There are a lot of sleepless nights over seam finishes. In the heat of things, full of passionate expectation. I do things abruptly, crudely, mowing down the right-side-together 5/8″, eager to see what is flat turn into what has shape. Then regret—with a little planning, that could have been a French seam, or something better, exotic or sturdy or spectacularly imitative of ready to wear. The sewing book says the quality of one’s seam is really the measure of one’s character. That gets repeated a lot. That’s bad news. I think some future for the garment, inspected in the thrift store where it will someday rest: this was not an attentive sewist, the future shopper thinks, and wrinkles her nose or whatever, shrugs. It’s me always praying no one will ever look at the inside of my blue skirt. To never leave evidence of excitement (someday, soon, finally).