Every Saturday, my sister and I get together to run errands and have some fun. Saturday is Pun Day and I never know what to expect. Once in a while, especially on a holiday weekend, we plan on fewer errands and do them on Friday. On these weekends, Saturdays can be terrible for getting around, and many of the drivers are even worse. This entry has little to do with errands and a bit more to do with puns. (None of which I can recall now, but they were doozies.)
We were traveling on a road not far from where I live. There's almost always traffic here, especially when folks are headed home from work. The jeep in front of us had stopped and from what we could see, there was nothing in the traffic that should have caused this delay in travel. My sister was the first to spot what turned out to not be a problem, but something more fascinating.
On my side of the road there's a railing type fence to keep people from slipping down the slight incline to the pond a few feet away. Wild shrubs grow just beyond this railing, and over the years it's pretty much taken over. At the same time, the pond has receded a bit. It was the sight on this side of the fence that had me staring open-mouthed.
Looking over and through the railing, Mama Goose was trying to find a safe way to get through to the other side of the fence and to the water. Behind her were three goslings and Papa Goose brought up the rear. Both adults, with their long necks stretched must have been about three feet tall. The young were fuzzy and cute and quite obedient to their parents. Mom and Dad seemed quite proud of their little brood. Papa issued a warning to one youngster who got a little too close to the curb. Any closer and the young one would have been flattened pretty quick. (Some drivers don't believe in slowing down on that road.) We couldn't stop or pull over since there was traffic behind us. But as we passed the little family, I looked back a couple times in awe.
I admit it, I'm a city gal born and reared. Sights like that turning up in the city are few and very far between so it makes a lasting impression when they do occur. The picture will stay in my mind and one of these days I'll find a way to incorporate it into one of my stories. It's those little things we learn to appreciate when we find them.
As to the puns... my sister had a few things to say along those lines and they were so 'groan-able' I wish I could recall what they were. One of these days, I half expect them to pop up in my memory and I'll be saying 'yeah, she said that'. And maybe next time I'll get the snapshot I missed. I'll be paying a little more attention to find another pleasant surprise, but that's when they don't happen. If they did, they wouldn't be surprises to make my day.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
Thursday, May 15, 2014
A Touch of Medieval
I've always had a thing for medieval times. People generally look at it as a 'romantic' period in history when it was anything but. Life span wasn't very long at all. If war and treachery didn't get you early on, poor nutrition and disease took it's toll. It definitely wasn't a romantic time.
So what's the attraction? That's a question I have never been able to figure out. Mention knights in shining armor (it wasn't all that shiny) or damsels in distress (many of them were the cause of the 'problems' they supposedly were rescued from) and you've got my attention. It doesn't matter that television and the movies don't always get it right. They reserve the right to play with historical facts. That's fine by me, as long as they don't change it too much. After all, there has to be some semblance of truth to the story. Every fiction is based on a kernel of truth.
Case in point... Back in February I watched an episode of a TV series called Reign. After that one episode I was hooked. For anyone not familiar with the series, it's about Mary, Queen of Scots (who was queen of France for barely a year), Catherine De Medici (who was Italian) and her husband, King Henry II. The writers toy with historical fact, period clothing and other things they think they can get away with. And they succeed for the most part. You just have to know what really went on. History purists don't accept the deviations and others, (myself included) will take them for what they're worth. From a writer's point of view it opens possibilities to create plots that don't exist in real history.
Take King John of England. He held the throne for the ten years his brother Richard was king. (Richard preferred to be away on crusade than stay at home and rule). In history books, John has been touted as not being such a bad king. In movies, he has a reputation for being a nasty character. he's the English ruler you love to hate. If not for John, the USA might be looking at an entirely different sort of Constitution since it was based on the Magna Carter.
Then there's the medieval tales that don't -- or barely -- stick to historical fact. A perfect example of this is the movie, A Knight's Tale. It pretty much sticks to the facts about jousting and tourneys, but the music and dance? Totally modern. While it seems completely out of place, it did fit the story. It was done in such a way as to have fun with it and not worry about fact. It's one of my favorites. It combines time periods without getting into any aspect of time travel. (that's another story.)
