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So I sat down at the typewriter to write such a story, a women’s story made to order. I write very slowly, because I always get carried away by the sound of the typewriter, and the sound of the typing reminds me of a sewing machine. I’m fascinated by the clattering (plump fingertips squirming in the little, contoured seats of the letters), the sounds slipping by so steadily. But not the time — all typists and seamstresses (dressmakers, spinners, weaverers, embroiderers) are flies in amber, as in Vermeer’s paintings.

I’m fascinated by chatter, that passionate conquest of emptiness. People chattering, typing (weaving, embroidering) are almost as engrossed as whoever observes or watches them. The observer feels that they are in a different world, condemned to the same eternal movements. And illuminated from within, as in Vermeer’s paintings. So that’s how I’ll do it — textual textiles. The typist as seamstress, the sewing machine as typing machine. Typewriting, seamstressing, hemming, and hawing . . . I’ll sew as I go.

B) Material

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“I’m 18 years old and I think I’m at a major turning point, but I can’t figure out what to do. I’m pretty, smart, people like me, I have good values and know how to live my life, I’m not scared or insecure, I don’t usually go looking for shoulders to cry on, I’m independent enough to find my own answers to things. I’ve been in love with all kinds of boys, and I know how to see the best in them and love them for that. And they loved me too but still they dumped me, and all they said was that I was a nice girl and a really great person. It just happened again. A year ago I started going out with a guy my own age, I really loved him and gave him everything a girl can give, but he dumped me and told me what a really great person I am. I want to go back to him, but I think I’ve lost him forever and this has turned my whole value system upside down. I can’t decide whether I’m expecting too much from life or too little. Is there any hope?”

Ana

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“I’m 18. I don’t think I’m any different from most girls my age. I’m friendly, average looking, and active in sports and school clubs. But I can’t find anyone to be in love with. I’ve always been true to myself, my feelings and principles, and that’s cost me a lot. For more than two years now I’ve loved a boy who’s got someone else and I’m just a convenient shoulder to cry on when things get rough for him, a helping hand when he’s in trouble. Still, even though it’s hopeless, I love him more than I can say. What should I do?”

Prometheus

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“I’m 23 and divorced, with a three-year-old daughter. I’ve got a job, people say I’m attractive. I got married when I was 17 and divorced at 20. We lived with my parents but they disapproved of our relationship and our marriage. They kept criticizing him, but I loved him nonetheless. In the end my parents were happy when their daughter got rid of that “lazy bastard.” I was disillusioned and hurt, and I looked for comfort in a series of love affairs, trying to forget. I’m always dating married men — I’m no homewrecker, but something keeps drawing me to them. Maybe I’m looking for security. They’re all the same, all liars. Some are good lovers, some are bad lovers — that’s the only difference between them. But I can’t go on like this. All they want is my body. I’ve been going round in circles for three years. Maybe my choices have deeper roots. My parents always argued, always neglected me. I’ve always had money, but never parents. And I was raped at 13. There’s still something wrong with the way I talk, but no one ever asked me why. Maybe I’m just trying to escape into a dream world of empty pleasures. What should I do?”

Only a Shadow.

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“I am 25 years old and a typist by profession. I live with my aunt. I don’t think I’m very attractive but some people tell me I am. I’m different from everybody my age: they’re all married or have boyfriends, and I have no one. I’m lonely and sad, and don’t know what to do. Do you have any advice?”

Steffie

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Here, at the melancholy typist, something brings me up short. This feels like the ideal fabric under my fingers. Remaindered, discount, your basic cotton weave. Humble cotton! A cotton tale like Peter Cottontail, and sweet as cotton candy.

So Steffie, you’ll be my fabric, my fabrication. Last but not least, you need a last but not least name — where should I look? How about in the phone book: A, B, C . . . Cottontail . . . Cvek . . . Cvek? That’s it — a perfect fit!

C) Style

Now the fabric is taken care of, but the author must admit, with no small amount of dismay an almost complete ignorance of embroidering, weaving, crocheting, and tapestry-making. All she has is a textile typewriter. So she needs a simple style: patchwork! (She does like to cobble things together . . . ) Patchwork quilt, patchwork shirt, patchwork skirt — no matter the garment, patchwork is universal, democratic. It’s not just a style, it’s an attitude! And, fortunately for the author, imperfections and irregularities in the garment are inherent and desirable characteristics of this handcrafted item, which only add to its unique personality and style.

I keep typing, guiding the fabric along the machine. I’m sewing a prose dress, no more no less. Length and breadth, diagonal too, weaving straw into gold for you, I’m a butterfly seeking a lacewing king, and start my stitches without a hitch I’ll make a cut high and I’ll make a cut low. Snippety-snip and away we go!