As we learned the other day, Michael Strahan does not excel at wife-carrying despite his extensive athletic training. It also appears that he is not good at carrying a metaphor. If something doesn't come out right on paper, then someone must be blamed. And as a writer, I prefer to blame the subject matter.
What I was trying to say is that writing fiction is very different from blogging. When I blog I tell you things that are on my mind and things that are happening in my family. I show you stuff I've knit and I shamelessly ask you to heart me on Ravelry. I share photos of my dogs, often accompanying these photos with text written from what I imagine to be my dogs' point of view. Sometimes I rail against the Kennedys, my difficulty in navigating the material world, and cilantro. As I write I assume you already know quite a bit about me, like that I call my husband LB and that I have a fear of echidnas.
Given how much blogging I've been doing for the past five years, I assumed that getting back into writing fiction would feel natural. It doesn't and there is no reason I should have assumed that it would. With fiction, there can be no shorthand -- even if the story is drawn from personal experience (as mine almost always are). I find it very difficult to switch between these two types of writing. You can assume that if I'm not blogging, I'm writing fiction. If I'm going through a bad patch of depression/anxiety/grieving for Amy Winehouse, I'm likely to blog more -- not less. Suffering in silence, as LB can attest, has never been my style.
The knitting never stops, regardless of what I'm writing. I made a skirt for my mother for Christmas, confidently inventing the pattern as I went along. The result was lovely. I tried it on since Mom and I are about the same size, and it was way too tight. I tried it on Agatha, and it was too tight. Not even Sabina with the World's Tiniest Waist (TM) could fit into it.
So I made Mom another skirt, this time following the instructions of a skirt pattern written by a professional.
I'm happy with how it came out. I'm especially fond of the edging. I picked up stitches from the underside of what was already a finished hem, giving the appearance that the skirt has an inner layer. Ravelried here:
Then I made a jumper for Sabina, adapted from the Wightwizzle dress pattern by Louisa Harding. By now Sabina should have received it in the mail, and I'm hoping it fits.
The color was hard to photograph, for some reason. In real life the wool (Rowan Kid Classic) is very pale green, with no blue tint at all. Ravelried here:
Some of you may remember that when I visited Lo this fall (See that? I can assume you already know who Lo is. It's a real-life demonstration of how blogging and fiction writing are in no way the same-the same), I intended to buy a needlepoint canvas and thread, but left California with no canvas and a renewed sense of my identity as a knitter.
Today I got my hair cut and colored, and noticed that the little mall on Happ Street also houses a needlepoint shop. I went in, not expecting to feel temptation.
I'm reminded of the scene in the movie Cabaret when Sally Bowles and Brian have sex for the first time, after he had confided to her that his first three sexual encounters had been dismal failures. Sally said, "Well obviously those three girls were just... the wrong three girls!"
Since you already know me, I feel I don't have to explain how or why this canvas speaks to me.