I write to get away from beads and and I bead to get away from words.  

It didn’t always used to be that way.  I’m still kind of surprised that I ended up in this situation.  

No one ever seemed to have any expectation of child-me besides that I’d grow up to be a writer.  I come from a family of casual writers (more on that another day), though I’m not sure if any of my teachers knew that.  I must have just smelled of writer.  I can spin yarns off of nothing in conversation– I just told my sister the hypothetical plot of Law and Order: Vampire Squad –and have always told myself stories as a matter of having been read to a lot by two very nerdy parents.  Well, maybe not so much told myself stories as paced and daydreamed with prejudice and once almost knocked over a fondue pot doing this.

I resisted the writer label at first, but then, one quiet spring evening when I was about ten, I decided that the Norse gods were going on summer vacation so that Loki could go surfing and be a be a jerk to everyone else.  It was, well, a story about Norse gods surfing, but it made me happy and after that I was proud to wear the label of writer.  I guess I wanted to pin it on myself.

It took eighteen years from when I wrote that first story to when I managed to turn out something I genuinely thought was good.  By then, the internet was a thing and I got to go onto it to howl at anyone who would listen that I was happy, damnit.

In the meantime, I managed to get myself laid off of work when the whole recession business hit.  Since there’s nothing worse than having a writer at loose ends around the house, my mother went out and bought me a wireworking kit to keep me busy.  Now, I sew a little.  I can throw on a wheel and fold a mean foxhound out of rice paper, but twisting my way through that instruction booklet made me happy in a way that none of those things did.  I tried every beadwork technique I could find and went through magazines like potato chips just to see what other people were up to right then in the beading world.  Within six months, I had settled on making the three star patterns out of Beadwork.

It was pretty surreal, having that happen to me while I was, in fact, still disappointed with my wordsmithing abilities.  Yes, that moment of happiness, also on a spring evening, came after I’d filled a significant portion of my space with tidbits of glass.  

I’ve had other art-inclined writers tell me that I bead the same way I write, but the two register much differently in my own head.  Either way, I absolutely think every writer should have something they do with their hands.  Besides, even fifty hour necklaces make for instant gratification compared to writing novels which can and do take infinite amounts of time.  

Of course I’m writing a novel.  Everyone on the internet is writing a novel, even if they don’t tell you about it straight off.  

For now, whatever I might be working on, I write to get away from the beads and and I bead to get away from words and that’s just fine with me.  It’s not an angsty sort of away.  It’s actually an away that approaches wandering off into another one of those spring evenings, grinning like an idiot.

You know, instead of being stuck at a desk trying to make two characters screw, but we’ve all been there.  Like I said- internet.  Welcome to my corner of it.  I’d say I am happy with this intro.  I might not be tomorrow, but it is half-past midnight.