Where Do You Source Your Wood?

It’s a question I get all the time — right after “How long did that take you to make?” (The answer to that one, as always, is “I’m still not sure.”)

When people see a finished bowl or hollow form, they often assume I buy neatly cut, perfectly seasoned blanks from some exotic supplier. Sometimes, yes — but most of the time, my wood has a much more interesting origin story. Let’s just say, if there’s a chainsaw running within a half-mile radius, I probably know about it.

Found on the Side of the Road (a.k.a. Free is My Favorite Price)

I can’t tell you how many great pieces have started as roadside rescues. You’d be surprised what people toss out when a storm comes through or a tree service does a cleanup.

I’ve pulled over more times than I’d like to admit because a certain log just “looked promising.” It’s a strange hobby when your idea of a good find is something the trash truck was five minutes away from taking. I’ve learned to keep a small saw and a tarp in the truck — just in case inspiration strikes (or lightning does).

My neighbors have stopped asking why I come home with chunks of tree in the back of my vehicle. They just shake their heads and mutter, “He’s at it again.”

Following the Sound of Chainsaws

There’s a special kind of radar that develops after years of turning — the chainsaw frequency detector.

If I hear that familiar buzz somewhere nearby, it’s like a dinner bell for opportunity. A quick walk over and a friendly “Hey, what are you doing with that wood?” has led to some amazing finds. Most people are happy to let you take a few pieces, especially when they realize you’re going to make something beautiful (instead of just mulch).

Of course, you have to pick your moments. Running up mid-cut waving your arms isn’t the best approach.

Local Arborists and Tree Services

One of the best sources of turning wood is your local arborist or tree removal service. These folks deal with more wood in a week than I could turn in a lifetime. Once they find out you’re a woodturner, you’ll often get a call before the logs hit the chipper.

A few will even set aside interesting pieces — crotch sections, burls, or unusually figured wood — because they know they’ll be put to good use. Sometimes they even deliver, which beats chasing logs around town.

Purchasing Specialty Woods (a.k.a. The Guilty Pleasure)

As much as I love free wood, there are times when buying is the only option. Specialty woods like purpleheart, ebony, or kiln-dried dimensionals for segmented pieces don’t exactly show up in your neighbor’s firewood pile.

When I do buy, it’s usually for a specific project — something that needs the strength, color, or precision of milled lumber. I treat those purchases like fine chocolate: sparingly and with great appreciation.

Why It Matters

There’s something deeply satisfying about knowing the story behind each piece you turn. That Bradford pear bowl on the shelf? It came from a storm-damaged tree three blocks away. That natural-edge vase? It was once shading a neighbor’s driveway.

Each log carries a bit of history — and sometimes a funny story about how you found it.

So, where do I source my wood? Everywhere. From curbsides to sawmills, arborists to specialty shops — each piece begins its journey long before it hits the lathe. And if you ever hear a chainsaw in your neighborhood, don’t be surprised if I show up to say hello.

The Woodturning Community Is Very Close-Knit and Helpful (Most of the Time)

One of the best parts about being a woodturner — aside from the smell of fresh shavings and the excuse to own way too many chisels — is the community. Woodturners are, by and large, some of the most generous and supportive people you’ll ever meet. We share tips, tools, wood, and the occasional “you really shouldn’t have tried that” story.

But like any good piece of wood, even the friendliest community has a few knots.

A Family Made of Sawdust and Stories

If you’ve ever walked into a woodturning club meeting or scrolled through an online turning group, you’ll know what I mean. Someone is always ready to lend advice: “Try a negative rake scraper there,” or “Don’t sand past 400 grit unless you’re getting paid by the hour.”

It’s like an extended family — one that speaks fluent “lathe.” We celebrate each other’s successes and occasionally commiserate over the bowl that exploded at 2,000 RPM.

And when someone new shows up with their first pen blank or spindle project, there’s always a chorus of encouragement. That’s the kind of camaraderie you can’t fake — built on the shared understanding that every great piece starts with a few mistakes and a cloud of sawdust.

The Helpful, the Honest, and the Hilarious

Ask for help in a turning forum, and you’ll get answers — lots of them. Sometimes too many. Post a picture of a slightly off-center tenon, and you’ll get twenty responses in an hour, ranging from “Nice save!” to “I’d have started over.”