It all comes down to what you're willing to accept. Expand your horizons and take a chance on something new or a little different. You might find out you like it.
Update: After Junior Dove left, the nest was empty for a day or so. It didn't take long for another pair of doves to claim the nest and prepare to raise a family. Unfortunately, since the tree has leafed out, it's no longer possible to see the nest.
So what's the attraction? That's a question I have never been able to figure out. Mention knights in shining armor (it wasn't all that shiny) or damsels in distress (many of them were the cause of the 'problems' they supposedly were rescued from) and you've got my attention. It doesn't matter that television and the movies don't always get it right. They reserve the right to play with historical facts. That's fine by me, as long as they don't change it too much. After all, there has to be some semblance of truth to the story. Every fiction is based on a kernel of truth.
Case in point... Back in February I watched an episode of a TV series called Reign. After that one episode I was hooked. For anyone not familiar with the series, it's about Mary, Queen of Scots (who was queen of France for barely a year), Catherine De Medici (who was Italian) and her husband, King Henry II. The writers toy with historical fact, period clothing and other things they think they can get away with. And they succeed for the most part. You just have to know what really went on. History purists don't accept the deviations and others, (myself included) will take them for what they're worth. From a writer's point of view it opens possibilities to create plots that don't exist in real history.
Take King John of England. He held the throne for the ten years his brother Richard was king. (Richard preferred to be away on crusade than stay at home and rule). In history books, John has been touted as not being such a bad king. In movies, he has a reputation for being a nasty character. he's the English ruler you love to hate. If not for John, the USA might be looking at an entirely different sort of Constitution since it was based on the Magna Carter.
Then there's the medieval tales that don't -- or barely -- stick to historical fact. A perfect example of this is the movie, A Knight's Tale. It pretty much sticks to the facts about jousting and tourneys, but the music and dance? Totally modern. While it seems completely out of place, it did fit the story. It was done in such a way as to have fun with it and not worry about fact. It's one of my favorites. It combines time periods without getting into any aspect of time travel. (that's another story.)
It all comes down to what you're willing to accept. Expand your horizons and take a chance on something new or a little different. You might find out you like it.
Update: After Junior Dove left, the nest was empty for a day or so. It didn't take long for another pair of doves to claim the nest and prepare to raise a family. Unfortunately, since the tree has leafed out, it's no longer possible to see the nest.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Happy Ending? Hope So
On my last blog I posted an update about the mourning doves that were coming around. Now I can tell the full story.
We had a couple weeks of some miserable weather and I suppose that in itself kept the doves away. About a week into April, there she was, sitting on the nest with her mate nowhere in sight. At this point either he'd stopped coming around having considered his duty done, or he was around just after dawn to bring her some breakfast. The nest is only about six feet from my window, but I always use a small pair of binoculars to get a good look at what's going on.
For about two weeks, maybe a bit longer, Mrs. Dove sat on that nest, only occasionally turning around. Sometimes she was so still, I couldn't be sure if she was still alive. I have to give her high marks for courage because during this time the weather was terrible. There were frequent rain storms and gusty winds. I felt so bad for everything she had to endure. After all, there was nothing around to protect her from the elements. No blossoms, no leaves. It was still too cold in spite of being able to see emerging buds on the branches. I was rooting for her to hang in there. At this point, I hadn't seen anything of Dad and wondered if perhaps something had happened to him. We do have crows in the neighborhood and the occasional hawk. Sea gulls are in permanent residence.
Every day, several times a day, I got out my trusty little binoculars and checked on the nest. At times Mom was so still I was afraid she'd given up, and I'd be saying, almost whispering, "Blink your eyes so I know you're okay." I think she knew I was watching her. She always seemed to look up and she would blink. Mourning doves have pretty eyes. That might sound strange but it's the best way I can describe it.
A day or two after Easter there it was. Mama moved just right so as to let me catch a glimpse of her new little one. In seconds she had it tucked back under her breast feathers to keep it warm and safe. It was at least another week before I actually saw her feeding the little one. Hungry? I thought junior was going to shove his beak down Mama's throat. (I know that's what they do to get an ABC meal but it seems so rough.)
