November is National Novel Writing Month. Well sure, but it's not quite national anymore, NaNoWriMo has totally gone international! It's a novel writing month, and I signed up, but I'm so not going to write a novel. Well, not exactly at least. A look in the dictionary tells me novel is not only a noun meaning work of fictitious prose, it is also an adjective meaning (and I quote) "of a new kind; different from anything seen or known before".
I'm not naïve, I'm sure I'm not really going to write anything novel, everything has been thought of and done before, but explicitly not writing a novel when participating in NaNoWriMo is, perhaps, just a bit of novelty.
Then what, you must probably wonder, will I write? I'm not sure. I might mockingly say an epistle, because you might think of this as a very long letter to you, the person crazy enough to read this shit. I might say a journal, but I'd be lying, I'm not the person that writes journals. They're a lot of crap, and when I do write something journallike, it's not to document my life, but to organise my thoughts. No journal. No autobiography, I'm not organised enough for that. I'd be telling you a story of myself as a toddler, relate this to the toddler Andreas, brother of a friend of mine, who has autism, and coincidentally enough, my brother also has autism, and that influenced my life in this or that way. I've got enough material to write an interesting autobiography, don't get me wrong, I know tons and tons of things that should go in it. But I really, really lack the organised mind to write it.
No, none of the above. What I'm going to write are the unorganised thoughts popping up in my head. Because I think, if they are interesting enough for me to ponder upon, why should I not share them with the world? The world needs some thinking, let me provide the world with food for thought. And let me amuse the world by granting them a peek into my mind. I'm sure that if the world finds out what strange a kind of thoughts I have, the world will likely laugh. Or perhaps, the world won't laugh at the strangeness of my thoughts, but at the way I write them down. People have already told me my style of writing is an instant feel-good to them after all.
I guess I know why that is, too. It's because of that unorganised mind of mine (you'll get sick of those two words in no time, I promise, but when I get to word 13652, I'll probably have forgotten all about those words, so you won't have to read them anymore, and my writing won't be sickening) that enables me to write just what springs up, often between rather long parentheses, without a whole lot of auto-censure, because when I'm writing, I refuse to wonder "What will people think?". And I don't know what you think about it, but that jumpy style is my trademark, and you'd better like it.
Here's why: you started reading my writing, and if you're anything like the people I know, you simply don't want to give up when you started reading something. You just keep on struggling trough that hell of a book, naïvely caressing the thought it'll all get better soon. It's just the first chapter that's a drag, what's coming will be so much better. No really, there's a plot in there, you need to figure it out, you can't put it away now, can you? It WILL get better, towards the end. No way a writer could sustain this poor level of writing throughout the entire book, and STILL be published. So sillilly, lots of my friends (and while you're at it, include me, I do it too) fool themselves into finishing a book they never really liked. So that's why I hope you like my jumpy style. I know that once you started reading, you were doomed to read everything right 'till the very last word. You are curious, that's why. So better enjoy it and don't cherish foolish illusions. I will not start writing in a style you will like better (but perhaps you will start to like my style after a while, lucky you) and this writing does not have a plot. I repeat: this writing DOES NOT have a plot. NOT.
So, I erased all foolish expectations. Everybody that was not interested after all, everybody that yearned for a plot has dropped out? Great! Good time to tell you there is a plot. What? A plot? No no no no, don't run away yet! There IS a plot, yes, I just don't know what it is yet. I don't know if I'm ever going to think of a plot while writing, or even after, but believe me, there is a plot. If you hand over this load of brabble to some analyst, I guarantee you, the analyst will think of a plot. If I, by mistake, implemented an alliteration in a sentence, that will have significance. The alliteration will express something, it will have a deeper meaning. It won't be there just because I was fluently writing, and just thought: hey, that word-combo really sounds appealing, I like it, let's write it down (yup, I'm totally entitled to pluralis majestatis!). Noooooo, the analyst will be able to perfectly explain why I wrote "So sillilly" instead of "In a foolish way": it must have a deeper meaning. After all, if the alliteration does not have a deeper meaning, then why didn't I pick "In a foolish way"? Isn't the objective of NaNoWriMo writing 50,000 words in a month? Then surely, with that tight deadline, I would've picked the four word description, wouldn't I?
