🐽 Confessions of a Buffet Lover


When I was eight, I insisted on the same thing for dinner every night. A pile of hamburger meat surrounded by a retaining wall of mashed potatoes. This went on for months.

In time, my resolve for meat ’n’ taters broke down, and I became the intrepid gourmand you see before you, flitting hither and yon, searching for my next creative whim.

I eat anything. I draw anything. I try anything (except tattoos and cilantro).

The further afield I go on my creative journey, the more I crave new experiences. I am proudly a lifetime learner, and my interests abound.

Reading, bookbinding, knitting, weaving, pot throwing, clowning, weight lifting, computer programming, banjo strumming, harmonica tweedling, politics, cooking, baking, gardening, and pug farming. I’ve written short stories, novels, journalism, commercials, plays, graphic novels, YA, bar reviews, erotica, and filthy limericks. I’ve drawn and painted most things on most continents.

Whew!


A lot of people ask me for advice on their own creative dilettantism. Is it bad? Are they just flibbertigibbets who will never finish anything?

They worry that all this jumping back and forth between lots of projects means they will never get good at any one thing—the whole Jack of All Trades, Master of None dilemma.

They get overwhelmed by choice paralysis, that there are just so many choices to distract them, and that they can’t get anything started and off the ground.

They worry that they are addicted to novelty, that they will never get anywhere because they lose interest too quickly if the thing they’re doing loses its new car smell.

They worry that they can’t legitimately call themselves artists or balalikah players or pastry chefs because they are really just …. dabblers.

Well, all these worries may well be true. And yet, there are definite advantages to being a creative person with a broad appetite.

For instance, you get to get reasonably good at lots of things. I am not an expert, but I can do a lot of things passably. Enough to be dangerous, as they say.

“Fake it till you make it” is my favorite bumper sticker. In fact, I have made bumper stickers. Not many, but if there was an emergency and someone needed a bumper sticker asap, I could probably sort it out. I bet ol’ MacGyver wasn’t a black-belt expert at all that the things he was called upon to solve, but he did figure it out somehow.

Besides, if you know a little about a lot, you can always learn more if need be —but if you have to start with a completely blank slate, you may never get off that desert island.

I also find that the more I learn about stuff, the broader the range of influences I have to draw upon. By learning a little about, say, computer coding or pot throwing or chiropody, I enter a whole universe of topics with fresh and complex branches of interest.

Feasting on a vast buffet also fights off boredom and fatigue. My mind is always engaged in something unusual and exciting rather than the same old, same old. Keeps things interesting.

All this fresh material goes into the bubbling soup cauldron in my head. My ideas are constantly fed by new and varied sources of input, popping up with surprising juxtapositions and cool new combinations. Those melanges are the source of most of my ideas; the spark that comes when I rub a bit of info about 19th-century industrial looms against an anecdote about an African herdsman and a recipe for pickled mango. I find connections between seemingly disparate fields, and I push my brain to a loftier perspective, a more holistic view, and broader thinking.

In short, being a creative dilettante is probably more good than bad. Especially if you know how to do it properly.

I’ve done a lot of work to get better at managing my curiosity and natural promiscuity. Over the years, I’ve developed tools and techniques to help me funnel my sundry appetites into a powerfully productive machine. I’ve made productivity, goal setting, efficiency, discipline, and habit creation another of my many areas of investigation. I set up goals, rewards, schedules, alarms, and notifications, then plunge in.

That’s how I wrote a dozen books, how I mastered Procreate, how I filled nearly 200 sketchbooks and kept a daily diary streak going for many years.

Here’s what I recommend for you:

First off, don’t feel bad about your wandering attention. Embrace your curiosity and accept your varied interests as part of who you are. Rather than beating yourself up about it, leverage your curiosity as a strength.

And remember, most people don’t even know thing one about the stuff that you’re dabbling in. You’ll seem like an expert to them! Besides, you’ll make a much better dinner guest if you can talk about a variety of interests; it’s wonderful to find out things in common with total strangers. Or just impress them with how interesting you are.

Acknowledge that you are on a wide-ranging, lifelong adventure that will lead you to so many new and exciting places; the journey itself, rather than the completed projects, may well be what your creative life is really meant to be all about.

That said, it’s also helpful to learn how to set viable goals. Determine a specific goal for each of your interests. An achievable, measurable goal that you can commit to. Make sure it’s reachable so you can always keep it in sight and in focus.

Your goals can be modest ones. You don’t need to be an all-knowing master to still be dangerous. If you are worried that you never achieve mastery of any of your hobbies or skills, celebrate small victories. Give yourself the occasional pat on the back or cookie to reward yourself for what you do know and have learned to do. After all, if you never feel a sense of achievement, it is harder to keep going.

Think about the linkages between your varied interests. What do they have in common? How could they converge somewhere? What is the narrative that knits them all together? And maybe the awareness can lead you into even more side interests that will make them all that much more useful and fun.

To all my peripatetic friends, the dabblers, the musers, the samplers with wet toes, I salute you! Keep playing the field, embrace your many loves, wallow in the certainty that there are more than enough interesting things to learn about, and try to keep you occupied through a long life of continuous learning.

Your pal,

Danny

P.S. Speaking of ongoing learning ... I have been playing with new ways of drawing in our just-launched YouTube membership program. I grab some art supplies, hop on camera, and spend half an hour making something new. We've all been having a blast and making loads of art. Thinking of joining in the fun? But don't think too long — click here to sign up. It's just $7.99 a month.

Danny Gregory: I help you make art again

Each Friday, I send advice, ideas, stories and tips to 25K creative people like you. Author of 13 best-selling books on creativity. Founder of Sketchbook Skool w 50k+ students

Read more from Danny Gregory: I help you make art again

Why am I writing this essay? Because it’s almost Friday, and I always send out an essay each Friday. Because I’m a writer, and writers write. Because (most of the time) I love doing this—arranging ideas, picking words. Because I want to see the finished piece. And feel that sense of satisfaction. Because I do this for you. But more, I do this for me. But does it matter why I do this? Absolutely. Because if I mistake my motivations and I’m fuzzy on my goals, I could end up looking for answers...

When I was 27, I almost learned to play the piano. I’d gone to a dinner party, and the host—a film editor, not a musician—sat down at an old upright and played something slow and emotional. It wasn’t flashy. He used both hands, sure, but he wasn’t showing off. It sounded like he was speaking with the keys. I remember thinking: I want to do that. The next morning, I looked up local music teachers in the Yellow Pages. Then I paused. It would take years to get good. I imagined scales, clunky...

For the last quarter century of his life, my grandfather spent hours each day at his word processor, writing recollections, essays, and articles. He had been a doctor, but like many aging artists and writers, he turned to the page to make sense of the life he had lived. Every decade, he wrote a new version of his autobiography—hundreds of pages of translucent, onion-skinned remembrance. Some he mailed to me or my mother, but most sat in desk drawers or binders, unread, unappreciated. When he...