If her biographers are to be believed, Jane Austen was as proud of the deftness of her needle as she was of her pen. She made things as well as wrote. Most women of her class did, and if it wasn’t shirts for the menfolk, it was gifts for relations and friends or objects for the poor. It’s my way in to her. I cannot reach her brilliance in writing but I can sit as she sat over a piece of cloth. It’s a small thing, a connection of sorts. I read her life again, and still she is far off.
A colder morning. They talk of snow at Easter. Really?
I’m still struggling with my ideas for drawing this morning. I wanted them to be light, a series of flights of fancy. I’m not good at that. I never was. But I shall plug away. No earning work on the horizon. Need I worry? Shall I nudge them or take this period of calm as a gift. The work will soon come, won’t it?