The chick grew fast. Its feathers were darker than Mom's and fluffier. It didn't take long for junior to learn how to preen his feathers and even a couple times took to picking at Mom's feathers. At least that's how it looked. Last week the buds on the tree finally burst with pink blossoms. The bees came around and busied themselves with the highest blossoms and stayed away from the nest. By the end of the day, with the chick well-hidden again, Mom would have a few petals stuck to her back, looking a bit speckled.
For a few days, junior spent part of the afternoon sitting beside Mom, taking in his surroundings. Granted, there isn't much to see in the courtyard but it was a new world to him. The blossoms had already begun to cut off part of the view to the nest. It wouldn't be long before the tree would be leafing out and the nest would be lost to human sight. Early Monday afternoon, Mom fed her offspring then took off. She didn't come back. The night temp dropped into the forties as it has been lately and junior was all alone. Maybe she came back early in the morning to feed him and took off again, trying to teach him some independence. I only know she didn't come back to the nest to sit.
Yesterday, junior sat on the edge of the nest, feathers all puffed out, looking soft and plump. He even dared to leave his home, to sit on a nearby branch. He fluttered his wings quite a bit, making him look more like a miniature bird of prey. It was amusing, and a step in the right direction. It was really gusty later in the afternoon and he huddled back in the nest against the wind. The branch swayed almost in a menacing way. It appeared to be quite the challenge to stay put. He spent another night alone.
About 5:30 this morning a pair of mourning doves sat on the wall that separates the courtyard from the front drive. I wanted to check the nest again but it was still on the dark side. I had to wait a couple more hours to have sufficient light. In the meantime I went back to bed. When I got up later to take a look, the nest was empty. I checked the surrounding branches to see if maybe junior had built up a little courage to move a bit away from his first home. The leaves on the tree aren't very big yet but are a distinct disadvantage. The mourning doves on the wall were also gone.
The pair of adults have come back several times today and I hope it's not a bad omen. I hope it doesn't mean that junior has fallen victim to some happenstance, after all Mom's nurturing and protection. I'd like to think he's learning more about caring for himself and what lies in store for him. That would be hard to do from a nest.
This has been a new experience for me and one I won't soon forget. It puts me in mind of what the Grand Creator has given us on this planet and our responsibility to care for it. Are we up to it? I hope so.
We had a couple weeks of some miserable weather and I suppose that in itself kept the doves away. About a week into April, there she was, sitting on the nest with her mate nowhere in sight. At this point either he'd stopped coming around having considered his duty done, or he was around just after dawn to bring her some breakfast. The nest is only about six feet from my window, but I always use a small pair of binoculars to get a good look at what's going on.
For about two weeks, maybe a bit longer, Mrs. Dove sat on that nest, only occasionally turning around. Sometimes she was so still, I couldn't be sure if she was still alive. I have to give her high marks for courage because during this time the weather was terrible. There were frequent rain storms and gusty winds. I felt so bad for everything she had to endure. After all, there was nothing around to protect her from the elements. No blossoms, no leaves. It was still too cold in spite of being able to see emerging buds on the branches. I was rooting for her to hang in there. At this point, I hadn't seen anything of Dad and wondered if perhaps something had happened to him. We do have crows in the neighborhood and the occasional hawk. Sea gulls are in permanent residence.
Every day, several times a day, I got out my trusty little binoculars and checked on the nest. At times Mom was so still I was afraid she'd given up, and I'd be saying, almost whispering, "Blink your eyes so I know you're okay." I think she knew I was watching her. She always seemed to look up and she would blink. Mourning doves have pretty eyes. That might sound strange but it's the best way I can describe it.
A day or two after Easter there it was. Mama moved just right so as to let me catch a glimpse of her new little one. In seconds she had it tucked back under her breast feathers to keep it warm and safe. It was at least another week before I actually saw her feeding the little one. Hungry? I thought junior was going to shove his beak down Mama's throat. (I know that's what they do to get an ABC meal but it seems so rough.)
The chick grew fast. Its feathers were darker than Mom's and fluffier. It didn't take long for junior to learn how to preen his feathers and even a couple times took to picking at Mom's feathers. At least that's how it looked. Last week the buds on the tree finally burst with pink blossoms. The bees came around and busied themselves with the highest blossoms and stayed away from the nest. By the end of the day, with the chick well-hidden again, Mom would have a few petals stuck to her back, looking a bit speckled.
