#I know too many disabled people who are scared to use the yarns they really want to

[garaksapprentice]

The internet: You must never machine wash your knits. Never. Ever. They will be destroyed the moment they are touched by the caress of a machine's heated water supply. Hand wash only, or You Shall Be Sorry.

Me:

That photo contains ~13 pairs of 70/30 wool/nylon socks, a 100% wool shawl, an acrylic shawl, an acrylic kid's jumper, an acrylic beanie, a vest knit of "handwash only" wool, and a few other things I've forgotten.

This is one of the reasons to swatch, people. Knit a swatch. A big one. Even better, knit a hat out of the thing you want to use. Chuck it in the wash. See how it comes out. Make decisions from there.

I've knitted somewhere above 50 non-sock things in the decade or so since my first kid came along. I have machine washed them all. Only two - TWO - things have gotten eaten by the wash in that time. (a purple toddler dress and half a sock). And both of those were accidentally put through with the regular clothes wash.

Obligatory caveats: Probably don't do this if your machine doesn't have a gentle/delicate setting. I made sure mine came with a wool cycle when I had to buy a new one. It takes 38 minutes, spins at 800 RPM, and refuses to go hotter than 30ºC.

Also if you tend to use loosely spun yarns or very large gauges (both seem to be popular nowadays), or like to knit Extremely Delicate Lace, use caution. (My knitting preferences are basically the opposite of those things - I like things that last.)

[therosebunpost]

Is this self indulgent? Yes, I hope you enjoy it too!

I’m taking Inspo from my recent Bully! Eddie idea, and mixing it with this!

So, Bully! Eddie x New Girl! Disfigured! Disabled!Reader, where Reader comes to school for her last year of high-school. She’s Eddie’s age, and has repeated school a few times to lead her to this point. Rumors spread, but one of the biggest ones is just how she ended up looking the way she does. Was it a car crash? A fire? A bear attack? No one really knows, and it’s even said that Reader changes the story every time she’s asked. Sometimes it’s more plausible, other times she spins this yarn that could rival Eddie’s own campaigns.

Obviously, Eddie is intrigued, but he’s also a dick, so he makes it his personal mission to find out just what happened to her. Here is where the previous idea comes in, because his plan involves getting her to tutor him. In his mind, it plays out like this: She tutors him and in between mathematical equations and world history, he pressures her into telling him what actually happened.

What really happens: Actually studying (which is a shocker to him), Reader countering his attempts, and the most surprising of all, Feelings??

It’s not long before Eddie realizes that these little study dates become less of an excuse to find out what’s happened to her, and more of a ploy to just know her. He feels like he does after a while. Like she’s slowly opening up to him despite not wanting to, despite turning down his more romantic advances with a scoff or a joke every damn time. After all, no one else in school knew how many surgeries she’s had, or her countless hospital visit’s. No one else knows the kind of music she listens to, or laughs with her about some stupid inside joke. No one else knows that when she was a child, she used to pretend to be a monster and scare the other kids on the playground. “They treated me like one anyway, so why not lean into it?” (That particular tidbit is one of his favorites.)

Eddie feels normal around her, for once. Less of a freak and more of a boy just trying to impress the girl he likes. He’s so certain that she likes him too. It’s in the way she looks at him, or doesn’t mind when he gets a little too close. It’s in the way she let him actually touch her face, and her scars. It’s in the way where she actually blushes when he teases her, her protests holding barely any heat.

He knows that he likes her, even if the thought scares him. In his mind, they may be the outcasts of the school but she’s the hidden princess just waiting to be discovered, and he’s just the troll keeping her locked away with association. That doesn’t stop him from stealing an extra sandwich from the lunch line for her when they study, or being her personal driver home when they finished. It doesn’t stop him from making her mixtapes, or making NPCs with her likeness. He may be a little mean to her, but he’s worse to the people around the two of them. To the dickheads who find it hilarious to mess with her, or the assholes who liked to stare.

Still, Eddie didn’t know why she kept ignoring his advances. Kept skirting around his flirting, or his professions of love. It all comes to a head when they smoke for the first time together, the weed leaving then both fuzzy. Eddie’s a sap when high, all compliments and sweetness, but Reader just seems to get more upset with every one.

