A cultured lady of my acquaintance (hi, Whitney!) points out with beguiling attention to detail that “getting fitted [for a corset] is like something out of Zola’s “Au bonheur des dames“.”  She goes on to note that the cinching requires a handhold, something to grab onto, while one is laced into fantasticness. Here’s a lovely place one might do so, for instance.

The grabbing-onto-the-pole moment, though  – that speaks so wonderfully, so directly to the experience of love, of the handhold in the erotic sea, of the grounding we need when passion takes over, of the firm foundation for the flights of wildest fantasy, the ground we touch so lightly — but without the ground, it’s all pure air, and no one can fly forever. Lace up, oh yes, by all means, and hang on while you do it: both are necessary components to the pleasure.

What makes me think of all this – besides those corsets (I am really beginning to dig corsets) – is a  library discussion I took part in last week, during which we three writers on the panel all agreed that writing the work one loves is not just a sigh-worthy dream but a hardcore imperative, because the best work gets done that way. Any writer, artist, musician, creative person will say the same thing, and it’s the easiest question to answer, as “Where do you get your ideas?” is the hardest: “Why are you writing this book?”  For love. Sit in your straight-backed chair, put your fingers on the keyboard – that’s one handhold – and fall in love.  Keep the discipline of the narrative as a north star – that’s another – and follow the pleasure to its end.