Quilt Camp & Writer's Cramp

I can't blog today. I am leaving for Quilt Camp. You'd think that with the temperatures dropping to near-freezing at night, the thing would be called Quilt Camp because that's what you bundle up in while telling ghost stories and making s'mores around the campfire. Nooo. No campfire. No s'mores. Probably no ghost stories. And, get this, we're going up to cabins in the woods to make our own quilts. I often wonder what our ancestors think of us seeking recreation in chores they did of necessity.

With an attitude like this, you're probably wondering why I'm going. Truth is, my most beloved aunt in the whole of forever is a camp counselor. She sent in my registration, bought me the pattern (patterns these days cost more than sewing machines did at the turn of the 20th century), put together a coordinating kit of materials . . . heck, she even gave me a state-of-the-art sewing machine that's worth more than my car. Now if she could just give me a little talent.

Turns out, quilting isn't all that different from writing.

As much as I hate to admit it, I was one of those egotistical dummies who read an LDS novel, thought I can do better than this, and set out to prove it. Turns out it's harder than it looks. I still haven't proven my point, but seven novels later I am not nearly as egotistical as I once was. (Some good came of it, in other words.) Quilting is also harder than they make it look at the county fair. This is probably because novels have remained about the same over the last few decades, but quilts have evolved from utilitarian bedcoverings to exquisite works of textile art. (Other people's projects, that is; mine are neither exquiste nor utilitarian.) While women once used flour sacks, tattered curtains, and leftover scraps from homemade garments to piece together a quilt, there are shops today that want to sell you a yard of designer fabric for 15.99. (And up.) My great-grandmother couldn't afford not to quilt. For me, quilting is scarcely affordable. I may, in fact, have to try to publish another book to finance my fabric addiction.

Hmm. I think I lost my thesis somewhere in that rant about the high cost of cotton thread. (et al) Quilting and writing seem similar to me at the beginning of every project. My first book started with only a character. I wrote a chapter about an all-star pitcher standing on a mound in spring training and getting pounded. I felt like I knew the character from the first sentence -- everything about him, in fact. Unfortunately, I had no plot, no theme, no purpose, and no other characters. I ended up following him around (for almost 900 pages!) to see what happened. (No, I can't explain my "creative process" any better than that.) Similarly, I often buy a yard of to-die-for-gorgeous fabric and carry it around for days, weeks, or months, waiting for it to tell me what it wants to be when it grows up.

Other books have begun with "what if?" A few years ago I was drafted to help with an Eagle Project to preserve and relocate cacti in the wilderness. I'm not a dyed-in-the-wool girly-girl, but I'm no Girl Scout either. In the first thirty minutes the project ruined two of my nails and caused me to blink rivulets of melting makeup from my eyes. I thought, I wouldn't last twenty-four hours out here by myself. It's doubtful I'm going to last twenty-four minutes, surrounded by Eagle Scouts. When I got home that night I started my first attempt at first person, writing about what might happen if a true girly-girl got lost in the Galiuros. (With an Eagle Scout, of course.) My quilting projects often start similarly. What if I make a full-sized memory quilt for my daughter's 21st birthday? I think. My daughter is now 22 and recently asked if I'd consider finishing her quilt for Christmas. I said yes. Since she didn't specify Christmas of which year, I think my word is good.

But they way in which quilting is most like writing -- if you're me -- is in the revisions. I have a quote up on my bulletin board from Pulitzer Prize winner James Michener. He said, I am not a great writer . . . I owe my success to being one of the world's great re-writers. In quilting -- as in writing -- I have a long way to go to become adequate, let alone an accomplished. But let me assure you of this: I am beyond doubt one of the best seam-and-scene rippers in the world today.

I can think of several more parallels, but if I go any further I will miss the bus up to camp. Besides, given enough time, I might even come up with something that vaguely resembles a blog, and we all know how hard I've been trying to cut back on blogging.

Finally, haven't forgotten the Javelina Short-Short-Short Story Contest. The winner, technically (and perhaps) is #2. I say and perhaps because I'm frankly a little suspicious of Anonymous and his troupe of Anonymous supporters. Nevertheless, I have no actual proof that anybody stuffed the ballot box, so he won, square if not fair. I am, however, going to award the second prize -- the one I offered for voting -- to #4 for having the most votes from people willing to identify themselves. I'm giving her this prize because she deserves it and because the first two names I drew for it were "anonymous" and the third was my husband's. (Don't tell Gary he won. He'll want to take that magnet down to the apartment for sure!)

Alright, I'm really, truly off to camp. Wish me luck. I'm resigned to missing out on s'mores, but maybe I can at least find somebody willing to listen to ghost stories. Maybe next week I'll put up pictures of my "campout." What better way to get out of blogging once again?"