Wordsmithing is a very odd craft. When I write blog posts, or work on my book, it sometimes seems I have nothing to show for my effort. It's hard for me to feel satisfied looking at characters on a screen, or a sheet of paper. This year I have probably spent more time making things -- cooking, knitting, crocheting, sewing -- than I have writing. Writing empties me, and making things restores me. Does this mean I am not really a writer at heart?Last week I wrote every morning, wrestling two recalcitrant chapters into order. Now I have a pile of paper, not unlike the pile of paper I had the week before. In the afternoons, I cut, stitched and ironed fabric, restoring a friend's battered thrift store jacket. The story continues here.I wanted to do this project because the jacket needed it, I needed real work (the kind that ends with something tangible) and Marybeth is one of those women who always serves the cake at the party and forgets to save a piece for herself. Thank you, Marybeth, for trusting me with your jacket and for being my friend.


