I travelled to Portland, Oregon, last month for a Rally at Havi Brooks’s Playground. Rally is, I can now definitely confirm, a state of mind – as well as a three-and-a-bit-day internal adventure undertaken in the sovereign company of utterly delightful people. With sea shanties! And Shiva Nata! And silly hats! Someone described it [...]]]>

I travelled to Portland, Oregon, last month for a Rally at Havi Brooks’s Playground. Rally is, I can now definitely confirm, a state of mind – as well as a three-and-a-bit-day internal adventure undertaken in the sovereign company of utterly delightful people. With sea shanties! And Shiva Nata! And silly hats! Someone described it as “personal-development Montessori for grownups”, which is not far off.

And how was it?

Oh my goodness, it was amazing. I’ve given up trying to describe it in its wholeness, so here are some glimpses.

There was an incredibly useful dialogue with the part of me who believes that loudly and obviously Knowing Things is the only reliable way to get love.

There was the shocking blaze of certainty that my job is to radiate my creative truth.

There was my curious conviction all week that the quality of Trust is cadmium yellow. (I did a good deal of painting at Rally.)

There were some game-changing insights about rest and restedness, bed time and morning time.

There was a moment, as I snuggled up under a blanket on a heap of cushions, when I suddenly realised that just then, I had all the love and safety I needed. I cannot exaggerate how profound this was. I’ve touched back to that moment many, many times since it happened, and it still warms me.

There was the news (which was not really news) that my hips are workaholics.

There was plenty of swinging in the hammock (as the sign says, Stop! Hammock time!).

There were pools of gorgeous clarity about where I want to take my work and my play. There were learnings about space, learnings about time, and learnings about who I am and where I’m going.

There was a coronation…

Perhaps you had to be there.

If you weren’t, and if what I’ve told you here seems interesting, you might like to know that I’m writing up my Rally Diary, which will be available soon and will contain details of all the above juiciness and more.

If you’d like me to send you a copy when it’s done, all you have to do is click this here button and donate something – tiny, huge, or anywhere in between – to the Portland Fund:

Meanwhile, my teleclass on getting your projects to the finish line will be happening at the end of June, so watch out for more news about that. Donating to the Portland Fund will also get you an invitation to this class.

I’ve hesitated to talk about this, in case I jinxed it, but … well, here goes:

I’ve kept a promise to myself for the last 128 days.

For the first time in many, many years I seem to have a daily creative practice.

Let me say that again:

Not, to [...]]]>

I’ve hesitated to talk about this, in case I jinxed it, but … well, here goes:

I’ve kept a promise to myself for the last 128 days.

For the first time in many, many years I seem to have a daily creative practice.

Let me say that again:

A Daily. Creative. Practice.

Not, to take an example entirely at random, “Make a big plan! Leap in on Day 1 like a creative WARRIOR, slay ALL the dragons! Coast on this incredible success until … well, until you notice you haven’t done any work in a month, and your brain’s gone all floppy and sad…”

No – daily, in fact.

For 128 days.

And counting.

This is good, because if there’s one thing the Official Creativity Wonks agree about, it’s the importance of a daily practice. (I assume they teach them this at Wonk School.)

The benefits of a daily practice are fairly obvious – they include steady progress, increased skill, and plenty of that sweet, crunchy brain-fodder that can only be got by making stuff.

The principle that helped me to establish my daily practice is counterintuitive to the point of absurdity, and I want to share it today in case it helps you too.

It all started far, far away from here…

Last year, the one and only Ramit Sethi shared an interview he’d done with a Stanford professor specialising in behavioural change, BJ Fogg.

[Ramit Sethi, for the uninitiated, is the deeply provoking doyen of IWillTeachYouToBeRich.com, which is in general far more substantial than the name suggests. I’ve been a happy reader and customer of his for years. BJ Fogg was one of his mentors at university.]

The interview was fascinating, but what really stuck with me was one tiny story that Fogg told, which managed, as such things sometimes startlingly do, to unlock one of the head-cages I’d been crouching in for most of my life.

