I’ve been gathering memories, like seashells, from the sands of half-empty journals.
One took me back to the six months I lived in a cinderblock house, dotted with drafty windows and packed with furniture that was not my own. My eight-by-eight bedroom held as much of my 22 years as it could; including a dining table shoved against the wall as a desk, a twin bed with a youthful floral comforter, two rabbits, and a smattering of unplayed musical instruments. My mind was equally unfocused and maxed out. The manic anxiety drips from each word in my journal entries.
During that mess of a time, I decided to create an Etsy shop. My first products were these: a thin, unsettling red and white candy-striped infinity scarf, two large crocheted bow barrettes, and some crochet-edged blank business cards. I spent hours perfecting the tags I would put on the products, complete with hand-stamped letters, rainbow flowers, and pastel-colored rivets from the craft store. I bought a lot of supplies in those days that I’ve never used since.
I also offered an item I felt was desperately special: a poem about death, typewritten on handmade paper. The paper was my payment for interning at a small handmade paper company. The poem was one that my childhood priest read at my grandmother’s funeral. Look—evidence of this artifact remains, like sea glass: Still there, making me emotional, taking on a new shape after all this time.
Those months were full of foul attempts at photographing my grim product selection. I wasn’t able to replicate the perfect, Pinteresty photos that other sellers were presenting. Each attempt came up short and left me frustrated and reeling. Those were the days of giving up, trying again, giving up, trying again, growing wearier with myself each time.
It’s still the same today. I can concoct a visual idea in my mind, but the execution is always clumsy. Photos I take don’t sparkle like others do—what are they missing? Taste? Tech? Tact? I have a linguistic eye and a creative heart, but I’ve discovered my hands are not artistic. Useful, yes. But their usefulness gets in the way of making anything quite beautiful.
As I read, now, in my journal about my attempts at personal branding, I can see I was on the wrong path. But I was still on my way here. Maybe I can’t paint the picture I want to paint on canvas, or capture a photo the way my mind’s developed it; but I like to think I can write a mean sentence.
Or I could take lessons and learn those other things. Eventually I will.
Everything isn’t over just yet 😊
Next Steps: Drink a glass of water, grab a blank sheet of paper and sketch yourself in that tiny cinderblock bedroom, since you never did capture a photo of it.
Sally sells seashells on Etsy