It didn't look like writing
What I learned about my creative practice from months spent knitting
If we’re going by the idea that “writers” need to “write” every day to be writers, then I’ve been a bad writer. I also need to own up to the fact that I was the instructor who told eager writers that they have to “write” every day. This was bad advice. This is advice based on some very colonial, ableist, capitalist ideas of creativity, productivity, and just life in general.
The past few months have evaporated. I suffered a pretty significant creative set back several months ago when I received some feedback that had me thinking, maybe I should give up this writing thing and just knit full-time. And, in a sense, I did start knitting full-time. I wasn’t reading, I wasn’t writing. I just knit. I knit tuques, and tops, and sweaters. Then I started sewing, and sewed dresses and tops and skirts. I had flashes of guilt that I wasn’t writing, but stitching (with my knitting needles or sewing machine) had me making with my hands. For a while I thought, what if I never write again? But I knew this wouldn’t happen.
One of the greatest gifts that knitting offers me is a repetitive act of making, something creative and engaging, but also incredibly meditative. When I’m able to let go of the nagging thoughts of my day (what should we have for dinner, oh crap I forgot to buy bananas for breakfast) I am able to be very present in my body, and creative ideas start to percolate. I didn’t know it was happening at first. I’d start a sweater and finish it, start one and finish it. But suddenly I was having ideas, and then I was spending time in my day scribbling in my notebook. I never opened a word document and titled it, I just wrote based on the images that appeared in my mind, the ideas that took root and then I followed them in messy handwriting. I found other ways to feed these spurts of writing too, like watching live cams from Grasslands National Park, or watching documentaries on YouTube about the Grasslands. I kept telling myself I wasn’t writing. I was taking a break from all that because it had been hard, I’d been hard on myself, and my editor told me to take a break while I can. But I was writing, even if it didn’t look like it.
Last year a friend/tarot card reader did a reading for me. In the reading she talked about paying attention to and feeding the other creative pursuits and creative parts of myself. When I write with a focus on “productivity” or “output” I am unbalanced. Writers know this cockeyed way we too often exist in the world, and I would imagine it exists for all creative/artistic people. There’s a call from the world that we should always be making money and creating output so that we can then make money. When we write an essay it then needs to be submitted to a magazine for publication and a tiny reward of a payment. It needs to be published so that we can build a portfolio, that can be used to attract an agent or a publisher. I am creative in many parts of my life, but writing is the only thing I approach like a business.
People approach me to knit things for them. “I’ll pay you,” they say like that’s the carrot that needs to be dangled for me to say yes. “Sorry, I’m not interested,” I answer with a smile. And really, I’m not interested. I’m not interested in knitting for money for countless reasons but the number one is because I do it for myself. I have knit friends and family things as gifts and will always do this, but the minute it becomes a profit and output based activity, it stops being a creative and thoughtful thing that brings me joy and calm.
As I finished the final rows on a top I started knitting back in May I had a thought: what if I approached my writing the way I approach my knitting? I don’t think I really knew what this meant. I threw the piece of paper on my desk and there it lived for several days. How do I approach my knitting? I started knitting when I was 18. A friend from a political science class taught me to knit while sitting on a log at the beach. From then I knit many, many scarves, tuques and mitts always believing sweaters were too hard. I became know for knitting at the council meetings I was covering as a reporter, taking requests from the city councillors for tuques. I knit because I liked it. I like that stitch by stitch and row by row I was making something. My love of writing started a similar way, but somehow I lost the love of writing.
A couple years ago I started upping my knitting game trying lace knit shawls and eventually sweaters and tops (I recently started my first pair of socks). I pick new projects because often I want to learn something new, or I like the style of the garment. I knit because I want to get create something for myself. I knit because I want to challenge myself. It’s often a solitary act; I do most of my knitting alone on the couch, and because of that, it’s deeply personal. So what if I approach my writing like I approach my knitting? What if I reclaimed that personal, quiet joy that I loved as a young writer? What if I captured those moments that bring me back to myself instead of thinking outward to production and consumption? I want to recapture the love I had for writing, and maybe that means going word by word, sentence by sentence, the same way I go stitch by stich and row by row.
Exercise:
As I mentioned above, I’ve been spending a lot of time watching live cams for Grasslands National Park. Part of the reason I’m doing this is because the new book project I’m working on is focused on Saskatchewan and the Great Plains. It’s hard sometimes to stay connected to the landscape and place from my office and home on the coast of BC.
I’m inviting you to spend 10 minutes watching the live cam that I enjoy. After you’ve watched, spend 15 minutes writing. I often think about the colours and textures of the land. I think about the way the land is shaped. I spend time describing just those things and then see where that takes me.
Writing class opportunity:
To register email cole.megan1@gmail.com
What I’m knitting: I’ve started knitting my first pair of socks! Then it’s on to the Weekender sweater by Andrea Mowry. I’m going to use some yarn I dyed in the summer with madder.
What I'm reading: When I was in Halifax this summer, Cooper Lee Bombardier recommended the book Buffalo for the Broken Heart: Restoring Life to the Black Hills by Dan O’Brien. I just started reading that one. I’m also prepping for my class in January by revisiting Craft in the Real World by Matthew Salesses.
What’s next on the reading list: Next I’ll be reading Funny Weather: Art in an Emergency by Olivia Laing. And will be continuing to read River in a Dry Land by Trevor Herriot.
What I'm watching: Tonight is the season finale of Shetland! So I’ll be watching that. Then I’m going to watch Bodies another British Crime-Drama of sorts on Netflix.
Megan, this piece is lovely--a gift to anyone (all of us) who have felt burnt out, worn out and written out. Thank you for sharing it.
Loved this essay. I think writing like all forms of art, we measure our creativity by the tangible end product we produce. But, what if when we’re done there is nothing tangible to sell. But in the process, there were discoveries. Like you said kind of the thoughts that you knit together in your mind. You have inspired me to get back to a piece of art that I’m struggling with. 🙏🏻