The beauty of it is that everyone means well. We’re all trying to pass on what we’ve learned — even if it occasionally comes with a dose of unsolicited wisdom. (Let’s just say there’s no shortage of opinions about sanding techniques or the “right” way to sharpen a gouge.)

Still, there’s something heartwarming about how much people care. They want to see you succeed — even if their version of “helpful” comes with a side of tough love.

Sharing the Craft, Not Just the Finished Piece

One of the things that keeps me inspired is how freely woodturners share their process. You can ask how someone achieved that flawless finish or captured that incredible grain, and more often than not, they’ll tell you exactly how they did it.

There’s an old saying: “Turners don’t keep secrets — just shavings.”

And it’s true. Whether it’s at a local demo, a symposium, or online, there’s a sense that we’re all learning together. Every turner has a story about the one who helped them out — with a trick for avoiding catches, a better sanding sequence, or even just the right encouragement to keep trying.

Most of the Time, Anyway…

Of course, no community is perfect. I was reminded of that recently at a high-end juried craft fair. I struck up a conversation with another woodturner whose work was beautiful — the kind of craftsmanship that makes you both admire and question your life choices.

We talked easily at first about wood sources (stay tuned for an upcoming blog on that), finishes, and techniques. But when he found out that I also turn and exhibit at shows — and that I still consider myself a hobbyist — his tone shifted. Suddenly, the friendly exchange became something closer to a lecture. Let’s just say I went from “fellow craftsman” to “student who forgot his homework” pretty quickly.

It was a little disappointing, honestly. Because most woodturners I’ve met are the exact opposite — open, encouraging, and genuinely excited to share their knowledge. This was the rare exception, a reminder that even in a close-knit community, you occasionally meet someone who forgets that we all started somewhere.

Still, I left that encounter more amused than offended. If anything, it reinforced what makes the rest of the community so special — that generosity of spirit, the willingness to help, and the understanding that whether you sell your work at galleries or give it away to family, we’re all in this for the same reason: the love of turning.

Why It Matters

Woodturning can be a solitary craft. You spend a lot of time alone in the shop, listening to the hum of the lathe and the rhythm of the cut. But knowing there’s a community out there — people who get it, who’ve been there — makes it all richer.

It reminds you that even though every piece you make is unique, the journey isn’t one you’re taking alone.

Why I Closed My Etsy Shop and Started My Own Website

It wasn’t you, Etsy. It was… well, okay, maybe it was you.

After years of selling my woodturnings on Etsy, I decided to pack up my digital lathe tools and move to my own corner of the internet. Don’t get me wrong — Etsy was a great starting point. It helped me find my footing, connect with other makers, and learn the ropes of online selling. But after a while, the relationship got… complicated.

Reason #1: Too Many Fees, Not Enough Freedom

Remember when Etsy felt like a craft fair — cozy, handmade, and personal? These days it feels more like a shopping mall with fluorescent lights and background noise. And like any mall, the rent keeps going up. Listing fees, transaction fees, payment processing fees… “Oh, you blinked? That’ll be another 2.5%.”

When you’re selling handmade pieces — where every knot and curve takes time — those fees sting a little more. I realized I was paying more to the platform than I was investing in new wood blanks. That’s when I knew something had to change.

Reason #2: I Wanted Control of My Own Work

On Etsy, your shop looks like everyone else’s. Their layout, their rules, their algorithms deciding who gets seen and who gets buried under a pile of crocheted cat sweaters. (And let’s be honest — no matter how well you turn a bowl, you’re not beating a crocheted cat in the search rankings.)

I wanted a space that felt like me — where I could share my process, my stories, and my pieces without worrying if I’d accidentally broken a mysterious SEO law written by the Algorithm Overlords.

So, I built my own website: a place where I can post new pieces like my Walnut Candy Bowl, write about what I’ve learned in my Turning Lessons, and truly connect with people who appreciate handmade craft.

Reason #3: The Joy Was Getting Lost

When I started selling, it wasn’t about “maximizing reach” or “optimizing conversions.” It was about the simple satisfaction of someone holding a piece I made and saying, “Wow, this is beautiful.”