It was a story about teeth – Fogg’s teeth, and specifically the flossing thereof.

Yes, flossing. Bear with me.

Fogg wanted to develop the habit of flossing his teeth regularly.

So he makes a commitment – a promise to himself. He will floss, he declares, one tooth per day.

One tooth.

That’s all.

If he flosses one tooth, he succeeds in keeping his promise.

You can imagine what happens, of course: pretty much every day, he ends up going on to floss more than one tooth. Often even the whole lot.

But every tooth beyond the first is a bonus.

You might be thinking this sounds familiar…

On the surface, it seems quite like “baby steps” – a phrase beloved of motivational types everywhere, from FlyLady to Lao-Tzu. Somewhat similar is Barbara Sher’s excellent notion of the Complete Willingness Unit – a chunk of work sufficiently small that it doesn’t trigger resistance.

But the One Tooth Doctrine (as BJ Fogg to my knowledge has never called it) feels different to me. There’s just … something about it. It’s stubborn. It’s defiant.

It’s ridiculous.

Declaring that flossing one tooth is good enough to be called “success” is … absurd. It’s outrageous.

So much so that it feels like a radical redrawing of boundaries. God, even thinking about it stirs my indignation. It’s like something an angry toddler would do to show just how much they are not doing what you want them to.

How can you say one tooth is enough?

How can you?!

And yet, if you do, it seems that the neuroscience works in your favour: you floss that tooth, and because that’s the commitment you made, your brain goes, “Yay! We did it! We succeeded!” Good feelings ensue, which reinforce your motivation to continue, and to floss another tooth tomorrow.

And suddenly, it’s liberating!

So I took this and ran with it…

(You’ll laugh.)

Here is the promise I made to myself: each day, says I to me, I will complete one stretch (yoga), one spiral (Shiva Nata), one word (novel, blog post, journal…), and one stitch (sewing, knitting, crochet…).

And I’ve done it – 128 times in a row so far.

Yes, there have been a few days when I’ve done literally one stretch, one spiral, one word, and one stitch. Migraine days. Fever days. Travel days. The day I finished up in Accident & Emergency with a kidney stone. That sort of thing.

But the point is that even on those days, I’ve still succeeded. I’m still feeding the happy chemicals to my brain.

I’ve kept my promise to myself.

And it’s working.

The monumental, dazzling benefit of this initiative is that it puts my creative work – and the support practices that enable it to happen – firmly at the top of my priority list (a position that has traditionally been rather precarious).

To get my fix of Yay! I must find a way to stretch, to spiral, to write, and to stitch, each and every day.

In the past 128 days:

• I’ve rewritten my novel one-and-a-half times (I’m working with a literary agent at the moment to prepare it for submission to publishers) – contrast this with almost seven years to grind out the first complete draft;
• I’ve quilted and embroidered and crocheted and knit probably more than in all of 2011;
• I’ve broached Levels 5 and 6 of Shiva Nata;
• I’ve significantly improved my lower back flexibility, and my Downward Dog has never been so right-angular.

In short, with this one technique, I’ve completely changed my behaviour in relation to my creative work, and it’s having dramatic effects.

It’s fantastic. I can’t wait to see what I’ll get done in the next 128 days…

What’s your One Tooth?

So, does this idea appeal to you? What ludicrously tiny actions would you choose, if you were going to give it a try? Comment and tell me.

I’ve started a City and Guilds course – specifically, a Certificate in Design and Craft, with a focus on patchwork and quilting – and recently we had our first weekend class.

Our theme was colour, and this was the first of five basic design modules. (The others: line, texture, shape, and form.)

The course [...]]]>

I’ve started a City and Guilds course – specifically, a Certificate in Design and Craft, with a focus on patchwork and quilting – and recently we had our first weekend class.

Our theme was colour, and this was the first of five basic design modules. (The others: line, texture, shape, and form.)

The course should take around two years in total. One of my personal aims is to codify and make explicit what I’m learning, so you can expect somewhat regular updates as we go along.

Colour!

Spending a weekend immersed in colour was … oh, goodness, it was wonderful.

