A quick glance over to the remaining novel finds it holding together just fine. The strips of rugged, sun-bleached leather and the warm, worsted yarn of deep mahogany seem unbothered by the silk’s absence. I have no idea if this is good or bad so I simply sigh and move on.
The silk now lays before me. All my considerable, OCD attention on this lone storyline.
It is the simplest, the freshest, the brightest of the three love stories in The Hushing Days. It needs little work but a gentle iron. The silk has been neglected for far too long.
So it is with a reverent hand that I begin to work on the ribbon, insuring its color remains true, testing the inner strength of its outer brilliance…
Doesn’t it sound oh-so fanciful?
I have never done such a thing to a novel before. The whole is far greater than its parts, I know. But if the parts are classic, stunning and quite dazzling won’t the whole be served all the better by them?
That is what I hope.
For the last few days, I have removed the storyline of my gunsmith and his young lady love from The Hushing Days and worked on it alone. The novel is so tightly pieced together that the lone plotline’s absence is obviously marked and will be easy to slip back in once it is ready.
Or so I hope.
Hope is a scary thing for a writer.
I’ll keep you updated on this fanciful deconstructing strategy of mine.