I have this idea that books about knitting (at least fiction) follow a formula: Woman experiences some kind of tragedy. Woman is told she needs a hobby. Woman takes up knitting and knitting and the people she meets heals her pain and changes her life.
Now, don’t get me wrong: I’ve met some awesome people (and gotten to know awesome people better) because of knitting. And, I’ve made scarves, socks, sweaters, hats, gloves, penguins, and all matter of other things. Also, I really like knitting. I have some of my best ideas when I’m saying, “knit, knit, purl” or “k2tog, yo, knit” to myself. I love this hobby and I wouldn’t change it for anything. But, seriously. How soppy do you get? Tragedy made right by knitting.
I complained about this to my knitting friend, Melissa about this. And, magically I received a book in the mail.
I loved every word of this memoir. I laughed. I cried like a baby. I realized that I could be buying yarn as a souvenir when I go places. (Which led me to enjoyably tool around Amsterdam looking for a yarn shop that I never found.) This book made me realize the wisdom in a hot water bottle. This book was totally effing awesome.