It’s me again. (Listen to me saying hello to myself…who else is reading this?!) Signed up for another blog. Imported my old tired neglected blogs. This is how I procrastinate. If you don’t see me for some time it either means I am actually doing the things I am supposed to be doing or I have found yet another procrastination tool.
So what was it I was supposed to be doing? Oh yeah. I write. I am a writer. I am also a quilter. I am not old. But I will quilt when I am old. For me a quilt is an expression of who I am just as writing is. A novel of fabric and thread. The pieces of fabric are the ideas and the stitches of thread are the words that hold it all together. My quilts, like my stories, are things that define me. My first finished quilt hangs on the wall as my first published story sits on a shelf. They haunt me. They are a constant reminder of what I can accomplish when I allow myself to move forward. Like my stories, my quilts are mostly unfinished. Words and fabric in various stages of construction. Like me, unfinished, unrefined, just loosely woven pieces. Incomplete. Nothing and no one of consequence.