Since I got back from my trip up north, I’ve been steadily trying to get back into my groove. Wake 6:30-7:00 am, work for a bit, head to the gym, and then work more. Around four or so I am done working and then I have sometime to fill.
For several days this week I picked up the paints and practiced pushing them around on paper. For my b-day Mom got me this great book to work with and some new brushes.
What really got me going was the brushes; big rounds, fans, flat wides, tiny hairlines. I love paintbrushes.
So, I’ve painted every night this week. I haven’t produced anything I’d be proud to show. Well, maybe one is okay. Still I was mostly practicing technique and getting pissed that I am not a genius yet.
That’s what I do. I pick up a hobby and when I am not perfect at it on first or second go round, I lambaste myself. “You suck. Why do you even bother,” says my inner critic.
This inner critic just doesn’t get it. Its fun. That’s why I do it. It doesn’t matter if it’s not perfect. There is no consequence to flawed art, its still art and it still makes me feel whole.
So, I’ll keep wasting paper and paint and if I get something cool, I’ll share.
Same thing with my writing. I’ll just keep making notes on human behavior. Putting together sentences and plot lines and even if they mostly suck, I’ll keep doing it. Eventually I’ll have something I’d like to share with the world. And perhaps the world will be glad.