Does colour electrify you the way it does me? Does a good hit of colour leave you rocking and a-reeling? Does the right combination of this and that feel like the quenching of a deep thirst?

I found my physical response stronger than I would have guessed, actually. We were half way through the first morning when I happened to pause and take stock of my body.

I was … how shall I put this delicately? … exhibiting classic symptoms of arousal. Ahem. Apparently, playing intensively with colour is a good way to activate the pleasure centres of the Léan. Note to self.

(I didn’t tell the teachers…)

It wasn’t all thrills…

A monster called “This Really Is Too Easy” (aka TRITE) showed up too.

The tasks we had to complete in class were all relatively simple – painting gradients, making colour-wheel and colour-scheme collages, that sort of thing.

This I found vaguely irritating, because I always want to be making Splendid!Things! and stretching my capacities and working at multiple conceptual and aesthetic levels and … well, let’s be honest, a colour-wheel collage doesn’t really do that.

Nothing I produced in this class particularly scratched my I made a Splendid!Thing! itch. Nor did my finished pages in any way do justice to the blaze of enthusiasm I was feeling throughout the class.

TRITE wasn’t too happy with this. Where, he wanted to know, were the whizz and the bang? When was I going to start making something impressive?

TRITE thinks that any time not spent actively seeking to impress is a waste. And probably dangerous. Because if once we let our standards slip, where will it end? Perdition! Annihilation! Doom! That’s where.

And yet, as I was eventually able to reassure him, the simplicity was also soothing. Because these are – yes, it’s obvious to everyone except poor old TRITE – exercises.

I’ll say that again: exercises.

They’re not meant to be works of art.

They’re not meant to push the boundaries of creative expression.

They’re meant to enable us to move methodically through the space we’re exploring, laying down breadcrumb trails, hammering in surveying stakes, clearing undergrowth and marking out foundations.

They are – we hope – the underpinnings of a new understanding that will inform and enrich our work. Which is why I’m doing the course in the first place. Whee!

(I wish to note, notwithstanding, that I do now have a burgeoning mass of colour-related design ideas, with more being born every time I think about it. It remains to be seen how many of these make it out of my head…)

Next!

The theme of the second weekend class is line, and, unfortunately I’ll be missing it on account of my trip to Portland for Rally. I’ll have some catching up to do after I get back!

And you?

Where do you stand on colour? I’m not asking for intimate revelations here (though, you know, feel free…) – but I’d be fascinated to hear how you experience the colours you love most.

Yes. Yes, I did.

I posted all fizzy and peppy about what I was doing to raise money for Portland, and then I just … vanished.

Much of the responsibility for this vanishment must be laid at the feet of my tonsils.

The Revolutionary Horde: The feet [...]]]>

Did I really just disappear like that?

Yes. Yes, I did.

I posted all fizzy and peppy about what I was doing to raise money for Portland, and then I just … vanished.

Much of the responsibility for this vanishment must be laid at the feet of my tonsils.

The Revolutionary Horde: The feet … ?
Me: I know, I know.

Tonsils, as you’re no doubt aware, don’t have feet are those pinkish little things at the back of your throat, which mostly mind their own business. But every once in a while, they get the decorators in. Mine, in this case, really splashed out. They went for the complete makeover, selecting the balloon design in a vibrant cherry-red with primrose-yellow accents (if you’ve ever had tonsillitis, I trust that you are now wincing). It was pretty impressive, I can tell you.

So I lay in bed for a few days, shivering through the fever-dreams and chugging penicillin like it was going out of style. Then, as I began to recover, I got to work on the Portland Fund, planning and tweaking behind the scenes, and drafting the big post that was going to float everything off.

It was going to be so great.

I finished my drugs.

Posted my post.

And relapsed.

Yup. Two days after that post, complete throatstravaganza, yet again, in glorious technicolour. Ten more days of penicillin. Exhaustion like I haven’t felt since the Feaster learned how to sleep.

I might be coming out of it now. It’s a little hard to tell, because Niall got it too this week, so everything is a bit chaotic around here.

