Before we get into it- I wrote a short story! Each week, on Saturday, I'll post a Chapter here on my blog.It'll run for 10 weeks total, starting today. If you'd like to find me on social media here are the links:
linktr.ee/craftinwife
linktr.ee/outlandadventures (Want to send some support? Check out the buy me a coffee link!)
Now onto the story. Enjoy!
Thread & Trail: A Crafter’s Journey
A Travel Novella Inspired by Truth, Stitched with Fiction
Chapter One – The Road Unspools
Amanda tugged her cardigan tighter as Wildebeest rumbled onto another stretch of backroad. The shuttle bus turned RV groaned like it remembered every emergency it had once raced to, but it carried them faithfully, mile after mile. Chris had the wheel, beard catching a thread of sunlight, eyes fixed on the two-lane ribbon unraveling ahead.
Amanda’s lap, though, was full. A sketchbook sat open, a dozen sticky notes clinging to its pages, while a small pouch of washi tape and pens rolled with each bump in the road. She had learned long ago that crafting didn’t stop just because the scenery changed. Inspiration was everywhere—sometimes in a roadside diner sign, sometimes in a crooked fence swallowed by vines.
“Next town has a fall festival,” Chris said, glancing at her. “Think it’s worth stopping?”
Amanda didn’t even look up from her notebook. She was already doodling pumpkins. “Festival means vendors. Vendors mean crafts. Yes.”
He chuckled, used to this answer. Amanda saw festivals not just as events but as living mood boards. Stalls overflowing with handmade soaps, macrame, quilts, and jewelry sparked her creativity like fireworks. But more than that, she loved how crafts carried stories—how the woman who crocheted potholders might have learned from her grandmother, or the man carving wood could point to the tree it once was.
They pulled into town by early afternoon, greeted by bunting strung across old lampposts and the smell of kettle corn. Amanda stepped out and instantly felt it—that pulse of small-town charm, the kind you can’t find in chain stores or cities. She grabbed her tote of supplies—not because she needed to, but because she never went anywhere without some project close at hand.
By dusk, she had chatted with a jewelry maker who hammered copper bracelets to the rhythm of his own stories, and a soap crafter who swore each bar cured a different mood. Amanda’s sketchbook now brimmed with new ideas, but also with something deeper: a reminder that creativity was a kind of passport. No matter where you went, crafters spoke the same language—of patience, of texture, of shaping something from nothing.
Back at Wildebeest, Amanda tucked her new treasures into cubbies and curled onto the bench seat with a mug of tea. Chris was already typing at his laptop, editing footage from the day. The glow of his screen lit the little home they’d built on wheels.
Amanda pulled a strand of yarn loose, her hook clicking softly as she worked by lamplight. Outside, the festival lights twinkled in the distance. Inside, the road’s hum had faded, leaving only the quiet rhythm of creation.
The journey had no fixed map, no certain end. But Amanda knew one thing: every stitch, every sticker, every small creation she carried with her was another breadcrumb marking the trail of this wild, winding adventure.
