasure that my heart feels revived. The last few months have been those of a heavy-duty variety, experienced only a few times but carrying the weight of multiple agonies. Machine sewing a simple pattern with airy cottons and lofty linens brings a terrific texture to large blocks that hopefully will translate into a gorgeous quilt once completed.

But let me wax lyrically about the writing a wee bit more.... Last fall I abandoned A Rose Blissful, wondering if the malaise was due to the topic, the timing, age, an ill relative. Certainly a combination of those are probably the culprit, but at the time I didn't have the energy to analyze why writing was so difficult. Closing the door on that story was my only recourse, and while I didn't allow myself to stew over it, obviously it remained a sticking point, as here I am mildly grousing about it now. In the back of my head was the not wish to be considered notion of: Is writing still my passion? What writer wants to delve deeply into such a topic? But it's there every time I consciously ponder it when I'm not actively engaged with a novel. Revisions/edits are their own separate animal; partaking of them to me constitutes writing. But I haven't even had the focus or desire to open a manuscript and poke around paragraphs. Yes I've been here and there and back again, which doesn't lend itself to dedicated writing work. But I've been home now a couple of weeks and until yesterday, nothing was stirring. Was I slightly frightened, perhaps. More is that I was exhausted, the noveling mojo fast asleep.

Yet as a new quilt emerged, so did my need to tell a story, out of the blue and into the black and white of a virtual document while subtle summer-hued prints were sliced into appropriate lengths, then sewn back together as though nothing else could occur. How is it an enormous amount of draft and craft enthusiasm could suddenly descend upon me simultaneously? I have no answer for that, so instead I'll write. And sew. And take some pictures of the sewing. And keep writing. And maybe finish a draft. And probably complete a quilt. And take some baby steps away from a fairly tumultuous year. And find some lovely heartpeace.