Now, I won't tell you why I chose "So sillilly", I haven't got a clue myself, it just sounds catchy. The analyst however, she will be able to tell you why I chose that exact combination of words. Well, of course, after this long, gigantic plea, no analyst will be crazy enough to even attempt to explain the use, because that would really expose the idiocy of this concept, but had I left out this plea, and I became famous enough, surely, some analyst would "see" the deeper meaning.
So I promise, it will be plotless writing with a plot. This concluded, we have reached the end of "Chapter One: Introduction", which I refuse to number and title at the top of the chapter: I really don't want the first thing people read I have written to be such a standard phrase. As you probably have noticed, I strive to distinguish myself. End of "Chapter One: Introduction". So now, let's head to "Chapter Two: I'm not sure what to title this chapter..."!
Chapter two : I don't know what to title this chapter
As for the title... Off course I don't know what to title this chapter! This is NaNoWriMo, writing at an incredible speed, aiming for fifty-thousand words by the end of November, never looking back. Because looking back, you might start editing, losing valuable time. Idiocy! So, seeing that looking back is evil, I won't be able to return for assigning appropriate titles, hence the current title.
On to the chapter itself then, there's no use in writing an entire chapter about a title. Wasted chapter, strike it out, oh fuck, lost about a thousand words! NOT my intention!
I might entertain you guys with some information about database design, but seriously, I won't. It's NOT entertaining. If it were entertaining, I'd be giving it my full attention. Now I'm not, listening with only half an ear (this is probably not even English and translated way to literally from Dutch, but I like the expression and I'm to lame to give a shit, so deal with it) and spending the rest of my attention to this "book".
A pity really, that I'm writing all of this down on paper, and not on my computer. I will lose so much time typing this load of text to my book file to validate word count. Off course, if I weren't writing right now, on paper, in class, it would also be a waste of valuable writing tile. Everything is a waste of writing time, except writing! (Well, I hope, perhaps my writing is so crappy that even writing was a waste of writing time!)
It's funny though, the concept to explain database design with is a sort of bookshop, explaining how one book can be written by many authors, and one author can write several books. How every book fits into just one category, but some categories can be empty. Imagine a bookshop that doesn't sell the Bible, the Koran, the Thora or the likes. Their category "Holy Books" would be empty, unless off course one of the employees is bright enough to know that a book like "The Lord of the Rings" doesn't only fit into the category "Fantasy", but that it is, in fact, also a Holy Book. It is! Don't argue, it's impossible to argue with the author of the book you're reading. Too bad for you, I, the author, am Right! Yes, with a capitol R!
I won't waste my time persuading you the Lord of the Rings is a Holy work of fiction. Either you believe me, and you'll be fed up with my explanation, or you're interested, you'll remember the title, look it up in the library or in the bookshop. If I go persuading you Lord of the rings is a Holy work of fiction, I'll have to elaborate and I'll ruin the book for you, uncovering information, which would really be a pity. Last possibility: you are a non-believer. A very stubborn non-believer. I know, because all non-believers are stubborn. And since you are stubborn and I can't think of the umpteen rejections you might come up with, I won't even attempt to persuade you of its holiness. Simply because it is not possible, and thus a useless waste of time. No more Lord of the Rings talk.
Why not? There's enough great books out there for me to talk about. Plenty! You're reading one right now! (Or well, you should be, if you're not, shame on you, you should always have several books on your nightstand to read, people need switching. I'm not bigheaded enough to think the great book YOU are reading is MINE. If you feel it IS, please let me know, I van always use an ego-boost!)
Off course, I don't know WHICH great book you are reading right, so I won't be able to discuss THAT book. (I might be a writer, but I'm not clairvoyant - God, I love that word!) Thus, let me make some suggestions as to which books you should read. Start with The Hobbit. It's a single book, not an entire book series, and great for introducing you to the basic principles of fantasy.
