I'm not sure why it happens, perhaps something to do with the mania, the colors, the frenetic activity of the holidays, but after every New Year's I find myself looking at my knitting and then turning to something else.
This year it's mystery novels. Probably most years it's mystery novels.
It doesn't really make sense to me. January is quieter than December. There's more free time, time that in December is filled with card writing and present wrapping and food eating. In January, I breathe a sigh of relief that things are normal again. Normal means knitting.
But somehow not in January.
The end of December often brings tempting knitting presents, new yarn or needles or patterns, and one would think that would get me excited.
But it doesn't.
Plus, January is cold. And dreary. And often gray. One would think sitting on the couch in the evening with bright yarn in my hands would be irresistible.
But it isn't.
Thankfully, this has happened enough times that I recognize it for the temporary state that it is. I wait it out, reading and not worrying that a lack of interest signals an end to my hobby.*
I think I'm nearing the end of the Not Knitting now. I think this is what's going to do it for me.
Gradient yarn dyed during my class at Nomad Yarns,
paired with black Plymouth Yarn Baby Alpaca Worsted
*Terrifying. What would I do with all that yarn?
