A Journey That Led to Self-Publishing

What I’ve Learned Over the Past Five Years

Five years ago, in February 2020, I travelled to Fair Isle for what was meant to be a short creative retreat—three or four days of learning to use a knitting machine, exploring new ideas, and taking a breath before a busy season of my knitting tours. I was staying with my friend Marie Bruhat, who was trialing a new concept of her own knitting holidays, helping machine knitters develop their skills, patterns, and business ideas. It was a chance to pause, reset, and immerse myself in something different before launching into what was supposed to be a fully booked season, my biggest one yet.

But then Storm Dennis hit. What was meant to be a few days turned into over a week, as we were stranded by the weather. That extra time, however, was a gift. I threw myself into learning, experimenting with colours and designs, and by the end of my stay, we had created a snood that I was truly excited about. The experience was enriching—both creatively and personally. It felt like the perfect way to step into a year that was meant to be full of promise and adventure. That snood would turn out to be a pivotal piece in what was to come. (You can read more about that experience on my blog.)

Of course, I had no idea what was coming.

Just days after returning home, the world started shifting in ways none of us could have imagined. The news of COVID-19 spread quickly, and suddenly, all my carefully laid plans for the year unravelled. Like so many others in the travel industry, I found myself facing an uncertain future, wondering how to move forward when everything I had built seemed to be on hold indefinitely.

I don’t want to dwell too much on that time, or even return to it in my thoughts, as it was deeply unsettling. But it was in those uncertain months that I made a decision that would change the course of my work. I needed to find a new way to sustain my business—something that built on what I already knew, what I was passionate about, and, most importantly, something that could be done despite the restrictions. That’s how Shetland Wool Adventures Journal was born—and fittingly, the Storm Dennis Snood became one of the patterns featured in its pages.

At the time, I didn’t have a grand plan. I just started small. I focused on what I could do with the resources I had, drawing on my existing community of knitters, travellers, and people who had followed my work over the years. The first volume of the journal came together in a few months—long, intense days spent learning as I went, figuring things out step by step. Little by little, it took shape, and to my huge relief, it resonated with people. That first volume led to another, and then another. From there, other publishing projects followed.

I’m not sharing this as a blueprint for others to follow exactly—everyone’s journey is different. But if you’re thinking about starting something new—whether it’s a small business, a creative project, or self-publishing a book—I want to encourage you to just start. You don’t have to know exactly where it will lead. You don’t need all the answers right away. What matters is taking that first small step and building from there.

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned over the past few years is that progress comes from consistency, not perfection, and that everything is a process. When I started the journal, I didn’t have a publishing background—just some experience from a previous job. I simply spent time each day working towards something that I cared for passionately and believed in. Writing notes, sketching ideas, researching, endless financial planning, reaching out to people… it all added up in the end, and I had something real, something I could share with the world.

Another thing that made all the difference was the community I had built before launching the journal. It wasn’t just about selling a product—it was about connecting with people who shared my passions, who found value in what I was creating. That foundation was invaluable in starting this new venture.

Even now, I often have doubts about how to keep going. What the next project will be. Whether I’ll manage to bring my ideas to life. But I’ve learned that the best thing I can do is simply start. To put pen to paper, to make a few notes, to take small steps without overthinking. Sometimes those ideas sit for a while—weeks, months, even years. But when I look back, I realise how much I’ve accomplished simply by returning to them over time.

If you’re at a crossroads, wondering what to do next, my advice is this: Start small. Take half an hour a day to work on something that excites you. Don’t worry about having a fully formed plan. Just begin, and see where it takes you. You might be surprised by what you create.

Looking back, I could never have predicted that a storm in Fair Isle would be the first step towards self-publishing and a completely new direction in my work. But in many ways, that unexpected week—filled with creativity, learning, the simple joy of making, and a situation entirely beyond my control—set the tone for everything that followed.

And perhaps that’s the biggest lesson of all: small moments, small steps, and small beginnings can lead to something bigger than we ever imagined.

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