three
Know Your Stuff
KNITTING ISN’T JUST ABOUT THE YARN and the projects. As the friends and families of knitters will tell you (as they look for a clear space to sit), knitting comes with a lot of stuff. From needles to patterns to tape measures, these bits and pieces are as necessary as yarn to our craft, and have a variety and volume that matches any yarn stash.
The wise knitter (that would be you; since my knitting stuff is a disaster) organizes her stuff, keeps it handy, and knows how to use it. The unwise knitter (that would be me) rummages around, makes do with what she’s got, and still has a pretty good time. Part of the occasionally bitter song and the often wonderful surprise of knitting is that your projects don’t always work out as happily as an after-school movie. There are simply too many variables for there to be no surprises, but over time I’ve learned that understanding your stuff (even if your stuff isn’t very good stuff) improves the odds of getting a predictable knitting outcome.
When it comes to my spare time (and my working time too, now that I think about it, as I work at writing knitting books), it would appear that I’m a woman of limited intelligence. It’s not that I consider myself unintelligent, I’m pretty sure I’m about as smart as the next knitter. Rather, I mean that the scope of my intelligence is limited. I know a great deal about just one thing. I don’t know anything about barometric pressure; I can’t make sushi; really, all I care about deeply (my family and spiritual life aside) is knitting.
I suspect that many of you are the same, and, considering the relative simplicity of knitting, that it occupies a space in your heart, mind, and home that’s larger than expected. This limited intelligence, or focus, makes the processes of knitting matter a great deal. Knitting is simple, and this means that once you have the basics of knit and purl down cold, attention to detail starts to matter and knitters tend to get uptight about smooth knitting needles, lost gauges, errant tape measures, and the accuracy of patterns. It turns out that if you’re a Knitter (note the capital K) and you’ve taken up the process of knitting at all seriously, you’ll be with me in thinking that figuring out the best kind of needle for you makes a lot of sense.
KNITTING NEEDLES
Without knitting needles, we would simply be surrounded by piles of beautiful string. Needles come, infuriatingly, in several kinds of sizes, materials, and types and if you’re like me, you’ll no doubt decide you need them all. There could be a therapy group for knitters driven over the edge by a circular needle with a sloppy join that snags their lace weight, and an entire evening could be spent berating a needle that lacks a tip pointy enough to do a “knit three together through the back loops.” How, then, to choose among the hundreds of needles currently littering your home?
SIZES
Knitting needles come in sizes that indicate their diameter. These sizes are measured mainly by three systems (four, if you count my personal system of losing all my needle gauges and having to roll needles between my fingers and make a guess). There is the metric “mm” system, the most common in the world and, to my way of thinking, the best. Each needle size is actually its diameter in millimeters, a concept brilliant in its simplicity. There is the U.S. system, in which each needle is measured and then assigned a number. In this system, the smallest number is the smallest size and so forth. It’s still a good system, though used only in the United States, so if you’re a knitter from another country, or a knitter who likes patterns from another country, you’re going to have to get down with the metric system. The third system is the old United Kingdom one. This is like the U.S. one, except the smallest numbers are the biggest needles.
It pays to think outside of your own country. Once upon a time I had a nifty Irish sweater pattern. It called for chunky wool, and I had fished the appropriate yarn out of the stash. Glancing at the pattern, I saw that it called for size 4 needles. It seemed odd, but I grabbed my size 4s and attempted to get gauge. An hour later, when I had just about broken my wrists and produced a piece of knitting so dense that I thought about marketing it as a bulletproof vest, I thought about the conversion chart. I, naturally, being Canadian, had thought the pattern referred to the metric size 4. Feeling quite clever, I fished out my U.S. size 4s only to realize that they were even smaller. Frustrated, I then did what any other knitter would do. I used whatever needle it took to get gauge … and complained bitterly to my knitting friends about the error in the pattern.