Over time, Etsy started to feel more like a numbers game. Listings, keywords, ads, repeat. I caught myself spending more time analyzing analytics than smelling sawdust. That’s when I knew — I wanted my craft back.

Finding Freedom in My Own Workshop (and Website)

Running my own site isn’t always easy. I had to learn about domains, hosting, SEO, and why my checkout button disappeared that one time (still a mystery). But it’s mine. Every photo, every description, every story is under my control — and that’s worth more than any algorithm boost.

Now, instead of chasing trends, I spend more time chasing the perfect curve on a new bowl. And if I want to post a long reflection on the patience of wood grain, or a behind-the-scenes shot of a project gone sideways, I can — no “engagement score” required.

Would I Recommend Leaving Etsy?

If you’re just starting out, Etsy can still be a great launchpad. But when you’re ready to grow, to brand yourself, and to keep more of your hard-earned proceeds, there’s nothing quite like building your own home on the web.

So here I am — fewer fees, more freedom, and a website that actually smells faintly of linseed oil and sawdust (okay, maybe that’s just my shop). Either way, it feels right.

And if you’ve ever thought about making the leap yourself — do it. You might just rediscover why you started creating in the first place.

What Wood Grain Teaches You About Patience

When you first mount a rough block of wood on the lathe, you might think you already know what it will become. But once the tool meets the surface, reality quickly sets in. The wood grain has other ideas.

Each piece of wood carries its own history — wind, weather, water, and time — all etched into its grain patterns. And as any woodturner learns, those beautiful, flowing lines are both an invitation and a warning: proceed with patience.

The Lessons Hidden in the Grain

There’s something humbling about watching the story of a tree reveal itself, layer by layer.
A knot may appear where you least expect it. A soft patch may tear out under the gouge. The darker streaks may run against the direction you planned to cut.

That’s where the lesson begins.

Woodturning teaches you that patience isn’t passive. It’s active — the steady hand, the willingness to adapt, the quiet trust that the form will emerge if you stay with it long enough.

It’s the same lesson life keeps trying to teach us. You can’t force the grain to change direction — not without splintering something important.

When the Grain Fights Back

Anyone who’s ever sanded end grain knows the feeling: you think you’re done, then the light catches a swirl that shouldn’t be there. You sigh, pick up the next grit, and start again.

And yet, that repetition — that rhythm — becomes part of the meditative beauty of craftsmanship.
Over time, you realize that imperfections aren’t flaws; they’re features that give character and depth. Much like people, the most interesting pieces are often the ones that resisted the most along the way.

If you’d like to see an example, take a look at my Walnut Candy Bowl — a perfect example of how wild grain can shape a piece into something better than planned.

Patience in Craft, Patience in Life

Working with wood grain is a conversation between maker and material. Some days, the wood listens. Some days, it pushes back. But with time, you learn to stop trying to control the outcome and start appreciating the process itself.

And maybe that’s the real gift of craftsmanship — not the finished bowl, but the quiet, enduring patience that grows with every turn.

If you enjoy these reflections, explore more insights in my Turning for the Love blog category.

How Long Did That Take You to Make?

There’s one question every woodturner hears sooner or later:
“How long did that take you to make?”

And every time, I have to fight the urge to say, “Define time.”

Because if we’re talking calendar time, it took about a week.
If we’re talking shop time, it took three evenings, two weekends, and several questionable life choices.
And if we’re talking actual hours, well… I honestly have no idea.

Here’s the thing: if I ever sat down and tracked every minute I spent designing, cutting, gluing, sanding, turning, sanding again, finishing, and (did I mention?) sanding — I’d probably get depressed and quit.

🪵 Segmented Turning: The Art of Organized Chaos

A segmented vase or bowl might look elegant when it’s done, but what you don’t see are the hundreds of tiny pieces of wood that had to be cut, aligned, glued, and clamped like a complicated wooden jigsaw puzzle that fights back.

Each segment has to fit perfectly, or else you’ll spend twice as long fixing it. And by the time it’s on the lathe, you’ve invested so many hours that you start referring to it as “the project that will not end.”

