Socking away for future days

Yesterday afternoon I had planned to finished machine quilting a comforter I started months ago; that poor blanket has NOT been feeling much love, as it lingered on the quilt wall half sewn together, then has languished after I finally got it basted and ran some of it under my machine to stitch together those layers. Instead I spent time in the garden gathering flower seeds; calendula and ornamental poppies, California poppies and Sweet Williams, and marigolds. I have more marigold seeds than, well, sense. I want to scatter them next spring in what will be a wide patch at the back of what used to be a chicken coop. All the while as I harvested seeds, I considered the quilt awaiting my attention. And a book that has been patient for much, much longer.

Not that I'm assuming I'll get to that story this autumn; I received a jury summons for the middle of next month that could delay the writing. But if I don't end up serving, I'm still not certain I'm ready to invest myself in an encompassing plot. Leaving a quilt dangling makes me a little uncomfortable, mostly in that it gets in the way. But I've written LONG books, and my goodness they require more than patience. They insist upon dedication, not necessarily uninterrupted, but certainly I won't write anything else. Perhaps it could be said, "Well, if you don't feel able to completely commit to this novel regardless of its scope, then don't write it." That is a perfectly valid argument to keep setting it aside. Except for this photograph.

Who these people were, or maybe still are, is wholly unknown to me. I found this snapshot in an antiques store a decade or so ago, and was beholden to buy it because while these children are anonymous, I knew who they would become. No names on the back, only the year, 1935, written both in pencil and inscribed with a stamp by Bear Photo Service. The only other bit of information is that this was taken in Ashland, also handwritten. Yet it's Archie, Helen and Muriel Nesmith in my mind, and if I don't tell their story now, when will I do it?

The novel attached to them has altered over the years, perhaps abbreviating the tale somewhat, but it's still a long story mostly concerning the Nesmith sisters and a woman both love dearly, Teri Anne Leahy. Their backstories are well preserved in my subconscious and copious notes exist in a folder where this photo and others relating to the plot also dwell. I've had a playlist attached to this cast for years, whittling it down as sub-plots have been excised, but today I added two more songs, both from the most recent Eurovision song contest of all sources, yet they seemed destined for this saga, the name of which has stayed the same, but I'm hesitant to put it here, in that what if I chicken out and don't start this in a few months? Then I glance to the right of my desk where that picture now leans against a mug of pens and crochet hooks. If I don't tell their story soon, will I ever do it?

Recently I was perusing old posts on one of my favourite quilt blogs, Stitched in Color. Rachel Hauser commented after finishing an intricate project that a quilt can be seen as a journey or a destination, or of course somewhere in between. Writing is similar, in that all through the crafting, THE END is eagerly anticipated, at least in my experience. In growing a wee bit older, reaching the end of a book, or a quilt, is definitely the goal, and I cringe at thinking I am beyond a novel of this scale. Maybe I can take my English paper piecing as inspiration, a few of those in-progress quilts tucked away in totes, not to mention how randomly I picked up, then set aside The Hawk during its creation; some projects can weather long gestations. Archie and Helen's smiles contrast greatly with Muriel's not quite a grin, and there's a reason for that. Perhaps I need to just start at the beginning of the book, then see what happens. For all I *think* that I know about these characters, more importantly is what I learn about myself. Hah, kind of forgot about that nugget. Their story is my story, or vice versa. And with that, I have a quilt to run under the presser foot. If not now, then when indeed.