“I’m not stupid.” She says, bitterness souring the floral perfume of the weed. “I know you can be a dick, but joking about that kind of thing is fucked up, Eddie.”

It’s in that moment that everything crashes into place. “…Someone asked you out as a joke?”

“…More then once.”

With the grace of a ballerina wearing sandbags on her feet, all heavy thumps and wobbling legs, Eddie’s right in front of her. Kneeling in front of her beanbag chair, brown eyes serious despite the pink rim. “I’m not joking.” He promises, so close that he can feel her breath on his face. So close that his nose brushes against hers. “I was never joking. I’m an asshole, but christ sweetheart, that’s…that’s some evil shit. I don’t deal in that.”

Her voice is soft, tentative. “…You don’t?”

“No. I’m more of a mischief maker. Apparently, I also can’t read people for shit. Is that why you keep turning me down? You really think me, The Freak Of Hawkins, would do that to my fellow companion in social exile?” He grins a little and that gets you giggling. “Sweetheart, that’s the kinda shit people like Jason and some of his cronies do. I should revoke your free weed privileges for even insinuating that-“

More laughter, and then you do something else. You pull him close, arms wrapped around his broad shoulders so your cuddling there on the beanbag. His heart is racing, his one tense body practically melting as you run your fingers through his wild curls. “….I was also…scared. I guess. No one’s ever really…payed attention to me like that before.”

“Well that’s their loss, and my fantastic victory.” He mumbles, hugging your waist and nuzzling your neck. The scent of your body wash tickling his nose. “I mean, fuck, I get to be with the ultimate survivor? My own bear fighter? The one touched by fire and lived to tell the tale? Sweetheart, you are the most metal of people. The most badass.” He leans back, cupping your face and lightly rubbing your cheeks. “So…please? Gimme a chance? No jokes, just my bleeding heart all for you to do what you want with.”

He kisses you for the first time that night in his van, then again the next morning when you wake up together. He calls you pretty, and the honesty in his tone sings.

[mcalhenwrites]

While I do have confidence in my writing and generally think it's pretty good, that doesn't mean my confidence is at 100%. It's really dependent upon which story and which aspect of that story. I think my characterization for most stories is on point, I think my world building is strong in most but shaky in others, and my general writing style kind of fluctuates between beautiful and decent (with some low dips on occasion). The weakest point, imo, is the presentation of the story itself. I'm sometimes too indulgent (when it comes to "kill your darlings" I mean - all my stories are some version of self-indulgent), other times not indulgent enough. It's hard, when you want to be a published writer, but you want to stick by your ideals/not make sacrifices just for a dollar. (Especially a dollar that is not guaranteed.) And I really, really want my stories to have an audience and be available for the people who need them, regardless of whether or not they were ever profitable. That's why I share many for free still, despite that technically... I cannot afford to. I want to have people read, more than I care about the money, honestly, but... If writing as a career would take off, that'd be great, because I really, really can't work in the current setup for my country. Disability is not the option people think it is. Also, I'd like to save up more than $2k or so, thanks! I want to own a house. I want the right to own cats in my own household without having to pay awful deposits. To adjust my house for those cats. (Building cubbies in bathrooms and laundry room for litter pans that have easy-to-mop flooring, although I learned from one of my cats to just put pee pads under the box.) I want to be able to afford healthcare because... surprise, surprise, I ACTUALLY DO WANT TO WORK. I want to garden again. I want to use up some of my yarn. I'd like to be able to drive over to a friend's house with food when they need some company. I'd like my life. It's mine. I deserve that much, but in this country, autonomy is impossible to acquire. It's being stripped away. For a country that demands that everyone be independent, they sure as hell just really mean they want you dead if you can't be profited from. Writing grants me the opportunity to work with a difficult schedule. I can't function today because of fibro? Fine, I rest today. I am not able to promise you anything within a few hours, much less in the next six months. I never know what my next hour is going to look like with my health. I have several health problems. Some could be taken care of. Some are permanent, unless science advances to deal with fibromyalgia or Sjogren's. So yeah, I'm pushy and I post a lot of writing stuff and I'm not always that confident. But it's because I'm scared, and I am trying my best here. I am working hard, to the point I still forget to be gentle to myself sometimes.