For a few days, junior spent part of the afternoon sitting beside Mom, taking in his surroundings. Granted, there isn't much to see in the courtyard but it was a new world to him. The blossoms had already begun to cut off part of the view to the nest. It wouldn't be long before the tree would be leafing out and the nest would be lost to human sight. Early Monday afternoon, Mom fed her offspring then took off. She didn't come back. The night temp dropped into the forties as it has been lately and junior was all alone. Maybe she came back early in the morning to feed him and took off again, trying to teach him some independence. I only know she didn't come back to the nest to sit.
Yesterday, junior sat on the edge of the nest, feathers all puffed out, looking soft and plump. He even dared to leave his home, to sit on a nearby branch. He fluttered his wings quite a bit, making him look more like a miniature bird of prey. It was amusing, and a step in the right direction. It was really gusty later in the afternoon and he huddled back in the nest against the wind. The branch swayed almost in a menacing way. It appeared to be quite the challenge to stay put. He spent another night alone.
About 5:30 this morning a pair of mourning doves sat on the wall that separates the courtyard from the front drive. I wanted to check the nest again but it was still on the dark side. I had to wait a couple more hours to have sufficient light. In the meantime I went back to bed. When I got up later to take a look, the nest was empty. I checked the surrounding branches to see if maybe junior had built up a little courage to move a bit away from his first home. The leaves on the tree aren't very big yet but are a distinct disadvantage. The mourning doves on the wall were also gone.
The pair of adults have come back several times today and I hope it's not a bad omen. I hope it doesn't mean that junior has fallen victim to some happenstance, after all Mom's nurturing and protection. I'd like to think he's learning more about caring for himself and what lies in store for him. That would be hard to do from a nest.
This has been a new experience for me and one I won't soon forget. It puts me in mind of what the Grand Creator has given us on this planet and our responsibility to care for it. Are we up to it? I hope so.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Walk (Or Run) To the Nearest Exit...
According to the calendar, Spring arrived March 20th. Looking out the window, I have to wonder about that. The temperature has had more ups and downs than a yo-yo. By mid-January and winter thaw, cabin fever starts to set in. That's when the walls seem to be closing in on you and you have to find a means of escape or go crazy.
I was just reading an article about a study that was done comparing the benefits of walking vs running. Their results show there isn't much difference between the two. (Give it some time and eventually they come out with another report saying something entirely different.) As far as I'm concerned, the difference comes down to the fact that walking is easier on the bones and lets you go further distances. It's a joint conspiracy when hips, and especially knees, refuse to cooperate. Sooner or later they have to compromise to some point.
The building I live in takes up the whole block on which it sits. It's big enough that completing four circuits around the perimeter is the equivalent of having walked a mile. During winter or bad weather, many of the residents here will walk the halls, as much as they can handle. When the weather settles they'll be doing a group walk, once around the block, once a week. Last year, I fully intended to join them but something always came up or I was deep into a fictitious plot I had to stay with until it was completely solved and recorded. This year I plan to do better.
When I had places to go that weren't contained here in the building, I could work out sticking points in my writing and solve problems that kept the story from moving forward. Once I get my mp3 player set to go, I fully intend to walk around the block, think about my plot and how to fix it. Can you imagine trying to jog and work things out? Having those problems bounce around your head with every step you take? Walking provides a much smoother gait and is more conducive to finding suitable solutions.
It'll be nice to get out again (or even be able to keep the windows open) when the weather settles and begins to warm a bit. The seventies would be nice. Comfortably warm without the excessive heat and humidity that comes with summer. (not looking forward to that). So... as soon as the weather will permit, walk, or run, if you haven't yet, to the nearest exit and enjoy the return of Spring in all her glory. I will.
Update: Haven't seen much of the pair of mourning doves that took over the nest in the tree below my windows. They were coming around every morning for a while, until the storm we had last week. Then I didn't see them till the weekend but they didn't stay long. The weather has been too cold and unsettled but every time they come around they stay an hour or two and do a little more work on the nest. The bottom of which no longer can be seen through. The tree should be sprouting its blossoms in a couple weeks, and hopefully the doves will decide to stay. Hopefully, too, I'll be able to spy on them when the leaves come out.
