How I Learned to Boldly Embrace My Crafting Mistakes

I spent a significant amount of my life avoiding certain activities because I was nervous about messing up. Maybe this is one of the reasons why they say ‘perfection is the enemy of good.’ If you’re afraid to try something just because you won’t do it right the first time, you miss out on a lot of experiences.

It took me a long time to discover why I was so afraid of messing up. Now that I understand the early childhood criticisms that caused me to fear mistakes, the reality frustrates me. But that’s not what I’m here to talk about.

I’m here to talk about how I discovered that crafting is a process. It involves a lot of troubleshooting. And eventually, that troubleshooting turns into skill.

For a lot of my life, I watched people create fantastic things. I never believed I could use my hands to create anything other than words. And while I knew the principles of creation are the same no matter what medium you work in, there seemed to be fewer consequences working with words and nebulous ideas.

If I mess up a scene, I just hit the backspace button and type new words. The only thing consumed in the process is time. Crafting requires physical materials. And mistakes use them up – another factor that made me hesitant for a long time.

But if publishing has taught me anything, it’s that you can’t achieve anything without taking risks. And sometimes the real joy is in the mistakes you make on the path to creating a polished product.

We Always Start Small

I picked up cross stitching during the pandemic lockdown. It was something I did a lot when I was younger, but stopped for some weird reason. (I’m still not entirely sure why.) Maybe I thought I didn’t have time. The pandemic certainly provided a lot of that.

I never used to think of cross stitching as real crafting. It’s not that it doesn’t require certain skills. But I’ve always used kits. You buy a small pack and it comes with everything you need – a needle, an exact measurement of thread, a canvas and the pattern. Some even come with a cheap wooden hoop to hold your fabric while you work.

As with many other things, I never realized how much skill is involved until I started talking to people. Streaming helped with that. When people see me crafting on stream they stop to talk about their experience or ask questions about what I’m doing.

I’ve always preferred counted cross stitch (because that’s how I learned to do it). You can buy stamped cross stitch kits which come with a pattern stamped onto the canvas so that you know exactly where to put certain colors. I’ve also seen people draw their design onto the canvas so they have a guide.

I prefer to work with a stark pattern and a lot of counting. It results in mistakes. But that no longer scares me, because I know how to fix them.

I Didn’t Realize How Much I Learned

During one of the craft streams I share with my good friend Itswuf on Saturday nights, I decided to tackle the back stitching for my epic dragon cross stitch. Back stitching is my least favorite part of the process because it’s fiddly. And I’m very particular. I will sometimes undo and re-do a stitch several times to test different angles until I’m happy with how it looks.

Sometimes I even ignore the pattern and strike out on my own if I think the way the guide recommends looks bad.

I made the mistake of starting with the head. It was the most crowded part of the pattern, and I read the guide wrong several times, which meant I had to keep ripping out stitches and redoing them even when I wasn’t trying to test. Eventually, the combined pressure caused by so much back and forth tugging snapped my thread.

Shit!

I was less than happy. But sometimes thread snaps when you’re working with it. It’s hardly the first time I’ve experienced the setback, and it won’t be the last.

But instantly someone in the chat asked, “What do you do when the thread breaks?” And it wasn’t until that moment that it occurred to me that for a beginner, a snapped thread might be a daunting prospect.

“It’s okay,” I replied. “I just undo a stitch or two so I have room to tie off the thread. Then I cut the frayed part off the remains and anchor it like it’s a new thread.” Simple. Easy.

But it’s a process I learned over time and after many similar mistakes.

Mistakes Are Part of the Process

That one little incident made me think about all the times I’ve had to fix mistakes on one of my projects. When I was working on the horse, I accidentally placed several stitches in the wrong place. There was a lot of space between stitches of that particular color, and I miscounted. (Which happens shockingly often.)

I could have ignored the mistake and worked around it. I also could have cut the stitches. Instead, I attempted to unweave the thread and undo the stitches in a way that let me re-use the thread.

Sometimes I have to trim the old thread and use a fresh one. But one of the challenges I always set myself when I cross stitch is to use my thread as efficiently as possible. So mistakes become an extra puzzle. How can I fix this without using extra resources? (Sometimes I can’t – but it’s still a nice little exercise.)

Speaking of miscounting, one time I miscounted so badly that I started an entire part of a pattern on the wrong row. (Whoops!) This happened during the Art of Tea cross stitch. It meant that one of the mugs was slightly out of alignment with all the others on its horizontal. And I didn’t realize the mistake until I entirely finished the mug.

I spent a lot of time staring at that canvas contemplating the idea of ripping out DAYS of work in order to start on the right row. And I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. But I knew if I left it that way, the mistake would be blaringly obvious once I added the text.

Mistakes No Longer Scare Me

So what did I do? I studied the pattern on the mug and extended it an extra row. I had the extra thread of all the required colors, so it didn’t affect the rest of the project’s completion. And it’s impossible to tell the mug is one extra row tall unless I point it out.

The mug in question had a spoon leaning against it, and the most challenging part of the process was making the spoon look right when I eventually did the project’s back stitching. But you know what? I’m proud of that little change. It looks better than the original (in my humble opinion). And it makes my execution of the pattern unique.

Most important, that small brush with pattern modification emboldened me enough to start trying custom patterns that don’t come in kits. For the first time, I’m working with a pattern that didn’t come with a pre-measured amount of thread. I chose all the colors I wanted to use myself. And I’ve already found two instances where the color choices didn’t work the way I thought they would.

Easy fix – I ripped out the stitches for the color I didn’t like and replaced them with one that looked better. Luckily I caught both before I’d used more than a strand or two of thread, but it still feels nice to have such control over the look of the finished product.

If I hadn’t encountered those problems during my other projects, I don’t know if I’d have had the confidence to strike out on my own. I’m even hoping to create my own patterns someday.

And I didn’t realize how much skill I had gained until I reviewed my experiences.

My Crafting Future

Recently, a friend of mine started 3D printing miniatures for our D&D campaign. She can’t possibly paint them all. So she’s invited other members of the group to assist.

I’ve watched a lot of mini painting, so I know skill is required. Especially if you want to do detail work. I instantly expressed my fear that I’d never be able to paint small things and make them look good. But my friend was ready. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I have a method that anyone can do.” And she knows what she’s doing, so I agreed.

Her method involves quick painting and a paint called “skill in a bottle.” Once you’ve finished putting color on your mini, you use skill in a bottle to put a top coat over it. It seeps into the crevices of the mini and gives them shadow and depth. They don’t create the most beautiful minis, but even my first attempts looked pretty darn good.

We’ve only attended a few painting nights so far. But every time we go back to the exercise, I feel a little more confident. And a little more willing to try something new.

My friend is an artist. She has a body of skill that includes non-mini painting. She has made some truly beautiful minis. I don’t attempt to compete with her – I know my skill can’t compare. But I do think I’ve learned enough about the process of crafting to trust that if I make a mistake, I can eventually cover it up. Or turn it into a different pattern. And ultimately end up with something that looks nice.

Of course, the most important thing is to always have fun. And I no longer worry so much about mistakes that I can’t enjoy learning a new craft.