The Ropewalk

On the rigging of a manuscript, and a life

One day when I was struggling with my book, I took a walk through a park up the hill from my house in Washington, D.C. Parks tend to be arranged against straight lines: meandering paths, clusters of picnic benches, a smattering of playground equipment. But Montrose Park has one exception — a path in a perfectly straight shot from the street all the way to the edge of the woods. For once, I took the time to read a historical plaque I must have passed a hundred times. I learned the path was once a ropewalk – a lengthy, flat stretch of land where workers twisted together strands of hemp that would be long and strong enough for uses like rigging a ship.

There are two kinds of rigging – standing, which supports the mast, and running, which controls the sails.

I had a lifetime’s worth of strands inside the ropewalk of my manuscript, and pulling them apart suddenly seemed silly. The strength was in the twisting together: enough standing rigging to hold me upright, enough running rigging to let me move.

In other words, enough to carry me through any creative endeavor.

I wanted to bend down and kiss the ground of the ropewalk, the source of this insight. I did not. What would people think?

I’ve only come so far.