I have no innate talent and most of what I make is at best laughable.
I have no technique, no skill, but no illusions either.
Yet, I can't stop making things with my hands - drawing, sewing, knitting. I can't stop.
I'm usually a mess of a stress ball, trying to fit in some time to make some project in an already hectic day.
But I have to. Why?
Charles Bukowski wrote a poem telling would-be writers when they should write, and when they shouldn't. (I highly recommend this poem)
I'm (also) not a writer, not like what he means. But this part of the poem... This is me. This is why I can't stop creating something, anything.
"unless it comes out ofyour soul like a rocket,unless being still woulddrive you to madness orsuicide or murder,don't do it.unless the sun inside you isburning your gut,don't do it."
I have to do it. I've tried to stop, but I can't. So I do it.
No, I'm not an artist. But that need, that itch to make something, to create something, to translate the world around me is still there, burning my gut.
Why do you create?