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Among the various notebooks I have started, kept or abandoned in the course of my writing life, is a notebook (many notebooks) devoted entirely to the story.
Often in these notebooks I would also record quotations from various books and writers I was reading at the time—such as the one above, leading off this piece. Laying the Bible in her chair, she said, “It’s been a while since we’ve told the story of Our Lady of Chains, and since we have visitors who’ve never heard the story of our statue, I thought we’d tell it again.
Cressie nodded, making the ostrich feathers wave through the air so you had the impression of a real bird in the room.
I looked over at Rosaleen, who I hardly recognized for the way she leaned forward in her chair, chanting along with them.
When everything had quieted down, August said, “Now, the oldest of the slaves was a woman named Pearl.
When the dance ended, the Daughters stood panting in a half circle before Our Lady of Chains, and what they did next took my breath away.
Otis pressed his forehead to the heart, standing there the longest time of them all, head to heart, like he was filling up his empty tank.

Drawing it back, I looked around me, and it was like seeing everything through a train’s thick window. I called to the Lady of Chains, but maybe I wasn’t really saying her name out loud, only hearing myself call on the inside. Quotes specifically related to “the story”—the writing of it, the lore and lure of it, the importance of it in all our lives. When she began, it didn’t sound like August talking at all but like somebody talking through her, someone from another time and place.
She looked just like the statue standing there, her right arm raised and her hand clutched into a fist. They went one at a time and touched their hands to her chest, wanting to grab on to the solace in her heart. The bold ones fled, finding their way north, and those who didn’t lived with a raised fist in their hearts. Lunelle pressed her fingers to Mary’s heart, then kissed each one of them in a slow, deliberate way, a way that brought tears to my eyes.

A powerful yearning, a chance occurrence, and a projected image which personifies the yearning. Since my story ideas usually begin with an image, I would record that image as faithfully and briefly as possible so I would know when I came back to it days, weeks, months, years later, I would know immediately the story I wanted to tell and, in some respects, where to begin. All the while her eyes looked off toward the window, like she was seeing the drama play out in the sky. Cressie hooked on to Lunelle, followed by Mabelee, and off they went around the room, causing Cressie to grab hold other crimson hat. She stopped right in the middle of the song, and I was left in the silence with my hand stretched out.

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