The Character Of A Stitch

31 Days In October

The preparatory work often saves time and frustration. 

Day 8-

 There are stitches I really dislike to work. They feel awkward and I still get confused every time I find one in a pattern. Especially the "make one" stitch which is an increase. I am a tight, tense knitter so if I must get my needle in a snug hole I feel the strain in my wrist and up my arm. I would prefer doing only stitches that are spacious and free. I have two choices. Either I learn to relax and move with ease into the stitches that add definition and width or I can make rectangular scarves the rest of my life.

In writing a novel there are some characters that at first glance are unlikable.

As a reader we are attracted to characters that are most like us. It would be unfortunate to have a story populated by only likable personalities. Alexander Patchett is a gruff, anti-social man. I had a purpose for him in my novel but his first appearance needed to be unpleasant. To give you some context, Reggie Watts and Stevie Dangerfield are homicide detectives investigating the death of pianist and teacher, Judith Whitesides. Alexander was her neighbor.

        The oak front had two large imposing doors and no windows. It made the house seemed shuttered. Where the piano teacher’s home was open and light-filled, the neighbor signaled privacy, at all costs. They rang the doorbell.

     “Who is it?” a gruff, low voice asked from inside.

     “Detectives Watts and Dangerfield. May we have a word with you?”

      The door opened a crack and an older man, unshaven, looked at them.

     “What do you want?”

      “We would like to ask some questions about your neighbor, Judith Whitesides. Can we come in?”

      He opened the door wider. “Is she in trouble? Is…it.. drugs? Are those supposed piano students really her buyers?” 

       “Can we talk inside?” Reggie cleared his throat with impatience.

        He stepped aside and moved his arm across his body to show them in. A receding hairline left bushy gray hair at the crown and around the back of his head. His long blue velour robe covered black sweatpants and a yellowed white t-shirt. 

        The entry opened to a high ceiling where a fan slowly moved the air around. The living room was busy but not dirty. Books were stacked on end tables and next to chairs. Newspapers and magazines in tall piles on the floor teetered next to the wall. A collection of shoes, boots, and slippers were piled this way and that along the inside of the door. Stevie slipped off her loafers and moved them to the side with her feet. She looked at Reggie. He was not going to budge to remove his shoes. He kept his eyes on the man and proceeded with his questions.  

   “May I ask your name and how long you have lived here?”

    “My name is Alexander Patchett and I’ve lived here long enough to know what is going on.”

   “Do you know your neighbor Judith Whitesides very well?”

    “Well, she moved here a year ago and paid an ungodly price for that house. She is a bit prissy with her six foot grand piano and fancy paintings. Her constant playing drives me bonkers. All day long students come and go. I hate the coming and going of cars. We have limited parking as you can tell.” Mr. Patchett sat on the edge of  a bright red chair. “You know, she might actually be a drug dealer!”

   “Are you saying that she has students coming everyday?” Stevie asked unbelievingly. It would be unusual to have that many private piano students. 

    “Well, she really only teaches Wednesdays through Saturdays. The other days she is at the university.” He reached for a cup of tea sitting on an oval end table next to the chair.

   “You seem to know a good deal about her affairs.” Stevie said snidely. She took a seat next to him on a floral couch. It had large red and pink flowers with entwined greenery.

   “I’m a good neighbor. We talk about things.” He sipped his tea slowly. “I know she has some kind of master’s degree in music. Why are you asking me so many questions?”

   “I am sorry to say that your neighbor was found dead at home this morning.” His eyes opened wide in genuine concern. True surprise was hard to manufacture.

    “What?…..” He moved back in his seat slowly putting the cup of tea down and placed his hands on his knees. “You’re kidding me? Is that why the ambulance is there?” 

   “Yes.” Stevie couldn’t believe he hadn’t known what was going on outside. “Have you seen any visitors that seemed new in the last few days? Has her husband been at home lately?”
   “That foreigner? He is a piece of work. He comes and stays a few weeks and acts like he is master of the household.” Mr. Patchett lowered his voice. “I think he is here illegally.”

      Stevie ignored his provocative comments. “Has he been here this week?”

     “I did see him yesterday and I wrote down the license plate number of his fancy car. Just a minute, I will get the slip of paper.” Alexander walked over to a desk and moved some books until he found a pad of paper. “Here it is.” He handed the note to Reggie who was still standing near the door. “Excuse my bad manners but would either of you like a cup of tea?”

      “No, thank you.” Reggie replied.

      “Why did you write down his license plate number?” Stevie wondered what the neighbor thought was going on next door.

     “I have a basic distrust of people. Most people are up to no good. He was driving a new, dark blue, Toyota Camry. When he arrived he unloaded a bunch of boxes. I didn’t see him later in the afternoon or evening.” Alexander went back to the chair and repositioned himself with his cup of tea. “Did someone murder her? Is her husband a suspect?” He began to look more excited than alarmed. Perhaps a death next door was an interesting distraction. 

      Reggie answered with irritation in his voice.“The cause of death is still unknown, sir.” 

"Characters like people, make good or bad first impressions. When characters first show up in a story, we start to like them-or dislike them-right away." 

Orson Scott Card

Character and Viewpoint

This is like certain stitches in knitting. If the first experience torques our wrist in an awkward way, we tread with dread.

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