Spinning thoughts

I first learned to spin about four and a half years ago, back at the beginning of 2004. I can pin it down quite accurately because I bought myself my first wheel out of my first month's pay at my first real job after leaving Uni. I had taught myself to spin using a handspindle I'd bought on a whim in Germany two years previously, some merino wool tops I had from the same date for needle-felting and Lee Raven's brilliant book, Spin It - Making Yarn from Scratch. Incidentally, I can't think of a better book to help absolute beginners learn how spinning works and to get them spinning on a spindle. It took me two whole evenings when Hubby was away on business to really get the hang of it, but by the time he came back I had spun over 150m of fairly even (by beginners' standards, at least) merino singles. I was so proud, I went out and bought my wheel the same week. A few tantrums and a lot of tangles later, I couldn't understand why it was so hard - I'd already produced yarn, what was the difference? Hubby, showing either great wisdom or simply a desire to get me out of the house, dredged up contact details for the local spinning guild from the internet and bullied me into emailing them (I get really uncomfortable phoning strangers, an odd handicap that was a pain back when I worked in an office manning the phones!) and sent me along one Wednesday morning to a freezing cold church hall (no heating, it was December) to a wonderful woman called Frances who made me understand that I hat to match the speed of my feet and the speed of my hands in order to make yarn smoothly. Obviously, this hadn't been a problem on the spindle. In about 10 minutes this patient angel in a slightly fluffy jumper that I later learned was spun from dog hair had me calmly spinning a strong yarn that held together and curled back on itself nicely when she held a loop out to see how it would ply. Then, being a traditionalist, she took away my lovely clean bright roving and make me spin fleece in the grease, combing individual locks with a dog comb. I'm sure it was a valuable skill to learn but I have to admit that it's not one I've ever gone back to. I prefer to spin clean wool, and when I've bought fleeces I always wash and card before spinning.
I went home from my lesson, splurged on lots of tops over the internet, bought some alpaca from ebay that I've still never used and have been told several times is total rubbish (it's still in the stash, though) and practised making yarn. A month or two later I was back on a Wednesday morning for a dyeing lesson, and then my house filled up with gorgeous bright chunks of merino tops in all the colours of the rainbow. Most of it is still in a huge drawer in my craft room, as I don't spin that often or that fast. Yet I love to spin: it's very relaxing. I may recently have discovered why I don't do it more often...
I don't spin useful yarn.
That's a strange realisation, since I'm a multi-crater who knits, crochets, felts, sews and has even been known to weave on a rigid heddle loom that mostly lives in the loft... why isn't my yarn useful for something? And it is... sort of.
When I began to spin, for a long time I produced a chunky two-ply, usually merino, in gorgeous bright colours that I'd kettle-dyed as tops and it was a lovely soft, bouncy wool. I made a couple of hats, a scarf, but mostly what I craved were socks. I taught myself to knit them flat on two needles with a seam up the front and went nuts. I had six or seven pairs myself, and made more for others... the sock-knitter in me now can't believe how chunky and odd they were, with a big lumpy seam up the front, but they were warm and squashy and I loved them. Still would, if the hadn't all long since fallen apart. You see, soft thick two-ply merino just isn't sock wool. Can't take the abrasion. No strength and durability. Lovely feel and good memory, but no strength. My first failure.
As time went on, I carried on spinning, but with less and less purpose. All of my dye batches were too small to make more than a ball or two of any one colour, and somehow I couldn't get the knitting mojo together to make a multicoloured striped one. I'd never knitted a jumper at this point, and starting with handspun and no pattern just seemed too daunting. So I kept spinning, aimlessly producing balls of wool that, without my noticing it, were getting finer. Now when I did notice this, I was quite pleased - I was making more even, thinner yarn - I thought I was advancing, becoming more skilled. But I wasn't - I was still only producing a basic two-ply yarn, not at all hardwearing, and I had forgotten how to spin thick yarn. I can't seem to do it any more.
With all of this (and more, but this is getting very long-winded) in mind, I just bought The Intentional Spinner, by Judith MacKenzie McCuin. It's time to start learning again. Watch this space.