Once you're done with it, you will want to read Lord of the Rings (I know, I'm a terrible lier, I said I wouldn't mention LotR again, yet here we are, I did it again!) Don't doubt it. After reading the Hobbit, you WILL want to read the Lord of the Rings. Not Because I said so, but simply because you'll want to.
You should also read the Harry Potter series. Come to think of it, you should've started with that. As a child! Read it to your children if you have any. Read it to anyone else's children if you don't. If you get a sore throat reading out loud, read it silently to yourself. But please, do read it!
Once you've dealt with Rowling and Tolkien, switch to Hobb. Hobb is a genious! After reading Tolkien, you will feel no book can ever match – and definitely not better- his fenomenal Lord of the Rings. You are wrong, and Hobb will prove this to you. She will show you it is possible. So far, she's got four trilogies on her conto. If you think reading twelve books is a lot, skip the last one. Her soldier's son trilogy is less of a masterpiece...
Skip it in favor of Robert Jordans Wheel of Time. If Hobb didn't yet convince you there is better fantasy than what Tolkien wrote (this is possible, because after all, her pseudonym is a tribute to the noble sir, you might feel this diminishes her accomplishment, but that's silly!) Jordan will. The late author (stolen from us slightly over a year ago, before completing his epos) bests Tolkien as if performing a trivial tasks like tieing his shoelace.
He will cost you a lot of reading though, eleven books of about eighthundred pages each, plus a threehundred paged prequel, and a twelveth and final book (it's yet to come, to be published in about a year) of likewise length. It will be completed by the author Brandon Sanderson, who has accepted the heavy duty of completing Jordans famous series. He will (and I daren't doubt) finish the series to our pleasing, and for what it's worth, we all admire his courage. After all, would you dare to place your humble feet in the great footprints of your idol?
If you've finished reading all that, you get to pick books to your own liking. I assigned you a minimum of thirty-six books and once you've finished reading thos, I'm sure you'll perfectly be able to pick out the right books by yourself. (Yes, dear reader, at times, I do think highly of you!)
I think that would about conclude this chapter, and since NaNo doesn't leave the writer to much time to ponder, I'll stick to that thought aan end the chapter at this point. Perhaps I should have titled it "Chapter two: Books you should've read before reading mine" but there's no turning back. Besides, I like the current title better!
Now, if you feel like it, take a break, go to the toilet, have a drink and localise your library card. After all, you will need it when you're finished reading this book, and what's the point in waiting to search when you desperately need a new book because you've got nothing to read? Do it now, while there's no pressure, it'll be an easier thing to find while your head is calm, not weary.
Have a nice break, and I'll see you in chapter three – which will persumably be even longer! By chapter fourteen, I guess I'll finally have a decent number of pages a chapter. So long!
Chapter three: Don't lose courage, you will live through this book!
And if you don't, have somebody call me, and I'll share some compassionate words with your relatives at the funeral. They'll probably not want me there though, me having killed you with my prose...
(Please, if you didn't quite understand that first paragraph, get used to reading chapter titles, I promise they won't be as useless as those of the first two chapters were! Actual promise this time!)
The process of killing somebody with prose, is – I assure you – something that only takes place in that special space some people like to call the "figurative way of speaking". It never happens in the real world. Nonetheless, it can be a pretty damn scary thing if you take lots of trips down that road, which I as a writer, I tend to do. Luckily, it has pleasant side-effects.
I live on the Figurative Way of Speaking, number 14, so when I'm reading a dull book, it's always accompanied with a thrill: I live in that special place where killing with prose is possible, thus reading dull books is flirting with Death. I fear Death is a great flirt, because whenever I start a dull book, I feel it is my duty to finish it.
Or maybe death is a terrible flirt, and I flirtatiously continue reading because feel sorry for him. I think not... Why feel sorry for Death? Death has accepted so much lovers in his arms, shares his underworld with all those he chose, has more flirts than anyone else in the universe... Death knows love!
But off course, Death does not only know love, he knows fear, too. Fear, jealousy, loathing and hatred. Some people long for Death as for a long lost lover, happy when he eventually embraces them, but most others would prefer never to lay eyes upon him.
