Over the past weeks, I’ve made quite a fuss over how I equate a novel to tapestry. Multi-media tapestry, to be precise. (I somehow doubt that strips of cow leather, warm worsted yarn and cornflower blue satin ribbons have ever or could ever be weaved together effectively, but the strained little analogy remains in my head and hence in this blog. Lucky you.)
Anyhow, last evening while sitting outside in the cozy Florida dusk, a single gold thread of an idea landed upon my lap.
After nearly jumping out of my skin at the intrusion (my startle reflex is extraordinary), I held the tiny strand of a plot-point up to the retiring sun and smiled. It was exactly what The Hushing Days was missing.
So thin and so weightless, the miniscule trail of a storyline will surely be lost in the whole of the novel. But I will know that it’s there. And I will know that without that dusky thread of gold, the book wouldn’t hold together quite so charmingly.
Keep your eyes open for the strands of storyline that arrive in the twilight of a novel’s creation. They are often pure gold.