When it comes to crocheting, misguided confidence and the exaltant throes of friendship can take a small idea a long way. Just two weeks into my illustrious crocheting career, I began designing a custom pattern with my friend, pulling together inspiration from various pictures to create their dream leg warmers. Three inches of ribbing, a flare with scalloped trim, and pom-pom cherries for decoration—all designed for my friend’s aesthetic. They were enthused about receiving a free gift, but I was more excited about the days that would lead up to its completion. My hands, accustomed to crafting stories from pencil marks and music from a cello’s bow, were itching to rise to the challenge of a new kind of creating.
My friend is a naturally craftsy person. They can knit, sew, draw, animate—their hands are deft where mine are not. The fact that they hadn’t picked up crocheting yet was surprising, but it also presented an opportunity. For the first time, I got to be the one to offer a handmade gift. This wasn’t just a matter of friendship to me; this also meant something to me as a creative. I had always kept my writing to myself, only working up the courage to publish online for people I wouldn’t have to look in the face—people who couldn’t see me beyond the words I chose to share with them. Hand-making a gift is a labor of love, but it’s also an act of vulnerability. I was secretly apprehensive as I picked out my yarn and hook. I knew what it felt like to create, but not what it felt like to create solely for someone else. I worried that I’d mess it up—that, somehow, I’d put too much of myself into the stitches.
First, the planning. Sketches of the leg warmers, diagrams with measurements, stitch markers so I wouldn’t lose count, a tape measure to check and recheck proportions. I made test swatches, experimenting with the foundation chain and the yarn’s stretch, ensuring that the ribbing would fit snugly but not tightly, that the flare would be dramatic but not droopy. It didn’t have to be perfect, but it did have to make my friend happy—which, I suppose, is a form of perfection in and of itself.
Next, the creating. When starting a new row of stitches, a turning chain is used to set a precedent, a height that subsequent stitches can imitate. It looks like the two bar lines at the end of a musical score. Stitches build upon stitches, a da coda, a repetition of a theme, a reciprocation of sincerity. Writing, too, is borne from a foundation; it pays homage to its predecessors, made genuine by its own genesis. I used to think that writing and crocheting were two different facets of my creativity: one for myself, one for others. I now know that they aren’t dissimilar at all. Both tell stories, whether it’s about a character or the lovingly-worn Converse that fit under a pair of leg warmers. Both tell their recipient: here I am; here is my creation; here is my love. Both are a song that I ask you to listen to.
Finally, the giving. The end product matters, of course, but it serves little purpose beyond being proof. Proof of what? Proof of the planning, proof of the creative process, proof that I, the creator, exist—proof that I can leave something of myself in someone else’s heart, that I can weave happiness out of nothing more than yarn. This, I think, is what is most important to me as an artist.
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