Laughing, they openly mocked me, and then showed me a chart with the UK sizes on it. Now, before I slag any pattern for being wrong, I try to remember that I don’t live in the only country in the world.
It seems pathetic to list the conversion chart for these three types here again, since I’m confident that this is the ten-millionth time someone has written it down, but I can never find one when I need it, and until the world is run by a knitter government that standardizes this sort of thing, well, you’re going to need one. Be warned that when knitters run the world, coming up with one consistent system of needle sizing is going to be the first thing we address.
A STRAIGHT PATH?
Once you’ve come to understand knitting needle sizing, you’ll have to weigh in on straight versus circular needles. This one simple point (or two) is probably the issue of greatest contention among knitters. It really doesn’t take long for a knitter to make up her mind about her preference, and most make no bones about an inflexible opinion.
Straight needles are:
• Less expensive.
• Readily available and easy to find. Even a dollar store usually carries them.
• Used only for knitting things that aren’t circular. (I know that seems obvious, but I’m trying to be thorough.)
• Possibly faster, depending on your knitting style. “Armpit knitters,” or those who tuck one needle under an arm, are among the fastest in the world, and they use straight needles exclusively, since tucking a circular under your arm leads to cramping, knitting failure, and an odd chicken-like posture.
• Traditional, and I really like that. There’s a certain something about knitting with the same tools that people knit with centuries ago. Circulars are relatively new on the scene, and I like the idea of connecting with so many knitters who came before me. (This fantasy is blown right out of the water if you’re knitting with shiny-colored aluminum needles, but I can ignore that.)
• Easy to store neatly in just about anything — a drawer, a bag, a vase, down the side of a chair.
• Useful as a personal defense system in a pinch.
Circular needles are:
• A little more expensive.
• Slightly less likely to be lost down a crack on the bus or to roll away from you loudly in a dark and quiet movie theater. (Not that I would know from experience.)
• Useful for flat (back and forth) or circular knitting. Thus making it possible (and I hate to admit this, my love for straight needles being as pure as it is) for you to use just circular needles your whole knitting life.
• More difficult to store.
• Tied together so you can’t lose one. (Until you’ve lost a straight mid-project, you really don’t understand the advantage of this.)
• Available in more sizes, since there are two parts to the sizing (the diameter of the needles and the length of the cord) and both measurements matter. Hence, you may need to purchase more of them.
Circular needles come in an assortment of lengths, as — at least when you’re using them to knit circularly — you need a needle that is a shorter length than the diameter of your total stitches. (There are exceptions to this, and if you must know, they involve using two circulars or one very, very long one.)
DOUBLE-POINTED NEEDLES
These are a fancy animal. They’re straight needles that you use to knit circularly. They scare the daylights out of a lot of new knitters, who see four or five needles sticking out of a sock in progress and immediately imagine that managing five needles has to be more complicated than using two. All I have to say to newcomers to double points is this: Remember that no matter how many needles are present, you only use two at a time. Be not afraid.
Double-pointed needles are shockingly useful. They’re good for small tubes, like the arms of a baby sweater; they’re indispensable for making I-cord; and they come in handy for picking locks, fending off other knitters at a yarn sale, and retrieving things (like stitch markers) from small spaces (like heating grates).
If you’re having a really good time with a needle someone else (or maybe everyone else) says is crap, ignore the warnings. You can like crap if it works for you.
WHAT ARE YOUR NEEDLES MADE OF?
Knitters don’t get serious only about circular or straight; there’s also the deeply divisive matter of needle material. Needles come made of all kinds of stuff, and they all have their advantages. For the longest time I knit exclusively with cheap aluminum-colored needles. I liked how cheerful they were; the way I could match the needle color to the yarn; and how sharp, fast, and inexpensive they were. These days I’m more likely to match my needle type to my yarn type, and though I miss the thrill of putting hot pink yarn on blue needles, I must admit I’m pretty keen on the way mohair clings to the wooden ones.
