Easter weekend at my parent's house. I have come to write and to work with wood. There is a table that I am building, but like so often happens to whatever story I happen to be writing, my interest in it waned for months on end. I came back to it last weekend, determined to make some progress. I had chosen to make it out of solid maple, which is not an inexpensive wood, only to find when I pulled it out of storage that the top had bowed and warped and split. Woe!
Thankfully the legs and the trim, which are also made of solid maple, did not split or warp. My father, who is the better craftsman, picked up some Russian birch plywood on Tuesday and we are going to use that for the new top. We spent the last couple of days ripping the table top to size and routing grooves in the trim for the table top. We have a bit more work to do before we mitre the corners of the trip and glue the whole thing together.
As to the writing...well, I've made a little progress. I daresay my confidence in my writing as an adult is not as surefooted as it was when I was a boy. I find myself stopping and starting constantly, worrying that what I'm putting down sounds puerile and trite. I guess the only way to improve is to move forward and keep on writing.
