Most of the time, the question “Can I do this?” denotes the start of any project. Last night it was, “Can I design 50 monsters?” But it can be anything… Can I draw something from an unusual or extreme angle or point of view? Can I make a sausage look cute? Can I give buttered toast a personality?

Most of the time, once I begin the mark-marking process to try to answer this original question, new questions emerge because of the mark marking that’s happening in front me. New questions replace the original one.

This process doesn’t make the original question less important or one I won’t answer in the end anyway. In fact, it’s quite contrary because it’s the question that got me started, which is the most important part of the process.

When visibility goes well (when something you make gets a positive reaction like a laugh, some critical-acclaim, an award), confidence skyrockets. Someone else’s belief in you, especially when that person is a stranger or ‘industry professional’ with no vested interest in your wellbeing, provides confidence like nothing else.

But, when visibility doesn’t go well (a bad review, negative reaction, being overlooked or going unnoticed for awards), confidence can drop like a hammer falling from the sky.

The skill to learn (and yes, it is a skill) is to learn to have faith in yourself; a recognition that your work has value to you and you alone first. Maybe your work helps you to understand yourself better, it may help you process some emotions, it may entertain you, it may teach you something and help you improve your craft. Perhaps if we focus on these things, then by the time anyone notices the work we’ve made (good or bad), we’ve already won.

I’d like to believe I don’t need to be noticed; that I could make stuff just for me and be content with it existing in the world. But, when it boils down to it, I feel compelled to share.

I’ve finally exited Instagram. It feels empowering to have done so despite the platforms contribution to my picture book career (especially in the early days). But, now I find myself making stuff and still looking for places to make it public without relying on an enormous data-harvesting tech company as facilitator.

When I was younger, my website was the place to share stuff. It was clear no one read it or ever interacted (although when someone did get in touch it felt like winning a lottery). But, back then, it was enough just to share. I never saw likes, comments, or shares, and I didn’t need them. It was just… me and my stuff?

So, I’ve come full circle. It’s enough to post them to my website (that no one visits), but I can see it. I know it’s public – a message in a bottle floating in a global ocean of noise and distraction.

Will my drawings change or save a life? No. But maybe they’ll inform or entertain a digital beachcomber one day when the bottle washes up on their distant shore. Perhaps it will inspire that person to pick up a pencil and try it themselves. The chances of that happening are slim, but they’re better than if I keep my drawings in a storage locker until I’m dead.

I know I’m looking for ‘immortality’ in my art; a way to be remembered. It’s not about awards or pats on the back. I’m just looking to be helpful, perhaps, or occasionally find connection. To reinforce to myself (and others) that we are not alone. My work is proof to myself and to others that, indeed, I (and we) exist.

As someone who does most of the cooking in the house, I’ve come to recognise two types of cooking. There are some meals that contain something beyond its ingredients. The vegetables are chopped more evenly, the sauce mixed with more precision, the meat seasoned more uniformly, the salad dressing more balanced. This is different to cooking ‘fancy’ (it could be a boiled egg boiled just right) but some meals just get more attention and, as a result, the meal is nicer.

Then there are some meals which, for whatever reason (I’m distracted, tired, just don’t feel like it) are just ingredients on a plate: uncohesive. It might look like a stirfry, or a roast dinner, or a spaghetti bolognese, but it’s lacking that attention (my mother-in-law calls it love) in it’s preparation.

I suspect most home cooks know this feeling and perhaps professionals do to. I suspect it’s a familiar feeling with anyone who makes anything with their hands; something the things we make have something beyond their raw materials in them; a piece of us, our care, effort, and attention. Or love.

In our culture of incremental optimisation it’s tempting to try and ‘hack’ our brains to have more careful days than careless ones, or see more careless days as some sort of failing. But making anything at all should be celebrated. At the end of the day, the food still needs to get on the table and so does our art; there will be good days and bad ones, but that’s all part of the process.

Not many people see the paintings on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and say, “that looks easy.” No one looks at fine byzantine filigree jewellery and thinks, “I could’ve done that.” It’s unlikely someone would look at the Duomo in Milan and think it mustn’t have taken very long to build.

When we witness any artefact made by a human: a painting, a sculpture, jewellery, or architecture to name a few, we seem to be able to intuit effort; to recognise something that took a long time to do or that looked difficult to do; and this recognition is not always a conscious one.

Complexity, intricacy, grandeur, scale all have baked within it a sense of effort of time or expertise.

Simplicity, however, has within it a paradox because it doesn’t have the ‘usual’ cues of effort but instead, often works even more subconciously on the observer and is underpinned by deep understanding of the materials and purpose of the craft. We use words like skill, mastery, technique and craftsmanship in response to something that doesn’t seem complex, intricate, or grand.

Byzantine filigree and a minimalist Japanese chef’s knife couldn’t be more visually different from one another, yet both could be described as beautiful for the human effort that is embodied in their existence.

A Bonnard painting appears effortful. A Bill Watterson cartoon does to, but in a different way. Both are imbued with an intense craftmanship of their respective domains and both would be considered masterpieces in their respective field despite one being complex and layered in colour and tone, and the other being a black and white cartoon drawing.

