One year ago I converted my one-car garage into a studio. I gathered up all of my art supplies (they were EVERYWHERE) and moved them into the studio.
- A small dresser in my dining room housed my jewelry-making supplies.
- A plastic toolbox (from my college years) full of oil painting supplies.
- Sketchbooks spread all over the house — mixed with books I’ve never read, notebooks full of work notes, and tucked into the drawer of my bedroom writing desk (which I’ve never sat at).
- Coffee cups in every room, each stuffed with random pencils, pens, colored pencils, markers, and fineliners constantly giving me the stink eye.
I had a want. I had a need. I had this interest inside, begging me all the time to just make something. Anything.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I bought adult coloring books, paint-by-number kits, and diamond painting kits. All with the hope that these controlled activities would inspire me. I even went down the “draw this” or “create this” prompt path.
Now I have:
… and no inspiration.
It’s not the products’ fault. I had hopes. I wanted something from each and every one of those purchases. To be completely honest, I had big expectations. Expectations that something outside of me could spark something inside of me.
But they weren’t me.
They didn’t speak to me.
They were cute, they were fun, they were relaxing — everything I thought I wanted. Except… they weren’t.
I wanted to create my own things. To speak from the dark, dingy, forgotten place inside me that I miss.
I imagine my inner creative space looks like some spooky, forgotten mansion no one has entered in years. (18 to be exact.)
Sheets cover all the furniture. A thick coat of dust on EVERYTHING. That mist in the air from the stuffiness of being untouched for so long, and what lights remain either pop the second you switch them on… or don’t work at all.
There’s a slight musty smell — not a gross, wet basement smell — more like an old, worn, forgotten book.
Of course, there are a few footprints here and there. I have visited over the last 18 years. I just didn’t stay long. Maybe I just wanted to make sure it was still there — that it still felt safe. Because this place? It knows and understands what the outside doesn’t.
Unlike a real untouched mansion, there’s no service you can call to clear the cobwebs or replace all the bulbs. No one to help move furniture. No one to help gather sheets or hold the ladder.
And once you do start disturbing the space, the dust will start flying — trying to blind you. Trying to prevent you from seeing your potential, your path, your talent. So prepare to get lost, get turned around, and frustrated. But… keep going.
Eventually, if you keep moving forward — keep taking steps — you will find a lamp with a working bulb. And it will provide just enough light for you to say,
“I can do this.”
And you’ll keep going.
I can’t promise you won’t end up with some bumps and bruises. You’ll probably smack a table with your knee (make horrible stuff). Stub your toe on a chair (cause a loved one to make that face). You might even face-plant into a wall (feel like you aren’t moving forward). But you’ll breathe. Take a step back. Pivot. And congratulate yourself:
You’ve found a wall!
Use it to guide your fingers while you keep taking steps forward. It’ll be slow. But before you know it, you’ll feel the thick, heavy, textured window covering.
You’ve made it.
Now pull those curtains open with gusto. Let the soft light pour in. And bask in your victory!
There’s still so much more work to be done… but the biggest hurdle? It’s already handled.
You stayed.
You persevered.
Now keep going…