You've Reached Uncle Stashley's Knitting (and rarely but sometimes Crochet) Blog

I was bingeing Brain Games on Netflix (still am, with an exception for finishing Downton Abbey before it disappears April 1st), and in one recent episode they demonstrated how incredibly creative children are compared to adults. I think of myself as quite the creative mind (I am, after all, a writer), but the show aptly demonstrated that even I tend to think in entrenched patterns, compared to the free-flowing imagination of a child. After showing the kinds of inventive thoughts that children were capable of, the show suggested we can improve our imagination by thinking like a child. And it actually works! And what do children do best? They play. ​ So what's playful knitting? It can't be

Once again, I have acquired some yarn I didn't really need. This happens to me a lot, and, if you're a Textile Artist (i.e. you make stuff with yarn—dishcloths and baby hats count) and you have been at it for more than a week then it has undoubtedly happened to you, too (so don't look so smug, yes. you!) I often find myself accumulating completely unnecessary yarn when: I am on vacation and am self-congratulatory about what a useful souvenir I am buying for a change I haven't seen those nice people at the local yarn store (LYS) for a while, and wouldn't dream of leaving empty-handed after forcing them to hear me natter on for 10 minutes about my latest difficult project I am not on vacatio

Knitters be warned: this post is mostly about the glowing spirit of indomitability that resides in us all, but superficially it sounds like I'm talking about crochet (perhaps because I'm talking about crochet). As a knitter, I love projects that give me a little nudge of challenge. Not too much—there's definitely a sweet spot—but just enough to feel that, at project completion, I haven't merely knit a hat/scarf/vest/dishcloth/bookmark but in fact mastered a skill or technique. There's certainly a place for comfort knitting in my life (meetings, airplanes, doctors' waiting rooms, or while the tenors are trying unsuccessfully to learn their part), but when my primary purpose is to knit, I li

When I first become obsessed with some new passion, be it knitting, gardening, musical theatre, or people surnamed Hemsworth, naturally I want to know more about it. How does one purl successfully? What climate zone is my garden in? Is a "musical" different from a musical comedy? Are any of them single, and do they mind that I'm not? And usually I can find books, articles, and web sites that neatly address most of my concerns, even if the purling situation was a bit complicated at first. But that's not the be-all and end-all of obsession. I want to know what does it feel like to be a gardener, and luckily there are heaps of books about that, from Tottering in My Garden, to Down the Garden

In a video game, once you have achieved certain goals, you get to level up. Oftentimes a bell will ring, some sort of alert will appear, and you get to choose new skills that will enhance your ability to: throw flames from your hands at undead skeleton warriors (enhance your mana), pick the locks of the Mayor's secret storeroom (enhance your dexterity), survive falling from a great height (enhance your health), or even impress the ladies (enhance your charisma)—or in some more enlightened games, even impress the men. But in knitting, it works in reverse (and, alas, there's no bell): once you have acquired some sort of competency at new skills, voila, you get to level up. And it's your decis