Yarn

I couldn't bring myself to use 'Hooked' as the title of a post about crocheting. Too corny. Even for me.

The last time I'd crocheted was at a Girl Scout weekend campout in 5th grade.

This time around I started off practicing slip knots and chain stiches. Then I found the repetitive motion of the basic chain stitch to be very relaxing. So now there's this demented picture of me in the Guiness Book of World Records, next to the crochet chain I made that stretches from Seattle to Redding, California.



No, not really.

In other hobby news, I joined a writers group a few weeks ago. The meeting started with prompts: Pieces of paper with random words. Popsicle-stick thingies with faded lime green lettering I couldn't read. Color sheets, such as one would find in a Benjamin Moore paint store. We were given half an hour, 45 minutes, something like that to write. I wrote. I knew I wouldn't share anything the first meeting, and who am I to let myself down? I also knew I wouldn't write anything good. Again, I did not disappoint.

Here are some things I found interesting: The deep, tortured, arty stuff people shared was responded to with murmurs of "Mmm, nice..." It was like the writer had served each person a whole trout. Good quality fish in some cases, but too much work to pick through all the bones.

You know what type of writing is always appreciated? The literary equivalent of potato chips. One woman shared a poem about the things she did in college to avoid studying for her statistics exam. She referenced specific dialogue from the Cosby Show episode she watched when she should have been studying. It was light and cute, and most of the people in the room could relate to it. Everyone crunched along happily and rewarded her with sincere burps of laughter.

In all fairness, not all the 'heavy' writing was trout-like. The organizer of the group shared a poem about divorce that had that "Damn!..." final line slam dunk that only the most talented writers can produce.

A lanky, laid-back looking guy in his 20s introduced himself to the group and said he was willing to share what he'd written. He came in late so he’d only written one word:

"Simone"

Well, wasn’t that minimalist but mighty? Seriously.

The group meets again tomorrow night. This time we are to show up with a finished piece. I think mine is good, and I plan to share it. I don't care if I'm told it's terrible. I don't care if people slump over in their seats, loudly snoring midway through my reading. If someone wants to extract a small, pearl-handled pistol from their purse and shoot me in the head, that's fine. I just want to start putting my writing out there.

I'm pretty sure I won't get shot. I probably won't even be harshly criticized. There may not even be time for me to read my damn story. But I finished it, and I'm willing to share it (Not with you. Let's not get carried away) and I feel good about that.