Well, it's finally here.

After at least two years and - oh who am I kidding - a lifetime of dreams, my book is on the shelves. I feel as if I've grown and learned and aged significantly as I've walked through this whole experience. I made light of it in KR, but really, it's been astoundingly profound. Probably as close as I'll ever get to the experience of childbirth and parenthood combined. Intensely personal stuff that just doesn't belong in a blog. A blend of excitement, clarity, strength, joy, passion, anticipation, doubt, grief, exhaustion, and a nearly perpetual terror that I somehow wouldn't see this day, all those feelings kept me almost constant company.

And yet here we are. I just wonder when it'll actually feel real.

But where does Bob's Big Boy come into all of this? Well, for the first year I called this my big boy, because it was initially supposed to be called the Big Book of Yarn. About nine months after I submitted the manuscript, the greatest minds in publishing got together and decreed that the book wasn't physically big enough to be called "big." Suddenly my big boy was just...boy. After a brief period of actually thinking I'd let them change the name to the Knitter's Little Big Book of Yarn, we settled on the final title, my dearly beloved Knitter's Book of Yarn. Big boy became kboy.

But I have not forgotten.

Last week, when I was driving back down the Michigan peninsula from SOAR I spotted a real in-the-flesh Bob's Big Boy. I felt I had somehow come full circle, so I stopped to honor this unwitting landmark of my literary career.

But here's what the book really looks like now, in its ideal native habitat, courtesy of the lovely and thoughtful Jane.



What Jane didn't know was that, at the precise moment she was taking this picture in her own bookstore, I was furtively pulling out my cellphone to snap a picture of the book in my favorite bookstore, where I'd just spotted one precious copy on the shelf. (I plan on visiting that copy every day until it finds a home.)

I guess I need to explain that the bookstore, as an institution, has always been my most sacred place. When I was little, my father would take me there and we'd walk the aisles, him pulling out a book here, another book there, telling me all about it as we started a pile that I'd take home and devour. After my parents divorced, those bookstore visits grew less frequent, but I cherished each visit even more. To this day, no holiday or birthday is complete in my family without the gift of a book.

So, with this background, perhaps you'll understand how profoundly moving it was to enter a bookstore -- actually the same bookstore where I took my father when he last visited -- and find my own work on the shelf. The Pulitzer Prize committee may not have a category for knitting books, and the wider literary audience may snort at the subject, but for me it's very real, and very special.

Thank you for sharing this moment with me.

Forgive me bloggers, for I continue to sin.

You see, I just got this email from Jessie announcing that her infamously impossible-to-obtain Yarntini yarns were now going to be available on her own online store.

I sat and waited and refreshed and took notes of my prey and waited, waited, waited until the second it was marked as available and then SNATCHED IT. Three skeins each of two fantastic semi-solid colorways.

I couldn't help myself. This yarn needed to be mine. I have enough Yarntini to put socks on all the school children in my town, but this is different. This will be shawl yarn. Very different.



Meanwhile I've also been doing some therapeutic spinning. The fibers are blue-faced leicester and alpaca, which I got at the New Hampshire Sheep and Wool Festival. I've been working so crazily that I haven't had much time for fiber pleasure, so when I finally did come back to this, it was absolute bliss. There's something about giving yourself a break that helps you see what you love about things even more clearly. Just touching it, smelling it, rubbing it against my face, and dreaming endlessly of what it could become makes me very happy. The spinning is hardly perfect, but to me, it's wonderful.

I love these moments.


Mary had asked about the delphiniums, which you may have noticed were absent from the last picture. That's because this year's delphiniums and hollyhocks have a serious case of short-flower syndrome. Anyone know what causes this? The delphiniums were only about three feet tall this year. The hollyholcks, three feet or shorter (although there's still time for them to magically grow more before they really bloom). I can't figure it out.


So this year, the front flower garden looks like this.

I miss that enclosed, protected sense you get from having a background of tall delphiniums and hollyhocks, but...whatever. I still love these flowers and marvel at how all this grows up from NOTHING every spring.

Nature is amazing.

I've also been expanding my book horizon beyond knitting. (NO, not Harry Potter - still crafty things but ones that don't necessarily entail yarn and needles.) And in those pursuits I came across this incredible little book.


