Piecemeal
Kathryn Wilkens -- August 13, 2008
I admire writers who can sit at the keyboard and spin out a narrative, starting at point A and continuing to point Z. Their work method is like knitting a sweater, one stitch logically following the previous. I wish I could do that.
My writing method for essays and articles is disorganized and time-consuming, but it's the only way I can work, either because of my short attention span or because it's part of the DNA I inherited from my grandmother and great-grandmother. They lived on a tobacco farm in Kentucky and sewed quilts by hand. Unlike today's hobbyists who buy color-coordinated fabrics and create intricately-patterned quilts, my foremothers made them out of necessity, transforming torn shirts and faded dresses into something that would keep their children warm at night.
My writing might start with a fragment of an idea, like my grandmother fingering a scrap of paisley. I freewrite on the subject until I have a page or two. How could I lead into it? I scribble some notes. What other points could I make? I jot them down. How could I wind it up? I scrawl an ending, then flip to a fresh yellow page in my tablet and write a short draft.
A few days later, I freewrite again on the same topic without looking at what I've already written. Comparing the two, I find they overlap; however, I usually discover a few points in my second freewrite that weren't in my first effort.
I then do a clustering (or mind-mapping) exercise, using unlined paper turned sideways. With my topic at the center of the page, I doodle a bit, and write whatever phrases float to the surface of my consciousness. Occasionally my right-brain offers up a few ideas I don't have in my draft.
If I'm developing a metaphor, I'll do a second cluster page consisting of individual words--nouns, verbs, adjectives--that relate to my analogy.* I won't necessarily use all of them, but whenever I run out of ideas, I can look at my vocabulary cluster for a word to get me started again.
By now I have a crazy-quilt of words and paragraphs. I type them randomly into a Word file on my computer. It looks hopelessly jumbled, like a pile of fabric scraps in plaids, stripes and prints. So I do on my monitor what my grandmother did with her hands. I rearrange paragraphs, cutting and pasting, until I begin to see a pattern. I ask questions: What should come first? What ideas have to follow other ideas? I decide whether to organize the material chronologically, spatially or thematically. I try to think of a sturdy narrative thread that will bind the paragraphs together.
I print out a draft and let it rest for a few days. When I re-read it, I'm tempted to run it through the shredder because it sounds like something a third-grader wrote. But, despite its lack of style, wit or grace, I keep it, remembering how my grandmother's quilts looked before they were done--ragged-edged, pinned together and basted with long running stitches that crisscrossed haphazardly on top.
After more work, the writing begins to cohere. I read the end of each paragraph and the beginning of the next. If they don't blend, I write a transition to bridge the gap, hoping readers' thoughts will unspool effortlessly as they read my essay or article.
In order to give heft to her quilt, my grandmother would insert a worn-out blanket between the quilt top and the backing. Likewise, I try to develop a layer of meaning that is concealed beneath the surface of my words.
I remember how my grandmother invited friends over for a quilting bee; laughing and sewing, they would sit around the quilt that was stretched on a large frame in the living room. Likewise, I seek feedback from a community of writers. I print a draft to present to my trusted critique group. As I read aloud, I may notice glitches that weren't apparent on the printed page. Afterward, I shut up and listen carefully to what my critiquers have to say.
After considering my friends' suggestions, I revise. It's like tucking under rough edges and making tiny, almost invisible stitches like my grandmother taught me. I hope to end up with seamless prose that sounds as if I had sat at the keyboard and typed it out in a linear, lucid way.
To finish her project, my grandmother would pull out the long basting stitches, then tie short pieces of yarn or colored string through all three layers. Not only did they embellish the quilt, they held it together. To the same purpose, I write the finishing touch--a title--at the top of my page.
Some writers proceed from beginning to end, while some start with the ending and backtrack. Others start in the middle, working backwards and forwards. The individual writer must discover a method that fits with the way his or her brain operates. I work piecemeal, and piecemeal works for me.
* The vocabulary cluster I did for this essay included thread, pattern, spool, baste, crazy-quilt, tie quilt, bee, community, stitch, seamless, needle, blanket, warm, sew, and backing.