I know this sounds like the latest fantastic thriller that will have you holding onto the edge of your seat until the very end. Regrettably, that is not the case. Even though it is a true story, you won’t be seeing it in bookstores or theaters, ever. The best part of this story, I will spill the ending right up front. My craft room is where projects go to die!
I have a rather large pile of almost deceased knitted socks sitting in a cold dark corner of the room. They are literally hanging on by the needles that are impaling their stitches. Majestic cabling now twisted and tangled, to never be undone.
There is a section in my craft room that is dedicated exclusively to the limbs of unfinished rag dolls. The once vividly painted socks and shoes are all, but dull, faint smudges almost permanently hidden by the dust bunnies encasing them.
Then come the carcasses of crepe flowers of yesteryear. Blossoms mangled and faded to almost transparency. What a pity. At one point they were bouquets of wonder, every petal handcrafted with love, now slowly decaying alongside the rest of my crafting victims.
How did my craft room come to be a place of waste and desolation? Is it the procrastinator in me haunting the walls? Is it a result of my OCD rearing its ugly head keeping me from accepting any minor flaws my projects may possess? Or the fear of dislike by others?
I doubt I will ever know or understand the reasons behind the ruin, but I am sure to keep adding to the perishing piles until I, too, am among them (hopefully, not left to rot in a craft room).