In the twenty-five years of my life, I have tried more art projects in more mediums than any one reasonably sane person should be able to admit to. I've worked in oils and acrylics and watercolors, charcoal and graphite and marker, clay and paper and fabric. I spent several years dabbling in dollhouses, filled more sketchbooks than I can count, and studiously examined the science of pop-ups. I've built fairy houses from pebbles and twigs and dirt and laboriously sewed ill-fitting Barbie clothes by hand. I've done cross-stitching on canvas and plastic canvas, explored tatting, and bored myself to death with latch-hooking. And for some time now, I've worked with the knowledge that my "Art" will never amount to anything, no one will ever see it, and no profit will ever come of it.
Then I discovered crochet.
And something magical and miraculous and thrilling happenened.
People liked it. People, strange distant people from the far-off world of the internet started viewing and liking and talking about my patterns. And more importantly, I liked it. I believed in it and I started very slowly to dream again. Good dreams. And I can't tell you how rarely any of my dreams manage to be pleasant. At the end of the night, after spending most of my day working retail and then coming home to spend several more hours struggling with my latest crochet project, I can look at my work and praise God and be happy and dream.
Do not forget, while you are working, to dream, my friends.