Hobbies: My Lukewarm Defense of Mediocrity

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Pictured: Me with my sketchbook, plus my drawing of Megamind 😉

Full disclosure: I don’t intend to convince you that mediocrity is intrinsically a good thing. This is not a write-up about why it’s totally fine to slack off at work, or why you should be fine with and accept your dead-end job, or not turn in your assignments on time because doing ‘just enough’ when your potential is greater than that is actually a good thing. But what I am going to tell you is that it’s okay to not be good at things you enjoy. You may not be able to become a successful author if your writing fails to captivate people (although I’ll admit that some novels that have sold well never fail to baffle me), but this does not mean you should not write if getting a story out on the weekend makes the thought of next Monday a little more palatable. What this article is is a defense of being bad at your hobbies.

Mediocrity is something we’re societally discouraged from praising, as we’re instead supposed to strive for and lust after productivity and exceptionalism. When we talk about one’s work, obligations, educational pursuits, and so on and so forth, I see this as a fairly reasonable (if overzealous) perspective to have. And yet, as we claim that hobbies are good for the soul, pen and publish self-help books, sell new-age spiritualism and fad diets and bath bombs as remedies for a stressful life, one’s attempt to start any hobby seems inevitably built on the assumption that you’re striving for objective quality.

After all, if you’re good at it, it might even become profitable one day, right? 

Phase 1: “Who cares if I’m bad at my hobby?”

During the transition from late prepubescence to early adolescence, I picked up a hobby independent of the creative writing I had recently been deemed to be talented at by the adults who familiarized themselves with my growing collection of poetry: I began drawing. From the beginning, visual art was something I knew I was not very good at — nonetheless, I found it comforting at a time where I was displeased with myself and the situation around me, and it was less mentally taxing than writing while working in tandem with it. I drew my characters, jotting down personality traits and story notes in the corners of the drawings. 

My first ‘sketchbook’, which has been sitting on a shelf for a few years, was two composition books stapled together cover-to-cover and sheathed in fluorescent paper to mask the shoddy DIY nature of it and prevent the books from coming apart by accident. I used it throughout almost the entirety of 7th grade, and a few of the characters within have continued to be revamped and improved upon in the 6 years since their inception, continually aging with me from an antisocial and discontent 12-year-old to an introspective but moody 18-year-old. 

In 8th grade and going into 9th grade, shocked that I was still doodling in the margins of notes and having since upgraded to a real sketchpad, I turned my smartphone into my first little animation studio and put my drawings in motion for the first time. Animating would take up my full attention for blocks of 4-12 hours at a time — specifically during vacations. Making quick clips with my characters and fan work of other established properties was my newest pastime, and at first, I had no concerns about the quality of the product: I would just be proud to finish them.

And then I watched people criticizing other small/hobbyist animators online, and I feared that my own animations were boring, repetitive, and stiff. This was, evidently, the beginning of the end (at least for now).

Phase 2: “Oh my God, am I actually bad at my hobby?”

From then on, my primary goal for animating seemed to no longer be stress relief or relaxation — these were only passive benefits, as my real goal was slugging away until I created the best thing I could make. The mendacity of amateur work was viewed only as something to be corrected, even though I was a hobbyist. It was not about enjoying my work at every stage so much as it was fighting for and dreaming of when it would be better. 

Don’t appreciate the chrysalis in and of itself; just appreciate that it’s a sign that a butterfly will be here soon. The chrysalis is unpolished and ugly, indicative of poor craftsmanship by untrained hands. The work put into bringing it into existence does not make it good, and the embarrassment I feel from knowing that should, in theory, inspire me to work harder.

Spoiler alert: this mindset has effectively ruined one of my hobbies, and I’ve been unable to enjoy it to the same degree ever since. I have not completed an animation in two years, and I have several failed drafts since then I have not been able to keep the motivation to finish. My fear that my animations were inferior dredged up other concerns that my art is not up to par either, and this poisoned the safe space I used to go into when life was getting me down. I have not given up on it, but my ever-present daydreams and plans for what I could be animating have not materialized in quite a while.

So, what’s the moral of this long, rather melancholic story? Well, here’s where I defend mediocrity: whether young or old, whether you draw, paint, sew, write, take pictures, or whatever else gets you through a long day, you don’t need to be good at it. And maybe you already knew that, at least objectively, but if you’re anything like me and are prone to holding yourself to a standard you can’t meet, here’s your friendly reminder that you don’t have to be good at the things you enjoy doing if you do them just to make yourself happy. 

If your primary goal isn’t improvement, who cares if you’ll stagnate a bit if you just paint the same thing every time you sit by your easel?  What if you don’t want to branch out or stop playing your favorite song that only has four chords? People crack jokes about the ‘Wonderwall guy’ who just picked up a guitar and never gets past campfire chords, but if you don’t mind staying a beginner, I say rock on! Just play by yourself or with people who support you enjoying yourself.

What learning to let go and embrace mediocrity does for me is that it allows me to take pride in the crude middle stages. When I started teaching myself guitar, I let myself play whatever I wanted for as long as I wanted, which often meant only a few easy songs, and moved on whenever it felt right. I may not have gotten as far as Joe down the block did in the three years since I started, but I still actively enjoy it, and I picked up new techniques like fingerstyle when it felt right because I didn’t see my first-month shoddy renditions of Red Hot Chili Pepper songs as ugly — I saw them as fun. 

So hobby on, my friends. You deserve a space where you don’t have to conform to  anyone else’s standards. You deserve something that you don’t have to be graded on. The world’s already good enough at trying to turn everything about you into a number, but don’t let it convince you that your hobbies are less meaningful if you’re not trying to do them ‘right’.

