Hey. I could do that.

I, Libby Mallory Fenn, have a superpower.

I can look at any article of clothing, be it made of cloth or yarn, and within 10.87 seconds I will know how to make it. (I realize this is a somewhat unusual superpower.) My brain, sadly average every other day of the week, will snap into this crazy sort of overdrive and there will be a shining moment of telepathy as the designer's intentions, beliefs and world view will drop into my head with exactly the ease of ... well. I don't have any clever similes because it is just that easy. It is not something I study, ponder or meditate upon. This has resulted in a profound inability to teach anyone how to sew, knit or crochet. "You just ... do it," I say, stunning my pupil into speechless awe at the sheer brilliance of my prose.

Actually, if I had done it on purpose, this would be a very Zen, very hip method of instruction. "Do or do not. Look within yourself, find the ability to knit/sew/crochet that you have always possessed and ... create." (I realize that in the last sentence I am probably ripping off a dozen positive-psychology books and a few organized religions, but please believe me when I say that I have never bought a self help book, and I certainly never learned anything about Kitchener stitch or French seams at Faith Presbyterian Church, Smalltown, USA.)

The problem with this "innate ability" theory is that it is definitely not the way I learned myself. My grandmother taught me how to crochet, my mother taught me how to sew, and my mother's best friend taught me how to knit. I remember a fairly brutal learning curve on all three. My first crochet project, an end-to-end acrylic scarf for my father was literally a ruffle, my tension was so wildly off. To his credit, my father nobly wore it (in public, no less) and swore that it was just what he wanted for Christmas. Of course, this Christmas he's getting a pair of handknit socks, from a ridiculously expensive 100% wool, custom-made to his specifications. So one might say that his initial long-suffering paid off.

Anyway, my point is that at some point I seem to have lost the knowledge of how to do something, without having lost the ability, interest or desire. It's like the secretary in my brain was busy one day and accidentally filed sewing/crochet/knitting under I for Instinct instead of S for Skills Learned. This error has led to some unfortunate holes in my mental encyclopedia. This error is why I knit my first pair of socks at the age of 11 or 12, and the second pair at the age of 21 or 22. (Discounting about 400 pairs of baby booties in the interval. They were fast, cheap and they would fit eventually. What's not to love?) The first pair I made by looking at a pair of six-for-a-dollar socks. Ribbing at the top. Back and forth on smaller and smaller rows for a while then bigger and bigger rows until you're back where you started. Decrease for the toe. Check. At this point, the only yarn I'd ever bought was the Walmart SuperSaver Skein of Garish Acrylic Goodness. The only DPNs were sized for same. The result was predictably enormous, if technically spot-on for my first attempt at designing a sock in my head. They were basically unwearable, even for someone with as high an uncool tolerance as I possessed, and I put aside "this sock thing" aside with disgust.

It wasn't until a decade later when my mother was rediscovering knitting for herself, that she pointed out "Look, they have sock yarn" and I pretty much swooned on the spot. Yarn, designed specifically for socks? Thin and soft and wool? And in all these colors? The store owner (the wonderful Pat of Taming of the Ewe)gave me a quick tutorial on the figure-8 cast-on and a formula for getting the right size and off I went. I couldn't believe how awesome it was. I had missed out on ten years of knitting socks just because I didn't know better than to buy cheap, scratchy yarn! Having polka dots of genius is not, it turns out, preferable to having general, all-round intelligence that lets you learn the same way as everyone else on the planet.

Not that it doesn't have its moments of supreme satisfaction or just plain convenience. This summer I took the pieces of a sundress to the beach. No pattern? No problem! I'd seen the picture on the cover at least once, right? Wasn't it obvious to everyone how the 16 pieces all fit together? No? Not everyone? Oh... Despite being occasionally awesome, my superpower seems to come with a catch. I have never managed to make it do anything remotely marketable or cash-producing (with the exception of a very odd run of hobbit cloaks during high school). Hint: if you're looking at a pattern book and realize that you could produce the sweater on the front? Any other knitter worth her yarn can do it too. They just have to buy the book first. Is it my destiny to solely use my powers for the good of others? Am I allowed no fiscal benefit other than that of spending $15 on materials and then spend 15 hours making it into a gift, as opposed to forking over $25 on a present I could immediately wrap? Maybe someday I'll figure out how to translate my instincts for clothes-making into some amazing new type of sewing pattern based on philosophies rather than sizes. For now, though, the main perk of my very strange superpower is the little ego boost I get as I page through a book of sweaters and realize:

"Hey. I could do that."

