Hang on to that Through Line for Dear Life

Flying home from the Midwest last night, I had a slight delay in Detroit, not of the usual kind. The problem wasn’t with the flights themselves; the one from Duluth arrived in Motown on time, and the second leg to Manchester was even better.

No, it was a recalcitrant jet bridge— that thing that extends out to provide a walkway for passengers into the gate—causing some distress. We were all ready to get off the plane, the door was open, but the bridge wasn’t ready for us. I might have been feeling as special as Taylor Swift, but there was to be no red carpet treatment here. Whoever was operating this thing resembling a long arm with folds in it was clearly having some kind of trouble; after a few minutes passed, a few charitable passengers began guessing that s/he must have still been in training. Poor dear, I thought, but I really have to go to the bathroom.

My writing teacher might have described the episode as a nice illustration of how important it is to maintain your “through line” all the way to the end of your story. Bring that baby home– across the sky, through the smooth sections and the turbulence both; touch down on the ground; and then, finally, provide the walk up the ramp and into the airport. Your passengers, your readers, need all of it. Or, to borrow a more violent metaphor a gentle classmate of mine used over the past week, they want “the whole shootin’ match.”

Besides my suitcase, I brought a thrilling discovery back with me last night: the book I’m trying to write actually has a through line. This just about knocks me out. Before I left for the writing retreat on Madeline Island, I’d been regarding my potential book more like a blob, a shapeless mass that was sulking for lack of attention over there in the corner. I was telling myself that I would bring it to life somehow, give it a spine and make it strand up straight, but the fact was I didn’t really know how. I had no through line power.

Now I do, thanks to the group work we did out there, so it’s a different story. Well, not different, exactly…it’s now an actual story, a true one, too. My job is really just to work hard on feeding and caring for the blob so that, gradually, it will rise up on its own power and greet the world– smiling, I hope. I’ll even leave my bike out by the road, so my story can jump on and do the next leg.

Excited by the prospect, I return home and look at our own new clothesline—a kind of birthday present from my husband to me—with a pounding heart. Isn’t it fabulous? Just by stepping out on our deck, we can give those purple shirts the dignity and fresh air they deserve.

My mother used to say that her very favorite place was our clothesline, which stretched between the apple tree and the old backstop. A woman who never owned a dryer through years of raising five children, she spent many happy hours there, in all seasons, usually with a dog by her side. It was, in some sense, her through line.

She and my father loved playing golf, so I also find it satisfying to learn that still a different kind of through line exists on putting greens. Those who observe proper golfers’ etiquette will avoid treading on the section of grass beyond the hole where an opponent’s ball might go, after missing the cup. This, apparently, is a line to be respected because the person will rely upon its integrity when trying again to sink the putt, coming back the other way.

This fall, besides coaxing my book towards the light of a full and happy life, I’m looking forward to working alongside my husband and a few neighbors to make some needed repairs in a kind of wooden bridge that we–particularly those of us with large dogs–use often to go over a patch of soggy territory into a network of beautiful trails beyond.

I already know this will be a whole lot more appealing than waiting for that guy in training to get the contraption at the right level so we can get off the plane. Nothing against the two pilots, mind you. If they can fly a magical machine on any given night above the twinkling lights of this land from point A to point B, then surely I can grab hold of my own through line and see how far I can soar.