In Japan, the kajika goes kerokero. In Spain the rana sings cruá-cruá. A beka would say bre-ke-ke in Hungary. Here in Norway, frosker sier kvakk.

In the knitting world, however, frogs say "rip it, rip it." And that's the reason knitters use the term "frogging" as they merrily unravel their hours worth of knitting.
And in the world of writing - at least, in my corner of it - there is a similar process sometimes necessary. My first two PLA essays were about library stuff. This third one, though, is not. It's a communications course (the irony is not lost on me), and proving my personal experience with the subject matter has made a first draft that is currently a 43-page document that is supposed to be a whole lot closer to a 30-page document. Much trimming, unraveling, disassembling, and reassembling must now happen. Put the needle in to mark the spot - otherwise a true disaster could happen. And then pull on the yarn. And then knit it back the way it is supposed to be.

Then, after I pull out the bits that shouldn't be there, I will still need to compact the thing. Throw it in the hot water and shrink it. This essay needs felting. The individual stitches need to disappear, and the thing needs have fewer airholes. I like the stitching to show. That's what I like. I think there is beauty and elegance in the rhythms and patterns of the individual stitches. But this isn't a beauty contest. This is a task, and the finished work needs no holes. Evaluators aren't judges at the county fair - they want to know if the thing labeled "clog" is in fact a clog, and if it will do its job. PLA essays don't have to be elegant. They have to work.
This is a good discipline. When I have finished writing all the essays I want credit for in this degree, I think my writing will have become less airy. I will still want the stitching to show. I like the way it looks. But in the meantime, I think I will have learned not to put in too many stitches to begin with - or I will have gotten a lot better at frogging. Ribbit! Ribbit!