As the year comes to a close, many of us naturally return to the same question:
Is blogging still worth it?
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Anyone who has ever hesitated—unsure whether to keep going or walk away—has probably visited my blog at least once. I know this because I have been there myself. I have doubted, stopped, restarted, and questioned my path more times than I can count. And yet, year after year, I return to the same conviction:
Blogging matters. You must not quit.
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Today, I want to share the things I regret most from my long journey of maintaining a blog—regrets that may help someone standing exactly where I once stood.

1. Writing Too Much “Informational” Content in the Early Years

​When I first began blogging in the early 2000s, the internet was overflowing with tutorial-style posts. So naturally, I did the same. I wrote countless entries explaining Photoshop techniques, Illustrator functions, and digital tools. At the time, those posts attracted plenty of comments and questions—they were useful, practical, and necessary.
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But looking back now, I realize that too many of my early posts were purely informational, lacking my voice, my story, or my perspective. They were helpful, yes, but not memorable. And in today’s landscape, where AI can produce a million tutorials in seconds, such content rarely stands out.
Still, there is one thing I do not regret:
I explained things visually and in detail in ways that ChatGPT still cannot.
People continue to visit my site for in-depth solutions to specific errors I encountered on platforms like Weebly or other design tools. Those posts remain some of my most popular because they offer something personal—something earned from real experience.

2. Over-Complicating My Categories

​Another regret is how excessively I divided my blog categories.
If I could go back, I would simply keep three main branches:

• Art
• Education
• Publishing

Subcategories such as “Mom’s Playground Book Club” or “SchoolNova” would have been enough.
But once categories are created, they are almost impossible to restructure without breaking your entire archive. So now I live with the overly fragmented structure I built as a beginner.
The truth is, most new bloggers fall into this trap. It’s hard to know your core themes until you’ve written a great deal. Advising beginners to “choose big, essential categories” is almost unrealistic, because you only discover your voice after hundreds of posts. Still, it’s a lesson worth sharing.

3. Trying Too Hard to Be Perfect in the Beginning

​I also regret how hard I pushed myself at the start.
I tried to write perfect posts—beautiful, polished, professional.
And in doing so, I burned out more times than I’d like to admit.
Back then, I didn’t fully understand Google’s AdSense policies either, which led to accidental invalid clicks and months of advertising suspension. Those months felt devastating because I had tied my self-worth to “results.”
What I learned is simple but essential:
Your initial motivation must be joy—not pressure, not performance, not numbers.
Blogging should never feel like a corporate job where you must “produce results.”
If you chase perfection, you will burn out.
If you chase obligation, you will quit.
But if you chase joy, you will last.
And lasting—not perfection—is what ultimately wins.

4. Write Like a Journal, Not a Textbook

​One of the greatest discoveries I’ve made is that blogs grow strongest when we write like ourselves.
When you write as if you are talking to a friend—warmly, honestly, without worrying whether each sentence is perfect—that is when blogging becomes sustainable.
Many of my most valuable posts today are not “highly polished essays” but simple journal entries documenting my life as an artist.
For example:
If someone wants to know what it’s like to prepare for an outdoor art show, my blog already has everything--
how I chose my tent, how I packed my car, how I handled weather problems, what sold and what didn’t, how exhausted or excited I felt.
These are small details, but for a beginner artist preparing for their very first show, such information is gold.
I remember searching endlessly online for this exact knowledge, only to find almost nothing. Even when I asked local artists or institutions, the answers were incomplete or vague.
That is why I write with such commitment now:
I know exactly how it feels to be lost, alone, and desperate for guidance.
If someone succeeds more beautifully than I did because of something I shared, that alone makes every hour of writing worth it.

5. Don’t Obsess Over Revenue

​Though my blog has grown enough to earn from AdSense, I constantly remind myself—and my readers—not to become obsessed with revenue. The moment your writing becomes profit-driven, your joy drains away. Your motivation shifts. Your voice disappears.
Whenever I write, I ask myself one simple question:
“Did I have fun today while writing?”
Did it feel like a friendly conversation with a visitor who pulled up a chair in my quiet, solitary studio?
If the answer is yes, then the day’s blog post is a success—regardless of views, clicks, or dollars.
Over the years, I’ve learned that blogging is not only a record of my growth, but also a powerful tool for branding myself as an artist. It has connected me with students, families, collectors, and communities in ways I never expected.
And so, as I say every year:
Try pressing the ‘like’ button on your own blog.
Celebrate your presence, your effort, your story.
It matters more than you think.
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I hope today’s reflections encourage you, guide you, or simply make you feel understood.
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If you are hesitating—wondering whether to continue or quit—then please hear me clearly:
Don’t stop.
Don’t give up.
Your voice has a place, and your story will help someone.
And one day, you will look back at your imperfect, messy, honest blog and realize it has become one of the greatest assets of your life.