It’s possible to buy crappy needles of every sort. There are wooden needles that break or splinter, there are metal needles that aren’t smooth, and plastic ones with a point so blunt you couldn’t poke a hole in Jell-O with them. The advantages of each type refer only to needles of reasonable quality. As with yarn, buy the best quality you can afford, and don’t tar a whole group of needles until you’ve bought (or borrowed) them in their finest form.
WOOD
Needles made of wood are available in many different flavors of tree. Common woods are birch, beech, maple, and bamboo, though for a price you may choose warm, elegant rosewood or hard, exotic ebony. Knitters who love wooden needles say they’re quiet, warm, pleasantly organic, beautiful to look at, and improve with age. Knitters say they’re smooth without being too slick, making them very, very good for really slippery yarns that don’t want to stay put on the needles and for complex lacework where control matters.
Knitters who don’t like wooden ones say that they’re “slow” (the grip that helps with slippery yarn can work against you if your yarn is not slippery) and that they’re quite breakable. It’s true that some kinds are stronger than others, but virtually nothing will save a wooden needle if you sit on it. (I, having sat on both fragile and sturdy needles, advocate wood for the clumsy knitter. It hurts less.) Every once in a while you hear about a knitter whose wooden needle broke during normal use, but it’s more common for either a tight knitter or a knitter experiencing an unusual amount of stress. (For the purposes of this examination, I don’t consider “normal use” to be flinging them on the floor in a fit of rage over a stitch pattern that you’ve screwed up for the fourth time since dinner. Normal use and common use are not interchangeable.)
METAL
Metal needles range from the plain steel and aluminum ones all the way up to nickel- or gold-plated needles with the appealing brand name Turbo. (This always makes my husband laugh; since he imagines race cars and rocket engines and knitters who need flameproof jackets to protect them from the exhaust emitted by the needles. He was disappointed to discover that they look like ordinary, if extra-shiny, knitting needles.)
People who love metal needles say that they’re slippery, quick, and strong; that they tend to have the sharpest points — a real boon to knitters doing a lot of cables; and that they are (with the exception of the Turbo variety) the least expensive of all. Knitters who like them say that they’re good for sticky wool but far too slick for mohair or lace and that they’re the sturdiest of all needles. I can vouch for this, having managed to snap all varieties of needles except the metal ones. (I don’t try to do this; it’s a talent.)
Knitters who don’t care for metal needles say they’re cold, heavy, and inflexible and that the slipperiness makes for dropped stitches. Me? I love them.
PLASTIC
These vary almost too much to discuss effectively. If you’re thinking of those old, blunt, floppy needles that were as smooth as bricks … well. You can still buy those, but there are needle manufacturers that have elevated them way beyond that. There are plastic needles with a metal core to make them stronger; plastic needles with special tips; transparent colored needles that turn my 14-year-old’s crank pretty hard; and plastic needles that, in short, do not suck. Overall, today’s plastic needle is flexible, warm, light, and probably the best option to give a five-year-old boy just learning to knit. (Having been poked with several kinds of knitting needle by a five-year-old boy just learning to knit, I can vouch for this.)
CASEIN NEEDLES
These are warm, light, and slightly flexible. Casein needles are made from milk protein and, as such, three things are true about them.
They share many of the advantages as plastic, but are a natural material.
Many strict vegetarians or vegans eschew them because they are an animal product.
They taste (not that I’m suggesting eating them) very, very bad, so don’t hold one in your mouth.
OTHER MATERIALS
Knitting needles continue to surprise me. Some come with moral problems, like ivory, tortoiseshell, and walrus tusk needles, all of which are now illegal to buy or produce. If you have some, passed down from a knitter who didn’t know better or a time when they weren’t illegal, guard them with your life; they will not pass this way again and are an interesting footnote in knitting’s history. There are bone needles, which may be an issue for some knitters. (Frankly, they creep me out.) There are beautiful glass needles, more for show than go, and hand-painted wooden ones. For a mere $1,800 you can have solid gold needles, but I shudder to think what you’d be compelled to do when you inevitably lost one.