They would choose to deny his existence, they curse him when he has taken away a loved one, they cherish grudges towards him, intend only to always escape him. If for some he is saviour, for most he is thief. The ender of lives that should have been longer, the destroyer of futures yet to be made. The thief of lovers, fathers, daughters, friends, sons and mothers. Of vague acquaintances that won't ever have the ability of becoming something more. The cause of mourning and grief, not of joy and happiness.
Despite all his lovers, Death is pitiable, because the feeble amount of joy he brings to some, does not outweigh the huge amount of distress he spreads. It's way more saddening to make someone sad than it is cheering to cheer someone up.
I myself wouldn't welcome Death at my doorstep. I would beg him, please, to go somewhere else. To rescue a soul that needs saving from life, not to take it this early. To spare me my life, for it still pleases me, and to come back the day it is torture. To gently take it, and not roughly grab it, to show some compassion.
Death would then answer I am asking to much. He would say I'd be displeased if he waited that long. That I would loathe him for waiting, having to endure the unbearable. That he should have taken it when it was still a joy, so I could fondly think back during afterlife, not hindered by the painful memories of the last days before passing over, unimpeded by the bitterness that would have come over me near the end.
Arguing with Death is a lost cause. Whichever reason you might come up with for him to spare you, he would answer with an even better one to take you now. All you can do is hope he won't show before you are willing to welcome, and wish for the ability to accept his coming. When your final hour has come, hope you can share it with a lover, not an enemy, and afterlife will be good. Enter that world with love in your decomposing heart, for fear has never been a good advisor.
So far, this has turned out to be an entirely different chapter than I had intended for it to be. A chapter at the beginning of a book shouldn't be quite this heavy I fear... But I'll not change it, since I just told you fear is not a good advisor, and because I want to daily present you with a new chapter (this is to those that are reading during November 2008, publishing online at forums, not to those that started reading upon completion of the book, but I deem you intelligent enough to have realised just that bit of information – high reader esteem strikes again!) while I still have the opportunity. (Opportunity both in the way of internet-access, which will disappear for half a week when I go on a tiny camping trip, and in the way of having a chapter fully written, which might also become difficult, working at the weekend and studying enough during the week!)
I guess I wrote this much about Death, because I feel his presence. Not even a year ago he gently took my uncle, which still leaves bruises to my soul. A couple of weeks ago he threatened me, throwing me four metres down a slope, momentarily stealing my eyesight and my sense of hearing, leaving a metacarpal in the need of screws for mending. That got me convinced of the need of a cycling helmet: my vision and my other senses are to dear.
And these days, I feel him creeping round our neighbours' house. A week ago, Brigitte was throwing up blood, lots of blood. The first guess to the cause was a rupture of the oesophagus, which proved to be wrong after an endoscopy. The second guess was a sinus-bleed where the blood didn't leave via the nose, but went to her windpipe via the Eustachian tube. Another examination ruled out that possibility as well.
The blood was coming from her lungs, and they're not sure what was causing it, but it definitely can't be something good (I would not consider bleeding lungs a sign of health, would you?). It's definitely not tuberculosis though, or any other contagious lung-disease, which was instantly reassuring. Me and my mum went in there to call an ambulance, to keep her awake while waiting for it to arrive, providing her with a bucket and cleaning up the blood on the floor. When I heard it was the lungs, I did get kind of worried she might have infected us (TBC horror stories have had their impact) but since it's nothing contagious, we shouldn't be scared.
I hope she'll get better. We don't really get along very well, but you wouldn't which anybody a fate of struggling disease, and I feel sorry for her daughter, my friend, who really panicked seeing her mum like that... I can't bear to see her suffering under her mothers struggle, so that doubles the hope for recovery. Everybody should live through my book, even if they're not reading it! End of chapter three, I need to go and do something cheerful, this chapter was bad for my mood...
Chapter four: On challenges and defeats
And yet another chapter to be written, on challenges and defeats this time. A very appropriate subject methinks, since my writing of this book basically started with a challenge. A challenge I made myself and friends made me. At least ten other people I know are also obsessively writing their stories to be finished by the end of the month.
