Confessions of a Quilt-aholic

Like many addictions, it started out innocently enough.  Being of a crafty bent, I decided, sometime in the mid 1980s to make a quilt.  I had bought a magazine which included a pattern so simple, it could be "completed in 1 weekend!"  It seemed too good to be true!  I bought yards of various blue fabrics and got to work.  There wasn't much actual "quilting" involved--just sewing very large squares together--and so it did go very quickly.  I had made my first quilt.  Ugly as sin, but there it was.
Weeks went by and I felt the urge to try another.  A little more challenging this time--I decided to try making a "lap quilt" where you piece and quilt the blocks first, and sew the blocks together afterward.  I bought some rose and baby blue fabric.  I used templates and handquilted everything.  And proudly displayed the finished quilt on my bed for all to see and admire.
The weeks between urges to quilt were getting less and the urges were becoming stronger.  I began to wonder if I was heading down some slippery slope but I was having so much fun that I didn't question myself too much.  When the urge hit, I'd find a fabric shop, just waiting to sell me something.  And every time I went, it seemed, there were more beautiful fabrics in colors and prints I could never have imagined.  Patterns were popping up every where.  And wonder of wonders, there was this wonderful new invention called the rotary cutter, which made the whole process so much quicker and easier.
Soon, I wouldn't even be finished one quilt and the urge would hit to start another. As soon as I had a bit of cash, I'd buy more fabric. My stash was growing. My self-control was all but gone. I experienced strange symptoms when I found myself without a needle in my hand. I began to plan vacations around quilt shops and quilt shows I wanted to visit. I made new friends--quilting friends. I quit my office job so I'd have more time to quilt. I converted the basement into my quilting "studio". My days were spent stitching and my nights were spent dreaming of stitching.
My house has become almost too small to contain the results of my addiction.  Quilts are draped over chairs,

 piled on top of cupboards, 

 hung on ladders,

and over stair rails.



They hang on walls,

and cover tables.

They fill the wood box next to the fireplace,

and more boxes in the basement.

They are stacked in my linen closet,

on shelves in my studio,

and are piled high on the window seat in the guest bedroom.

 They even decorate my laundry room. 

 And that's not counting the quilts currently on loan to shops selling my patterns,

or the stack of quilt tops waiting to be finished. 

My name is Cheryl.

And I am a quilt-aholic.