I graduated from High School and started working at Urban Knits full-time. Living and working in the shop, I couldn't be happier. I poured all my energy into growing my knitting career. I felt unstoppable.
I was always on the lookout for venues in which to sell my sweaters. A high-end clothing boutique was a couple of blocks from Urban Knits. Clothing was staged like works of art. I fantasized about my sweaters being displayed so attractively. Of course, without Mother's financing, I could no longer afford to buy anything. The saleswoman probably thought I was just a lookie-loo. She didn't know I had a mission. It took me several visits to build up enough confidence to discuss my work, but one day I did. “I'm a knitwear designer.”
The imposing woman with purple highlights, dressed in black, pulled her glasses off her face and let them dangle on the gold chain around her neck. “Everyone's a writer, a designer these days.”
I began to unzip my jacket. “I'm wearing one of my sw—”
“We only carry European designers.” Her shoes beat a steady tattoo as she charged off to tidy an already immaculate display.
I'd been dismissed.
I crawled home to my apartment in Urban Knits, where I consoled myself with daydreams of my sweaters hanging in European boutiques—where they only carried North American designers.
I joined the Canadian Knitwear Designer Association and took solace in that community. Many grappled with the same problems I had. They complained about knitters being unwilling to pay for patterns, lack of payment for designs, lack of recognition for work completed, and closed doors preventing further success.
Designers with more experience attempted to encourage us with carefully crafted pep talks.
“Believe in your work, and others will too.”
“All the struggling will pay off. You will obtain success.”
“A couple of years ago, I was where you are. Now look at me. I've built a successful career. Believe me, if I can do it, so can you.”
Religiously, I lurked, reading each post, taking comfort where possible.
