by Kenneth Weene
My next book, The
Stylite, is a very meditative piece—yes, the pun is intended—set in Maine
during the second half of the twentieth century. It is, as is my writing
preference, literary fiction. That means that language, character exploration,
and description are all as important to me as developing a good plot.
The story is set in a small town, the kind of place where
nothing happens but where everything that is essentially human takes place. The
book will only suceed if every word is crafted to take the readers to that
place and time, to make them feel that they are a part of the town, of the
events that unfold. The reader has to care about the chickens, the sows, the
deer—not just about the people. As an author I have to offer glimpses into
stores, meals, town meetings, baseball games: everything that makes a place
real for its inhabitants.
Writing such a piece of literary fiction requires attention
to every word. Hence the many edits. But sometimes there is a slip, a failure
to paint the picture. Yesterday I discovered one. One chapter, which is titled
Decorations, Traditions, Relations, begins with Thanksgiving Dinner at the home
of an aging couple. Their son is buried in Europe, a casualty of the Second
World War, and their daughter is married and seldom comes home. Sarah Bryant,
the lady of the house, has carefully made dinner and decorated.
As the chapter develops, the reader learns that Sarah has
put together a Christmas box to send their daughter. One of the presents in the
box is a quilt. I had called it “a lovely quilt.” What was I thinking? Such a
disconnected adjective. I knew immediately that I needed much more.
I resolved to go to the quilting store and to learn more
about this object which I knew Sarah had made with great effort and affection
even as she knew that it would not truly be appreciated. I also wanted anyone
who did quilting to be able to relate to that quilt. I needed to put all of
that effort, love, and expected disappointment into one quick paragraph. And
having no knowledge of quilting on which to draw, I had to find someone who
did.
Oh, it would be tempting to show off my knowledge, which I
resolved to garner, but I knew that the quilt was only one object in this gift
box, one symbol. It needed to be made real without being made too large.
When we got to the quilting store, I thought of just
dropping the quilt. Why bother with something that would be so demanding. After
all, who said that Sarah had to send a quilt?
I did. A quilt can carry so much. It tells of the enveloping
warmth that the giver wants to offer. It can, by its description, also say more
about the people involved. A quilt, especially just after the Second World War,
is a very personal moment, a gift that says so much of family. No getting
around it. I had to go into that store and learn what I needed.
The woman who “waited on” me was kind and helpful. She
avoided making me feel an idiot or a bother. There was a lot to learn:
patterns, terms, techniques, equipment. Part of me was delighted to be learning
new information. I could hardly wait to use it.
By that point, my mind had become overfilled with ideas
screaming to get out. There had been some beautiful pictorial quilts in the
store. I was sorely tempted, perhaps angels heralding Christmas, a tree, and
more. I asked Sarah, who of course had accompanied me. I never try to do
research without connecting it to the relevant character. She was overwhelmed.
Indeed, she informed me, that her quilts were simple, done from
well-established patterns—like the dresses she made and wore. She had certainly
never been in a store like this. Most of the fabric she used for a quilt would
be scraps from clothing no longer useable. It would be a great extravagance for
her to buy fabric or even colored thread. And as for her skills and
imagination, she reminded me that she was a simple woman whose education had
ended with sixth grade, whose skills had been learned from her mother and then
from other women gathered in the church hall on cold winter nights.
With the conflicting goals of careful description, realistic
knowledge, brevity, and the authenticity of the character, I allowed myself no
more than sixty words with which to talk about this quilt. Sixty words that had
already cost me two hours of research and now were costing me more time staring
at the computer screen and seeing only that offending word, “lovely.”
It is exactly such wrestling with a few words that is the
purpose of the third, fourth, perhaps even fifth edit. Here is what I finally
wrote. I offer the entire paragraph so you can evaluate it.
Sarah had a Christmas box almost
ready to be sent with toys, sweaters, mittens, two well-wrapped bottles of her
homemade grape jelly, and a quilt—full bed sized with friendship star design
backgrounded with bright orange fabric bought to Harold’s dismay at Cole’s
along with red thread for the quilting—even though she knew it would be stored
away, unused until the silk border, the white cloth, a slip rescued from a
church thrift, would sepia with age.
Satisfied with this description, knowing that Sarah could
now own the quilt and the great emotion she had put into it, I could now accept
the rest of that vignette. Sarah is asked if their daughter and son-in-law come
to visit. Here is the paragraph which ends the scene.
“Not too often, seems like Joe’s a
busy fella,” was Sarah’s resigned reply. It was a story that would not be told
that day, not something to be shared with guests. Come evening when they had
all gone home and Harold acted like he was asleep, she’d sniff a bit and try to
not think about her children—one gone and the other buried so very far away.
The re-editing, the effort to make the words just right: is
it worth doing? Each author must decide that. For my part, I think of the word
lovely and then of that quilt. I know that I am happier for the work. I am
quite sure that Sarah is as well.
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