Drafting Frenzy

A friend recently said, "You always get so worked up over your Christmas books, Robley."

Well, maybe.

But the thing is that my process of writing requires a l-o-n-g time for thinking before I even start my "zero draft," the mess from which I hope to make something worth giving. Then, suddenly, I feel a shift and everything pours out like the all-day rain falling here today. Add to this the book designing and making, and yes sometimes I work myself into a swivet (the good kind -- the I-am-doing-something-interesting-that-I've-never-done-before-swirl-of-creation swivet.)

Finally, I had to learn a new online program to make the book. Only after I had created three solid working drafts did I even figure out how to unlink text blocks.

After many proofreading/editing sessions (mine and two friends') I gave the command to print this afternoon. This is it!

it's blurred because it's still a secret

Bring on Christmas and the Greats!

On Writing and Wishing

Twenty-three days to go, and I am no nearer a Christmas book than I was when I felt the spark of an idea about two weeks ago.  The annual panic has set in, consuming me live like the no-see-ums dragonflies feed on so rapaciously.  

I am told that an insect doesn't suffer when dying: it shuts down, goes into a kind of physical stasis.

Not me.  

When the composition disease strikes, I become itchy-titchy and distracted, latching on to any impulse pulling me in any off-target direction.  It's not enough, for example, to walk the lake and take photographs (umpteen more of Autumn Meadowhawks as though the hundreds I have already shot aren't sufficient), but then I come home and play with them, using Photoshop as a delaying tactic without equal.

I have an image I like now.

But it's not enough to like this image.  I am not writing about dragonflies for Christmas (though I wish I had written this description published in this week's New Yorker: "Green Darners never attack people, but they have been seen bringing down hummingbirds.  They are the Bengal tigers of the microworld.").

Mine is another topic altogether, and words fail me.

Today, I am no Bengal tiger: I am a hummingbird, and the looming deadline, a Darner.  

And So It Begins: Christmas Book Panic!

The fish bit at and then ignored the little dog-paddler, flipping and flopping its way to a blade of grass.  I watched it climb up to the top, sun for a moment, then climb down again, before flying off.

Only when I got home did I realize it must have been one of those green bees I've seen before at the lake.  (Or maybe a green bee fly. At my distance and with my camera's resolution, it's hard to tell.)

What I could tell, though, was that those fish were fishing -- hunting for a tidbit to tide them over.

Every year at about this time, I start fishing, too.  Usually I sense a tug of an inchoate idea pretty quickly; usually I've felt it by now.  But not this year.  I am bare, or nearly so, like the trees beyond the small fish.

Panic is starting to settle in: Just what the heck will I write about this year?  Why in the world did I start a Christmas book tradition anyway?  Maybe this is the year to end that tradition!

Then reason speaks: No, I can't do that.  I just have to wait for the right bait to come my way.

Hmm . . . .

Previous Christmas book posts: The Manifesto of Done; Exhaustion; The First Christmas Book; The Christmas Book, Part II; Creative Energy; The Christmas Book

The Christmas Book, Part II

In an earlier post, I described my Christmas book tradition. Starting with the first of the "great", the oldest of whom is now five, I have made a special illustrated book each year for Christmas. It's the big present for the greats. I have now finished making the books and am sewing them.

There is such satisfaction from a project of the head and hands. First, I must think of something to write about that I think family will want forever. Then I have to draft and revise, draft and revise, . . . until I have a felt sense that I'm on to something. Then I plan the book pages (size and contents and basic design with font, colors, and the like), make images (this year I'm using photographs, maps, and some Internet sources), create pages, lay them out, print, and revise, print, and revise . . . again and again until I have that satisfying felt sense. Then I hand-tear the pages to size and print the final pages, finally folding them together and nesting them into signatures.

Next, I cut the boards, making sure to change blades often so I don't strain in the cutting and snaggle the edges. Then I select the papers (inside and out, including end papers) and book cloth, cut all to size, glue, and lie them down flat under uniform weight till all covers are dry (usually overnight). Meantime, I make a template for poking holes in the signatures (sets of pages) and then use a sewing cradle and awl to make the holes.

Once the boards are flat and dry, I must make the sewing holes in those as well. Using the same template I used for the pages (I've labeled the inside with "T" for top), I mark the front spine about 1/4" in from the edge. I use an awl to mark the placement of each sewing hole. I break out my trusty Dremel tool with which I drill holes in the cover and then, using the cover as a template, drill through those holes into the back cover.

Finally, I sew. I try to choose a contrasting thread that complements the book cloth and covers. This year, I've used red, green, and blue as the recurring cover colors because they match the print of the pages themselves. I also made a decision to match the end papers, using a beautiful green crinkly paper with gold pattern.

The making of these books is a bit like meditation, nourishing in much the same way, and the giving is equally so. At a quiet time on Christmas morning, when the children have opened and played with their toys and begin to settle from the Santa rush, I hand-deliver the books to all at once and sit back for the real pleasure: I watch my beloved niece and husband and beloved nephew and wife cuddle their children and read the books to all.

And sometimes, I cry.

Creative Energy

Yesterday, I spent all morning and early afternoon with Greg, a new friend and photographer. We talked about faith and feminism, art and creativity, old lives and new beginnings.

Curiously, his enjoyable visit provided the exact spark I needed to complete my annual Christmas book for "The Greats" -- three great-nieces and one great-nephew. (Purists might insist on saying grand-niece and so on, but grand sounds presumptuous and great is what each child is.)

Yesterday, I worked from 1 pm till 7:15 pm, when my friend Boo and I watched a movie. Home again, I continued working from about 10:30 pm to 1:00 am. Today, I worked from 9 am to 7 pm. Some of the evidence of my efforts flow over the lip of my study trash bin. I like seeing the evidence from the corner of my eye, and I like the slight ache in my hands and back.These little signs point to the creative energy I embrace.