I have a confession to make--writing is not my only creative obsession. While writing, plotting, creating scenes, characters, etc in my head takes up most of my cranial space; I save a little for another creative endeavor.
And much like romance writers, I’ve discovered knitting has a strange stigma surrounding it. The comments I get from friends, colleagues, strangers who barely know me, never cease to amaze me. I’ve put up with comments like:
“You knit?” As if it would make more sense to them if they discovered I drink the blood of virgins on the full moon.
Or, “Next you’ll be walking with a cane and popping Geratol.” Because apparently no one picks up a pair of needles and learns the craft until they are well past the age of retirement.
Oh, and my personal favorite, “How very domesticated of you.” As if creating something out of yarn somehow was on par with washing the dishes or scrubbing the floor.
I’ve always been the type that likes to do things with their hands. I like to build things, watch things grow. Had I to do it all over again, I would have chosen carpentry as my career, rather than sitting in an office all day staring at the swirls on my pod wall. Or pottery. I think that would be a blast. Maybe even landscaping.
To me, knitting is not domesticated, or the providence of old people or wallflowers or people who have no life, all of which have been insinuated to me at one time or another. For me, it is another mode of creative expression. I’m a visual person, so watching the colors I choose to work with unfold as I knit a sock or scarf or some other such thing, gives me a sense of accomplishment. I love the feel of the textures, the thrill of finishing a project, the joy of handing it over as a gift to someone else where most of my knitting ends up going. I’ve even used my powers for good and became the Nova Scotia Coordinator for Project Linus Canada.
And if that wasn’t enough, the money I save on buying presents is outrageous. My Christmas spending had dropped to a tenth of what it used to be. I’ve been able to give friends and family handmade blankets, socks, golf club covers, dishcloths, scarves, mitts, hats, Christmas tree ornaments. Egg cozies for crying out loud! I’ve even just recently found a pattern to create a knit replica of your internal organs.
So I admit it. I love to knit. And, dare I say it, I may have as many skeins of yarn as I do books. You cannot enter a room in my house, with the possible exception of the dining room, without encountering a basket of yarn or a pile of books.
Knitters aren’t all sprouting gray hair and granny shawls, walking stooped over as if hoping to hide from the Grim Reaper. Lots of us are young (relatively), hip and pretty damn cool. And if someone suggests otherwise, we also have the skills and the ability to use our sharp pointy needles to inflict immeasurable pain. One might wish to keep that in mind the next time they are about to let a derogatory comment about my knitting fly out of their mouths. Don’t say you weren’t warned.