It's not a challenge that will actually win me something: when I reach the 50,000 goal, all I'm getting is an official "Winner" web badge and a PDF Winner's Certificate, that's it. The winning is something less concrete: a feeling of self-achievement, the pride that comes with fulfilling a goal. And perhaps, I might score some new fans of my scriptures, winning me an ego-boost. For me, that is enough. I love the feeling of accomplishment. Absolutely love it!
That love for accomplishment has inspired me in the past to start the 101 in 1001 challenge. This too is a personal challenge, in which you set yourself one hundred and one personal goals, to be completed in one thousand and one days – slightly under two years and three quarters. I've still got slightly under two years left, and have already tasted the bitterness of defeat in those first nine months.
Some of my goals I have removed from the list, because looking back, I didn't quite understand why I set them, and thought them to be rather impossible. Not worth my while. I have decently replaced them though, with goals I can relate to much better. Goals that are worth my while.
It sort of feels like cheating, editing the list. But then again, it's all about self-accomplishment, and if I have second thoughts and decide: that's not really something I would want to accomplish, I'd better change those goals to things I feel are an accomplishment. So that when I finish in two years, I don't have to wonder: what have I been doing? What did I spend the last 2,75 years on? No, in two years, I want to feel I really did something that mattered... Not to the world, but to me.
These off course are challenges that are yet to end. Right now, I don't know if I'll succeed or not. Other challenges are well behind me. Breaking up with my previous boyfriend is one. I was defeated. I didn't dare open my mouth, didn't dare to tell the truth, because I knew it would terribly hurt him.
Instead, I spent the last month not picking up his phone calls, not answering his messages, avoiding places where I might run into him, finally breaking up in a very long e-mail. Cowardish, so cowardish. I was so disappointed with myself, I'd always had these intentions on how to break up. How I'd be all grown up about it, but I was not...
Other challenges came to a better end, like acting in the school play. The clairvoyant at the town fair. Nervosity to no avail, because I did great. I even had to sing solo, which I dread. I am not the greatest singer of all, anything but, actually. But I got lots of compliments after the show, making me glow with pride – thank goodness I still had my make-up on, so the people couldn't see the terrible blush burning my face!
Challenges are just that. Challenging. Face-reddening. Scary. But worth the while. Or they should be. If a challenge is not worth your while, don't take it on. There's better things to do, and you know it. That's why – secretly – I've set my goal at 25,000 words. This is my first NaNo ever, and I'm a very busy girl! I've got projects going on at school, various assignments, lots of studying to do, a wee bit of a social life (belly dancing classes on Mondays and swimming on Thursdays) and a students' job at the weekend.
Combining all that with writing a 25,000 word book is quite enough a challenge for me, really. I want NaNoWriMo to be an enrichment, I don't want to have to sacrifice studying hours to finish the book. The big challenge is writing the book while not getting sloppy about anything else. What are fifty thousand words and a certificate worth to me, if they mean retaking subjects next year, because writing stopped me from studying?
That's right, nothing! (Gosh, did you notice I went to bed, slept, went to school and then continued writing this chapter? It definitely makes you revise priorities!) The key to never facing defeat is never to take on impossible challenges. To think twice, perhaps a third time, and only say yes if you think you can actually do it.
Self-accomplishment is a door with two keys: effort and realism. If you don't put in an effort, you don't get a result. If you don't set realistic goals, you won't get a result either, no matter what amount of effort you put in.
Taking a shower after you get up at morning might feel nice, but it doesn't give you the kick of: "Wow, I did something!". Taking that shower is something you do all the time, it's not hard... There is no thrill. To me, there was.
With my left arm in a cast, I couldn't wash by myself. I had to depend on my mum to help me. But one day my mum had left, leaving me home alone. I decided I'd try and wash. Plastic bin bag around the arm, first washing the easily reachable parts of my body, and then improvising: I wrapped a soapy washing cloth round a clothes hanger, clumsily washing my previously unreachable body parts that way.
I could've just waited to wash till my mum returned home, but it would've made me feel helpless, sad and pitiable. Not waiting, but trying, putting in an effort, a silly thing like washing all by myself made me feel happy and successful.
