I have never really thought of myself as an Artist, or a Writer, or an Artisan though I have spent my entire life creating, writing (for myself, always) and making. Thinking and feeling the end products of my making. Is this what an artist is? I still don't know. Though I do know that there are people of my acquaintance who think, act, communicate and make less creatively than I do who call themselves 'creatives' or artists.

Perhaps this is a reflection of my own insecurities. I am never truly satisfied with the things I make. I always know where I could have done better, where my 'allah marks' are (the imperfections in the finished item - as only allah is perfect - imperfections that nobody else notices but which I know exist), the corners I can and have cut, that the leg-seam should have been pressed over 5 cm further down/up or that there is a crack in the paint where I didn't let the first coat dry long enough. The list goes on. Maybe all artists feel this way, I don't know.

All I know is that I am only ever truly at peace when I am making. Cooking, sewing, knitting, gardening, painting, gluing, whatever. And I am slowly coming around to the idea that this makes me 'creative'. That there is some primal urge within me to make 'somethings' from 'nothings'. Not for other people to admire but for my own sanity.

Perhaps this is the true measure of creativity. Not whether someone calls themselves creative but the carry through, the action that actually creates. By this measure I am creative.

It is time to call myself so.

I have slowly budding ideas, in time I shall flesh them out and in the meanwhile I will keep making.