Last night I couldn’t get to sleep so, for the first time in years, I propped myself up in bed and drew. Drawing used to be one of my big hobbies – my fingers would itch to document things to paper, and whilst I wasn’t great at the whole shading thing, I gave it a damn good crack. I loved it, and it was a big part of me for a long time.
Last night I recaptured some of that feeling. I was excited about what I was doing, and was so lost in what I was doing that my face started hurting because I was doing my concentration face (it involves pouting) for so long. I acted like a pro with my pencil, I used my little paintbrush with a flourish, and I smudged things to my heart’s content.
Don’t get me wrong – it turned out pretty shit. I was never very good at drawing, and I’m rusty. I never had a chance of churning out a masterpiece. That’s not my point.
My point is – how often do we set out to do something, not because we’re good at it, or even when we know we’re pretty bad at it, but we do it just because we like it? It’s too easy to get caught up striving to be the best at what we do. There’s nothing wrong with that – there’s a lot to be said for ambition. But how about just every now and then, letting your hair down, and doing a dodgy job of something? Go bake that lopsided cake, do that DIY work that will fall apart in a week, and do a painting that doesn't actually resemble anything in particular, and love every moment of it.
PS. This blog post does not mean that I’m encouraging doily splat. I’m not. Stop it.