Today’s post is by author, editor, and book coach Nita Collins (@nitacollinswriter).
I was staring at my draft the other day, contemplating a scene I loved but that didn’t quite fit the storyline. As I debated whether to fix it or ignore it, a post from my knitting friend Dee popped up in my feed. “I screwed the pattern up,” she’d written in the caption under the photo of a partially finished pink scarf, “and I don’t know how to fix it without making it worse. Do I ignore it and hope it doesn’t show too much?” Suddenly, the connection between knitting and writing couldn’t have been clearer.
Writers and knitters have more in common than you might expect, because creative work, whether in words or in wool, rarely happens in a straight line from beginning to end. Creative work loops back on itself, gets all tangled up, and sometimes requires you to undo hours of effort before you can move forward again. Accepting this truth has been one of the hardest lessons for me as both a writer and a knitter, but also the most valuable.
Whether knitting or writing, new projects always start in the same exciting rush of possibility. I open a fresh Scrivener file, full of a story idea, certain that this will be the one to get me a literary agent and a publishing deal. My friend Dee falls in love with a scarf pattern, buys the yarn and casts on, visualizing the way she’ll look draped in perfectly knitted pink mohair.
We both get to work. Everything is flowing along smoothly until suddenly it isn’t.
Somewhere between casting on and binding off, between Chapter One and The End, we each realize we have a problem. Dee’s scarf has developed a mysterious hole. So has my novel. We’re each staring at wonkiness with no idea how it got there. Or how to fix it.
In these moments, the temptation to ignore what’s wrong in hopes it will disappear into the larger story fabric is strong. Even though we know the issues will simply compound themselves, Dee and I still carry on, hoping for the best. Hoping that when we get to the end, the problems will have magically sorted themselves out.
For both of us, this bit of magical thinking arises from the same fear: “What if I have to chuck it out the window and start all over?”
As human beings, we are fixated on the idea that progress should be visibly measurable. For a writer, forward motion is seen and measured in word count, number of pages, how many hours spent bum-in-chair, your novel in the airport bookstore. And since the act of undoing work means erasing visible evidence of forward motion, starting over can feel like sliding backwards. Negative progress. That’s why, when Dee has knitted 20 inches of lace or I’ve written 80,000 words, the thought of ripping back to the beginning is agony. “All that work!” we cry, feeling like complete failures.
The truth is that knitters drop stitches, and writers drop secondary plot lines, and even though it stings like heck, nobody—nobody at all—gets away without continually finding themselves on a skills-building learning curve.
Thankfully, one of the biggest things that being a knitter has taught me is that learning a new skill isn’t a pass/fail exercise; it’s more like climbing a spiral staircase. You go around and around, but each time when you come back to the same place, you’re a rung higher up with a clearer, more objective perspective as a result. Eventually, what used to feel like failure simply becomes fixing.
As a knitter who carefully tinks back stitch by stitch in order to correct a mistake, I’m not incompetent because I messed the pattern up in the first place, I am being attentive to my craft, learning as I go. When I finish a draft of my novel knowing that I will need to go back and make adjustments, I am doing the exact same thing. I am being attentive to my craft, and respectful of both my manuscript and my readers.
Still, it doesn’t always come easy, especially when I’m not sure what’s wrong in the first place, let alone what to do about it.
Which brings me to the next thing that knitting has taught me about being a writer in revision: Asking for help doesn’t make me any less the author of my own work.
When Dee encountered a problem she couldn’t resolve that day, her instinct was to reach out to other knitters for advice. Dee is still 100% the knitter of her scarf, even though someone else showed her how to fix that hole. The same goes for writers. When I lean on support, I’m not giving up authority; I’m gaining perspective and insight.
Perspective and insight bring with them something that every creative person needs in order to succeed, and that is: trust in the parts of the process that are not visually measurable.
Progress isn’t always linear, and it can’t always be measured visually, but it is cumulative. Every revision sends you another turn around that spiral staircase, teaching you something you’ll carry forward into the next project.
Knitting and writing both teach us that mistakes aren’t just inevitable, they’re instructive. Every dropped stitch, every tangled subplot is an invitation to learn. The willingness to stop, rework, apply what you learned, and keep going is what transforms a skein of mohair into a scarf, and my rough draft into a polished novel.
So if you find yourself staring at your manuscript with the same worried question my friend Dee had, “Do I fix it, or do I hope nobody notices?” choose the fix. Yes, it may mean ripping out a few rows. Yes, it may mean slowing down or even starting over, but the time and care you put into the process will be visible in your scarf’s smooth stitches and your novel’s clear arc.
So knit one, revise two. And trust that your story—and your skill—will be stronger for it.
Nita Collins is a writer of speculative fiction and an Author Accelerator certified book coach. She brings a collaborative, craft-focused approach to helping writers revise their manuscripts into novels and memoirs that work. Connect with her at nitacollinsbookcoach.com and on Instagram @nitacollinswriter.
You had me hooked at the title. Great essay. And great advice, too: knit one, revise two. Yes!
Ah! A fellow knitter! For sure you will get the references!
Love this, “I’m not incompetent because I messed the pattern up in the first place, I am being attentive to my craft, learning as I go.”
So encouraging because writing a story is a long road for me.
Sort of a metaphor for life, eh?
I so enjoyed reading this essay! I’m an experienced crocheter who recently started knitting, and I had a mysterious hole in my first sock project last month. I’ve undone the entire project TWICE since then, but each time I restart with more confidence and care. So much of my crocheting and knitting journey mirrors themes of failure and progress in other parts of my life, including writing.
