Pulling back the curtain

Tiny stitches in something hand sewn equals craftsmanship. I know because I read a lot of Regency romances in college. You know…instead of studying actual history. And in those books, the ladies who were really good with needlework could make tiny stitches and create elaborate hunting scenes on pillow covers that no one was allowed to sit on. But I digress.

My point is, in sewing, when the stitches are tiny enough to be barely discernible, it is work well done. It’s the same with writing.

I’ve worn hundreds of items of store bought clothes in my life and never considered the stitching unless it came out. Never thought about the quality of the seam, or its invisibility. But I don’t sew. I bet if I did, I would notice more. My mom did. She liked to check the hems on pants to make sure they were well-constructed before she bought them, and she’d give new buttons a little tug to check their fastness. She knew what to look for.

And that’s how I am when I read now. The best stuff is the kind where you can’t see the stitches, where it’s…seamless. But I notice when the craftsmanship is lacking. Despite being a voracious reader my entire life, this is a new phenomenon. It only started when I decided to write. It makes reading both better and worse. It’s better in the sense that well-constructed pieces, the ones that feel effortless and whole, and are authentic regardless of their gravity or lack of it…those pieces are a soul-satisfying pleasure. I can only sit back and wonder at the detail. It’s worse in that when an author is trying too hard, you can see the stitches where they try to hold a story together with images or manufactured plot conflicts.

It’s an odd experience. Part of me wishes I could go back to the other side of reading where the story works or it doesn’t and I don’t really notice how each phrase is turned or each word is placed. But then I read something so effortless and I recognize either the sheer genius or sheer persistence the writer tapped to make it seamless. Then I think, it was worth the handful of sloppy stitches I had to pick out to get there, to find that perfect sentence.