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Why I Make: Hush Now
I won't force you to read some weak knitting metaphor here.
You know the sort: where I implicitly compare my angst-filled (but secretly tedious and generally blasé) writer's life to the complex striations of a handmade Scottish sweater on a damp Highland day.
Ugh. Who has time for all that?
Yeah. I knit. Though most actual knitters would only refer to my activities with needles and wool in air quotes. As in: She's "knitting" another seed-stitched scarf for her poor husband. Hush! Don't interrupt her. She's counting to two.
That's fine, though. I don't "knit" to be artful or even to experience some creative journey. I keep busy enough steering around anxious figures of speech in my poetry and essays to do any of that.
And I know I'm not fit enough to compete with the Big Girls of Textile. I usually end up with some painful form of knitters elbow (who knew that existed?) when I go crazy and overextend myself beyond 20 rows in one day.
So why do I bother to make anything?
When I switch on my knitting hands, I can take time off from the thoughts in my head. Knitting - usually done haphazardly, without a clue what BOs and yos are - releases me from having to tune in (at that moment) to that always-chugging creative engine.
I knit so I can "make" mindlessly, achieve a modicum of accomplishment (husband with warm neck), and move on without too much self-judgment.
I mean, I don't know about you all, but, as a self-deprecating, self-employed, and overly emotional "artist-type," I need a break from myself now and again. Clicking through a few rows feels, well, rather bracing.
After all, since I craft in words, my creativity usually finds itself busy-busy with words. But that doesn't mean what I write is always beautiful, succinct and lovely. Oh no no no.
It's true: The things I make are often bad! I have (very recently) written such crap as: "My thoughts were tossed about like romaine in a salad spinner" or "Knitting is like a companion donkey in the thoroughbreds' barn." Gack!
Then mindless making has its place. My occasional bad writing wants some happy cousins to live with. Those scarves will do nicely.
Also, time off from thinking gives my buzzy brain a chance to stop solving world peace and just putter around, scooping mind-glitter into boxes and tossing out dried-up analytical glue.
Time spent knitting is my brain's chance to sort out its personal craft room. When I return - to write the next essay or a demand poem on my Olivetti - my brain feels rested. It got what it needs.
Elizabeth G. Howard writes poetry online and on demand, on her vintage Olivetti Lettera (that's a typewriter, FYI). Her blog, scrutinizing American culture -- "Letters from a Small State" -- is read by tens of bored people all over the world, and Belgium too. She comes from Iowa, wrote and worked in London for three years, and can't seem to get unstuck from traffic now she's found her way to Connecticut. Follow her on Twitter, but only if you are human.