My Strange Addiction: A crafter’s confession

It stared with pom poms—small, fuzzy, seemingly innocuous pom poms. It ended with a rejection email from the casting director of TLC Broadcasting and a newfound hatred of Tori Spelling. But let’s start with the pom poms. They were my gateway craft and this is my story.

Second grade.  This is when my trouble began. “Mrs. E” was a tired teacher, exhausted by the endless screams and giggles of small children. She would shovel glitter and glue sticks and pom poms into our small eager palms and sigh “craft time” before she shuffled outside to smoke a cig.  We had pipe cleaners and finger paint and more googly eyes than any child knew what to do with. For the rest of the class, craft time was just an opportunity to get a bead stuck up your nose. For me, it was sweet solace.

This was well before I knew I would end up at RISD, well before I figured out my energy could be channeled into more fruitful artistic endeavors. Haunted by the image of Barney and his far superior craft box, I was hungry for more projects. As the years went on—and many Christmases passed where it was pretty much guaranteed that in that handmade box with the handmade bow was a small handmade present made by me—my crafting compulsion spiraled out of control.

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