I’m so glad it resonated with you! And oh, those mysterious holes! Drop me a line if you have a question – I’ve knit lots of socks. But I’m only just learning to crochet.
My mother, who knitted many pairs of socks over her 96 years, found a certain delight in the magic of turning a heel. I find it magical, too – there’s no way it looks like it will become a sock heel until suddenly: There it is! For some of my heavy woolen winter socks, I have begun to knit patches for those heels – in effect, turning a heel with new yarn without casting on for a whole sock. (I’m doing the same for thinning sweater elbows, except those are flat. I stitch them into the inside of the sleeve, over the thin place.
What a fun analogy! I especially like “When Dee encountered a problem she couldn’t resolve that day, her instinct was to reach out to other knitters for advice. Dee is still 100% the knitter of her scarf, even though someone else showed her how to fix that hole. The same goes for writers. When I lean on support, I’m not giving up authority; I’m gaining perspective and insight.” Yes!
I’m tickled that that particular bit stuck out for you. So many writers are afraid to ask for help because of the fear that it somehow makes them less the author of their work. Let’s you and I dispel that!
I LOVE the parallels you drew for us, the audience, in this post, Nita. Getting targeted support to accomplish a big goal when it’s hard to see the holes is priceless AND it’s still 100% your work.
Thanks so much, Krista! So many writers are afraid they’ll be judged negatively if they ask for help – something that doesn’t seem to happen in other art forms (as far as I’m aware).
I know how to knit but my hands are uncomfortable holding the knitting needless now. My favored craft is crochet. I can apply the theme of the article to messing up crochet as much as knitting. If I missed something in the pattern it still has to be corrected as in writing, edited.
I made a big mistake with my first book that I published in April. I believed between my editor and myself, we had edited it enough. I passed up reading the proof copy , I was so excited about publishing my first book. Recently, it’s now about six months later, I decided to read the proof copy. When reading one of the stories I discovered a couple of errors that apparently my beta readers missed too. Now I’m reading from the beginning and marking errors considering a revised edition.
There’s hardly an author out there who hasn’t discovered an error post publishing. Give yourself some grace and glean what you can from the experience for the next time you’re climbing that spiral staircase and hit the same place. You’ll be a little higher up with a different perspective and a new understanding. 🙂
Loved this piece, and as a writer/fiber artist, I found the same nexus of writing and work with my hands. https://muffin.wow-womenonwriting.com/2018/09/friday-speak-out-knitting-together-of.html and https://readingthepast.blogspot.com/2025/09/stitching-together-novel-research-essay.html
Thank you! I love all the ways creativity connects to creativity. Hands, heart, brain. 🙂
I both knit and write, too! This is a great perspective on both arts/crafts. We learn best from our mistakes. A lot of that is a matter of taking something apart.
I do that in my knitting. When a sweater develops holes in its elbows, I often pull the sleeve(s) apart to a point above the hole, reserve the yarn, then re-knit the sleeve. (For most commercially manufactured sweaters, this requires the use of Civil War-era steel knitting pins – very small!) It takes patience, but what else do I need to do when lounging in front of the idiot box watching Westerns from the 50s and 60s?
My oldest brother became interested in pulling ponies, but balked at the prices of leather harness. He said to himself, “For that kind of money, I can make better harness myself.” So he did. He began by taking old harness apart to see how it was put together. Eventually he began building harness for the carriage trade, using a book from Great Britain with extremely clear photographs. As a result, his harness had a “foreign” look, which attracted customers wanting something unique that was not otherwise available in the States.
What an interesting story about your brother! I honestly believe that taking something apart in order to “see” it holistically is the best way. It’s the same principle I use in revision coaching. 🙂 AND, I love that you are mending instead of discarding.
This is an excerpt from “Charitable Writing: Cultivating Virtue Through Our Words” (2020) by Richard Hughes Gibson and James Edward Beitler III. It is about allowing time to share our early drafts with others, and accepting how their perspectives can enrich our story.
It is from the chapter called “Humble Listening in Local Writing Communities – Workshop Writing”
“What makes a writing community distinct from other sorts of learning communities is, of course, that not just conversation but writing is shared. Writing communities entail workshopping. That practice can take various forms, but all involve the circulation of work between members for the purpose of receiving feedback. This activity can be uncomfortable for nay of us. Allowing others to view and comment on our work requires
us to be out there, on display – in a word, vulnerable.
“Many of us recoil from this kind of attention. Sometimes, pride tells us that we don’t need to listen to peers’ advice. We don’t need to revise; we’re better than that. in fact (pride whispers), we’re better than them. So we resist feedback, either by responding defensively to criticism or by haughtily ignoring it when it is offered. At other times, it is not pride but despair that cripples us. Taking criticisms too much to heart – that is,
mistaking criticisms of our work for attacks on ourselves – we buckle at the knees and give up. Suggestions for revision seem far too daunting to do, so we ignore them. As in the case of pride, we learn nothing from despair. Both hinder our ability to hear the
instructive words coming from outside ourselves. This is true not only of criticism but also of praise, which we often can’t see clearly. What’s lost in the process is the chance to build on what is working and to improve what isn’t. this situation is disastrous for your improvement as a writer, and in all likelihood, for your growth as a disciple. We are all in need of correction and encouragement …”
This is so true – and yet the only to grow and improve is through constructive criticism from a knowledgeable source. Thank you for sharing. –
I love everything about this piece, Nita. I’m inspired and encouraged. I can’t help smiling at your how the gentle kindness in your words is pushing me to do the hard thing in a way that feels way less scary than it did a few moments ago.
That’s so kind of you to say, Trisha – thank you!