The First Novel - in three parts

Part One - in which we talk about dressmaking.

I remember the first dress I ever made. It was horrible. Actually, it was worse than horrible. It was weird. I had to sew together two contrasting pieces of fabric into a kind of dress, which then tied in such a way as to overlap the blue (for that’s what I chose) with the red (for contrast). I never wore that dress.

However, it taught me numerous elements of sewing. By the time I’d finished it I could cut out a pattern, zigzag my edges to avoid fraying, sew a straight seam, how to gather, turn a sewn piece of fabric inside out neatly (with the help of a pin for the corners) and edge-stitch the top of it. I could read a pattern. I knew what facings and darts were. I could mark fabric to indicate a dart and a tie. In theory, I could also mark up zippers, buttonholes and pleats. I knew a little about fabrics, but not much.
The next dress I made was a shirtwaister. Boarders at school were allowed, if their parents permitted, and paid, to do an after-school dressmaking course.

Under my mother’s guidance, I chose a shirtwaister and blue-grey pinstriped cotton. I should never have gone pattern or fabric shopping with a woman who exclusively wore navy blue and who, if she found something that fitted me as a child, bought two of the item in different colours but she had the money, so we both, reluctantly, went shopping.

In hindsight the shirtwaister – another never-worn sewing project – was a terrific learning experience. I learnt to cut out a vertically patterned fabric. I had to master a collar, more pin turning, buttonholes and buttons and proper, set–in sleeves. I had to attach a bodice to a skirt, add darts to the former and gather the latter. I had to add a side zip – possibly the most difficult challenge.

By examining the projects other students were making, I deduced that shirtwaister frocks were not highly regarded by the rather more hip thirteen year and fourteen year olds doing the course.

I followed this project up with an eight-gored blue velvet skirt which would have been successful had I actually realised that velvet is fabric with a nap. On four of my eight gores the nap ran one way, on the other four it ran the other way. My mother said this was a pattern. When my mother finally bought a forest green frock, my best friend rang me to tell me she thought my mother was having an affair.

She wasn’t – it was just a persuasive sales woman.

I didn’t wear the skirt. My mother wasn’t that persuasive. But I’ve cut out velvet skirts since and never made the same, humiliating mistake.

What does all this have to do with writing?

Welcome to the first novel.