Dabbling in new genres, in both knitting and writing, surely makes one grow as an artist, but you’re always taking a risk that the result will be UGH WHY DID I DO THAT.
I wrote a historical novel, for example. And not only did I spend a ton of time researching and not only did I feel constrained and flattened by “reality” while writing it, but in the end it turned out that it was entirely wrong from top to bottom. It had a historical setting but didn’t center around one particular historical event or figure, so it was NOT in fact a historical novel at all, but rather an uncategorizable chimera that no one wanted, not even me. And to top it off, when you’re writing a historical setting, there’s the real people angle to deal with. Real groups. Real ancestors. Watch what you say, keep an eye to documented sources, get sensitivity readers–and prepare to be excoriated anyway.
Siiiighh. I will rewrite that book. It will be a thing. Just not any time soon.
But I digress: socks. I knit a pair out of 100% synthetic sock yarn, and lo, do I regret it. No fun to knit with, impossible to tension so the colorwork looks like crap, and they’re no fun to wear. I am getting rid of this garbage and going back to wool.