I was just reading an article about a study that was done comparing the benefits of walking vs running. Their results show there isn't much difference between the two. (Give it some time and eventually they come out with another report saying something entirely different.) As far as I'm concerned, the difference comes down to the fact that walking is easier on the bones and lets you go further distances. It's a joint conspiracy when hips, and especially knees, refuse to cooperate. Sooner or later they have to compromise to some point.
The building I live in takes up the whole block on which it sits. It's big enough that completing four circuits around the perimeter is the equivalent of having walked a mile. During winter or bad weather, many of the residents here will walk the halls, as much as they can handle. When the weather settles they'll be doing a group walk, once around the block, once a week. Last year, I fully intended to join them but something always came up or I was deep into a fictitious plot I had to stay with until it was completely solved and recorded. This year I plan to do better.
When I had places to go that weren't contained here in the building, I could work out sticking points in my writing and solve problems that kept the story from moving forward. Once I get my mp3 player set to go, I fully intend to walk around the block, think about my plot and how to fix it. Can you imagine trying to jog and work things out? Having those problems bounce around your head with every step you take? Walking provides a much smoother gait and is more conducive to finding suitable solutions.
It'll be nice to get out again (or even be able to keep the windows open) when the weather settles and begins to warm a bit. The seventies would be nice. Comfortably warm without the excessive heat and humidity that comes with summer. (not looking forward to that). So... as soon as the weather will permit, walk, or run, if you haven't yet, to the nearest exit and enjoy the return of Spring in all her glory. I will.
Update: Haven't seen much of the pair of mourning doves that took over the nest in the tree below my windows. They were coming around every morning for a while, until the storm we had last week. Then I didn't see them till the weekend but they didn't stay long. The weather has been too cold and unsettled but every time they come around they stay an hour or two and do a little more work on the nest. The bottom of which no longer can be seen through. The tree should be sprouting its blossoms in a couple weeks, and hopefully the doves will decide to stay. Hopefully, too, I'll be able to spy on them when the leaves come out.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Is It Spring Yet?
For over a week now, the weatherman has been saying that on March 20th, at 12:57 p.m. Spring will officially arrive.
It's hard to believe when parts of the country are getting bogged down with even more snow. The mid-Atlantic states got more and had to close schools and government offices. Southern New England might be getting away with only flurries and showers while Northern New England continues to get dumped on. You might get a sunny day and hang out the wash, only to have it freeze stiff enough to stand alone. Old Man Winter has yet to understand that he's no longer welcome in a world that longs for warmer temperatures. The west coast might not see snow, but their drought has been so severe that any amount of rain has caused flooding and mudslides. No matter where you live, you have to be suffering from cabin fever.
In the last month I've seen small flocks of geese heading south. When they start coming back, you know it'll be getting warmer. Another sign is when you see people dressed in short-sleeve shirts (no jacket of any kind) shorts and flip-flops. Maybe it's their way of enticing warmer weather to move in and stay a while.
There are three trees just below my window, in a corner of the courtyard. In the eight years I've been living here I've never seen any birds take over the single nest that sits in the middle tree--until this week. Monday morning, I heard a mourning dove and looked outside hoping I could spot it. It was in the tree checking out the nest. A chickadee had checked it out earlier, but I guess it rejected the space. All morning the dove was comfortable in the nest and cooing. I figured it was either trying to entice a mate or was letting its mate know where to find it. By afternoon it was gone so I figured it, too, eventually rejected the nest. After all it was in some need of repair.
Yesterday morning the dove was back, performing the same routine as the day before, then left again for the day. I thought today would be more of the same but when the dove returned, it brought its mate along. They've been here all morning, flying off to get some building materials for the nest. Although it has a sturdy seat on a branch, there are holes in the bottom where you can see through to the ground. There are a few twigs woven across the hole but not enough to fill it in. I'd hate to see an egg or two fall through and end up splat on the grass below. The doves have decimated one side of the nest, apparently in an effort to remodel it before they call it home. They're taking their time about it but then it's not all that warm yet to be laying eggs. Maybe in another week or so. By then, the trees' blossom buds should be getting fat and ready to burst. When that happens it won't be as easy to see the nest as it is now.
