All sorts of beginnings, and thus endings.  Samhain marks the new year in the Celtic calendar.  And the Day of the Dead is coming.   I’ve been consciously trying to slow down lately, and it’s hard for me.  So I started all sorts of new projects, but I rationalized such behavior as rational and good, since new beginnings are appropriate at this time of year.  Right?  Right.

I’ve worn the Irish Twist cardigan in public, which is quite a first.  Never worn a sweater I’ve made before, me.  It is firmly ensconced in my wardrobe now.  Safe from the flames.  Sorry, dear friends who were banking on me doing my usual thing and giving it away.  This girl’s a keeper, at least for a few years.  Woot.

A new sweater for my husband is in the works.  He’s settled on Beau from Rowan, which will be perfect for him.  (Ignore the idiotic pose there–Scott will never, ever pose like that, or wear a hat like that, or, well, be the sort of goofball Rowan seems to find perfect in male models.)  The suggested yarn isn’t going to work though, because it’s too scratchy.  So I’ve been polling the knitters and searching for alternatives, and now we just need to find the correct combination of weight, color, and texture.  Ooh, and buttons.  Buttons will be fun.

I’ve also frogged the ground-up-clown socks, rescued the needles, and started a new pair of knee socks out of a much prettier trekking colorway.  It’s the marled blues, and I heart it.  I will be knitting these particular socks for the rest of my life, of course, but I will be knitting them happily.   Not true for the previous denizens of said sock needles.

And, I’ve jumped on the bandwagon and started a mitred-square afghan using leftover sock yarns.  I will remain firm, and will not buy yarn to add to this project.  I will only use scraps and cast-offs.  I will, of course, use the ground-up-clown, because it won’t be much fun to use for socks once I’ve cut out the offending sections.

Finally, in the spirit of new years and beginnings and birthday wishes and all of that pap, I’ve made a bit of a deal with some friends, and I’m going to throw it out to you all too.  I’m a writer, but I don’t write enough and I certainly don’t pursue publication as I should.  It’s embarrassing to finish a story-telling or bardic performance and have to say no to people who ask for books or CDs because I just haven’t honestly tried to make a CD or get a book published.  I’ve had to turn would-be patrons away a few times now, and it’s downright ridiculous.  I’ve only submitted one piece for publication in the last year and a half or so, and while I certainly was pleased when it was published, well, that’s a crappy rate of submission.  I let everything else come before my writing, and I have for ages.  No more.

Right, so, I told a funny story, a story of a first of sorts, to some lovely people late Saturday night at Rhinebeck, and I think and they thought it was pretty funny.  They could have just liked the cake and the wine . . . . Jayme, Janet, and I got to talking about writing the next day, and I made all sorts of ridiculous excuses, caught myself, and asked them to give me crap if I don’t write something down.  And then I asked Rachel to give me crap if I don’t write.  So I’m going to write down that little story and try to get it published.  If I don’t, please call me on it.  Shame is a powerful and effective tool against me.  It really is.  And I’m inviting you to use it.   Just this once.

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