You just wouldn't believe what you can do with a simple pair of socks or gloves from Target. It's called Sock and Glove, and the author, Miyako Kanamori, is a genius. At first I tried to figure out how you could use knitted leftovers for these projects, but I realized that no self-respecting knitter would cut apart her old handknit socks. I know I wouldn't. Just go to Target and get a bag of white cotton gym socks and have at it.

Nothing is lost in translation in this book because it is based on incredibly, insanely, unbelievably clear illustrations. Tiny snippets are transformed into soft ears, funny noses, even ruffly hair. I could get in serious trouble with this book.



The other book I'm loving is called the Crafter's Companion. There isn't an ounce of knitting in here, it's about those "other" folks who call themselves crafters. Creative, curious, inspired folks who work miracles with fabric, felt, colors, and textures.

What I love is that the book isn't just a collection of ideas, it's a collection of people. Each featured "crafter" talks about her background, what inspires her, and—this one I really love—her workspace. With pictures, and then each person also contributes a project. It's well done and doesn't delve into that "look at us, we're super hip 'n' crafty!" thing, which I personally find a bit tiresome. This is another book that may cause me serious trouble, especially considering that rapidly growing fabric stash I mentioned earlier. (And thanks for letting me know I'm not alone with that one!)

(Any idea why Blogger puts this vast, vast space between this and the beginning of my post, which I've put in a table so that the image layout doesn't drive me completely nutso? I don't know. Let's pretend it's intentional. Please use the following white space to meditate on world peace.)

	Allow me to explain this one. My brother and I began a bit of an odd tradition a few years ago when we happened to both purchase the same model digital camera. He came for the weekend, and after he left I scrolled through my pictures and discovered several, um, "surprises." Pictures of my kitchen garbage, to be precise. Of course this meant war. With each visit, each of us has tried to up the ante. We've had some failures -- for example, I discovered that when you write someone's name in your cat's litter pan, it doesn't photograph well. And we've had some successes -- like the art shot he took of a beautiful skein of my yarn with a dirty diaper sitting next to it. But this most recent photo has topped the charts. I'd like to think that even Julia (that's Saint Julia to you) would have enjoyed seeing herself with a pasta moustache.
	Summer is progressing along nicely here in Maine. I've had the nearly undescribable delight of eating like a queen straight from the garden for many weeks now. Asparagus galore, salads upon salads, sorrel soup, fresh pesto, delicate turnips, crisp radishes, but of course the piece de resistance remains, so far, the strawberries. For two weeks solid, I had some version of this every morning for breakfast. (And in case you were curious, yes, it is possible to get tired of strawberries. But it's a wonderful "tired.")
	The onions continue their steady march toward full, sweet ripeness. This year's onion harvest will be a bit of a challenge because it turns out I won't be home much in October, which is when you usually pull them out, let them cure outside for several days, and then carefully braid the long backs and put them in the cellar for storage. The reason I won't be home much is a good one. First, I'm treating myself to SOAR in Michigan—rather like taking summer school at MIT, only it's in the fall. And the following weekend I'll be launching my book at Rhinebeck. What's that you say? Yes, you heard me right. Apparently the kind and generous knitting souls out in the universe were so receptive to the book that the Pottorians decided to push up its launch from December 4th to October 16th. It's a miracle that's also a smart and logical move, and I am absolutely thrilled. Not to mention terribly anxious and nervous, but that goes with the territory.
	Last weekend I cut my first vase of sweet peas for the season. Their fragrance is intoxicating. I bring the vase with me throughout the house so I can maximize on their incredibly brief state of perfection.
	This year in addition to the regular bed of tall sweet peas, I also planted some shorter, more ornamental sweet peas to climb up bamboo frames in the front garden. I had no faith that the seeds would even germinate, since I've been on the road so much. But they did. The flowers are too short and little for cutting, but they sure are beautiful.
	Speaking of peas, I've been eating them too. Not the sweet peas, of course, but some delicious snap peas. My favorite meal so far had to be the salad with blanched peas, fresh thin radish slices, crumbled feta cheese, and a lemon vinaigrette. YUM.
	Lest we forget, my darling peonies did return for another season. I almost missed them because I foolishly planned a trip to San Francisco during their bloom time. That's the problem with living and gardening in Maine -- you can't go anywhere in the summer without missing something that you've waited 51 weeks to see again. Oh, how we suffer.
	Casey has resumed his residence on the porch, right next to the table where I've been writing for weeks on end. It's funny how he's "just a cat" but he has such a distinct personality and such fierce behavioral habits. In the winter, he insists on curling up under a thick fleece blanket on the couch. In the summer, he won't have anything to do with that blanket (for obvious heat-related reasons) and prefers the thin flannel sheet that covers the daybed on the porch. His needs are simple: If that sheet is there, and if I lift it up so he can go underneath, he is happy. Period. Wouldn't it be great if our own lives were like that?
	And finally, I've decided that the fabric bug is catching. I wasn't going to say anything about my latest PurlSoho.com fabric purchase and then I noticed that Kay Gardiner did the same thing last week after she and Mason-Dixon cohort Ann Shayne sent their second book to their publisher (bravo!!). It's nice to know I'm not alone. Any other fabric hoarders out there?

