Hi, I'm Heather....I'm a writer...

So.

Today I did something scary.

I know that a lot of you probably know this but I'll just put it out there for those of you that don't:  I didn't go to college.

I mean, obviously I didn't.  I can't place a comma any better than a kid learning to place shoes around the stake in horseshoes his first day out.  I have no freaking idea what a dangling participle is (other than it sounds slightly suggestive *waggles eyebrows*). 

And if we're being completely honest, it's always been a little bit intimidating to me.

Smart, educated people intimidate the living dogcrap outta me.

But that's my neuroses and not anything any one single person has said or done.  Or at least I don't think they have. 

Either way, I looked into take a continuing education class through the University today in Creative Writing.

It's online, thankfully. 

Why do I say thankfully you might ask...  Well, you know those cute kids in hipster pants that faff about the campus.  Well, yeah, they attend classes now and again and these little buggers have fresh minds and spirits.

Source

Not that my spirit is dampened in any way, shape, or form.

No, that's it.  While they may have their own demons and hells, not all of them have lived the life I have, not all of them have the chip on their shoulder that I do (I'm self-aware enough to know it's there, thank you very much), and they're young. 

They're tiny, they're lovely in their youth and their unencumbered view of life just yet.  They have yet to understand their potential.  They have yet to understand how their spirits can be crushed by life only to rise above their trials or finally succumb to their dread. 

Me?  I'm just the chick in the back who is worried that her eight-year-old might not grasp the idea of reading and processing her thoughts.  Or that her five-year-old might finally get her shizz together literally and get over that final hurdle with getting to the potty on time.  Or that her teenager is such a teen.  Or that her step-daughter is so lovely and she's so proud.  Or that her hubby is out trapping and that he should be careful.  And do we have enough for this and that.  Or do we take enough time with the short people in our lives. 

....that's a two minute span of my thought process.  Exhausting isn't it? 

And I'm scared to death of doing something really really good for myself.

Ridiculous, isn't it? 

I'm not meant to be selfish.  It's not who I am.  I don't operate that way.  I also get a ginormous panic attack when I think about doing something I've never ever done before.  I'm good at playing it off like it's no big deal.  Or if you really really know me....you already know what a big deal it really is. 

I'm not afraid of homework or hard work.  I'm not afraid of learning. 

I'm afraid of taking that step towards the beginnings of a dream of mine.

We all have 'em, don't we?  Whether they be small enough like learning how to make the best cinnamon rolls in the world (another goal of mine) to getting a degree or going to the Writer's Workshop at the University (one of the most highly touted in the States). 

I don't have to hand you a bill of sale of what it would be like for me to be surrounded by people who write.  I'm already there.  I work there.  I watch amazing people save lives and teach on a daily basis.  They inspire me to be a little bit more than I was than the day before. 

And my short folks.  They inspire me, too. 

And every person who has ever said, I love the way you write.  Or has said you should write a book.  Or that I have a gift. 

(For the record:  When you people say that, I get a little thrill.  Just for the record.)

So, I'm going to do this little class.  I'm going to give it a whirl and see where it takes me. 

It's a beginning. 

And after all, it's time. 

Knitting and Writing, two of these things are kind of the same...

So, here I am at the end of a finished product, finally. It took the better part of a year and I don't know how many episodes of LOST I've rewatched while knitting this thing (seriously, it should be dubbed The LOST scarf - LOL) but it's finally done.



Before I get to the thinky think portion of my post, I'll just share a few details for you knitters out there. The pattern for this lurvely thing is by the equally lurvely Stephanie Pearl-McPhee (aka The Yarn Harlot). It's called The One Row Handspun Scarf and I made it with two strands - held together - of Paton's Mulberry Stripes. I love, love, loooove self-striping yarn but let me tell you when I hit the end of the first two balls and had to add in the next, the striping was not working too well and had to disassemble and reconstruct.

(Now onto the Thinky Think portion of my post):

Which, of course, got me thinking about writing when it's compared to knitting. I mean, when you start out you're equipped with the tools of the trade (a pattern, your knitting needles, and your yarn)(for writing: a plot-bunny/outline, your laptop, and coffee) and things start off quite swimmingly. Things are fluid and linear and your stitches are fine and true. And your hands are literally flying and things are going quite smoothly. You want it to be beautiful and you're so proud of it and it's not even finished yet.

And then, then comes the seven-year itch.

You're halfway through.

You're not far enough to see the light at the end of the tunnel yet and worse yet, this yarn is making things crazy. It's supposed to self-stripe and it won't. So you tie things off and realign and realign again. You think you've got it only not. Again, you tie things off and restart. You're so frustrated even though you think you've lined it up that you put it down for a day, which turns into three, which turns into six months. And then when you're cleaning up the office and wanting to work on a small project, there it sits, waiting.

This scarf wants nothing more than to be finished, than to get to the end of the rows and to be bound off, and wound around someone's neck to keep them warm against the winter chill.

That's all it wants.

You pick up the needles again. You remind yourself of why you wanted this scarf in the first place other than it's very pretty and the pattern is relatively easy to commit to memory. It was the joy of finally finishing a lengthy project and to have something to show for it at the end. You grab your needles and start knitting. It's good, it's very good. You're flying along again, stitches true. And then you find yourself nearing the end at midnight on a Saturday - watching Lost or Sherlock. You've got little yarn left and it's time to bind off. You carefully take those last stitches and fold them over each other so everything will finish off neatly, tidily, and won't unravel for Pete's sake. There, there you are. You grab those loose ends and weave them seamlessly into the scarf itself so it won't show overmuch except for that tiny bulging in the middle but who will notice? Another knitter, that's who. But, you know what another knitter will notice? They'll recognize the yarn, the pattern, and the utter love for the time that it took to make that scarf and they'll compliment you on a job well done.

And there you are at 2:00 a.m. with a beautiful scarf around your neck and the glow of a project finished.

It's finally done. And you smile.