STUFF KNITTERS CARRY AROUND
I know this knitter … now, usually I change the names of knitters when I write about them, but that’s because it’s so often a story about disaster, a failure to think ahead, or them getting their arse kicked by a project in the worst way, and it’s only fair not to give their real names. This time, though, because I’m going to speak of this knitter in the most glowing terms, this time I’m going to be honest and tell you that this knitter’s name is Diane.
Diane is the rarest of knitters. Whenever I hung out with her, no matter where we were, Diane had not only everything she needed (something I admire, as I never have everything I need), but everything anybody else might need as well. You could be anywhere with Diane — a coffee shop, a yarn store, the bus — and no matter what you needed for your knitting, Diane had it. You would realize that you’d forgotten your scissors and be reconciling yourself to the fact that you were going to have to gnaw off a strand of mohair and whammo — Diane would pull scissors out of her bag. Wondering if you had knit eight inches? Diane had a tape measure. Grafting a toe? Diane had a darning needle and a small card outlining the steps. It was incredible. She was, and remains, the best-prepared knitter I ever met.
Considering my chronic lack of preparedness, and the yarn inevitably stuck between my teeth because I couldn’t find my scissors, I’ve taken careful note of what Diane carried with her.
THE MODEL KNITTING BAG
The bag itself is worth mentioning. It took me a long time to come around to the idea of carrying a knitting bag. I’m more of a backpack kind of gal, and it was many, many years before I saw the wisdom of carrying a bag specifically for knitting. The advantages of putting together a knitting bag are multifold.
WHAT SHOULD BE INSIDE
A measuring tape. You can’t have too many; they have a tendency to flee the scene. Tuck one (or two) in your knitting bag, but have a dozen or so scattered around the house to improve your odds.
A notebook and pencil. Use them to jot down what row you were on, the phone number of the nice knitter you met in the shop, and any alteration you made to the pattern. (Trust me: A scrap of paper or the back of a receipt does not suffice.)
A photocopy of your pattern. Copyright law allows you to make a working copy for personal use. This is a good idea. You can scrawl notes all over it and when (not if …) you lose it, it’s not as heartbreaking as losing a whole pattern book. Additionally, the fates are kinder to photocopies. The knitting goddess can never quite resist giving you a smack and seeing how you’d cope without a pattern. If you were Diane, you would also have the pattern tucked into a plastic page protector, but this is advanced level.
A crochet hook. This is a big help for picking up dropped stitches, working provisional cast-ons, and fishing your DPN out of a crack in the sofa.
An extra set of needles in the size you’re using. You know why.
A set of needles a size larger and a size smaller than the ones you’re using. You’ll be grateful for these when you realize a desperate gauge error kind of late in the game and you’re in a place where you can’t buy more needles. (When I run the world, there will be no place where you cannot buy needles, but I digress.)
A needle gauge. This invaluable little piece of plastic or metal can help you with three things: converting needle sizes among metric, UK, and U.S. sizes; figuring out if you have four matching DPNs; and measuring things when you have no tape measure, since they usually have a small ruler on one side. See measuring tape above.
A darning needle. This is a good one. Other stuff you can rig if you need to, but there’s really no way to sew a seam without a darning needle.
Stitch holders and coil-less safety pins. I won’t insult you by telling you what stitch holders are for. Coil-less safety pins function the same way; they hold an individual stitch or two; mark a row for decrease; or remind you which is the right side of your work if you’re using fuzzy yarn, doing garter stitch, or combining knitting and a cocktail.
Stitch markers. These are invaluable for newcomers to lacework. Stitch markers make the divisions between repeats obvious, mark a line of decreases, or tell you when you are halfway across large rows — very motivating.
Sticky notes. The unsung heroes of knitting, I use them to mark where I’m at on a pattern or move them up a chart as I work it. I used to cross out or highlight rows, but that system has its drawbacks if you have to yank back six rows.
