Writing with a Thimble

A story is not a string stretched from beginning to end: it has folds, colors, texture, ideas woven together in order to create an image, an ideal. And before the story appears on the page, it exists outlined in the mind, like pieces of semi-transparent paper, working as a pattern for a yet to be sewn dress--the themes trapezoids and rhombi, abstract but precise in order to all eventually materialize as a complete story. The ideas are then laid down against one’s experiences and traced against turning the ghostly things into blue silks and flowered calicos with a pen on paper. The pins of plot devices spear lining and bodice right sides together. But the lengthy part follows, of transforming one’s work into something anyone might try on, without holding pins in place themselves. Words must run through every centimeter of the story. But each one must be even and carefully executed unless holes unravel. One can become too absorbed, watching the hypnotizing motion of one’s hands, threading names and feelings--stiff orange and soft milk cloths--together, one after another, and not realize that one has wandered far from where seams were meant to be, tightening the sleeves to where they are useless. If this is the case, each word must be pulled out and redone. Writing is not a monotonous task, however. Trim, buttons, and embroidery must all be added. Similes are sewn in like fine, red twists around a buttonhole; symbols carefully turned out at the sleeves like lace cuffs--intricate but light; and dialogues picked carefully out of a button box, some shiny, some worn, some with little inlaid glass. Cross your fingers and hope it works. Hopefully, the seams will disappear from sight but hold against the wear of time and the tugging of opinions.