Little experiences like this are new for me and give me something to write about, to add a bit of a personal touch to fiction. It renews my ability to see things fresh and rejuvenate my creativity.
So... Is it Spring yet? According to the calendar, just about. According to the weather, maybe not quite yet. According to me? It's the beginning and something to look forward to. For this part of the country, the season doesn't last long and before I know it, it'll be summer. I'm going to enjoy it for however long it lasts because when it's gone and the hot temps arrive I'll be wishing winter was just leaving and Spring was on the way.
It's hard to believe when parts of the country are getting bogged down with even more snow. The mid-Atlantic states got more and had to close schools and government offices. Southern New England might be getting away with only flurries and showers while Northern New England continues to get dumped on. You might get a sunny day and hang out the wash, only to have it freeze stiff enough to stand alone. Old Man Winter has yet to understand that he's no longer welcome in a world that longs for warmer temperatures. The west coast might not see snow, but their drought has been so severe that any amount of rain has caused flooding and mudslides. No matter where you live, you have to be suffering from cabin fever.
In the last month I've seen small flocks of geese heading south. When they start coming back, you know it'll be getting warmer. Another sign is when you see people dressed in short-sleeve shirts (no jacket of any kind) shorts and flip-flops. Maybe it's their way of enticing warmer weather to move in and stay a while.
There are three trees just below my window, in a corner of the courtyard. In the eight years I've been living here I've never seen any birds take over the single nest that sits in the middle tree--until this week. Monday morning, I heard a mourning dove and looked outside hoping I could spot it. It was in the tree checking out the nest. A chickadee had checked it out earlier, but I guess it rejected the space. All morning the dove was comfortable in the nest and cooing. I figured it was either trying to entice a mate or was letting its mate know where to find it. By afternoon it was gone so I figured it, too, eventually rejected the nest. After all it was in some need of repair.
Yesterday morning the dove was back, performing the same routine as the day before, then left again for the day. I thought today would be more of the same but when the dove returned, it brought its mate along. They've been here all morning, flying off to get some building materials for the nest. Although it has a sturdy seat on a branch, there are holes in the bottom where you can see through to the ground. There are a few twigs woven across the hole but not enough to fill it in. I'd hate to see an egg or two fall through and end up splat on the grass below. The doves have decimated one side of the nest, apparently in an effort to remodel it before they call it home. They're taking their time about it but then it's not all that warm yet to be laying eggs. Maybe in another week or so. By then, the trees' blossom buds should be getting fat and ready to burst. When that happens it won't be as easy to see the nest as it is now.
Little experiences like this are new for me and give me something to write about, to add a bit of a personal touch to fiction. It renews my ability to see things fresh and rejuvenate my creativity.
So... Is it Spring yet? According to the calendar, just about. According to the weather, maybe not quite yet. According to me? It's the beginning and something to look forward to. For this part of the country, the season doesn't last long and before I know it, it'll be summer. I'm going to enjoy it for however long it lasts because when it's gone and the hot temps arrive I'll be wishing winter was just leaving and Spring was on the way.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
What Do Writers Do When... Pt 2
So now I have all these little fabric patches that have to somehow go together. Most of the time I can see the full pattern in my head. I don't always follow traditional designs. There's that expression about 'marching to a different drummer'? Well that's me. I have to be different and that applies to just about everything I do.
I know. There are rules that have to or should be followed. After all there has to be some order and logic to things. Whenever I can get away with it, I follow that lonely drummer who rat-a-tat-tats his own beat. He's got to be hearing something different in his head to go off on his own. Do you ever wonder if he's wandering around because he has no idea what direction he's headed? The only thing you can be sure of is his having enough confidence in himself that he'll reach his destination.
I don't know either. Know where I'm going, I mean. Sometimes I get a really vague story idea in my head and I write a scene. I'll keep writing until I run out of words to explain or describe what's going on. I stay on that road until I get a stack of scenes that have no relationship to one another. Making small patches is so much easier than continually adding on to the main project. You get to a point where if you're looking for something specific it gets harder to find, the bigger the main project gets. Some-times you can get into more trouble that way.