Row counter. This little device is a spool-shaped bit of plastic that either fits on your knitting needle or dangles from it. It usually has two numbered dials you can turn to count rows 01 through 99. Darned handy for working stitch patterns that are different on every row or patterns that would have you work “25 rows before you begin shaping.”
A row counter beats the pants off my seemingly brilliant system, which involved setting out 25 candies and eating one at the end of every row. When the candy was gone, I had worked 25 rows. Problems emerge when on a knitting marathon and working 245 rows (in which case I ended up nauseated), or if you have children or a spouse with a sweet tooth (in which case all of your knitting ends up oddly short as your counters go missing).
THE ART OF THE KNITTER’S NOTEBOOK
If there was just one thing I would have you carry around, just one thing you could have with you that would save you more pain and knitting heartache and give you back simple happiness and peace of mind, just one thing I would take with me if my house burst into flames and I had time (after saving the people; you know I would take the people first … the people and that skein of blue silk I love), it would be the knitting notebook. Mine isn’t anything fancy or special — it’s just a spiral-bound book of graph paper. I carry it with me whenever I’m knitting, and we have come to have a deep and meaningful relationship.
It’s because of the knitting notebook that I can make two socks the same without driving myself insane as I squint and curse. I make notes of how many stitches I cast on for the right mitten so I can do the same for the left. It’s because of this notebook that I can remember how it was that I changed the top of the first sleeve and how to do the same to the second one. The knitting notebook is where I write all of my knitting math and make notes of the gauge and needles I’m using, and it’s where I note how many meters of yarn I need for that shawl I’m thinking about, if I see something good in the yarn shop, I can get the right amount. Mine has graph paper so I can draw simple charts for Fair Isle and intarsia, or invent (sometimes by accident) a new pattern for lace.
The notebook also holds invaluable notes like “Susan says the new Smithers merino is crap,” and “Sale in yarn shop on June 21.” The knitting notebook is especially useful to multitasking knitters; if you get in the habit of writing down how many of the 12 sleeve decreases you’ve done on the blue sweater, you don’t have any trouble when you pick it up again seven months (or years) from now, after you got distracted by three shawls and a pair of socks.
PROJECT JOURNALS
Some knitters take it even further and these days they’re my heroes. They’re the ones who keep a project journal, a sort of scrapbook where they record the details of the project, the pattern used, a snip of the yarn, one of the ball bands, what they thought of that yarn, what changes they made to the pattern, the measurements of the finished item, and the recipient. With the overachieving knitter, there’s also a photo of the finished garment.
When I was a young mother with three daughters under five, there was this other mother down the street. She had three kids, too, and we should have felt a certain kinship, sailing along as we were in similar boats, but she drove me nuts. This woman (whom we shall call “Martha” for the sake of this story) kept perfect house. Martha never had to give the cat a can of tuna because she’d forgotten to buy cat food. She never sent her kids to school with mud stains on their pants and told them to tell other people it was “paint from arts and crafts.” She certainly never took home a screaming kid from the park for whacking some other kid. Her house was immaculate and her spices were alphabetized. (She wasn’t a knitter.) I hated her. She made me feel like I was doing a crappy job.
I can admit, now that I’m mature and accepting, that I sometimes have some negative feelings about these journal-keeping knitters. I feel about them (in my weaker moments) the way I used to feel about Martha. I’m trying to be a better person.
PAPER, AND ITS PERILS
For most knitters, myself included (though things may be worse at my house, as I have a love of books as well as of knitting), there is only one thing we struggle to manage as much as yarn. It isn’t tape measures, notions, or scissors — those manage themselves by disappearing at regular intervals to keep us from being overwhelmed. It’s patterns, knitting books, and magazines. (I think it’s ironic that a knitting-book author is about to suggest ways to manage the problem; I’m part of the problem and it’s therefore doubtful that I can be part of the solution.) I’m certainly — being a knitting-book writer — not going to suggest that buying fewer of them is the answer. I do, however, have some ideas.
