Wildlife Observation

A Guest Post by Mary's Husband, Phillip

For the past few days my children and I have borne witness to a disturbing phenomenon:

What happens to a knitter when she doesn't have the yarn she requires.

Some specific symptoms materialize.

The realization that her hands aren't being used causes (in this order):     

Stage 1: Flailing.  First, an inability to sit still while watching television or having 'polite' conversations. This quickly manifests itself as

Stage 2: Manic Project Identification and Completion (a.k.a. "Search and Destroy").  The rest of the family stands by in a relatively idle state as the flailing moves from the hands into the entire body.  The yarn-deprived subject becomes a whirling dervish, attempting to accomplish everything she has ever thought needs doing around the house.  It seems to be some attempt to fill the string void.

This phase is accompanied by unfortunate side effects, as the afflicted cannot understand why the rest of the family is neither

• A. Panicking (this is truly a nightmare)
• B. Assisting in the tasks with appropriate speed, determination, and angst 

Stage 3: Resignation

The energy is spent, and there is still no yarn to knit with.  The patient unhappily succumbs to this fact.  The family can help by removing the subject from the house in attempts to "Take Her Mind Off The Problem" or "Have Fun".  This does provide brief relief (our subject seemed to sincerely enjoy Guardians of the Galaxy),  but in the end it's a temporary victory.  We can't stay away from the house forever, and when we return, There. Is. Still. No. Yarn.

The knitter finds some solace in yarn books and catalogs. The internet helps, unless something reminds her about the dearth of string.  Every once in a while, a wistful sigh escapes from the subject.  We helpless bystanders realize that the only thing any of us can do is wait.

Wish us Luck.

Time to Let Go

View fullsize

Yesterday I sent my finished manuscript to my editor.  It was not unlike kicking one's offspring out of the nest.  Time to fly or fall, little book. Don't forget to Flap!

You know how when you finish a really terrific knitting project, you don't know what to do with yourself for a while?  Getting your life back from book writing is a lot like that.  I keep noticing gross chores around the house that nobody has done since I started the book, and thinking that now I don't have any excuse for not doing them.  Super-nasty ones, like cooking dinner.  

I gotta dream up a new project, STAT.

But since this is the third book I've written in 18 months, I'm going to take a wee break first, in order to recharge.  My family and I are invited to the lake for some R&R, which is most welcome. I'm looking forward to spending the last little bit of summer doing actual summertime things.

At least until I look down and realize there is no pile of wool in my lap.

Making New Knitters

View fullsize

The Knitting Lesson, by Hendrik Johannes Haverman, Amsterdam, 1857-1928.

I've been working on a book about knitting.  Specifically about adults and kids knitting together, which is a subject close to my heart.

This project calls for me to think like a new knitter, and remember what mattered most to me when I was first learning.  Since that was a long time ago, I've relied pretty heavily on my family, as newly-minted knitters, to keep me on track.

Lately I've gotten a little bogged down by the responsibility of it all.  It's such a privilege to pass on the thing you love.  The things we treasure are also our burdens to bear, if we care deeply about what happens to them.  But that's a pretty heavy point of view for a kids knitting book!

I mentioned this to my friend Karen F. who reminded me of one important thing:  No knitting book can have everything in it. 

Of course, she's right.  If anything, I should be making sure that the content is streamlined enough not to be intimidating.  Thanks, K - for saying the right thing at the right time.

I wonder if this means I should cut the chapter on Icelandic lace?