Give it 100

So, tentatively, without much confidence, I have mentioned in passing that I used to be an artist. Here is the short story of my artistic career.

In middle school, I watched the show Lizzie McGuire and saw that little cartoon that represents her thoughts and said, “Anyone could draw that.” So I drew an entire comic of Lizzie McGuire cartoons intended to look like me and my five friends going on awesome adventures. When I moved to a new high school as a freshman, I kept drawing, doodling in my notebooks during class and letting people see them.

Soon, that was who I was. I was the artist (the cartoonist, actually). I drew the cover of our yearbook. I won a painting contest for the town phone book cover. I was the Art Sterling Scholar. When I attended an art camp during my senior year, I was offered a scholarship to the college hosting the camp. In those shaky years of adolescence and insecurity, I clung to both an identity (The Artist) and the constant praise I received.

I went to college as an art student . . . and slowly had the artist strangled out of me. At the end of the day, I was a decent artist—but not particularly amazing.

(I still liked cartoons; I did stuff like this):

Hearts_by_missjak

Diamonds_by_missjak

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clubs_by_missjak

Spades_by_missjak

 

 

 

 

 

 

My tiny bit of talent was no match for my lack of ambition or innovation. Suddenly I was surrounded by hundreds of “The Artist”s and instead of feeling praised, I felt hugely inferior.

Break out the tiny violin, right?

Obviously hard work and criticism are part of life. But I felt miserable, grudgingly doing my drawing assignments, spending my free time not drawing, but . . . you guessed it: writing.

And, oh man, I had no talent for writing. No one had ever praised my writing skills. In fact, I deliberately hid any signs that I wanted to write because I was too massively embarrassed by it. But I adored it. Hard work? I am loving every miserable minute! Criticism? All I want is to publish something before I die and I’m young and healthy.

So, the rest is history. Now I’m a writer. Not an artist.

45692

But I miss it. Not so much being an ~*artist~*, because I’m still not sure I’m cut out for it, but I miss drawing cartoons. I miss giving visual faces to characters I love (in my head and not). And I still love art—enjoying it as a viewer.

Have you heard of “Give It 100?” It’s a nifty little site where you can pledge to do something, anything, for 100 days, ten minutes every day. You’re supposed to video those ten minutes and post it, buuutt . . . I’m not doing that. I’m just stealing the idea. I’ll be stretching the ol’ drawing muscles, doing a drawing a day, seeing if I can’t get my pencil and sketch book back into shape.

I’ll be posting the drawings on DeviantArt in batches of ten, and using this amazing site to help me practice. And this time, there’s no pressure; I’m not doing it for the attention or praise. I know I’m a writer and that’s where my heart and soul is. This is just fun.

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