PATTERNS
I keep all patterns. I don’t know why. Say I’ve just finished a sweater where the pattern had a thousand mistakes, was poorly written, drove me insane, and produced, in the end, a sweater that lacked style and grace exactly the way a bag of hammers does. Instead of doing the logical thing, which is taking it into the living room, standing before the roaring fireplace, and, knowing fully and completely that I will never, ever knit that pattern again (nor would I wish it on my worst knitting enemy), casting it into the flames along with a few choice words about the designer and the horse she rode in on. Instead of this, I’ll take it upstairs and put it on a shelf.
I’m compelled to keep it. It’s a knitting pattern and therefore, even if it makes me want to stick knitting needles in my eyes, it has inherent value and I have to put it on the shelf. I will never knit it again. I will never lend it to another knitter. In all likelihood, I will curse its presence on the bookshelf when I run out of room for other good patterns, but I will keep it.
I’m not proud of this, but I know I’m not alone. So, for those of us who can’t part with patterns, here are a few ways to store them:
Method 1
Get a stack of file folders. Label one socks, another hats, one sweaters — kids, and so on. Put the folders on the shelf. When you go upstairs to put a pattern on the shelf (or instead of making a stack of them on the bedside table), file it in the appropriate folder. This is also where you put the 8,000 patterns you’ve printed off the Internet. Start early. If you’re an established knitter who adopted the “stack” system early, I don’t know what to suggest for you, except maybe paying some 10-year-old to sort them. Don’t attempt to convert the system yourself unless you’re the “Martha” sort of person described earlier in this chapter. (That’s pretty funny actually, since if you were the Martha sort of person, you wouldn’t have had the stack system in the first place.)
Method 2
Some knitters (though I’m not one of them, and this works only with patterns you haven’t used yet) put the pattern in the stash beside the yarn for the project. This works pretty well. It means you have to manage only the pattern you’re finished with (and most knitters have more patterns they “are going to use” than they “have used”), and has the bonus of reminding you what your intentions were for the 12 skeins of green wool anyway.
Method 3
For the “Martha” knitters out there, you can go completely over the top and employ a system of binders and plastic page protectors and file the patterns by type, weight, and designer the minute you finish with them or even bring them into the house. What I really like about this system is that when (not if) you spill coffee, tea, or red wine on a pattern, you can just wipe it off the plastic page protector and still read the chart.
MAGAZINES
The last time I was in the bookstore by my house I wandered over to the magazine rack and counted seven different knitting magazines on the shelf. I had none of them. Now you can’t just haul off and buy seven knitting magazines … you need to be a little discriminating. I have criteria that I apply to my knitting magazines to help keep buying binges under control.
I purchase only a knitting magazine if at least one of the following is true:
There is a pattern that I really like and will likely knit.
There is an article that describes a technique or approach I find intriguing.
There is a pattern for a garment that I would never knit but find inspirational.
There is a pattern or article from a designer or writer I like.
I have every other issue and don’t want to break up the set.
That time, I left with seven magazines. I always leave with seven. I put them on the shelf by the books.
BOOKS
I admit to owning a lot of knitting books. I’m not going to offer any ideas for managing them, buying fewer, or making good use of them. I suggest you put them on a shelf (or 10) together in one room (to make it easier to find the one you want) and celebrate them every chance you get.
I’m even going to encourage you to get more books by recommending that every knitter’s library contain the following five types of books:
Type 1
At least one thorough, decent book on technique. You want a book in which you can look up Kitchener stitch, backstitching a seam, which decrease leans left, and tells you how to cast on and off several different ways. You can’t always call your knitting friends for help at four in the morning on Christmas day. (Well, you can, and they might even understand, but the book will save you from needing to.)