The Seven Habits of Highly Successful Knitting Teachers

Today I am very proud to present you with the following photo:



Ta-da! My husband Matthew's very first piece of knitting. Well ... his first successful piece of knitting; there were a few previous attempts to teach and be taught that were ... less successful. These were dark times which we shall not discuss. This time, I did a few things differently and (le gasp! le shock!) successful, angst-free knitting was achieved.

Tips for teaching knitting:

(Note: as a happily addicted knitter, I realize that the urge to force - er, encourage - your friends and family to learn how to knit will be strong. Resist this urge. This method of instruction will do bad things for your relationships. Ask me how I know.)

1. Find a project that your student really likes that they can aspire to. It's a lot easier for the uninitiated to see the wonders of a gorgeous sweater, the prospect of cheap Christmas presents, or (in my husband's case) the siren call of really amazing socks than it is to grasp how much they might enjoy the process of knitting which (newsflash!) they've never experienced. I know it seems obvious but it took me a long time to figure out that I was trying to sell him on the wrong angle. Think tangible.

2. Use a light color of yarn. It's a lot easier to see what you're doing with a light color than it is with dark. Dark yarn turns into an amorphous mass on your needles; light yarn lets you see each individual loop so you can see if (when) you've made a mistake before you're seven rows down the line. It doesn't have to be baby-colored. Something like bright orange or fire engine red would work just as well.

3. Use plain yarn. Something worsted (this is the same weight yarn you usually use for afghans) that requires needles between 7 and 10 (US). The world is filled with the most wonderful novelty yarns, more varied and more beautiful than the stars in the heavens ... (Whoa there, Libby. Reign it in a little.) Anyway, my point is - there will be a time and place for introducing your student to the beauty that is abundance of choice. This could even be a good way to get your student interested in the first place. But for the first couple of lessons, stick with worsted. Once your student has internalized the motions of knitting, then you can graduate him or her to yarns that are harder to handle.

4. Use short needles. In our case it mean using a pair of my double pointed needles. When you're just learning, managing foot-long needles seems far more daunting and just makes the whole experience more awkward and less enjoyable. I expected that we would have an incident or two that involved sliding half of the stitches off the wrong end by accident, but this never happened. (And if it does? Just pick them back up and go on. No worries.) I hold the size of the project partly responsible. Even with the stitches spread out, there should still be an inch or more of needle on either end of the knitting, making it much less likely that the stitches will decide to jump ship. And speaking of which ...

5. Start with a small project. Scarves (that is, scarves for adult humans) are the traditional first project but they are also notoriously difficult to finish. Think about it. Despite the very attractive simplicity of knitting a rectangle, you and your student will be embarking on a five foot long relationship with this thing. This is a really long time to go without the satisfaction of completing your first project. Pick something equally simple but smaller, such as a simple hat (knit a rectangle, sew the ends and gather the top), a washcloth, or a baby scarf.

6. Establish the knit stitch before you try to move on to anything else. To you, 2x2 rib, seed stitch or stockinette may be easy and attractive and fun, but try to think about from their perspective. Learning how to do two things at the same time (two opposite yet similar things, and thus very easy to mix up) is just not a good idea. Likewise, anything that involves counting (even if it's just 1-2, 1-2) is going to complicate the process unnecessarily and will lead to having to rip out stitches at some point. Garter stitch is your friend. Stay there for the duration of your first project.

