One Little Elephant

The dress was ink-black perfection. The swingy skirt flirted with dancer’s legs sculpted by dashing heels. The cinched cummerbund style nipped in a waist tiny enough to turn a Victorian green with envy and the rosette bodice was at once sassy-chic and mother-pleasingly modest. The look was sophisticated elegance; modern but with echoes of 1940's Hollywood royalty that harkened back to a time before shocking fans had become more important to movie stars than enchanting them.

"This is the one," she announced, turning to and fro before the dressing room mirror. The skirt swirled it's enthusiastic agreement.

I reached out and snagged the tag. Then frowned at the price. Fifty percent off? Why? It was new stock. Just in. I made her stand still while I hunted over the fabric. There. Two inches of seam had come undone at the base of the spine. I smiled. A simple fix, one the store apparently didn't think worth their time since they'd discounted the dress so radically, but a boon for my bank account. We left the store jubilant. She had the dress. I still had some money.

Her cousin's wedding was in two weeks. The seam would have to be mended before then. I could easily do it myself, but I'd wanted to find a good tailor for other more complicated projects for some time and a darling little seamstress shop had opened nearby. I'd been passing it for weeks, admiring the custom work in the eye-candy window displays. Finally I had an excuse to go inside.

The bells on the door jingled as I entered the shop and I was delighted to find the interior décor fulfilled the promise of the window display. On one side stood a neat as a pin counter with a cash register. On the other side a set of wide stairs led up to a broad carpeted stage that was mirrored on three sides. It was a set, grandly designed to make one feel like a VIP while allowing the tailor to mark a hemline or pant length without squatting. A tiny smiling woman of indeterminate age came out of a hall that led to the back of the store where glimpses of tables, machines, and a colorful riot of fabric and thread spools could be seem.

She took the dress, charged me $9 (cash only), and said to pick it up in a week. A week? For a simple two inch seam repair on a black dress? Business must be good. That night I lay in bed mentally going over items I wanted sewn, wondering which to do first.

The following week I presented my ticket to the smiling woman and picked up the dress. I was rushing to another appointment so it wasn’t until I returned home several hours later that I took the time to examine the work she’d done.

The seam had been mended, but not with black thread that matched the dress. Instead a light blue thread had been used and the job could have been described, generously, as amateurish. The seam was puckered and crooked. So I got out my machine and some black thread and fixed it myself. And I mentally withdrew all those jobs I’d imagined taking to that so-charming little shop.

So what does this tale have to do with writing?

As a reader I’ve occasionally been lured to buy a book by gorgeous cover art and an intriguing blurb only to be disappointed by the craft of the writer once I got it home. I make note of those writers’ names so I can avoid them – and disappointment – in the future.

As a writer I need to be careful before I send a story out that it’s of a quality that won’t disappoint, because the reader may not give me a second chance.

Taking a few extra moments to load her machine with the proper color thread and be sure her work was straight and true would have won that seamstress my return business. Taking the time to be sure my work is the best it can be I hope will encourage readers to want more of it.



Something that’s helping me write today: this advice from entrepreneur Damon Schechter, “Build the road, so you don’t get stuck.” I believe learning my craft thoroughly and building routines/processes/disciplines into my writing that increase the likelihood of producing consistent quality are keys to success.