Somewhere in the middle of all that…

…as if to make sure nothing untoward happened, like, oh, people being able to send me money, my site went down. And some time after that, my big post vanished into the aether. No idea why. I’ve asked. Don’t worry, I’ve restored it (and edited it a bit to make a few things clearer), but I’ve no idea how long it was gone for.

You have to laugh.

And all those lovely little budding business-things that I’d planned to cherish into flower over the past ten days?

Still buds.

(By the way, the photo features some of the things that were budding in my garden the week before last. From the top: Chatham Island forget-me-not, tulip, biennial stock, rhododendron, allium, lilac, iris.)

So, am I going to Portland?

Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I am. I bought my tickets on Monday.

(I’m too tired to deliver actual squeeing here; you’ll just have to imagine it.)

I am throwing myself upon the mercy of the universe, or similar. I have a little grace until the credit card comes home to roost, and I plan to spend the time promoting my beautiful offerings like billy-o.

So stand by for that.

I’m too tired to do Proper Marketing today.

But if you like, you can vist the String Revolution Shop and buy your very own piece of my work.

Or if you are feeling particularly lovely today, you can make a donation to the Portland Fund. In return (as detailed in that big post I keep going on about), you will receive my Rally Diary after I get back from Portland, an invitation to the teleclass I’m running in May on taming your UFOs, and my undying gratitude. Also, you will be followed around for the rest of the week by a fanfare of silver trumpets and a chorus of cartoon ostriches (this is a lie). Go on – it’ll be fun.

Onwards! Upwards!

As I’ve mentioned, my Big Plan for April involves raising money to go to Portland, Oregon, to attend a Rally (Rally!) at Havi Brooks’s Playground.

I need in the region of US$2000 to cover flights, accommodation, and daily expenses (the Rally itself is paid for).

February was hilariously busy at String Revolution HQ. Among my many and varied exploits, I taught a class on editing your novel to a group of crime writing students.

How did I end up doing that, you ask? Well, my father the crime novelist was giving an eight-week evening course in the Irish Writers’ [...]]]>

February was hilariously busy at String Revolution HQ. Among my many and varied exploits, I taught a class on editing your novel to a group of crime writing students.

How did I end up doing that, you ask? Well, my father the crime novelist was giving an eight-week evening course in the Irish Writers’ Centre, and he knew in advance that he’d be away for one of the weeks, so he drafted (geddit?) me in as a substitute.

And it went really well. Everyone was engaged and energised, we had thoughtful discussions, we covered what I’d planned to cover, my pacing was good. I had an absolute ball, and the students seemed to enjoy themselves too. Yes, I talked a shade too much, but in the grander scheme of things, it was a bloody good class.

Now look away…

…because I’m about to be arrogant, and I’d hate to shatter your illusions about my essentially humble and self-effacing character.

The thing is, I wasn’t in the least surprised that the class had gone so well. I had absolute confidence, walking into that room, in my ability to steer the discussion, cover the material, engage with questions, encourage participation, all that good stuff.

It’s something I was more or less born to, you see. Teaching is in my blood. (Academic forebears: both parents, an aunt, an uncle, a grandmother, two grandfathers, a step-grandfather, a great-grandfather, a great-great-aunt, a great-great-grandfather … and those are just the ones I can list off the top of my head.) I gave my first public lecture at age fourteen, the same year I co-taught a creative writing class in my school. I don’t actually have a squillion teaching hours under my belt, but it’s something I simply know I can do.

OK, you can look back now

The question quivering on your lips, I’m certain sure, is along these lines:

What has any of that got to do with the price of eggs?

Well. I gave that class, and I buzzed around for the rest of the evening on a total high, thinking, “Yes! That was great! More of that sort of thing!” – and then the next day after I’d calmed down a bit I thought, “What would it feel like, if instead of my background, which gives me this wealth of tacit knowledge about teaching, I had a background that gave me a similar wealth regarding, say, running a business?”

Because in that arena, I still feel thoroughly out of my depth.