7. Give your student the most helpful advice I have ever heard. In the immortal words of the knitting wonder, Stephanie Pearl-McPhee: "You're not defusing a bomb." In other words, loosen up. Relax your shoulders and release that death grip on your needles. At this point, tight knitting is the enemy. It will give you cricks in your neck, shoulders and hands, and it will make the next row of knitting progressively harder. Start out loosey-goosey and worry about tightening things up later.

Have fun!

Trapped! ... Sort of

I solemnly pledge that the following things are true, to the best of my knowledge and beliefs.

1. I am glad that my husband is involved in a LotR club, particularly as it absolves me of any burden to develop an affinity this game so that he has someone to play it with.
2. I do not mind hosting it at our house, particularly as my much-to-be-praised husband did most of the pre-company cleaning.
3. I have other things to do, principally several squares' worth of quilting on my current project, a doll quilt in the "Spools" pattern.
4. During the evenings I rarely spend time in our living room, as I do most of my work sitting cross-legged on our bed. (Note: this posture has caused much pain and many aches and is not a habit I recommend getting into.)

Now, contrast these earnestly believed truths with this equally true truth:

5. I am and have been for the past hour miserably stir-crazy.

It is time for my house to be my own and for people to leave. I have no idea why I feel like this. It would be completely fine if I walked through the living room while they are playing or even - perish the thought! - if I took my quilting into the living room and set up shop on the couch. And yet. And yet.

At least I'm making good progress on my little Spools quilt. I love this pattern - it's old-fashioned in the best kind of way. It particularly lends itself to scrap quilts, but I "needed" to use up some blue, and happened to have a lot of the tan on hand at the time. I used a fantastic technique I learned at my favorite quilt store, Lavender Lime. When making your Flying Geese block (or in my case, a reverse Flying Goose with a 2" space in between angles) you follow these instructions but before flipping and pressing, you sew "behind" your first seam (think of it as an extra-big seam allowance) in a parallel line. Instead of big seam allowances that you have to trim and throw away, now all you have to do is cut between the seam lines and - voila! A small mountain of little squares that appeared out of virtually nowhere.
(As apposed to appearing out of the actual nowhere, which, regrettably, I have never had the good fortune to witness.) And, now that they've shown up on my doorstep, so to speak, I'll have to come up with with a new project to use them in. Minus their seam allowances, they're only 1" square. Perhaps a second doll quilt is in order.

A Lesson Semi-Learned

There are, regretfully, lessons one must learn dozens of times rather than just the usual six or seven. For some this might bring to mind forgotten car keys, lawnmowers left out in the rain, or emergency trips to purchase diapers, chocolate ice cream or Pepto-Bismol in the cold dark hours of the night. For me, fronting the list is a simple rule: Never, ever stop quilting.

This is not to say that if you should cease to quilt your world as you know it might come to an end - which it might. Or that your soul, previously soothed into happiness by the gentle repetitive motion of needle through cloth, might fall into despair and start drinking alone in dark corners - although it might. Or that if you stop quilting your inner creative genius might become mortally offended and take off on a one-way jaunt to the Distant Himalayas with your now alcoholic soul for company. Though of course it's always possible.

The reason you never ever stop quilting is this: You lose your calluses.

On a good day, I might have four or five projects well started and two or three on the cusp of being done. (Astonishing just how long something can linger on the cusp of being done, isn't it?) On a bad day, there might be eight or nine projects mid-stride and two or three on the cusp. I say this to say: it's not that I stop being creative. It's just that I'm playing with a different toy or a different part of the brain for a few days. This, however, is a Mistake. Spend days designing beautiful things that might never get done, cutting out 2 1/2 inch squares for future projects, or organizing your hopelessly unorganized stash. But don't stop quilting. Half an hour here or there could save you DAYS of agony. There will be those who read these words and dismiss them as hyperbolic. But think, how often do you use your thumb, forefinger and middle finger? Can you really afford to have over half of your hand out of commission? Is that wise? Is it responsible? As someone who is currently nursing three hot, swollen, needle-mangled fingers, let me assure you: you'd rather just put in the half hour once a day.