Becoming Xanga

My mother-in-law and I were talking about photographing FOs last night.  She said she used to, way before Internet even existed, until it finally got out of hand and she quit.  She didn't elaborate as to whether out of hand meant she was using up too much film and energy on something she no longer saw the point of, or if it meant that too many projects were slipping away before she could get a photo and she got too discouraged, but I told her that Ravelry is a big motivator, and that blogging is another, though I'm not very good at blogging.  Ryan asked what I meant, and I said that it's hard to find new things to say about knitting - I don't have any new techniques or patterns to share, so it's just a FO gallery, and I don't always know what to say other than, "Here is something I made."  Ryan replied that it's not always what I say so much as how I say it.  I mumbled that I haven't figured that out, either, and he expressed disbelief.  He told me that I'm a really good writer, and if I need any proof, just look at my xanga.  When I wrote regularly on that, it was zany and colorful and interesting, even when it was impossible to tell what I was talking about.

There's a long story behind why I stopped writing after college, and one that I'd rather not get into, but it's a big part of why I feel like half a person anymore.  I used to go through about three journals a year, fill up our computer's hard drive with stories and poems, and I'd just itch if I wasn't writing something.  I was never good with plots, so most of my creative writing was fragmented unless it was for a class, but I had a voice, it was unique, and I had enough positive feedback from teachers and friends to make me believe that yes, I was a pretty good writer.  So it makes me sad to think how dry and dull this blog is.  "Here is a picture of my baby/cats/crocheted bunny."  I want it to be more than that, but it means unlocking my writer, and frankly, she isn't always nice, she often doesn't make sense, and she never, ever stays on topic.  She asks a lot more questions than she ever manages to answer, and frequently she says things that she doesn't necessarily mean or feel to the full extent that she expresses them; there's just a root of a thought growing in her mind that she plants on paper and expands upon as best she can imagine it, whether or not it's actually affecting her as much as the writing implies.  Just because I'm moved to write, for instance, a poem about a person committing suicide from a first-person perspective, does not mean that I want to die.  It's more of a thought-experiment than anything else.  "Here is something to write about, let me find out if I can."  The mountain is there, so I climb it.  Or maybe, for a split second, I do want to harm myself.  I write it out, and that bleeds the poison out of my head, onto the paper (or screen), and that in itself is cathartic enough.  The writing may make the split-second thought a hundred times longer than it actually was, but again, I'm climbing a mountain.

The point of my ramblings here is that this blog might take a different turn.  It was originally created as a knitting blog, as something to do to help distract me from the pain of Gabriel's death, and because knitting is such a big part of my life now that naturally, I want to write about it.  However, there's obviously been more than just pictures of knitting.  Plenty of posts are just random bursts about Gabriel, about my fears and sadness, and whatever pops into my head.  A lot of it is heavily censored, as compared to how I would have written it in my xanga.  From now on, this is my xanga.  I don't know if anyone is reading it now, I don't know if anyone will want to read it, but no more censoring.  I want to get my writer back.

I also want to write about knitting from time to time, which I did on my xanga anyway, so expect to see pictures, and uncensored opinions about them, bwahahahaha . . .

Of course, I may as well warn you that it's going to get pretty crazy here, but at the same time, it may take a while to become anything like what it used to be, so if it's still peppered with boring, "I knitted this, I used yarn, I'm pretty happy with it," you'll just have to bear with me.  I'm still healing, and I'm still trying to figure out what I think about anything.  You'd be surprised how well a person can lock away their opinions when they feel they're not wanted, or that they're too dangerous to share.  It can be be very difficult to break them back out, and they may cringe away from the sunlight even longer than it takes their eyes to adjust.

They may also make laboured analogies to describe them and use British spellings for words like 'labored' for no reason at all, and without even realizing it until spellcheck spits out a bit of red rickrack to underline the fact that Blogger can't quite cope with the amount of British literature the writer reads.

Tally ho!

In other news, the Ravelry blogging group suggests that this should be Squee Sunday, wherein I 'squee' about something new and knitterly.  I'm not sure how to go about this, though I can be squeeful with the best of them.

Hmm.

Squee!  I now own a Q sized crochet hook!  It is ridiculously massive, but surprisingly lightweight!  Boring color, though.  I'm debating ways of jazzing it up, though I also feel that it really isn't worth the effort when there are a hundred other things vying for my attention, like writing long overdue letters to my penpals and thank you notes.  Speaking of which, now seems like a good time to start a list.

Cargill: Automatic Sprinkler onesie, Dr. Seuss burp rags
Aunt Ann: Quilts, hat, bunny, teddy bears, diaper bag, vintage pattern book
Aunt Veloy: Quilt, hat, teddy bear
Uncle Willis and Aunt Phyllis (I think?): $25
CSM Kris: $15 gift card
Wal-Mart: flowers
Susan: Blankets, sweater, booties, hat, mittens, towel/washcloth?
Karen and Reuben: Where to even start?  Everything?
Judy and Alan/Allan/Allen?: Bibs, outfits, whatever else I'm forgetting
Aunt? Nancy: Photo album, sleeper, sippy cups

I hate writing thank you notes.  I'm always worried that my gratitude will sound insincere or insufficient, which apparently it was in person because I'm still expected to write these darn notes.  Keeps the postal system in business, at least.