I wondered what it would be like to know in my bones – because I’ve been unconsciously absorbing it since infancy – what an effective marketing campaign looks like. What language will set prospective customers at ease. What systems need to be in place before you start accepting clients. What you never, ever do when designing a product. Which risks are good to take and which ones are better to avoid.

Because it wouldn’t surprise me if at least some of the people who enjoy “easy” (it’s never easy) business success had that “born-to-it” advantage that I have around teaching (as well as writing, stringy crafts, and a few other things).

And I found myself … forgiving myself – somewhat – for not yet being a Tycoon, dammit! having turned String Revolution into a viable business. I’m struggling, yes, but it’s at least partly because I’m starting from absolute zero.

Ahhhh. That feels a bit better.

What are your born-to-it skills?

Meanwhile!

I’m planning a teleclass (see? Teaching skills!) related to my Get It Done service. It’ll be for people who don’t necessarily have a specific deadline but could still do with some tips on getting their creative projects finished.

It’ll be donation-based (and geared towards getting me to Portland in April).

Look out for details of that very soon.

Heaven … I’m in heaven, And my heart beats so that I can hardly spique [eh?], And I seem to find the happiness I sique [eh?] When we’re out together making fused appliqué!

The Revolutionary Horde: Yowch! Me (lying): Sorry. Couldn’t help it.

That’s a wall-hanging in progress, which I made last month at [...]]]>

Heaven … I’m in heaven,
And my heart beats so that I can hardly spique [eh?],
And I seem to find the happiness I sique [eh?]
When we’re out together making fused appliqué!

The Revolutionary Horde: Yowch!
Me (lying): Sorry. Couldn’t help it.

That’s a wall-hanging in progress, which I made last month at the Irish Patchwork Society quilting weekend. The class was led by Joke Buursma, who designed the project. It’s called “Gothic Arches”, and the aim was to work with fabrics other than the standard quilting cotton we know and love.

I made mine with pieces from my Great-Auntie Maureen’s scrap bag.

It still needs embellishment, borders, and binding. I’ll tell you more about it when I post photos of it in all its finished glory.

Meanwhile!

I have a big plan for April: I’m booked into a Rally (Rally!) in Portland, Oregon, under the aegis of Havi Brooks (she of the Fluent Self).

A Rally, as you’ll know if you’re versed in the Haviverse, is an opportunity to come together with other people in a space devoted to focused play. There’s Shiva Nata and crayons, silence and laughter, and something called Old Turkish Lady Yoga. People have breakthroughs, get clarity, make unbelievable progress on their things.

We’re talking about an exuberant, rich, multi-level experience. For me, for my creative work, for my business, I truly believe that it could change … well, everything.

If I get there…

Currently, I can’t afford the airfare and accommodation. Over the next couple of weeks I’ll be working on raising the money to cover them. So look out for a flurry of activity around these parts, and lots of stringy, revolutionary goodies coming your way.

To be kept in the loopiest part of the loop with all of this, join the Revolutionary Horde:

Name:

Email:

Small print: It’s a mailing list. We know how those work, yes? You trust me with your address, and I respect your trust. End of story.

I totally learned how to spin!

Last November, way back before I embarked on my impromptu NaSelfProMo, I went to a workshop at the Dublin Knitting and Stitching Show and – finally! finally! – learned how to spin.

See that up there? I spun that. (Or I span it? Not sure…)

That’s about seven [...]]]>

I totally learned how to spin!

Last November, way back before I embarked on my impromptu NaSelfProMo, I went to a workshop at the Dublin Knitting and Stitching Show and – finally! finally! – learned how to spin.

See that up there? I spun that. (Or I span it? Not sure…)

That’s about seven and a half metres of 100% tussah silk, spun with a top-whorl drop spindle (see me with all my fancy terminology?), and I am dead proud of it.

The workshop was taught by a lovely North American woman, Ruth MacGregor of Spinning Forth, and the whole experience was a heady combination of electrifying and serene.

From what I gather, after a handful of hours’ experience, the spinning goes much better if you’re relaxed. This can only be a good thing for wound-up, whirly-brained me.