Same principle applies to writing. When I've got lots of scenes done I like to shuffle them around to see which order makes more sense. On occasion it might fit more that one way so I have to figure out what combination will provide the most impact. I'm not into applique pieces since they pretty much can fit together only one way to create a picture. Then you have to be careful how you put them together. Can't have hints of any seams if you want a smooth finished project.
I like working with pieces that give me a choice of where they're going to go. Therein lies the challenge. When these pieces have been put in their places then it's time to build bridges. Now bridges are a nice thing to have showing. They're evidence of how I got from point A to point B. Not only that but most of the time they are quite nice to travel across since they can add to the scenery and set the mood for what's next to come. I've been known to destroy a bridge, move a patch and start again. (It's easier than frogging.*)
The last step, and I truly believe it's the biggest one, is the quilting itself. There are three layers to go through. The quilt top is the plot, the middle batting the 'filler' and the back of the quilt is what helps bring it all together. All the quilt stitching holds the three segments together, sort of blends them and makes the quilt (or story) whole. The sum of all its parts. Something to enjoy. When it's all done it's time to share it with others and hopefully they will appreciate all the work that went into your creation.
Creating something is a marvelous thing, whether it's thread and cloth, paper and ink, paint and canvas. Not everyone can write, but everyone can be creative in some form. It's a part of us that cannot and should not be denied.
*frogging - a term for taking apart a seam or section of work, (particularly in knit or crochet) better known as "rippit, rippit, rippit"
I know. There are rules that have to or should be followed. After all there has to be some order and logic to things. Whenever I can get away with it, I follow that lonely drummer who rat-a-tat-tats his own beat. He's got to be hearing something different in his head to go off on his own. Do you ever wonder if he's wandering around because he has no idea what direction he's headed? The only thing you can be sure of is his having enough confidence in himself that he'll reach his destination.
I don't know either. Know where I'm going, I mean. Sometimes I get a really vague story idea in my head and I write a scene. I'll keep writing until I run out of words to explain or describe what's going on. I stay on that road until I get a stack of scenes that have no relationship to one another. Making small patches is so much easier than continually adding on to the main project. You get to a point where if you're looking for something specific it gets harder to find, the bigger the main project gets. Some-times you can get into more trouble that way.
Same principle applies to writing. When I've got lots of scenes done I like to shuffle them around to see which order makes more sense. On occasion it might fit more that one way so I have to figure out what combination will provide the most impact. I'm not into applique pieces since they pretty much can fit together only one way to create a picture. Then you have to be careful how you put them together. Can't have hints of any seams if you want a smooth finished project.
I like working with pieces that give me a choice of where they're going to go. Therein lies the challenge. When these pieces have been put in their places then it's time to build bridges. Now bridges are a nice thing to have showing. They're evidence of how I got from point A to point B. Not only that but most of the time they are quite nice to travel across since they can add to the scenery and set the mood for what's next to come. I've been known to destroy a bridge, move a patch and start again. (It's easier than frogging.*)
The last step, and I truly believe it's the biggest one, is the quilting itself. There are three layers to go through. The quilt top is the plot, the middle batting the 'filler' and the back of the quilt is what helps bring it all together. All the quilt stitching holds the three segments together, sort of blends them and makes the quilt (or story) whole. The sum of all its parts. Something to enjoy. When it's all done it's time to share it with others and hopefully they will appreciate all the work that went into your creation.
Creating something is a marvelous thing, whether it's thread and cloth, paper and ink, paint and canvas. Not everyone can write, but everyone can be creative in some form. It's a part of us that cannot and should not be denied.
*frogging - a term for taking apart a seam or section of work, (particularly in knit or crochet) better known as "rippit, rippit, rippit"
Thursday, February 27, 2014
What Do Writers Do When...
What do writers do when they're not writing? They get creative in other ways.
From what I've seen and read from others, we pretty much head in the same direction. Crafts. Knit, crochet, x-stitching, embroidery, scrapbooking, quilting. Oh, and there's photography and sketching. Have I left anything out? Probably. But as a footnote, some activities are more perilous than others.
A case in point.
