While I whittle my new projects (including one big splintery one soon to be announced!), I have started woodworking.  Actually.  Truly.  On my tenon saw and sliding bevel, no word of a lie.

It’s so familiar a strategy it should probably be considered part of writing, part of an artist’s practice.  Emily Dickinson baked.  Gabriel Orozco throws boomerangs.  I’ve been given a rusty plane and I’ve got no patience.

Perfect. I’m three weeks into my course at Bristol Women’s Workshop and I’ve been allowed to bring home my first foul thing.  I would be too embarrassed but I want to document the start: a book stand.

Or, more accurately, a book limiter.  Since the panicky book-swallowing days of university, I’ve developed a bad habit of reading too many books at the same time and amongst the complicated expansion of overlaps, there are always some books that never get finished before they are lent to a friend or eaten up in a house move.

So now, my unfinished, unvarnished book limiter stands on my desk, operating a one-in-one-out service for my fidgety reading pattern.

And for my fidgety hands, I am now onto dovetails and chisels and tricky, slow patience.


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