Breaking up is hard to do

It’s the most wonder-what-to-make time of the year — or used to be, for me. It was all tra-la-la-la-la and glue-guns and glitter puff paint back when I had the 9-5 office job. Messing with sparkle and colour was just the thing for fending off the stress of the day and the inky wet nights. My right brain happily buzzed as I explored how to make new kinds of gifties, from jester-style ski toques to mini twig wreaths. I even hosted an annual alcohol-fueled Craft Night for the Craftily Impaired. (Celebrity tangent: One year one of those half-gassed girlfriends ended up showing her little collection of homemade cards to an approving Eric “Will” McCormack at a bar later that night.)

But now I’m discovering that an emerging art practice is a major buzz-kill to what used to be a craft-tastic, shamelessly uncritical seasonal activity, a creative retreat from my daily managerial role. My extensive craft repertoire remains an important foundation for my work now but I have to move on. Learning quilling or book-binding is not moving my work forward, and the ol’ right brain now needs a break at the end of the day. Those pure, fun seasonal jollies I used to get from learning to make a thing have now been replaced by regret for the time and effort spent on silly seasonal notions.

It’s like I’m breaking up with crafting, but know I’ll be seduced into a few more one-night stands before it’s all over. 
This may be a glimmer of what the struggle looks like. 

Table-top tree made out of cereal boxes (pant! pant!)