At the start of 2024, something weird happened to me. I suddenly lost any and all desire to draw. I never wanted to pick up a pencil again. The sight of a sketchbook filled me with dread. The world became flat and unremarkable to my eye. This abrupt creative hibernation lasted right up until this month. For a while I thought it might never end.

As a person who needs to be creative, the value of keeping a sketchbook cannot be underestimated. Yet I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with it. Where I see others consistently and diligently working as a daily habit or a vital part of their process, my own approach has always felt sadly haphazard; wildly charging from intense fixation to total drought. Some might say I struggle with perfectionism; I’d say I struggle to be ‘good enough’.

Of course, I’ve taken breaks before, but never for this long, or with such intense aversion. This isn’t to say that I wasn’t active*. I’ve been really productive. I’ve been learning new things at work by day, freelancing consistently by night. In place of drawing, I started writing. I set myself proper written-down goals for the first time in my life. I started a blog. I’ve even taken a little time for myself. When I stopped battling against self-doubt in my sketchbook, I had time and space to do other things. 

Despite the obvious (or not so obvious) benefits of a sketchbook practice, I was starting to think maybe I didn’t need it in my life. I was getting by okay. It was no longer part of my identity as a creative person. And this is where I felt a lot of shame. I wondered if I dare call myself a designer or an illustrator or a designer-illustrator or a creative or even a person, if I wasn’t a person who kept a sketchbook.

Now, suddenly, I want, or even need, to start drawing again. And this has got me thinking - why? Why do I want to go back to this thing that has filled me with so much worry, angst, suffering and agony? Well, here’s why: I tentatively believe that my mindset has changed. That this creative block wasn’t the end of my sketchbook-ing days, but a time to rest, recover and reflect. To identify some less than healthy habits and to come back with renewed energy.

So, here are some of the reminders that I’m giving myself as I re-approach the blank page:

Be gentle

Progress shouldn’t be painful. It doesn’t have to happen every day. It doesn’t have to be structured. It doesn’t have to happen at all if it’s not valuable at that moment. Sometimes I start things too intensely and later can’t keep up. But even olympic athletes don’t train everyday.

Make it varied

Record, observe, investigate, experiment, question, develop, get curious and make mistakes. Try new things. Get it wrong. Be open minded and enjoy the process. Embrace change.

Find the purpose

I’m not the type of creative who can make something out of nothing. I wish I were the type of creative who can sit down and make something beautiful out of thin air. For me, there has to be context, something to be communicated. Form follows function. Your purpose may differ.

Avoid comparison

I follow a lot of artists on Instagram. Reflecting on and analysing the work of others is helpful. Scrolling is not. 

There’s no rush

So much of our lives now is a hurry to achieve things in a certain time frame. But I think and feel deeply and should always take time to process. I need long, sustained periods of exploration in my sketchbook. Life has enough deadlines already.

Reflect

Looking back through old sketchbooks to remind myself of techniques, places, times that it’s been easy and times that it’s been hard. What worked and what didn’t. I’m using an old, half-filled book, so I don’t have to feel like I’m starting from scratch.

Consolidate ideas

Some artists have different sketchbooks for different tasks. But bringing everything together in one place allows you to see progress over time, make connections between different aspects, and will hopefully stop me from making so many value-based judgments about what deserves to be in my sketchbook.

*In fact, I did draw. Maybe three times. Quick, chaotic, unaesthetic roughs, using the nearest pen to hand. Exactly what I needed at that moment. They were perfect, actually.