❤️ The Real Payoff

So no — I don’t really know how long it takes.
But I do know what happens when someone sees it for the first time.

Their eyes light up, they run their hands along the curve, and they say, “You made this?”

That’s the moment that makes it all worth it — the glue fumes, the sanding dust, the endless patience. Because at the end of the day, I don’t make art for the clock… I make it for that reaction.

Turning for the Love (and the Tools): Confessions of a Self-Funded Woodturner

Some people start a side business to get rich.
I started mine so I could buy more gouges.

Yes, I sell my work — but let’s be clear: nearly every dollar I make goes right back into the Tool Fund. You know, that mysterious black hole where art profits disappear, only to reappear as new chisels, sandpaper, and another lathe attachment that “I absolutely need this time.”

⚙️ Tools of the Trade (or: Where My Money Goes)

Woodturning might look simple — just you, a block of wood, and a lathe, right?
Ha. That’s like saying cooking just requires “a stove.”

To create even the tiniest turned mushroom or ornament, I rely on:

• A lathe, the whirling heart of the operation (and, occasionally, the reason I need new walls).

• A bandsaw, to cut blanks that are somehow never quite square.

• A chainsaw, for “roughing out logs” — which usually means getting covered head to toe in sawdust.

• A collection of gouges that sound like a medieval weapon rack:

  • Roughing gouge – for turning logs into something vaguely round.

  • Spindle gouge – for delicate details and occasional unplanned design changes.

  • Bowl gouge – the MVP, and also the one most likely to launch shavings into my shirt.

  • Skew chisel – elegant, precise, and terrifying.

  • Parting tool – for cutting things off when I’m either finished… or frustrated.

Each piece of wood turned art is really a collaboration between creativity, tools, and my checking account.

💰 The Myth of the Rich Woodturner

Let’s be honest — if I were doing this for the money, I’d have quit the first time I calculated my “hourly rate.”
After factoring in time, materials, sanding, finishing, photography, and website maintenance, I’m making… somewhere between coffee money and don’t-ask.

But that’s not the point.
The point is that every bowl, box, and mushroom pays for the next block of wood, the next gouge, the next spark of creativity.

🧠 Years in the Making

It’s taken me years of turning, selling, reinvesting, and occasionally learning the hard way (looking at you, cracked maple bowl) to make this hobby self-supporting.

And honestly? That’s the real success — not profit, but sustainability.
The ability to keep creating, learning, and occasionally justifying another tool purchase.

❤️ The Real Reward

In the end, I don’t turn wood to get rich.
I turn because it’s magic — because taking a raw, rough piece of tree and revealing the beauty inside never gets old.

The art funds the tools, the tools fund the art, and the cycle continues — beautifully, sawdust and all.

Code by Day, Chips by Night: The Double Life of a Programmer Turned Woodturner

They say everyone needs a hobby. Some people golf. Some people garden.
I, apparently, decided to start a second career involving sharp tools, flying wood chips, and a lot of sanding dust.

By day, I’m Customer Service Manager / automation programmer — writing code, debugging systems, and explaining to coworkers why “Have you tried turning it off and on again?” actually is sound advice.

By night (and early morning… and weekends), I’m a woodturner — wrangling logs into bowls, mushrooms, and occasionally abstract shapes that I call “artistic choices.”

🧢 Wearing All the Hats (and Probably Some Sawdust)

When you run a creative side business, you’re not just an artist — you’re a one-person circus.

In a single weekend, I’m:

• The woodturner, covered in shavings.

• The photographer, chasing daylight with my phone in one hand and a bowl in the other.

• The website developer, wondering why the gallery page just vanished.

• The social media manager, trying to sound witty without saying, “Here’s another bowl I made.”

• And the shipping department, surrounded by cardboard, tape, and existential questions about box sizes.

Some days, I’m amazed I remember which hat I’m wearing — though they all seem to collect sawdust equally well.

💻 When Code Meets Craft

Programming and woodturning actually have a lot in common:

• Both require patience.

• Both occasionally crash.

• And both can make you question every life choice around midnight.

But there’s something wonderful about stepping away from the screen, picking up a gouge, and shaping something real — something that doesn’t require a firmware update.

