There is a topic on the socknitters list about how people got started knitting socks.

Because I have delusions of my writing "needing" to be more permanent than a few electrons splashed across people's e-mail, probably unread by most on the list (because, frankly, those topics tend to "wear out" fast and people start skimming them), and then consigned to an anonymous and hard-to-search archive, here's my two cents:

I started knitting socks not that much longer after I started knitting again. I started, mainly, because socks are knit in the round, and I had developed a strong love of knitting-in-the-round after making my first pair of mittens.

I also got hooked on socks because I joined the Knitlist (this would have been 1997 or so) and the Joan's Socks pattern was making the rounds - the ones made from two strands of Woolease (or other light worsted weight) held together. I made several pairs of those (it was winter, in Illinois, at the time). Got my first pair of Birks to wear them with. Then I checked out a copy of Vibekke Lind's book on Scandinavian knitting, and realized that a lot of those stitch-designs could work in a sock. One of my early pairs of socks (which I should pull out and photograph; I'm pretty proud of them for a rank beginner) were made using the day-and-night design (alternating interlocked dark and light triangles). I even did one-row stripes every seventh row or so on the foot, even though it meant weaving in a lot of ends.

Then I bought some sockyarn, one of the Socka books, and the Spin-Off Socks book from Patternworks. That opened up a whole world. I realized that I could design my own socks within the Socka "formula" (and I did). Later, I found that there were other heel turnings, and other ways to do the toe, thanks both to Folk Socks and to the Heels by Number chart.

I also liked socks because they were small, and fairly rapidly finished. And they were portable. And they were small enough that a half-hour or so spent working on them gave you measurable progress. (I was working on my dissertation at the time and "measurable progress" on a dissertation is a fleeting thing - it's usually ripped to shreds by the advisor, and then needing to be re-done).

One of the most important things about knitting for me is that it stays done. I can do endless rewrites of journal articles (and frankly, some days it seems like that). I can spend months on a grant proposal and get it turned down. I can spend four or five hours grading, and have an equivalent-sized pile of grading the next week. But knitting stays done. It doesn't magically unravel itself overnight. There isn't some kind of Knitting Overlord who shows up, says, "Your gauge is 1/16 of a stitch off" and then unravel all you have done.

The self-striping yarns (and other self-patterning yarns) have helped to keep me hooked on knitting socks. In the fall of 2001, it finally clicked with me how to read and knit at the same time, but I could only knit stockinette or garter (or sometimes, rib, if it's not very complex reading). So self-patterning or variegated yarn socks are ideal for that - you can set up the stockinette leg and just motor away, and not have to even look at the work until you're ready to do the heel.

Another reason is that I live in a hot climate. Sweaters can be worn comfortably maybe two or three months out of the year, but socks - especially ones with some cotton - can be worn longer than that. (That's another reason why I like shawls: they can also be worn for a bigger section of the year).

I also have to admit I like the "absurdity" of knitting socks. By that, I mean, they are something no one ever thinks very much about. 99.9% of the people who wear socks buy them, probably very cheaply. I've heard the old comment about "but you can buy those at Wal-mart for less than the price of the yarn!" Yes, true. But then you're not MAKING them. There's something that feels almost like a tiny protest against the mechanized, identical, mass-produced society we live in by taking the time to make socks. And there's also the factor that they generally require a bit more care - some of my socks have to be washed by hand; others, I will wash in the machine but hang to dry so they will last longer. And I've darned socks that got holes in them - I've not done that with commercial socks. Commercial socks, when they get holes, are recycled as dust cloths or car-wash mitts. When my handknit socks get too tatty - I don't know what I'll do, because I've never had a pair get to that point. I have a few pairs that are going on six years of wear and still are in good shape.

So I guess it's also a protest against the throw-away society we live in. I don't know if many knitters are also like me, but I have clothes in my closet that date back YEARS. If I can still fit into it, and it's not worn out, I keep it and wear it. (and if it doesn't fit, but is still good and useful, it gets donated to someone who needs it). I have t-shirts that are ten years old. I have a cardigan (not handknit) that I've had since I was 13. They are still good. They are still useful. (The cardigan has had to have a few moth holes darned, but it's otherwise perfectly serviceable and even looks okay to wear for teaching). I don't know if other people do that. I do know the one time I was living in closer proximity to people (in the dormitory at college), I had a few dorm-mates who thought nothing of discarding a large part of their wardrobe when the seasons changed - partly to avoid storing it, and partly so they'd have an excuse to buy new the next time the season rolled around. That made me sad, not only because it seemed wasteful of resources, but because to me, well, I got sort of attached to certain pieces of clothing. It was a welcome thing to pull out a certain wool skirt or a certain sweater when fall came - it meant the seasons were changing. I liked the constancy of having some/most of my clothes the same as they were the previous year. (I wonder if this is a psychological thing, and there are people who crave change and people who crave constancy, and I am one of the ones who craves constancy).

I wonder if part of all this - seeing the value in making things, and taking care of things so they will last - is simply an effect of my upbringing, just like how I am uncomfortable leaving a light on in a room I am leaving. (I grew up in the 1970s: high inflation, high fuel prices. Needing to conserve, as well as being concerned about the effects of pollution on the environment. Not a time when we were being told to go out and buy stuff, "now more than ever").

my mother taught me how to darn socks as a kid. She also taught me how to do a lot of the basic sewing-type repair, and how to clean clothes so they don't wear out as fast (she taught my brother the same things).

So socks, for me, are important because they're fun to make, and useful, and good. But they're also important symbolically to me, I think - I've talked here before about how I sort of dreamed of living off the land when I was a teenager. I still dream of that - having a cabin way, way out in the woods where I chop my own firewood and can food and spend evenings by the fire reading or playing the violin or knitting or spinning. I realize, realistically, that's not a dream I could fulfill - there are too many items that are commercially produced that I'd find it hard to live without, and I probably couldn't, emotionally speaking, hunt for my meat. But by knitting socks I get to hold on to a little bit of that dream, to imagine myself as a little tiny bit self-sufficient, and that helps me.