I am a terrible knitter. I don’t know why. There is something about the way I make a stitch that flips the stitch around. It results in a super tight wrapped stitch that just has zero give. I make very warm scarves. I tried to knit my god-daughter a blanket and failed miserably. I ended up getting her a nightlight for Christmas. I even bought some beautiful yarn from a local yarn shop for it. One day, that expensive locally dyed yarn will make a beautiful blanket. I might have to pay someone else to make that happen though.
In an effort to get back into the feel of things, I picked up Yarn Harlot by Stephanie Pearl-McPhee. And suddenly I think I may never knit again. To start her book of essays, Pearl-McPhee describes the freak out she had just writing the introduction. The introduction is a freak out about the introduction. The rest of the books seems to be essays about freaking out about knitting. I can’t finish it. I am having sympathy panic attacks from reading about her deadline missing and procrastination problems. How am I supposed to be motivated to knit my way through my admirably small stash by a woman who hoards yarn compulsively? She advises hiding yarn in sweater sleeves! I’m not even kidding! I actually wear my clothes and do not think they make useful storage spaces.
Yarn Harlot, a book I’m glad I tried because now it can stop wasting space on my shelf.
(image from Flickr)