Just A Theory

I used to collect blank books. If I saw a really lovely blank book with creamy paper, deckled edges or a stunning cover - I got it. I got it because I thought, if I love that blank book enough, I'll write in it - write wonderful stuff about my life - it'll be the journal I'm not embarrassed about - the beauty of the book would inspire me to write the best words possible. So I'd get the book - take it home, crack open the first page and nothing would happen. Then another internal conversation would start; this book is too lovely for my poor, lumpy words. How can I ruin those lovely creamy pages with deckled edges? It's wrong. It can't happen. I'll just look at it. These days I write for living and have no time to be so precious but now I've started to do exactly the same thing with fabric! The squares are building up and in my mind - the possibilities are endless and each project is wonderful, but how can I cut such delightful colours? I suppose over time, it comes with confidence.