Running with Scissors

It’s a bad idea to run with scissors, but it’s more or less what a writer does whenever she edits her work. Oh, sure, she may have her red pens. Blood may spill across the page. What’s the intent of it? It surely isn’t to watch a river of red unfurl. (Okay, maybe it sometimes is. Editing can be viciously enjoyable.)

No, it’s the art of nip and tuck. A cut here. Another measurement. Twenty-seven inches? No, no, that won’t do. Twenty-six then. Yes.

Straight pins stuck into everything, holding things in place. Needle and thread. The eye watching all. By hand at times; by machine at others. Whir and clack. A light shining in the darkness, turning the cloth into form and magic.

A pattern, and yet not one. This isn’t a pattern out of a package. It finds its own grooves as the writer gets out of the way and lets the writing take shape. She only returns with the scissors once it’s become something concrete.

Needle and thread.
Pins, pins, pins.
String of pearls.
Maybe a touch of lace.
A pair of shoes.

Things coming together. Things coming apart. Above all, the patience. Biting of lip. Tilt of head, furrowing of brow. Ah. Yes. Things come together again. Seams, seams. Little stitches, so small that she could get tangled in them.

She doesn’t. She pulls back, smiles. The writing is ready. She sends it off to the ball and hopes it stays out past midnight, hopes it doesn’t return minus a slipper.