I have more unspun top from the workshop, in colours that would undoubtedly pop against the purple if I put them together (though admittedly this might also cause a rather more squelchy popping effect in the viewer’s eyes), and I … well, I may have had a leeetle credit-card accident in the Oliver Twist stall at the show.

It was all so beautiful.

There was nothing I could do.

I was wandering around after the workshop, in the slightly fevered daze that attends the last half-hour of the show, and as I passed the stall of Mr X Stitch, its doyen, Jamie Chalmers, called out a greeting and asked if I had any highlights from the day. I’d never met Jamie before, but such was his personability that I stopped to chat.

“I’ve just learned how to spin!” I squeed, and Jamie and his colleague – who I believe may have been Bridget Franckowiak, aka BeeFranck – offered their congratulations.

“Learning to spin is one of the most political things you can do, really,” said Jamie.

“My sheep and I are going off the grid!” declaimed Bee (if it was she), with a grand gesture of the arm.

(My sheep and I are going off the grid! I took a moment to savour the accidental iambic pentameter. I love those.)

We agreed that spinning was pretty damn political: a radical revival of a skill that’s been all but wiped from our culture. A statement about autonomy, about individual engagement with the material world.

I told them about Women’s Work: The First 20,000 Years – because I rarely miss a chance to enthuse about that book – and we chatted for a while about textile politics, gender politics, and the contemporary craft revival.

It was a lovely, serendipitous moment.

And yes, the acquisition of this new skill feels political, feels important. It’s odd, maybe, but when I started String Revolution I had no notion of learning to spin. I identified as a knitter, an embroiderer, a crocheter, an aspiring quilter.

I saw myself as string user, not a string maker.

It’s only as I’ve become more immersed in the history and politics of textiles that I’ve developed this drive to understand the whole process by which we put simple fibres to the complex, varied, culturally nuanced, multi-faceted matrix of uses that we experience every day.

It wasn’t until I read Should Everyone Spin? (and my brain went woomph!) that I was truly seized with the intention to learn.

And now I’ve taken the first step.

Wonky and exiguous though it be, this little skein is significant.

So what about you?

Do you know how to spin? Would you like to? Comment and tell me your thoughts!

If you haven’t yet, do join the Revolutionary Horde (aka the String Revolution mailing list). You’ll get the inside track on everything that’s going on at String Revolution, plus discounts, exclusive goodies, and whatever else I dream up to delight you.

Name:

Email:

I need hardly add that you can unsubscribe at any time, and I’ll never do anything untoward with your contact details.

This is a post of highly personal celebration.

Someone asked me recently what I did, and there was this little explosion under my ribs. (I don’t think she saw.)

“I do various things,” I said. “I write fiction, I make textile art, I teach.”

All quite true: I do.

What I didn’t mention was [...]]]>

This is a post of highly personal celebration.

Someone asked me recently what I did, and there was this little explosion under my ribs. (I don’t think she saw.)

“I do various things,” I said. “I write fiction, I make textile art, I teach.”

All quite true: I do.

What I didn’t mention was that two important things have changed recently, which make my answer to that question feel very different.

Changes!

Thing One: Back in November, after much careful thought and discussion, I resigned from my day job (copyeditor at an academic publisher). And somehow, even though I haven’t actually worked there since just before the Feaster was born in 2007, this felt like a major development.

Thing Two: As of December, thanks to the galvanising effect of Thing One and also to the good offices of a kind mentor, I have a literary agent. She’ll be working on placing my novel as soon as I finish the current round of edits.

So when I said “I write fiction, I make textile art, I teach”, an inner part of me was jumping up and down blowing a party squeaker and waving a sparkler. This is it! she was yelling. This is your JOB now!

My work…

I mean, my work – the work that blazes through my nights and days, won’t let me rest, fizzes and bulges in my brain until I sit down and give it what it demands -

…is now my job.

How cool is that?

Very, is how.

And the brilliant thing is, I’m still doing all the same stuff. But now I’m doing it officially. I’m my own boss. I’m out.

It’s like I’ve moved across the street: I’m looking at the same view, but my perspective has changed. This side is sunnier, and more spacious.

