Still writing

Hand-quilting the rainbow extravaganza is going to be a LONG PROCESS, but better than no stitching on it at all.

And sewing! Although that's being managed like I'm on a minutes restriction. Sometimes writing feels that way too, half a chapter here, another half there. Yesterday, however, I wrote an entire chapter, which felt AMAZING. While today, ahem, this entry will be it. (Heads-up: Long post, lol.)

Part of my stop-start fictional output relates to morning activities. Tomorrow we're celebrating a birthday with friends, sharing lunch as one of them turns eighty-one! I'm hoping to get a scene written before we meet with them, might be half a chapter's worth, possibly two-thirds, what I accumulated a couple of days ago, woo-hoo! Not quite as thrilling as turning eighty-one, but certainly noteworthy as sixty keeps knocking on my door, dude....

Didn't I just get into this writing gig, wasn't I just in my forties? Um, NO. Sometimes that feels like a LONG TIME AGO, and yet, when truly pondering how fast times passes, being forty-something isn't my ancient past. Or is it?

Maybe it will seem that way once I'm sixty. Or sixty-one, or two, or.... Last year when we whooped it up with these same friends as one turned eighty, my husband and I asked for pearls of wisdom, and were told to do what we wanted and COULD do now, because the day is approaching when those tasks, activities, etc, won't be easy. She didn't say They won't be possible, yet that translated without question. At that time I was struggling with wanting to write but feeling utterly without the urge. Now that I have both the urge and the ability, I don't want to miss free moments to indulge in a beloved passion.

So, yup, I got a chapter down yesterday! Thirty-four hundred words, bringing the total count (But who's counting, lol...) to almost 40K! Not quite half a novel, but almost.

Does that mean the book is half done? Who knows! I don't write to achieve a certain word count, then call the story quits. That would be like saying, "Well I'm eighty-one now, guess that's all for me." Novels progress as they are wont, I'm merely the transcriber, hahaha. Okay, so I'm more than that, but in all honesty, for me writing is a gift from God. What my writing means in the big scheme, I don't bother with now. I used to, in all honesty. If I'm being wholly hand-on-heart truthful, when I started IN MY FORTIES (major eye-roll), I thought, "Yup, kids don't need me 24/7. Now I'll be an author." I wrote a lot of drafts and tried to find an agent, but that didn't happen, then I found Smashwords, so I published my stories independently.

Now, I could have pushed HARD on that front back in the early 2010s and maybe something would have gone viral. But I didn't. Instead I took a road that called for less, not more in the marketing sense. I still wrote, oh goodness, I wrote a LOT for much of the rest of that decade. Then my mom died, and Dad was already gone, and I had four grandkids to love on and.... God didn't want me spending precious time honking my own horn. He wanted me to write The Hawk, care for beloveds, and take care of myself. Losing both of my parents in a three-year span was...tough.

After Mom passed, I closed up a Wordpress blog that was getting a decent amount of traffic. I didn't write fiction for over two years! By then Covid was present, I didn't see the grandkids as much, and we were in the moving to Humboldt process. The series I was trying to complete, That Which Can Be Remembered, was itself a stop-start project which began in Silicon Valley, and was finished in our new home on the North Coast. It felt like a HUGE victory for how futzy it was to get my head and typing hands wrapped around it, and that yes, I could write in a county other than Santa Clara, ahem. 

(A brief backstory: I started writing fiction while we lived in England. Then we moved back to America, and so came my fervor for noveling....)

That series was gratifying for many reasons. The Enran Chronicles has been cathartic, and remains waiting for my attention. Splitting the Sky was my angry response to a vile administration. And while I started Book Five of Enran last summer, I only managed a short story's worth of prose. Which is okay; that book will be in four novella-length sections. Yet, that was all I could get out, stymied by unrest in my soul due to unrest in my country.

The Deadfern Miracles emerged in a moment of grace. Clarity. Healing, but not like how The Enran Chronicles was birthed, in a sorrow so agonizing I wondered how was I even writing. The loss of a beloved spurred that series, and I wrote like I was still in my forties, even if I was fifty-six, then fifty-seven. I think that's right, math's not my strong suit. In 2023, I wrote four novels, the last of them a whopping 135K. Home and Far Away is a love story, a life story, an accomplishment that again was a gift, proffering me recovery from loss, and hope for the future. Little did I know in December 2023 how necessary that hope was going to be.

Anyways, this post is about chapter-length, LOL. It's about writing, not giving up, aging, and following one's heart. If I'd secured an agent way back when, how might my authorial journey been shaped by crafting what sells. Instead it's been seasoned with massive grace, life lessons, and the willingness to listen to the quietest voice, steering me clear from catastrophe time and again. The evils of this world cannot touch my heart when I am safely wrapped in such grace, why writing a book about miracles is VITAL.

Seven of eight hens from days ago noming on carrot peels. Owl is on the far right, and yup, stories to share about her adventures!

I'm still writing books, that's a miracle! And finding time and arm-health to sew. And those chickens.... I have a story about Owl to share. In the interim, keep doing what brings you joy, and if it feels like a dream lost in the dust, well, I'm there with you. I've been aching to write something new. Now I am. Let your heart dictate the pace. Then sit back and revel in the thrill of creativity!