How I Became an Artist

I’ve been an artist for as long as I’ve been able to hold a pencil. Once I learned how to grip one, you almost never found me without it. My mother’s best friend used to call me “Erin Pencilhands”—a playful nod to Edward Scissorhands, one of my childhood favorites—because the pencils seemed less like tools and more like extensions of my fingers. In my house, I wasn’t allowed to say “in a minute,” because it was the only thing I ever said when someone tried to pull me away from my sketching. I would scribble furiously until the very last second, sometimes until someone literally dragged me away. Drawing brought me immense joy and comfort, but it also stirred big emotions. If something didn’t turn out the way I wanted, you might hear me shout “scribble scrabble!” as I scratched out the page in frustration.

And then, for nearly twenty years, I stopped drawing altogether.

Somewhere along the way, I absorbed the belief that artistic talent was something you were either born with or not. I had never taken formal classes, so my skills didn’t progress, and that only reinforced the idea that I didn’t have “it.” I carried that belief into adulthood, and for a long time, I didn’t question it. But eventually, I began to feel the shape of the hole that abandoning art had left in my life. I missed the part of myself that used to disappear into lines and shadows.

So, as a middle‑aged adult, I decided to try again, gently this time, with support. I watched other artists online, letting their process remind me that skill is built, not bestowed. I discovered that I loved realism, especially the attention to detail. Once I learned how to create truly dark shadows and bright highlights, something clicked. I fell in love with texture, shadow, and high contrast. There’s no perfect way to explain it except to say that the textures satisfy my hand, and the effort of making all those tiny marks satisfies my soul.

Now, art rarely brings me the “scribble scrabble” frustration I felt as a child. Instead, it gives me a calm, meditative focus—a quiet space where I can capture light, texture, or emotion one stroke at a time. It gives me pride, too. I know now that I make art for myself, that the “it” I once thought I lacked is really just hard work, patience, and skill building. No one gets to tell me I don’t belong. Art is for everyone.

And if you’re finding your way back to your own creativity, I hope you know there’s room for you here.