My thumbs are much better, thank you very much! When Cathy-Cate and I were chatting about knitting injuries a couple weeks ago she mentioned in passing that she had had to switch from continental-style knitting to English style when she developed pain in her hands. I tried that and it worked! As long as I remember to keep my left thumb holding the knitting and not the needle, all is well. I can go back to continental style for short periods, say for the ribbing at the start of a preemie cap (I find ribbing done English style to be an unholy PITA) and go back to English for the rest of the hat.
Thank you, C-C!
I was so afraid that I might have to give up knitting altogether. It is my soul! I had even gone so far as to think of other things I could do in the evenings while watching TV with Smokey — mending, embroidery, crochet — but none of them thrill me like knitting. Mending is necessary but boring. Embroidery required starting and stopping and rethreading the needle and measuring out thread; way too putzy. Crochet is an enjoyable process but the only crocheted object that I like are afghans… and how many afghans can one family use? Not to mention, what to do with that monumental stash? The angst was palpable, I tell ya!
Once again, all is well in the Kat™ brain.
Going back to my list on Goodreads, I find that these books have been unreported.
Camino Island by John Grisham. This one suffered from the same things as the book of his that I read, The Whistler: instead of showing us what is happening, he tells us. Which equals boring. Grisham better get his game back or he has lost me as a reader.
Into the Water by Paula Hawkins. Okay, three stars.
What My Body Remembers by Agnete Friis. Okay, but I found the concept that her body remembers things to be implausible.
A Stash of One’s Own by Clara Parke. Enjoyed this one thoroughly (and unsurprisingly).
Danger, Man Working: Writing from the Heart, the Gut, and the Poison Ivy Patch by MIchael Perry. This is a collection of Perry’s previously published essays. Since he has written extensively for various male-oriented magazines, the subject matter was too often hunting or fishing, subjects in which I have little interest. I generally enjoy this author’s writing, but this is probably my least favorite of his books.
And then, there were the books I started but didn’t finish.
Believe Me: A Memoir of Love, Death, and Jazz Chickens by Eddie Izzard. I enjoy Eddie Izzard’s comedy; this memoir, not so much. In it he describes his rather ordinary life in excruciating detail. I think I gave it about 50 pages before giving up.
You Say Tomato, I Say Shut Up: A Love Story by Annabelle Gurwitch and Jeff Kahn. This was for my book group, and even the person who had chosen it advised us to skip it, saying that it was not at all like she remembered. When I found after 30-40 pages that I was not enjoying it, I took her advice and quit.
The Stranger in the Woods: The Extraordinary Story of the Last True Hermit by Michael Finkel. This nonfiction book is about a man who withdrew into the woods and lived without human contact for nearly thirty years. “…[H]e had survived by his wits and courage… He broke into nearby cottages for food, clothing, reading material, and other provisions, taking only what he needed…” Had he been a person of color, would this book have even been written? No, he would have been arrested and thrown in jail for who knows how long. Call me self-righteous, but I refuse to read about a person who survives for 30 year by theft.
Unusually, I have been completely out of library books for nearly a week, but I picked up three today: Do Not Become Alarmed by Maile Malloy, Sourdough: A Novel by Robin Sloan, and Magpie Murders by Anthony Horowitz. More on those next week.