No One Likes You When You’re 23

(Why I Suck at Drawing)

I am 4 years into this fickle career field — art. This last year was the first year that showed financial promise. The other three were heavily accompanied by stints at various coffee shops, random student university positions and odd jobs.

Now, more than ever, I am frustrated.

Those first few years were fun, an exploration into something completely new. It hooked me unlike any other passion; I stopped pursuing other careers. Among the fallen (…career paths, that is…) are as follows:

· engineer (quit that in high school because I can’t sit at a desk for very long without drawing.)

· military (quit that in high school because I switched views/ mindsets about war.)

· youth pastor (quit that after studying for a year because it wasn’t me. continued to study theology for another year because it was beneficial.)

At 19, I decided to study art and with that begin a serious exploration into a new frontier: art.

Here is something I never expected at 23: for art to still be a new frontier.

I have never been one to draw realistically. It bores me.
Excuse: It bores me because it does not express feelings. Just take a photo!
Real Reason:It bores me because it is so difficult for me.

This has been a huge excuse and a major flaw in my armor. Now it comes to haunt me** — as I seek to break into more and more serious outcomes.

**I exaggerate here. Money is made in uniqueness…I do not regret focusing on individual style as opposed to generic craft. However, as I better my craft- my style will improve. Tweet at me if that does not make sense.

I know the task before me, though, to learn how to really draw. This is a realization that I hate to admit. I am admitting it, however, at 23. There is comfort in that. I still have an entire lifetime to get good at something. Here I think of the book Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell. He states that in order to become a master at any given craft, you need to put in 10,000 hours. My estimation is that I am in the 4,000-4,500 range. Time to put in work.

(As I sit here writing this in the coffee shop, a homeless man shatters my pity party.) My beard is not sun-bleached, nor my skin withered into leather. I do not search for a companion nor does she stray from me. Even in scraping, the money flows still from a living labeled irresponsible and impossible. I have been provided for — what excuse do I have to let my heart sink?

At this moment, I can pick my head up and continue to trudge on.

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