— Dee

To Post or Not To Post: The Fear of Sharing My Work

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Pictured: Me with one of my many writing notebooks

When I was in 9th grade English class, I — like many others — had to read The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. Now, as a whole, you don’t need to be particularly familiar with this tale of a man’s fall into hedonism to understand why I bring this up. The part that first stuck out to me came far, far earlier than any of the selfishness, drugs, murder, and depravity that happens later the story. In fact, the line I’m about to talk about was in the very first chapter.

It was something said during the novel’s first exchange between the painter, Basil, and his friend, Lord Henry. If you’ve ever read it, you may remember that, upon seeing a completed portrait of Dorian Gray done by Basil, Henry insisted that Basil should exhibit it. Basil refuted the idea, claiming that there was too much of himself in the painting.

Although this was not a remark that Henry initially understood, a few hundred words later, Basil somberly confessed this:

“…every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter…The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown with it the secret of my own soul.”

— The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde

Perhaps it is a bit melodramatic, but I digress. I was fourteen and very much in the depths of first discovering my artistic voice in relation to others, and this line has stuck with me over these past few years since I’ve first read it. Now, no more literature class — I promise.

This concept of the art being a reflection of the artist is as old as time, and a theme of running debate. Especially if you’re a person who creates art, you likely understand the notion to some degree. But what do you do if some part of you wants others to see your creations, but most of the things you make fall into that category of ‘too personal to share’?

Well, I am a very private person, and this is not a secret if you know me. Generally, I’ve dealt with people not being able to fully understand why, particularly with regard to my creative pursuits, as they view my work and see something that I can’t and might not ever. And oftentimes, the problem isn’t that I think the piece of writing is bad. Actually, many times, I’m quite fond and even proud of it. It’s actually the bigger issue: I can see myself in-between the lines.

Usually, this feeling doesn’t come from a memoir or personal poetry or anything — it’s just a fictional story where you probably can’t tell what I could be referring to unless you truly know me. Sometimes, you won’t even know then, because there are things hidden there that are so convoluted, vague, or personal that I am the only one who could ever know. But that’s enough.

I am in there, hiding in plain sight. And this can hold value that you could never see just by reading it. Even when I write about things ‘detached’ from me, you don’t know how much of me is in there. Is that a good thing? Eh, maybe sometimes, but it’s mostly a roadblock in my case. I find myself more afraid to share my writing because of it, sometimes even with my friends and family.

How does one reconcile the feeling of nakedness of letting people see those things they’ve held so dear to their heart for so long? Well, you have to suck it up and share it anyway, or don’t.

So, many times, I still don’t.

I’m Afraid to Share My Writing

A lot of advice I see given to aspiring writers (like me) who ask about overcoming fear of sharing is generally, “Get over it and put it out there, or give up because you’re never going to get anywhere if no one can see your work.” Boiled down to its most basic components, sure, that’s true, but it turns the situation into a pass/fail that it might not have to be. If I don’t share it, then I’ve given up, and I fail. Sure, maybe the stakes would be that high if I forfeited all other paths to be an author and now it’s do or die, but trust me, that’s not how my life is going. So, I ask myself a series of softer questions, like:

  • Do I want recognition more than I want to keep this to myself?
  • Do I want recognition badly enough to let people criticize this?
  • Do I want recognition badly enough that I can put the work in to actually promote this?

The answers to these questions are most often ‘no’, and sometimes one will even be ‘hell no!’ This is where I respond by backing down, or at least lowering the stakes, because I’ve determined that my heart isn’t in it. Now, I’m not just private: I’m also stubborn when I so desire. I don’t hold firm often, but no one can ever truly convince me to do something I don’t want to do — not even myself! And here’s where my fourth questions enters:

  • Can I come back to this in six months and see how I feel then?

Usually, the answer to this one is ‘yes’, and the answers to the other questions will also manage to soften in that time. I do have youth on my side here, so I suppose when I say, “Wait — I’m not ready!”, I feel pretty comfortable deciding to come back later to reassess. The biggest things I’ve found I have to accept about it all are that:

  • It’s okay to not be ready, or at least to not be right now.
  • Knowing my priorities is more intuitive than any stock advice anyone could ever give me.
  • I have to do this for me, and no one else.

I don’t purport myself to be any sort of advice column with lifestyle tips, because I consider myself under-qualified for any such task — I haven’t left my teens yet and I’m very stuck in my emotions — but I will say what I’ve found to be useful to determine for myself.

Searching for advice is only as helpful as what you’re willing to find. If I’m set in my ways already, then good ole confirmation bias will set in and I’ll only hear the advice that tells me what I want to hear. So I have now resolved to spend productive time with myself, understanding how I tick and what I actually want. It’s about understanding that I might not find the golden advice that will really push me one way or the other. Sometimes, it really is just me. If not publishing my work makes me feel relieved, but ashamed, I want to understand where the shame comes from.

Do I really want to post this but stopped because of fear? Do I actually want others to read this, or do I just feel like it’s worth less if no one else ever sees it?

It’s not really about concrete, black-and-white answers. It’s about putting feelings into perspective, and giving myself the room to feel confident enough in my own judgement to be able to say, “You know what? I don’t want other people to read this right now, even though I think it’s good.”

It’s about accepting that what worked for other people might not work for me. Someone else might’ve wanted success enough that they motored through the worst of their fear and now have no regrets, but if the thought of someone else seeing something I posted makes me feel so nervous that it makes me nauseous (and this has happened before), only I can decide if it’s worth it. I always end up feeling more comfortable with the result if I come back when I actually want to do something.

And, in the end, I need to believe in my own choices, because if I don’t, who will?

— Dee