I just tore out half of a sweater. The temptation to just keep going was strong. The sweater was half-done. One big push (like a Grey's marathon) would have gotten me through it. When I stopped to look at it, and really thought, I realized that I would never be happy with it. I could finish it, but probably wouldn't wear it. So much work to be wasted, but I am confident that I made the right decision. I should have pulled it out sooner, instead of steadily knitting on with a nagging doubt about the design. All that remains is the collar, and that may marinate for a while until I figure out how I want to proceed. What about the design made me rip out so many hours of work? Details. Proportion. Art school adjectives. Without ever trying it on, I knew that it wouldn't be flattering.
Fortunately, I have a few other projects to occupy my time. A cotton sweater, for example. I keep forgetting that I hate cotton. It has no memory. The fabric gets heavy, dragging the garment out of shape. It's pretty punishing on the environment, and my hands as I knit it. But somehow, I keep knitting with cotton. This is even the second time that I've knit this pattern, even though the first one got stretched out and pilly. Hope springs eternal. This time, I mean business. Cotton on bamboo needles? No. I went down a size and switched to Addis instead. Firm gauge, solid but not stiff fabric, and cotton ball soft hand. It might need a couple of visits from the pill shaver after I've worn it a few times, but I'm okay with that. That said, I doubt I'll buy a worsted-weight cotton yarn again.

I'm reading a lot of non-fiction these days. Not a conscious choice, but what followed me home from the library. Last week, I read a book about Roald Dahl's intelligence work during World War II. While I learned more about British Intelligence, it wasn't as dashing as I thought it would be. Dahl seems to have cut quite a swath through Washington society, but he was hardly James Bond.
Currently, I am reading a biography of Edward VII of England. It's disappointingly discreet. Was I looking for something salacious, like a historic tabloid? No, but a little more bon vivant, some of that famed Edwardian naughtiness. I am determined to read the entire book, even though I am quite tempted to start Antonia Fraser's The Wives of Henry VIII. Her biography of Marie Antoinette was excellent, and I doubt it will be a dull read. I need something engaging to read as I lie in bed, ride the train, or just want to give my hands a rest.


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