Most of the time, at some sub-conscious level, humans see and feel the effort expended in a work and, equally, when something did not (like a discount department knock-off of a Bonnard painting), whether we’re aware of it or not.

According to classical-music.com, but also many other ‘greatest symphonies of all time lists”, Brahms’ first symphony is a good one. One of the best, in fact. No matter which “greatest symphony’s of all time” list one looks at though, one thing appears true: that, most of the time, any composer’s first attempt at writing a Symphony isn’t considered one of their best, or best of all time. There are plenty of 4ths, 9ths, 5ths, 6th and so on (Mozart 41st is a cracking one, apparently).

If this is true for symphonies, it’s also probably true for the drawings we make, the paintings we paint, and the stories we tell.

Sure, like Brahms, occassionally we’ll knock out a banger for our first try (although, by the sounds of things, it took him 20 years to write). But the probability lies in everything we make after the first. So, we have no choice but to keep making.

Ask most people to name the crew on the Apollo 11, the first moon landing, they’ll likely say Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, but not Michael Collins.

Ask most people to name the Three Italian Tenors and most people will say Luciano Pavarotti and Placido Domingo, but probably not Jose Carerras.

But, in both cases (and in many others), the success of those whose names we remember are only remembered because of the work of everyone in the group. Without Michael Collins there may not have been a moon landing at all and Neil and Buzz might just be two other names we no longer remember. Without Jose Carerras, the Three Italian Tenors are just the Two Italian Tenors, which is no longer the supergroup we remember.

It’s easy to believe that the single name on the cover of a book or the signature at the bottom of a masterpiece painting is the work of that person and that person alone. The likely reality is that the transcendant achievements of humanity, either in science or the arts, are not the result of individual genius or intense adversarial competition but rather a consistent collective collaboration, co-operation, mutual support and trust in one another.

We live in a culture where, at the beginning of every new year, we hope and plan for the year ahead. We make ‘new year’s resolutions’ – what will we achieve, what will we aim for, who will we become?

Perhaps another way to mark the end of a year is to focus and reflect on the year just gone – what we did achieve and how we have grown. It’s easy to forget the successes of the past 12 months when we’re looking forward to what the next 12 months may bring.

It’s all well and good making plans and resolutions, in fact, they’re important. But, without some time set aside to reflect on what actually happened, we risk living in a perpetual future that may never come to exist instead of intentionally reminding ourselves of the wins (and losses) of the life we lived.

How do I know the difference between procrastination and needing a rest? The truth is, I often don’t. As someone who was always told “Professional artists work even when they don’t want to, that what makes them a professional instead of a hobbyist,” the line between procrastination and rest can feel blurry.

For me, illustration is often an energy-giving activity. I feel better for having illustrated than not illustrated. But, heading into the holiday season this year, I was feeling worse: drawing was harder work than it normally is – not because I was doing difficult work, I just really wanted to do something else.

So I did. I played video games, went for walks, completed some handyman jobs around the house, read books. Each and every activity accumulatively restoring my energy. I felt better and better. Soon enough, I’ve realised that the motivation to pick up a pencil and draw again has returned and has once again become an energy giving activity.

In our hyper-productivity culture, it’s easy to forget that resting isn’t laziness, it’s an active, mindful choice that contributes to better work tomorrow rather than worse work today.

Most professional and aspiring illustrators I know want to do illustration for a job and feel lucky when they get to do it. In some sense, this is logical: it does seem fortunate that someone would pay someone else to do what we’ve been doing since we were a child; drawing or painting. In many ways, it sounds like a dream-come-true.

But, is that what’s really happening?

As a child, I drew because I wanted to, not because I needed to put food on the table. I made marks that made me feel good without thinking whether someone else would think they were great (or not) let alone whether someone would pay me for them. Knowing what I know now, this sounds a lot like a pure art practice.

Drawing for one’s livelihood is entirely different.

I’ve spent the last 9 months or so living the dream of drawing and painting for a living and I’ve come to realise that illustration-as-a-job is not for me. At least not right now.

When illustration work is my primary source of income, it sucks the joy out of it. It’s taken a lot of self-reflection to admit that I don’t feel lucky; I just feel like a component on a production line with some art supplies.

I’ve also realised that any attempt I make at drawing for fun (something I (used to) do a lot of) when it’s also my primary source of income, is too tightly woven with the possibilities of financial compensation. So, what used to be clear space for self-expression and art in its truest sense has been ‘colonised’ by thoughts about how what I make for fun may interface with the market and eventually lead to money.

So, I am lucky but in a different way. I have the privilege and education to create this separation for myself. To choose to separate my art from commerce. Not everyone has that.

But, I’ve also felt guilty about it. I, like many others I know, have also romanticised the ‘full-time illustrator’ idea a little too much in my mind with thoughts like, “I should feel lucky anyone’s paying me at all for my paintings and drawings”. Choosing to not do that feels like I’m going against what’s supposed to be a dream. But dreams are precisely dreams because they don’t match reality. I don’t know what it’s truly like for others, but for me, full-time illustration isn’t a dream, it’s a job. I prefer to make money a different way so that I can maintain the sanctity of my art practice, even if it costs me cultural relevance or visibility of my work.