Luckily I didn't get the idea to get on my bike and ride to the market. I would have tried too, and it would've been utter failure, probably causing injury beyond some bruises to my soul. Whatever effort I put in, I wouldn't be able to break or steer properly.
Keeping it real is the path to success, but the path is rather bumpy and worn out. So many people went down that road it's created pitfalls, tiles have come loose, bit of pavement broke off. You have to be careful walking down that road, because success requires more than simply keeping it real.
I'm going to stop appending text to this chapter. I just returned from checking on the oven, and revising the last few paragraphs gave me the scary feeling I'm writing some wicked kind of life-improvement book. It's a challenging thing, writing a decent chapter on challenges. I fear I might have failed you, but it's 1101 words long (not counting this last paragraph), which is way to much to back out off.
I'll compensate in chapter five and six, which will be on writing fiction and actually writing some fiction. It's about time I told you a story, don't you think?
My sincerest apologies, once more.
Chapter five: on writing fiction (and much more)
I hope by now you know me enough to have figured out that I am a passionate reader. What might have been a bit less obvious, because I'm less precise about it this November, is that I am also a passionate writer.
I love writing stories, creating characters, providing them with firm personalities, placing them in intricate surroundings, making things happen to them and figure out how they would most likely respond to those new circumstances. My characters are valuable people to me, and I try to make them as real as possible. It's an ultimate wish to make them come to life in my readers' minds.
Not only do I care for my characters, I also care for my text. I love, absolutely adore the process of carefully picking just the right words from my vocabulary, immaculately arranging them until I've constructed exactly that satisfying sentence that makes me go "Eureka".
It's a very intense, very time-consuming process , but it's highly pleasing to have everything nicely fall together, to be able to perfectly put your thoughts down, expressing every single detail you had in mind, using but words glued together in perfect sentences.
All the above should, dear reader, explain why I'm not writing a novel this writing month. I care too much for my characters, I want to do them justice in my scenario and script. It's just not possible to properly do so under such a tight deadline! I should protect my characters from lousy plots and crappy writing, I owe it to them. I should take good care of them, because they've only got me, their creator, they can count on for protecting their reputations.
Expressing ordinary thoughts though, I'm not that picky and precise, unless I want to impress. When I'm writing a serious plea on discussion forums on a topic important to me, I tend to be even more meticulous about my writing, carefully weighing each and every word before writing it down, shifting words round and round until they've finally been assigned the right importance.
I honestly abuse vocabulary, grammar and syntax to pass my opinion onto others, trying to persuade those people of my vision. It's a great thing what slight abuse of language can do! I can definitely say my pen is my most dangerous weapon, skilfully wielded by my wits, guided smoothly over paper by my ink blotted hand, a slight cramp in the wrist.
That dangerous weapon is more than just that. It does not only attack and persuade, it loves, enjoys, consoles, entertains, distracts, ...
I use it to lovingly write letters to my dearest, expressing the load of feelings that comes along with having a boyfriend. To tell him how I excruciatingly miss him, that his not being here gnaws at my soul, and that I would very much prefer his sweet embrace over the feeble warmth the blanket wrapped round me while writing brings. To tell him how I dreamt about the two of us in our projected hide-away in the hills, how beautiful the surroundings were, what every square centimetre looked like and how intensely happy I was that dream. Plans for the future that arose while pondering on the dream after waking up, still half asleep.
I use it to consolingly write messages to friends, whose parents are getting a divorce, whose boyfriend broke up with them, whose uncle died, whose term at school ended badly, who accidentally lost their favourite jewellery they'd been given on a special occasion by their loved one. To tell them not to lose hope and sketch out future scenarios, in which they're happy again, in which their grief might still be present, but how it makes them a better person.
I use it to distract. To distract myself from boring classes and to stay awake. (Falling asleep in class is painful, writing in class gives the impression you're taking notes, consider this a tip. I consistently scored higher then my classmates in history, because I was such an industrious note-taker, but in fact, I was writing letters to a friend in Hungary!) To distract others, if they want to be distracted, I write stories for them to read when bored or curious. Or to distract them from facts I don't want them to notice, I write to pull their attention to different subjects, forgetting about that first, unwelcome fact.