I don't scrapbook, photograph or sketch anything. I have no talents in that direction but I'm pretty good at the rest of the list. Last Fall, I promised my son a quilt for a wedding gift. (Hopefully, it will be ready for their first anniversary.) His wife loves pink so I had to find something that would be a pleasing compromise. Not to masculine or feminine. No problem there. The original design I had in mind proved to be too boring when I started planning it out so I came up with something better. That meant getting more fabric to compliment what I already had picked out.
That meant trouble.
In mythology, Sirens called to sailors, their song irresistible. The sailors ended up on the rocks, their ship destroyed. Death was their only escape. Ulysses is the only character of myth to listen to the Sirens and live to tell about it. Then again, his men tied him to the mast so he couldn't jump overboard, and with their ears stopped up they couldn't hear his shouted orders to free him.
It's the prefect analogy and a good explanation why I try to avoid fabric shopping. Those stores are like the rocky shores and the Sirens are all the quilting fabric inside. Listening to those mythological, "angelic" voices is just begging for trouble.
And I was begging.
My sister must have been in collusion with said Sirens. In my innocence (ha ha ha) I'd asked her to come along and give me her opinion, but she kept drawing my attention to prints she knew I couldn't resist. A couple of them barely whispered and I knew they weren't right. They were easily ignored. Then there were the more...'experienced, more powerful voices.' The colors weren't so much 'vibrant' as they were pleasing to the eye and they were talking to me. She and 'they' made for great harmony. The kind of harmony you can't resist no matter how hard you try. I suppose I didn't try too hard.
I fled from the rocks with seven different prints (not just the two I originally wanted) and my credit card still intact but with a discernible dent in it. I'm not sorry since, like Ulysses, I listened to their song and lived to tell about it.
As to my sister... Well, the Sirens aren't known for their loyalties. She'd been caught as well. In spite of her determination not to succumb to their vocal entreaties (she had no intention of purchasing any-thing) she left with several patterns.
The lesson for the day? Never trust Sirens. They always catch you.
Bwahahahahahah
From what I've seen and read from others, we pretty much head in the same direction. Crafts. Knit, crochet, x-stitching, embroidery, scrapbooking, quilting. Oh, and there's photography and sketching. Have I left anything out? Probably. But as a footnote, some activities are more perilous than others.
A case in point.
I don't scrapbook, photograph or sketch anything. I have no talents in that direction but I'm pretty good at the rest of the list. Last Fall, I promised my son a quilt for a wedding gift. (Hopefully, it will be ready for their first anniversary.) His wife loves pink so I had to find something that would be a pleasing compromise. Not to masculine or feminine. No problem there. The original design I had in mind proved to be too boring when I started planning it out so I came up with something better. That meant getting more fabric to compliment what I already had picked out.
That meant trouble.
In mythology, Sirens called to sailors, their song irresistible. The sailors ended up on the rocks, their ship destroyed. Death was their only escape. Ulysses is the only character of myth to listen to the Sirens and live to tell about it. Then again, his men tied him to the mast so he couldn't jump overboard, and with their ears stopped up they couldn't hear his shouted orders to free him.
It's the prefect analogy and a good explanation why I try to avoid fabric shopping. Those stores are like the rocky shores and the Sirens are all the quilting fabric inside. Listening to those mythological, "angelic" voices is just begging for trouble.
And I was begging.
My sister must have been in collusion with said Sirens. In my innocence (ha ha ha) I'd asked her to come along and give me her opinion, but she kept drawing my attention to prints she knew I couldn't resist. A couple of them barely whispered and I knew they weren't right. They were easily ignored. Then there were the more...'experienced, more powerful voices.' The colors weren't so much 'vibrant' as they were pleasing to the eye and they were talking to me. She and 'they' made for great harmony. The kind of harmony you can't resist no matter how hard you try. I suppose I didn't try too hard.
I fled from the rocks with seven different prints (not just the two I originally wanted) and my credit card still intact but with a discernible dent in it. I'm not sorry since, like Ulysses, I listened to their song and lived to tell about it.
As to my sister... Well, the Sirens aren't known for their loyalties. She'd been caught as well. In spite of her determination not to succumb to their vocal entreaties (she had no intention of purchasing any-thing) she left with several patterns.
The lesson for the day? Never trust Sirens. They always catch you.
Bwahahahahahah
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