THEME: SAYING TOO MUCH
If you wouldn't write it and sign it, don't say it.
Years ago, before I began writing for real, I poured my artistic self into sewing clothes. I preferred Vogue patterns. Their complicated sophisticated designs tested a technician's skill level and promised a challenge. I labored over each article of clothing, hoping the final piece would rival state-of-the-art fashion.
When I began my current art form of arranging and rearranging words into stories, I discovered writing is like crafting fabric into a unique garment - pleats, folds, and gathers stitched together so artfully the eye takes in the whole of the finished piece, not the parts. A seamless design, one that captures the artist's skill, elevating the piece from sewing to couture, rather than ensnaring the artist in a critical mass of mismatched plaids and sloppy buttonholes.
Now, as with tailoring, I am continually engaged in the dichotomy between good design and the need for editing. Sometimes I become so involved in the process, perspective become hazy. Questions arise: Is my writing authentic, geared for an interested audience? Or do I add self-serving embroidery, plopped onto the surface, exaggerating experiences to read better and more exciting than life itself? Do I use efficient language? Or do I add too much material, making the piece bulky and fat? Is my voice genuine? Consistent? Do the textures of words make the reader think, or feel, or care? Do I avoid cliché? Or do I stitch triflings into faded cloth with worn-out thread? Do the lines flow into each other with smooth and continuous motion, connecting the boundaries of detail and dialogue? And when the piece is finished, are there intricate patterns woven into a sophisticated, state-of-the-art story?
Would I wear It?
Then, regardless of an uneven hem or a puckered lining, I search for fresh material and innovative techniques to fashion a new narrative - one with such fine stitching it might rise to haute couture - worthy of a reader's runway.
The original Adirondack chair was made with eleven pieces of wood, cut from a single board. It had a straight back and seat, which were set at a slant to sit better on the steep mountain inclines of the area. It also featured wide armrests, which became a hallmark of the Adirondack chair.
After arriving at a final design for the "Westport plank chair," Lee offered it to Harry Bunnell, a carpenter friend in Westport, who was in need of a winter income. Bunnell quickly realized the chair was the perfect item to sell to Westport's summer residents, and apparently without asking Lee's permission, Bunnell filed for and received patent 794,777 in 1905. Bunnell manufactured his plank chairs for the next twenty years. His "Westport Chairs" were all signed and made of hemlockin green or medium dark brown. The modern name refers to the Adirondack Mountains, which Westport is near." (Wikipedia)