This is just a funny observation on how my brain works.
When I'm writing, I'm quilting. It's happened consistently now, over my last two books. I just started my latest novel, an adult murder mystery, and ...I've produced one pieced quilt and several panels, and I'm only on chapter 11.
I know of one other writer, via Facebook, who also quilts and writes. (Hi Fay! Love watching progress of your dragon quilt.)
What other artistic activities do you do when you write?
First, the image - striking,
grabbing my attention,
pulling my eyes toward it,
forcing me to examine it up close,
all the fine details,
and ponder the possibilities.
Second, the plan - stewing,
brewing, do this, then that,
each stage, thought out, nothing forgotten.
To piece or overlay, that is the question.
What skills required, what needles, what threads,
long arm or by hand?
Third, the search - hunting,
stalking the rows of bolts,
fingering weights and textures,
contemplating patterns and sales.
What will show depth, convey
meaning, breathe life into this, my sacrifice?
But wait, don't start! Not yet.
One cut, one mistake, can still kill.
Plan and draw, re-draw and cut out of paper, first.
Piece together, re-measure, re-draw and cut some more.
Stand back and reflect. A shiver of excitement.
It will work.
The final phase - execution,
a birth or death, bloody, painful and painstaking.
Pin and pin and pin again, until fingertips are raw,
pink and bleeding.
Sew and sew and sew and sew some more,
needle in, needle out, never-ending.
Last stitch, last ditch.
Handed over at last, with a mournful caress. Will they recognize
the inspiration, the care, the love, the awe?
This gift of pain, devotion and passion,
thrown on a couch, folded at the foot of a bed, stuffed in a closet.
Will they ever see?