As a young child of about eight years old I told my father I wanted to write a book. He told me, “Well that takes a really long time.” In a voice that sounded like he didn’t believe I had what it took to do something that would take a long time. It became a common theme in my life. Something that I would hear time and again to the point that if something didn’t have immediate results I didn’t even try.
I saw color everywhere I looked and thought about how it would look in a painting or photograph. My heart ached at the thought that I wasn’t creative and wouldn’t be able to express the colors in a painting or picture.
My inner critic would ridicule my efforts, any time I sat down to write or draw, telling me that it was horrible writing or drawing, that I might as well give up since I was never going to be good enough.
My mother taught me to crochet when I was about ten years old. This seemed to be an acceptable creative outlet as long as I didn’t try to do any really big projects. I also cooked my first meal at that age. It was a measure of worth in my family to be a woman that has good cooking skills. Another acceptable creative outlet though I didn’t realize until I was much older that it was creative.
Somehow I got it into my mind that cooking and crocheting weren’t hard so I could do them. It wasn’t risky. It wasn’t a challenge. By the time I was in my late twenties I was crocheting blankets for everyone I knew. I had discovered how to crochet with a large hook that made it faster to create them. I stuck with traditional colors and cheap yarns. Nothing fancy, nothing daring.