I'm home from yet another TNNA and thought I'd check in with my four loyal blog readers. It's funny, I post with abysmal infrequency and yet I'm constantly spotting things, taking pictures of things, and composing blog entries about them in my mind. It's just that final, oh how do you say, "doing it" thing that doesn't happen. I feel the need to talk about Columbus in a way that does not belong in KR. I'll be talking about the products and people and my class with the marvelous Lucy Neatby in KR, but I hope you don't mind if I bend your ear a little right now.


Now that I'm safely home and my luggage arrived intact, I can say that the skies were tremendously friendly this time.

My flights were the most miraculously smooth, pleasant, comfortable, and timely that I've experienced in the last... what... decade? It was incredible.

At one point I looked out the window and saw this incredible cloud formation. Like a Monument Valley within the clouds.

My rule when traveling to TNNA is that I try to stay somewhat separate from the event. It's such an intense experience, a place where you know almost everybody and almost everybody knows you, I need to have real separation at the end of the day.

I like to leave the convention center, go to my hotel, and absorb what I've seen, heard, and touched. I don't like to be in the elevator with the same shiny-suit salesguy I just spent 20 minutes trying to avoid on the show floor. Or being seated at breakfast next to a yarn manufacturer that has hated me ever since I told the truth about its product. It's just...profoundly awkward.







So, while everybody else was staying in mega-hotels such as this one...





















I had a room in this little place called The Lofts. I thought hey, cute brick building, interesting architectural history, not just another 1,000-room megaplex, it'll be fun, right?














Well sorta. Here's my dude lair.

I had a faux leather armchair that was cold and made fart noises every time I tried to sit in it. The huge gorgeous windows were concealed behind silver metalic blinds. No sheers, no curtains.

And it was directly across from the convention center. To maintain any degree of privacy I had to close the blinds and sit in a grey, cold, echo-ridden dude lair.

The walls were paper thin, allowing me to hear every word of my neighbor's conversations. (One word: earplugs.) On the other side I had a neighbor who seemed constitutionally incapable of existing in an awakened state without the television. (We are such a weird species, I tell you.)

But I didn't go to Columbus just to sit in a stark hotel room, now did I?

No, I went to Columbus...





To go to the North Market!

Oh my. Only one block from the convention center, this place was truly a gift from the gods. Go inside and you'll discover dozens of stalls where people sell everything from soy candles and cookware to wine, cheese, baked goods, coffees, smoothees, sushi, Vietnamese pho soup, you name it.








Including Jeni's Ice Creams.

This is not just any ordinary ice cream. This is ice cream that makes you gaze into the distance and remember things from your past. Mango. Passion fruit. Cassis. Violet cream. Chocolate infused with cayenne and cinnamon. Lime and cardamom. Bartlett pear and riesling.

Culinary artistry.

Flavors that slip in, expand, and wander around in your mouth before finally reluctantly letting go. It is incredible ice cream. Cat Bordhi and I made it our personal mission to convert as many TNNA-goers as possible. And here's the best part: They ship.