Type 2
Stitch dictionaries. These books are pure inspiration. Filled cover to cover with ideas and patterns for wildly interesting ways to knit, stitch dictionaries are to knitters what the notes of the scale are to a piano virtuoso. Owning stitch dictionaries lets you add a lace cuff to a baby sweater, a cable to a sock, or to come up with 37 styles of ribbing.
Type 3
Books with patterns for simple, plain garments in shapes you like. These patterns will, as you move through your knitting life, become the templates for stuff that springs free of your imagination. A good sweater pattern can lead to 20 brilliant sweaters when you team it with the book on technique and your stitch dictionaries.
Type 4
Several books with brilliant, over-the-top “I-could-never” patterns in it. Wild intarsia, cables that make Celtic knots look simple, lace that drips complexity and makes your mind reel. Even if you’re never going to knit the patterns, it is the stuff that knitterly inspiration comes from. Aim high. Dream big.
Type 5
A few books with stories about knitting, ideas about knitting, and tales of people living a knitting lifestyle. Although you may never fall down the rabbit hole and make every breathing second of your life from this moment forward about knitting, it’s very normalizing and comforting to read about people who do.
THE RIGHT TOOL FOR THE JOB
My uncle Tupper is a carpenter. He’s been a carpenter most of his life, and he has many, many tools. The last time I visited him I went into his garage and noted (with some surprise) that he had 14 kinds of saws. This shocked me. How many ways could you need to cut up stuff? My uncle started to explain them then, probably because a lot of what I’m thinking comes straight out of my mouth. This one was a circular saw, and it cuts big pieces of wood in a straight line. That one over there was a jigsaw, and it cuts scrolls and curves in wood. That one over there cuts laminates, and the big one with a table cuts sheets of plywood. He had a handsaw, a band saw, a compound miter saw, a trim saw — 14 saws, all necessary and useful. I left with a new attitude about all my knitting stuff.
Having the right tools matters, and all the knitting stuff I have isn’t silly, useless, or even an odd obsession. While people are going to come into my house and let loose with a low whistle when they see my needle collection, I know my knitting patterns, books, row counters, and tape measures are the stuff of my occupation and inspiration, and having 17 stitch dictionaries and 54 circular needles in wood, metal, and plastic is no different from Uncle Tupper having 14 saws. Every scrap of pattern adds up to potential.
I really think the saws are more shocking.
Done right, you’ll always have everything you need. This works only if you regard the knitting bag as a sacred carrier of knitting notions that never go anywhere except in the bag. You take something out, you put it back in. (This was one of the barriers to effective knitting bag use. I would take out the tape measure while I was home, because I couldn’t find one of my 72 others, and fail to put it back in. It would then enter the tape measure–sucking void that is my home and I’d never find it again.) Do not, I repeat, do not put the stuff on the kitchen counter. This way lies madness.
If there were some sort of emergency, like an earthquake or a house fire, you could pick up your knitting bag from its spot by the door and flee with it into the night. I bet you’ll be the only person at the shelter with something to do.
If you put everything you need to accomplish the project in the bag when you begin the project, you’ll never again lose six hours and 35 minutes of your life 
Unlike when you jam a project into your purse, you won’t need to spend your knitting time untangling lace weight from house keys.
The breath mints you keep in your purse won’t have yarn fuzz on them. Just regular purse lint.
Your 2 mm DPNs won’t poke a hole in your juice box. (This is more likely than you think. Before I succumbed to a knitting bag, I had to give up grape juice. It really stains.)
You’ll have more room to carry knitting stuff, as it doesn’t have to compete with your purse contents.
You can take only your knitting bag into the yarn shop when you’re going in to knit with your friends or to get help with a project. This means that when you inevitably decide to buy yarn, you will have to go back to the car to get your wallet. This won’t prevent you from buying yarn, but at least it adds exercise to your day and may slow up impulse buying.
It gives you another place to keep yarn.
Knitting bags have a sturdy inside layer to keep sharp knitting needles from poking through. The same apparently can’t be said for my purse, which always resembles a dangerous steel porcupine.