The Revolutionary Horde

So you won’t be astonished to hear that I’m working hard on the business side of String Revolution these days. I’ll shortly be opening registration for my shiniest idea yet, a pattern club of such glowing fabulosity that I do the happy dance whenever I think about it.

Aaaaaaand … I’m looking for your help! If you enjoy my work, I urge you to join our mailing list, The Revolutionary Horde. This is where you’ll have prime access to all the new ideas, opportunities, and (let’s not be coy here) discounts I have to offer. You’ll also be able to help me shape the direction of String Revolution, to make sure that what I offer is exactly suited to what you need and desire.

If you’re interested, here’s the form.

(I hope it goes without saying that unsubscribing is a piece of cake, and I’ll never, ever share your details with anyone else.)

Name:

Email:

Meanwhile, if you felt like raising a whoop for me and my new internal landscape, I’d be delighted!

Up the Revolution!

I’ve had a quite extraordinary year. It feels like I started sprinting in mid-February, and didn’t stop until … well, probably until my grandmother died at the end of September. The pace picked up again in October, with a novel-writing binge followed by a marketing blitz followed by a present-making extravaganza, and whatever notions [...]]]>

I’ve had a quite extraordinary year. It feels like I started sprinting in mid-February, and didn’t stop until … well, probably until my grandmother died at the end of September. The pace picked up again in October, with a novel-writing binge followed by a marketing blitz followed by a present-making extravaganza, and whatever notions I might have had about using the time between Christmas and New Year to do some much-needed catching up and planning, they were trumped by a forceful lethargy that I am attributing only partly to the sinusy headcold that has had me in its snotty grip all week.

No matter!

Have some pretty pictures of some of my handmade presents this year.

Up at the top there, you see the earrings I made for my mother (left) and a cousin (right). Get me with my arty shot setup, and so forth. The large glass beads are by Anna Felton, who sells at the Dublin Food Co-op: each one is unique, and I think they’re utterly gorgeous. See more of her work on Flickr – I know she’s in the process of developing an online shop, but I don’t think it’s up yet.

For my mother-in-law, I made a set of quilted leaves, using the same technique as for the little wall hanging I made in 2010. Here they all are, mixed in with the cardboard templates I used. I made eleven altogether, each one a faithful portrait of an actual leaf collected last year by the mother-in-law, the children, and me. We’ll decide together, at our leisure, how to arrange and mount them.

For my mother, I dashed off a cowl by the estimable Yarn Harlot, called Pretty Thing. Very satisfactory: definitely pretty, and unquestionably a thing. Additionally, lots of fun to knit, and designed with the sort of skill and care that makes me glow happily inside. I knitted it in Araucania Botany Lace from This Is Knit, which I bought at the Knitting and Stitching Show in November. Not the absolute rightest yarn for the pattern, arguably, as it tends to swallow the stitch detail – but so soft! [Ravelled here]

For my father, I took some raw silk that I’d bought in … oh, probably the early 1990s, from Shree on Grafton Street (anyone?), and made a tie – which I forgot to photograph until we were all gathered in my parents’ candlelit kitchen, hence the terrible shot. I embroidered on it the Italian word “Sprezzatura”, meaning something along the lines of “nonchalant brilliance”, about which my father has just written a paper (he being an academic and all).

Speaking of forgetting to take photographs, not pictured are a hasty hat, knitted for my brother in unspeakably smooshy Debbie Bliss Paloma from This Is Knit (the shop itself, this time); and a beaded choker with matching earrings, which I made for my sister in a workshop at the Knitting and Stitching Show.

This won’t seem like much to some of you, but I’m frankly quite impressed at how many presents I managed to finish this year. It beats the last couple of years by a long, long way.

Meanwhile, I have major big plans for 2012, both on this blog and elsewhere. Join the Revolutionary Horde (yes, it’s a mailing list, but where’s the fun in that?) if you want the low-down. Form’s up there in the right-hand sidebar; I’ll always treat your contact details with respect and care.

And finally…

Happy new year, my lovely readers! Thank you so much for being here, and I hope 2012 brings you an endless succession of good things. I hug you!