Maybe the answer was doing it together

Lately, I’ve realised I don’t enjoy making art anymore - at least not for myself. It’s either “work” or nothing. If you read last week’s post, you’ll know what I mean.

At first, I thought this was just about money. Like, if I could earn more from art, or had things structured differently, maybe I wouldn’t feel so drained. But the more I sat with it (turns out journaling is a real thing, who knew), the more I realised: it’s not just about money.

It’s also about how every single interaction online has started to feel… transactional.

I kept thinking back to that Amanda Palmer TED talk from the early 2010s, The Art of Asking. She basically said: You don’t have to hard-sell, you ask. Like when you’re busking—people decide what they can give, if they enjoyed what you did. At the time, it felt revolutionary, like a new way of being an artist.

But somewhere in the past decade, that whole idea got eaten alive by the creator economy. Now it feels like everything is an ask. Here’s a free PDF if you give me your email. Here’s the free tier, so you’ll join the paid tier. I do it too - girl’s gotta eat and all that - but it means community often feels like performance.

And when you add burnout to the mix (and I know I’m not the only one - more than half of creators report burnout, and over a third have thought about quitting altogether), the whole thing can feel very lonely.

And here’s the other piece: when you’re alone, you don’t always finish things. At least I don’t. With some projects—like drawing—I sometimes want to be left alone. But with the harder stuff, the things I’m not as confident in? I need other people. Not to do it for me, but to be there, quietly or loudly, cheering me on.

Which brings me to my Discord.

I made it back in 2020 with my Patreon, then abandoned it when I was pregnant with Diana and couldn’t keep up. This March, I dusted it off and reopened it - not as a perk, just as a free space. And somehow people came back. Students from my courses, people who like my art, and a very specific breed of human (aka neurodivergent creatives with too many hobbies) started hanging out there again.

One of the new channels is called Scribblers, for the writers. Now, I’ve abandoned approximately 37 YA novels with witchy twists, but this time… This time it feels different. Why? Because we have an accountability spreadsheet.

Not made by me, obviously - I’m not nearly that organised. One of the members just went ahead and set it up: a space where we log goals, keep project lists, and even beta-read each other’s drafts. And the best part? I didn’t have to ask. They just did it.

It’s a small thing, but it makes a big difference. When you put your goal in that sheet, you know someone might see it, maybe even quietly root for you. And it turns out science backs this up: apparently, you’re about 65% more likely to follow through if you share a goal with someone else. Which explains why suddenly I actually want to write, not just talk about writing.

I want to update my little box on the spreadsheet. I want to have a chapter ready so someone else can read it. The accountability is there, but it doesn’t feel like pressure - it feels like companionship.

And that’s the piece I didn’t realise I was missing. Not money. Not some clever new growth hack. Just other humans, in the room with me (well, virtually), who aren’t expecting anything except to be there together.

So maybe that’s the trick. Doing it together.

Not to squeeze value out of each other, but to find value in each other.

ps. Sorry if this post veered too much towards the wholesome. I will go back to snark next week.