How Long Did That Take You to Make?
I don’t track how long it takes to make a segmented vase — mostly because I’d probably quit if I did. A funny take on why the joy of creating beats the clock every time.
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
I don’t turn wood to get rich — I turn so I can afford more tools. A funny look at how woodturning funds itself (barely) and why that’s exactly the point.
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
A funny look at juggling life as an Customer Service Manager / automation programmer and a woodturning artist — full of sawdust, code, and creative chaos.
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:
Support someone’s dream, not a corporation’s stock price.
Help keep traditional skills alive.
Get something authentic and one-of-a-kind — not mass-produced.
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)
A funny look at the challenges of an introverted artist learning to share their handmade woodturning creations — one awkward post at a time.
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
A woodturner’s laugh-out-loud tale of setting up a website from scratch — featuring domain drama, automailer chaos, and a hard-won digital victory.
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.