I quit drawing.
A long time ago, I was in art, and I loved it, despite being quite poor at it in retrospect. I could crudely draw large-eyed, cartoonish portraits – maybe. But I painted a blue-based monochromatic “piece” for Remembrance Day and it was being marked by our education practicum student, Mr. Blackburn. Who I was ridiculously in love with when I was 14 and he was around my age now – which of course, seemed DECADES old at the time, which made our love impossible (along with statutory rape laws, the fact that I was enormously awkward, and so on). Anyways, he gave me back a marking sheet and under the comments he wrote some bullshit about “using more colour” (I was creating a MOOD, dur). And the last sentence in the comments was, “never quit art. I can tell you have real talent.” My fourteen-year old self was SWOONING at the prospect of this dreamy older guy telling me how talented I was and I did at the time make a promise – never quit this, Miya. This is your future. And then I looked into it as my literal future and realized that I was crap at art, so I stuck to doodling and never gave it any serious thought at all – doodle, doodle, doodle, doodle, doodle, and so on. And then last year or the year before, the fantasy life in my drawings began to die as my new life began and now when I try to doodle, it just seems like a chore and a waste of paper and a pain. So I quit. I didn’t even mean to, it just sort of happened. And to me the fact that I didn’t consciously give it up means that Mr. Blackburn was wrong – that I don’t have talent, and that I wasn’t ever meant to continue ‘art’ because it’s not my dream, my passion or my meal ticket.
So this doesn’t prove much to me, except that I’m a quitter and I maybe could have done something with that “talent” that some idle man that I no longer know or care about happened to think I had. Does that make me a quitter, or does that mean I grew up and became honest with myself? I don’t know.
Either way, I’m sorry I quit, but it had to be done.