(I changed the blog’s theme. Did you notice? Isn’t it purty? Still need to try widgetising it, but couldn’t resist the design. For more such goodies, I recommend regularly perusing (if not adding to your feeds) Smashing Magazine. Good stuff. And now, back to our regular programming.)

Moonrat had a blog this week that detailed the four stages of the Editing Cycle, from the point of initial euphoria to the scepticism at heaps o’ praise. She also referenced Libba Bray’s excellent post on how writing a novel parallels the progression of a love affair. So true, so true. And Moonrat further pondered on whether this cycle was the same for all writers/editors in search of perfection.

Well, I’m here to tell you that, believe it or not, it’s the same with soft furnishings. You’re scoffing, aren’t you? You see, when I ‘come down’ from finishing a novel or story, I somehow, inevitably, get involved with soft furnishings. That is, I read about them, adapt them to a particular niche of the house, and then go about making one/several/hundred. And, dammit, but it follows the same cycle:

Stage 1: You know, this idea has real potential! But instead of putting girly frills all around it, what would it look like if I adapted that second idea from page 78 and had it, gasp!, open and close like a door. But not a door. Just operating like a door. Just to add a playful element to the room.

Stage 2: Okay, so my fingers resemble pincushions from all the pinning and tacking I’m doing. And while I still think the juxtaposition of textures, especially against the afternoon sun, is quite appealing, I realise that it’s going to take waaaaaaaaay too long to handsew those thousands of little beads on the muslin panels to resemble glittering little suns shining their refracted light onto the wide expanse of floor tiles. But what else can I do when I’ve already bought the damn things?

Stage 3: [Beep] [beep] [beep], why can’t those [beep] beads stay put? Who had the [beep] bright [beep] idea of putting stupid [beep] beads on stupid [beep] muslin in the first [beep] place? And don’t you think the muslin looks cheap now? It looks cheap, doesn’t it? Be honest. [Beeeep] Well, too bad, ‘cos we’re stuck with it. [Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep], why couldn’t I have just made one freakin’ cushion cover, instead of trying to furnish an entire [beep] room!

Stage 4: Just one more metre. Just one more metre. Keep saying it and eventually you’ll be done. You can’t give up now, not when you’ve spent all that money buying the raw material. Is it, could it be, 14% finished? That’s more than ten percent, right? Hell, that’s almost twenty percent! I’m almost one-fifth of the way through this godawful project. I’m going to have to tell J to lock me in the bedroom the next time I think of sewing curtains.

Stage 5: Why, thank you, I’m glad you like it. Of course, you can’t see the little glitch there where the sewing machine jammed and I was just too angry and impatient to cut away that knot of snarling thread. And the bead pattern misses a patch of material over in the corner. And, yes, the hem is a little lopsided, but I think it adds to the room’s charm, don’t you? Yes, the material is lovely, although sheers can be a bastard to sew, to be honest.

Stage 6: I’m never, EVER, going to furnish an entire [beep] room again. I mean, I wrote and submitted my last piece in less time than sewing those [beep] curtains. I’ll pay someone else to do it next time, I swear.

Stage 7: [a few weeks/months later] Hey, I saw a really interesting book on embroidery at the bookshop and I’ve been thinking…

So yes, Moonrat, it follows the same stages, and not merely in writing. Meanwhile, J is completely befuddled. “I thought you were doing this to relax?” he asks, as I swear the air blue. “Why do you put yourself through this every time?” Good questions. Pity I don’t have the answers.