I love this knitting, I do, I do.
I have always hung back at the edges of the crafty crowd, awed by their powers but certain I could never create what they did. I used to watch a kid in my class (okay, my first crush) draw anything he imagined in the margins of his math book. I looked on enviously as the cool girls made friendship bracelets. I crumpled the pathetic drawings of the princesses in my head and wrote about them instead.
Writing, you see, was what I did. It was how I got even with the crafters. I couldn’t paint pictures or sculpt or bake or knit, but I could paint sunsets with words, sculpt the perfect sentence. Writing is knitting with letters and a pen. I was not a crafter — even though I read craft books enviously. I was a writer.
I majored in creative writing, then started graduate school in English, then finished with honors, all the time writing. I drew closer to finishing my first novel. Then, with my second child, post-partum depression fell upon me like a mail curtain. With the first baby, writing got me through the darkness of early parenthood. With the second, the words wouldn’t come.
A friend had tried to teach me knitting when I was beached by pregnancy bedrest. I opened the book she gave me. Half in a daze, I went to Craft Chain Conglomerate, bought a skein of Wool-Ease and some size 15 needles, and laboriously knitted the chunkiest, ugliest, most lopsided, scratchiest scarf ever.
Then I wrote a chapter.
Over the past few years, the writing has had its starts and stops, but the knitting flows on. I have another creative outlet, one that engages all my senses, and I’m so proud I can do this. It is not perfect, but it’s my craft.
I guess I should have known this would work. After all, knitting is just writing with needles and a ball of yarn.
P.S.: this is a picture of the Gang of Under Three wearing their Clara Hats. Time to cast on the third one!