Knitting a Lace shawl is much like reading a Russian novel. 

The thought occurred to me – rather out of the blue — as I
was tinking back and re-working a row of lace (I had a lot of time to mull over
the similarities while the other side of my brain was working on keeping the
yarn-overs from escaping and wriggling the point of my needle into tight little
knit-three-togethers )  The random thought
sprouted into a full-grown theory!

Lace Shawls and Russian Novels.  The start up is ridiculously easy.  Every yarn shop I have ever visited has
lovely lace-weight yarn (which is always an incredible bargain when you price
it out per yard) and every book shop has Russian novels (also a bargain priced
by page).  Yet, there is an elite quality
to both. And one has only to lift the skein or book to find oneself engulfed in
an aura of intellectualism and virtue: 
why, yes, I am a knitter of lace shawls and a reader of Russian novels
(even non-knitters and lackadaisical readers will be impressed when I casually
let it drop in conversation).  Somehow,
the fact that I am making a HUGE commitment of time on a chance encounter never
enters my head and I leave the yarn/book shop feeling ridiculously triumphant. 

The beginning is romantic and I am buoyant with adventure
and ambition.  It only takes me a few
days to wind the 1800-yard skein into a ball and to cast on 400 stitches –
about the amount of time it takes me to chug through the first five chapters of
the novel.  Casting on is not my favorite
part as there is so much counting and re-counting.  And in the first few chapters, I cannot quite
figure out who is who.  But these little
frustrations are offset by the knowledge that I am fully embarked on the project/read
of a lifetime.  Even though my shawl is
but a little stringy worm, I savor the fine merino, the gradation of colors the
skein promises.  Soon, I will begin to
see it play out into a delicate fabric. 
Likewise, I note the fine prose and subtle descriptions.  Soon, I will begin to figure out who the
characters are and what they are doing.

Slowly, I become comfortable handling the yarn (thread-like
stuff that sticks to itself even as it sort of bounces about and slides off the
needles) and familiar with the pattern (which is probably a repeat of 24
ever-varying rows that read something like an African dialect of clicking
“k2togs” and sibilant “pssos”).  Slowly,
I figure out that the characters are eating breakfast, then luncheon, then dinner,
then breakfast again.  Slowly, my family
becomes resigned to me muttering my “African dialect” in the living room –
though they do dissuade me from trying to cook borscht.  Lace shawls and Russian novels tend to take
possession of my mind.

Time passes.  There
are many stitches in each row.  There are
many words on each page.  My shawl is ten
inches long and, by some mystery familiar to knitters everywhere, has been ten
inches long for days — even though I knit every evening.  By the same sort of witchery, my bookmark
sits a quarter of the way into the novel, day after day after day even though I
read faithfully.  

As weeks pass, the romance pales.  I never actually lose my love for my lace
shawl – any more than I lose interest in my Russian novel.  It is not even a matter of losing patience.  It is pure wantonness on my part.   Monogamy practiced upon a lace shawl that
never gets any longer or a Russian novel that seems to get longer by the day
wears on the nerves.  Other yarns beckon,
other books call. 

I cast on a sock and open a murder mystery. 

There are several lace shawls still on the needles tucked
into baskets behind closed cupboard doors – the Russian novels stand more
boldly naked on the bookshelf in my study, bookmarks wedged securely in
place.  I never actually give up on them;   I just
let them rest.  

There always comes a day when my appetite for lace-weight
yarn or hearty prose returns.  Most
likely in a yarn shop or bookstore.  I
would like to say that I run home to my not-exactly-forsaken projects and
books, but…. Well, there is room in my heart for many passions (of the fiber
and literary sort, I mean, and if one is going to practice a little
indiscretion, there are certainly worse ways to do so!).