🪚 The Balancing Act

Finding time for art after a full-time job isn’t easy. My schedule looks like a Tetris game where the pieces keep falling faster. But those evening and weekend sessions at the lathe? They recharge me. They remind me why I make things — not because I have to, but because I need to.

Sure, I might be running on coffee and epoxy fumes some days, but at least I’m creating something tangible — and occasionally round.

⚙️ Final Thought

Being a programmer-turned-woodturner means living in two worlds: one of logic and code, and one of creativity and chaos.

And honestly? I wouldn’t trade either.
Because whether I’m debugging a PLC or a chunk of maple, there’s always that same moment of satisfaction when everything finally runs smooth.

The Great Christmas Turnathon: Tales of Trees, Mushrooms, and Mild Panic

It’s that time of year again — the air is crisp, the carols are playing, and every woodturner I know is in full-blown Christmas Craft Show Mode.

That means one thing: the Great Turning Frenzy has begun.
Suddenly, every spare log in the shop is destined to become a Christmas tree, a whimsical mushroom, or — if the grain behaves — a festive ornament.

Somewhere around early October, my workshop transforms from a peaceful space into a scene that looks like Santa’s elves went rogue with a lathe.

🌲 The Hunt for the Perfect Wood

Finding good wood this time of year is like searching for parking at the mall on Christmas Eve.

Pine? Too soft. Oak? Too hard. Maple? Perfect — if I can find any that isn’t already earmarked for someone else’s reindeer.

Then there’s the eternal question:
“Can I turn this fallen branch into a mushroom, or will it explode at 1200 RPM?”
(Spoiler: sometimes both.)

💰 The Pricing Puzzlement

Once the trees and mushrooms are ready, I face the next challenge — pricing them.

I spend an hour hand-turning a piece, sanding it to perfection, applying finish, and photographing it — only for someone to say, “Wow, $25? My cousin’s friend makes these for $10.”

Yes… but your cousin’s friend probably still has fingerprints.

Handmade isn’t just about the final product — it’s the time, the experience, the years of practice, and the fact that we artists occasionally need to eat something other than sawdust.

🧠 Why Handmade Costs More (and Why It Should)

Every handmade item carries:

• The artist’s time and skill — not just in making, but in learning how not to make the same mistake twice.

• The uniqueness — no two pieces are exactly alike.

• The materials — quality wood, finishes, tools, and yes, sometimes Band-Aids.

• The heart — every curve, groove, and grain tells a story.

When you buy handmade, you’re not just buying an object — you’re buying hours of experimentation, joy, and a few muttered words the artist hopes you didn’t hear.

❤️ Why Shop Small This Season

Shopping small isn’t just trendy — it’s transformative.
When you buy from a local maker or artist, you:

1. Support someone’s dream, not a corporation’s stock price.

2. Help keep traditional skills alive.

3. Get something authentic and one-of-a-kind — not mass-produced.

4. Know your purchase made someone do a small happy dance in their workshop.

✨ Final Thoughts from the Lathe

So if you see a slightly frazzled person at a holiday craft fair covered in sawdust and smelling faintly of Danish oil — say hi.
They’ve probably been up late turning tiny wooden trees and mushrooms by the dozen, powered by coffee, carols, and the sheer joy of making.

And if you take one of those creations home?
You’re not just buying wood.
You’re buying a piece of someone’s Christmas spirit — lovingly turned, sanded, and finished by hand.

Confessions of an Introverted Woodturner: The Art of Self-Promotion (Without Panicking)

I love woodturning. I love the smell of freshly cut cherry, the hum of the lathe, and that magical moment when a block of wood becomes something smooth, shiny, and entirely unexpected.

What I don’t love?
Telling people about it.

Because, you see, I’m an introvert — which means I can happily spend eight hours sanding a bowl in silence but break into a cold sweat at the idea of saying, “Hey, could you check out my website?”

The Social Media Struggle

They say you need to “build your brand” and “engage your audience.” I tried. I even wrote my first Instagram caption:

“Here’s a bowl I made.”

It sat there, looking lonely. So I added a few hashtags — #woodturning #handmade #pleaseLikeMe — and called it a day.

By the time I hit “post,” I needed a nap to recover from the emotional exertion.

