Cotton Thread

Tonight I’m at the coffee shop to work on my manuscript. It’s all printed out for the first time on paper light as onion skin, fluttering at the corners when anyone passes my table, drifting to the floor if I remove my hand. The draft seems loose tonight–weightless, unbound. What a fragile vessel to hold so much of me. I am alone with a story no one has seen or may ever see, and the words are so tender, the letters like round little knots, achingly tidy on the page. Imagine that I’ve laid each one in place with a tap of my finger, stitched the letters into words with an even white space between them. The pages are my crewelwork, patterns inside patterns, discernible from a distance and humble as cotton thread up close.

It’s time to go away for a while. It’s time to be quiet, bend my head, and finish what I started. I hope to be back in a couple of weeks.

I’ll miss you.

How do you keep from defining yourself by your work?

P.S. WordPress has apparently been making changes to the comment field–don’t we love the way they do this without warning? It’s a mess. I apologize.


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