This is where I sit when I'm writing my new book.
People who've been rafting, do you know that feeling, when you hit the rapids? For me it's a serene expectancy right before, a bit of strangely quiet water, and then I hit the whiteness and my stomach hits my feet and every other thought is blissfully obliterated. Sudden and dangerous, but deliciously good. A focus. (Mental note: I should raft more.)
So, I've suddenly hit the water with this new book. For more than a year I've known I would write this book, but in the past couple of weeks I've suddenly and dramatically started writing it.
Like Knitalong, it's more about people foremost, rather than a straight pattern book. Once again, it's going to involve stories and pictures from every kind of knitter I can get a hold of, all over the place.
I've alluded to the palette for the book. I'm a visual person, and I need to see the book as it develops, as I interview designers and broker patterns and collect stories and a hundred photos. The palette is softer and cooler than Knitalong's, for which my metaphor and mood were a busy farmer's market. This one is a 1960s swimming pool behind a summer house, a porch swing with roses growing up around it, a pile of crisp sheets, a dark green house with white trim, pot roast in the oven. There are crickets chirping while you read this book.
(Even now I'm thinking, Expand Larissa, expand beyond your own experience. I just spoke with a knitting author yesterday, ran into her here at the coffee shop, and her family is from Norway. What are the analogous memories from there, I wonder?)
My seat up there is a serene place, but sitting there my mind races. I call people. I picture things. I write in my new notebook. I should go out and run more in the cold. Let go of thinking once in a while. Remember to meditate on cold water rushing, rushing, rushing through my head.