So did I go to Columbus to stay in a weird hotel and eat food all day long? No, I went for TNNA. And that's where I need to get something off my chest. It's bothering me and I need to tell the truth but I know I can't say it in KR.

When I went into this business I made an intentional choice to lift up the magic curtain and to walk behind it and see what's really there. I knew this was risky. I knew that in any industry, the closer you get to the real heart of it, the more gruesome the sights can be. Even in knitting.

First, I need to stress very strongly that fundamentally, 99.99999% of the TNNA experience is fantastic. It's one weekend-long "pinch me, can I really have made a career out of this?" moment. I see genuine people putting heart and soul and integrity into things of beauty -- yarns, tools, books, DVDs, accessories, you name it. I see generous, hard-working store owners coming to learn and to scout out the perfect blend of offerings for their dear customers back home. I see gifted teachers sharing their knowledge with the goal of enriching our knitting experience. I see friends, people who are in this boat with me, who inspire me and whom I trust. It's incredible. Absolutely incredible.

AND...

I also see the dark side. Just .00001%, but it's there. And for some reason I really felt it this time. I saw people taking pictures of the new products with their cell phones and emailing them back to their mills in China. (I don't make this claim lightly -- it's an ongoing concern and many people are aware of it.) I saw posturing, I saw intentional deception, I saw misaligned integrity, I saw anti-online-vendorism and I saw anti-brick-and-mortarism, I saw people feigning compatriotism while simultaneously conspiring to destruct one another. (Note: If you're reading this and thinking, "Oh dear, I hope I wasn't one of those people," you weren't. Those people usually lack enough self-awareness to even think, for a moment, that they're doing anything wrong.)

And this is why I believe that many knitters are best served by staying on the sunny side of the curtain. When I say "don't quit your day job," it's not out of disrespect or a lack of belief in you or some sort of smug "newcomers not welcome" attitude. It's because I want you to stay inspired and in love with the creative process. And big business is the #1 creativity killer.

There were some high points, though.

Besides consuming vast quantities of ice cream with Cat, on Saturday night she and I crashed the Vogue Knitting party celebrating the magazine's 25th anniversary. (I'd just taken part in a conference call interview with them about the state of the knitting industry, so I chose to believe my invitation simply got lost in the mail. And that everybody on staff avoided my glance because they were too busy being overjoyed by the success of the party.)






There I ran into Laurie Thomas, owner of Sticks and Strings in Scarsdale, New York. She had been at the fall 06 Knitter's Review Retreat, and my eyes immediately stopped at her shawl.

I knew those colors. I have those colors. They're Jen's colors. By golly it's Jen's yarn! Yarn she purchased at the retreat, and a shawl she began on Sunday morning during the New Beginnings session.

Not only had she finished it, but she was wearing it to TNNA. I couldn't have been more proud and thrilled to have played any part in the facilitation of that gorgeous shawl.







Here's the other thing that made me profoundly proud and excited. Although general photography on the show floor is (at least among honest folk) strictly forbidden, vendors can take photographs of their own booths and their own products. With the express permission of a certain vendor with whom I now have a professional affiliation, I did take this picture of my product.

I'll confess I walked by the booth several times during the show just to prove it was all real, not just some cruel hoax.

My baby, The Knitter's Book of Yarn, took her first steps at this show. (Despite the fact that they only had black and white uncorrected galleys for people to see. Which we won't talk about.) The enthusiasm with which it was received, the trust that store owners are putting in my work, left me humbled to the point where I almost didn't know what to do with myself. And to be displayed right there along my color hero Mr. Kaffe himself, well, my heart did skip a beat. And it definitely helped up for that .00001% darkness ever lurking in the background.











And here's the other thing that no amount of lurking darkness could possibly penetrate.










As I said, there are good people and not so good people in any industry. If you think that knitting is any different, well, it isn't. We don't live in Hello Kitty land, no matter how much I wish we did. But we still have people who approach their work with integrity, honesty, inspiration, and pride -- and that's where I choose to focus my editorial attention. We have our dark corners, but I sort of figure (or hope) that they'll grow moldy and shrivel up after a while.

And if they don't? Well... too bad. I've got the qiviut.