I stopped drawing for a while.
My after-work time became half-watching TV while absently scrolling through the Internet.
I didn’t even want to draw. I thought things like:
What’s the point of creativity? Who’s benefiting from this? Am I really contributing anything to the world by bothering?
Was I just telling myself that I was “creative” to fill up the emptiness from a childhood spent memorizing my ceiling’s texture instead of going outside?
Was “creativity” a consolation prize for failing in every single other way?
What if I wasn’t even that good?
What if I was the William Hung of drawing?
Sounds like depression, right?
So I did all the things you’re supposed to do:
I reconfigured the way I ate. I took up exercising almost every day before work. I touched up my wardrobe. I lost 15 pounds.
My sketchbooks lay empty. My blog collected dust.
If I wasn’t “creative,” who was I?
The situation was turning into a sloppy existential crisis.
Time for medical intervention.
My doctor recommended taking a class. He knew that: 1) I tend to do things I’ve paid for, and 2) I can’t resist an academic challenge. I’d follow through.
I was so rusty, and busy with all that exercise, that I’m still not quite done with the class (even though it’s technically been over for a while), but it did get me rolling again. Drawing. Painting. Exploring zines. (I still haven’t made one, but I have some ideas.) Playing.
It’s nice, and I hope it sticks around.