Chapter Sixteen: To celebrate their first Christmas as a couple, Gwen designs and knits a sweater for Jaron.
photo by ldyck
Chapter Seventeen
One evening, Jaron dropped by
Urban Knits
to help me close—our friend Wen, the sous-chef at The
Starving Artist, was
starring in Merrily We
Roll Along, a play
presented by the United Players of Vancouver and staged in the
Jericho Arts Centre. The Centre was a
couple of blocks from the yarn shop.
To be more accurate, I was closing,
and Jaron was trying not to get in the way. He spun the revolving
stand displaying knitting magazines. Around and around the stand
spun, but then... “Have you sent your pattern for the..." He grinned. "My sweater to a
publisher yet?” He knew the answer; he really didn't need to ask.
“No, eh? Well, you should. You should send it to Needles
and Yarn.” He pulled
the magazine off the stand. The cover announced a contest for
wannabe knitwear designers.
“But what if I don't win?”
“But what if you do? Either way, it's just one step. You can't play
it safe all the time. Sometimes you have to take a risk. I believe in
you. Believe in yourself.”
With his support, I took the step.
Months later, I was sitting on the sofa, working on a new design
when I heard our apartment door open.
“This came for you.” Jaron
handed me what appeared to be an ordinary white business-size
envelope. The top line of the return address read Needles
and Yarn.
“It's from them,” I told him.
“Wait. Wait.” He poured us both a glass of wine.
The envelope held the key to my future. The months of waiting had
painted it vividly: fame, fortune, and a sheep farm where I'd learn
to spin and dye. I took a sip of wine to steady my nerves. I unfolded
the letter knowing it alone could validate my existence.
“Read it out loud,” Jaron instructed.
“Thank you for submitting to
Needles and Yarn,
but...” my voice wavered. "Unfortunately, we cannot accept
your design for publication.”
I heard them screaming at me: “Loser! Your design sucks. You
suck. You're not a designer. You're a loser!” I tilted my head and drained the glass. All I
wanted was to drink. I poured myself another glass. But... I saw my
dad in his coffin. I pushed the wine bottle away.
Jaron held me in his strong arms and let me cry. Not all men can deal
with emotion, but Jaron could, can.
“Just one step,” he reminded me. “They said no. That's their
loss. Remember how well your patterns sell at Urban
Knits. Remember how many
complaints we received for your sweater. Let that success empower you and fuel you. Send your design to another magazine
and another and another. Being an artist is hard work, and you've got
to be brave. You've got to believe in yourself. And if you do, I
promise you. You will succeed.”
“What about you?”
“Huh?”
“Why don’t you send your manuscript to a publisher? I know it’s
good. You know it’s good. A publisher will know it’s good too.
All you have to do is find them.”
“All, huh?” He said, but he also said, “Okay, it’s a deal. You send your pattern to a magazine, and I’ll send my manuscript to
a publisher.”
When I was ready, when we were ready, we sent our work out—again
and again and again.
Read the final chapter of
When Gwen Knits
photo by Eleanor
This is me.