The Elevator Pitch That Never Left the Ground

I know I should be ready to tell people about my work — but every time someone asks, “What do you do?” my brain short-circuits.

Instead of proudly saying, “I create hand-turned wood art,” I usually mumble something like, “Oh, you know… wood stuff,” and change the subject to the weather.

Apparently, that’s not the marketing strategy experts recommend.

The Website Whisperer

Even my website is quiet — tasteful photos, simple design, and not a single pop-up screaming “Subscribe NOW!” I tell myself it’s minimalist. Others might call it nervously polite.

But slowly, I’m learning.
I’ve started sending an occasional email, posting a new photo, and even — brace yourself — sharing my work in a local art group.

Each time, I remind myself that I’m not bragging; I’m inviting people to see something I made with care. And that’s not scary — it’s kind of wonderful.

The Moral of the Story

Being an introverted artist in a loud, promotional world is tough. But just like turning a rough log into a smooth bowl, it’s all about patience, small cuts, and taking a deep breath before the next step.

So if you’re here, looking at my work — thank you.
You’ve just made an introvert’s day.

The Accidental Web Developer: Adventures in Building a Woodturning Website

Introduction

They say every artist must suffer for their art. I always thought that meant sanding my fingertips or getting whacked in the shins by a rogue piece of spinning walnut.
Turns out, they meant building a website.

All I wanted was a simple online gallery for my woodturned creations — something elegant, easy, and inviting. How hard could it be?
Click a few buttons, upload a few photos, and voilà — instant digital showroom!

Spoiler: it was not voilà. It was voilà… what just happened?

Step 1: The Domain Name Dilemma

Choosing a domain name felt like naming a child — except every name I liked was already taken.
Apparently, BeautifulWoodCreations.com was claimed by someone in 2004 who hasn’t updated their site since dial-up.

I finally found something available, somewhat relevant, and not too embarrassing to say out loud. (I drew the line at TurnedOnByWood.com.)

One small victory in a sea of impending confusion.

Step 2: Squarespace, My New Frenemy

Next came Squarespace — the friendly-looking website builder that promised I could “create a stunning site in minutes.”

Minutes, they said.
They failed to mention how many minutes.

Three hours later, I had successfully changed my homepage font to something called Beige Whisper and made my navigation bar disappear. Forever.

After roughly twelve YouTube tutorials (each hosted by someone far too cheerful), I finally produced something that vaguely resembled a website. I almost printed a screenshot and framed it in celebration.

Step 3: The Automailer from Outer Space

Then came the “automated email” setup — that magical system that’s supposed to greet new subscribers for you.

Sounds simple, right?
Except my automailer apparently had trust issues. Instead of sending one welcome email to new subscribers, it decided to send twelve test messages… to me.

Each one began with “Welcome, New Subscriber!”
At least I felt popular.

Step 4: The Subscription List That Wouldn’t List

Once the automailer was somewhat tamed, I tackled the subscriber list — a tidy database of people who wanted to hear about my latest turning projects.

Except my list was more of a mystery novel. Subscribers vanished, reappeared, or multiplied spontaneously like gremlins.
At one point, I had three versions of myself subscribed under slightly different spellings of my name.

If this were a wood bowl, I would have thrown it in the kindling pile.

Step 5: The Triumphant (and Slightly Smoked) Finish

After days of muttering, Googling, and polite negotiations with my Wi-Fi router, the site finally worked.

The domain pointed to the right place.
The automailer behaved (mostly).
And the subscriber list stayed intact long enough for me to hit Publish.

When it finally went live, I expected confetti. Instead, I got a polite pop-up that said, “Your site is live.”

Still, I stood back — like after finishing a particularly stubborn turning — and thought, You know what? That actually looks pretty good.

Moral of the Story

Building a website is a lot like woodturning:

• Things spin out of control fast.

• You’ll sand off more rough edges than expected.

• And by the end, you’ll stand there, covered in digital sawdust, proud of something you built with your own hands.

If you’re reading this on my new website — congratulations! It works!
And if you’d like updates about new pieces or upcoming shows, go ahead and hit that Subscribe button.
Just don’t be alarmed if the automailer greets you… twice.