I sparingly use it to write poems. From time to time, one creeps out, very shyly, often only partially and I have to wait months before the rest finally arrives to complete the first verses. I love poetry, but it has to come spontaneously. I will never, ever, just sit down with the intention "Come what may, I'm going to write a poem now.". That's gross, poetry comes and you let it in. You don't force it over, that's perverse. It takes a certain state of mind, that I have so far only experienced when madly in love, and still oblivious of the mutuality of the feeling, when undeniably sad or homesick.
I have always felt poetry takes a certain level of uncertainty, arranging thoughts in verses acts reassuringly. It forces you to properly think things through before writing them down, because poetry doesn't leave the room for the long and windy explanations prose does. There's to little room for excuses, you've got to be honest.
To me, both poetry and prose are therapy, poetry helps facing the truth and acting upon it, prose helps distracting my attention away from problems I can't solve anyway, and cheers me up by forgetting. I write more prose than I write poetry, so apparently I don't cause myself that much trouble...
Reviewing this chapter, I discovered I might seem a mental case – perhaps I am – but I'll console myself with the thought that many geniuses were crazy too. Maybe my craziness implies I am a genius? (Yeah, didn't think so either...)
Chapter six: knitting takes wool
This is the story of a girl that found a load of wool in the attic. Her name was Alessandra. (Well it was not, she's just a fictious character, but bear with me.) She was surprised to find wool there. Her mum couldn't knit, and she was sure her sister couldn't handle knitting pins either, except for checking if the cake was baked all the way through. A pity, Alessandra thought, she liked cake better when it was still moist in the middle, even though partially raw cake is terrible for your stomach and a salmonella risk because of the eggs... The gooey goodness was well worth the risk.
Why then, would there be wool up in the attic? No-one but her boyfriend knew she had taken on knitting classes, so it couldn't be an early birthday gift. She made sure it stayed a well-kept secret, knitting was a bit nerdy, she didn't want anybody to know she could knit 'till her knitting was perfect. The only reason her boyfriend knew was because she had to practice somewhere, once he found a partial scarf it was silly not to tell. Now she always knitted at his place, so baking-queen Alexis wouldn't find hidden proof of her handiwork.
She was looking at the wool and decided it was probably some left-over stock from her late grandmother. It was a lovely red, and felt very warm to her hands. There was a bunch there, plenty to knit a nice, thick jumper. She grabbed a ball, and rubbed it along her neck. It felt uncomfortably prickly...
It was a beautiful shade of red, and would make a very warm garment, but she'd probably never wear it, prickly clothes are hell if you've got sensitive skin. Besides, she wasn't sure if she was skilled enough to knit a jumper, the patterns she'd seen in the knitting magazine were quite complex.
I could try knitting it, and give it to someone else if I managed to knit a proper jumper. It's such a shame to let such a load of wool go to waste... She thought to herself. But then again, if I put in all the effort to knit it decently, and it turns out just fine, will I be able to hand it on? I'll probably feel so proud of my knitting abilities, I won't want to give it to someone else. Why suffer for someone else's nice clothing? Won't I always feel sad because of getting rid of my first decently knitted piece? But if I keep it, it'll probably just be in my way, lying at the bottom of my closet, giving me reproachful looks for not wearing it, and sometimes, I will get it out and put it on, because I is a beautifully knitted piece, but it will drive me crazy with itches.
Besides, isn't knitting a jumper still a bit of an unreal goal? I've pulled out that scarf five times now, and maybe that was just silly perfectionism, but my skills are probably not even near those required for knitting jumpers. I'd better get rid of the wool, bring it to one of those Salvation Army collectionnaires, some old lady will probably put it to good use.
And so she did, she gathered the wool and took it to the Salvation Army. Some time later, someone else bought the wool for a bargain, and knitted a beautiful scarlet cardigan, complete with a crochet application and shiny buttons.
Falling asleep in her boyfriends arms, Alessandra's final thought of the day was: "Knitting takes wool, but wool doesn't require knitting."