Why Write When You Could Paint? A Question Every Artist Eventually Asks

​And finally, I want to address a question that many artists—or anyone who blogs—will eventually wonder:
“I understand the value of consistency, but is it really worth writing for years? Wouldn’t that time be better spent painting one more canvas?”
I ask this because I have asked myself the same question many, many times.
When ChatGPT arrived, the way I wrote blog posts changed drastically. Tasks that once consumed hours—researching references, gathering information, translating ideas into English—suddenly became lighter. Before, a single post could take two hours or more, especially if I tried to express complicated thoughts in English. During graduate school, my research and writing skills improved, and everything became a little easier. Then AI arrived and allowed me to write three posts a day if I wanted to.
But here is something important:
I don’t rely entirely on AI.
I never have. AI text often feels flat, lifeless, and uninhabited. It doesn’t breathe. It doesn’t carry the warmth or the emotional texture of real experience. So I still write by hand, polishing each thought until it feels like my own voice.
So why do I continue writing—sometimes frantically—when I could simply paint?
Because painting alone is not enough.
Yes, if I had spent all those years exclusively painting, perhaps I would be technically stronger than I am today. Perhaps my brushwork would be more refined.
But the truth is difficult and honest: the world is overflowing with people who paint beautifully.
Every exhibition reminds me of this. I walk through galleries and outdoor shows and immediately see how many artists possess extraordinary skill—skill that humbles me and makes me bow my head.
So what distinguishes one artist from another?
What allows an artist to build a brand, a presence, a voice?
It’s the story.
It’s the statement behind the work.
If a painting cannot speak for itself, if it carries no meaning, then potential collectors hesitate. But when a piece has a story—when a viewer can feel the artist’s intention, history, or emotional landscape—then the work becomes irresistible. It becomes special.
This is why I write.
When I create a painting, I often spend the entire day writing about it.
If someone searches the title of a piece they purchased from me, they will discover a story—a doorway into the world that painting came from. For an artist to have such a place, a permanent archive of their thoughts and process, is a remarkable thing.
So I endure the inconvenience. I write the stories. I record the questions, the doubts, the discoveries.
Because this process is meaningful, and because it is genuinely fun.
And over time—slowly, quietly—good things have happened.
One of the biggest advantages now is that I no longer have to beg anyone for opportunities.
I no longer need to say, “Please feature my work on your site.”
In the past, I entered open calls, paid fees, submitted to platforms that demanded even more money once accepted. That world still exists, and many artists remain trapped in it.
But when you grow your own brand, when you build your own platform, you become free.
You can display your work without permission.
You can speak in your own voice.
You can reach people directly.
And one day—this part still surprises me—organizations begin to ask you to introduce them. I receive such requests occasionally, and every time, I remember how far I’ve come.
This is why I tell people:
Write a little every day. Even a small post counts.
In a previous entry, I wrote about Dashrath Manjhi—the Indian man whose life inspired the film Mountain Man. After losing his wife, he made a decision that everyone considered insane: he vowed to carve a road through the massive mountain that separated his village from medical care.
With nothing but a hammer and a chisel, he struck the rock day after day. Breaking even a single boulder with such tools is nearly impossible. Imagine how many people laughed at him. How many mocked him. How many dismissed him as foolish.
And yet he continued.
For twenty-two years.
Without stopping.
Until a road finally opened through the mountain.
It is the perfect reminder:
Do not underestimate the small, simple things you do every day.
They carve paths where none existed before.
They build mountains—or remove them.
They transform an ordinary life into an extraordinary one.
So yes, paint your paintings.
But also write your words.
Because someday, your stories will be the road that leads others to your art—and perhaps, the road that leads you to the life you have been quietly building all along.

​In an age when artificial intelligence accelerates every part of our lives, I find myself moving in the opposite direction. While the world leans toward automation, I am creating an analog calendar—painted by hand, page by page. This November, I published a watercolor book with a friend, and we exhibited it at our local library. It feels as if we are rowing upstream in a digital river, yet we continue moving forward with conviction.

Looking back, I realize there are many things I no longer needed to learn for the AI era—Photoshop being one of them. Today, even that software incorporates AI tools capable of producing images through a short prompt. These tools are impressive, but not yet perfect, and I still find myself returning to older methods. Still, I cannot help but feel that the digital art industry is in for massive upheaval. One way or another, we all need to adapt.

My child loves digital art. They draw animations daily and dream of working in the digital arts. Not long ago, they wanted to become a veterinarian. Their dreams shift frequently, but I choose not to interfere or offer opinions. People should do what they love most. That belief has never changed. And the speed of change today is so overwhelming that even adults—especially parents—cannot pretend to know what the future holds. That is why I remain silent and simply watch.

In hindsight, prestigious universities or formal credentials feel less essential in today’s world. Knowledge built on rote memorization is losing relevance. What matters now is the ability to create, to apply, and to propose solutions that make life easier or more joyful. I suspect this may become the era of people with entrepreneurial instincts.

Painting has taught me something similar. To work deeply, I must tune into my own frequency rather than the world’s. I cannot know whether my work will be welcomed, understood, or celebrated. If people do look at my paintings and respond, that becomes the path toward recognition—the mysterious ascent of becoming a well-known artist. Many around me work tirelessly, trying not to miss even the smallest sign of success, hoping it might become their own.

I finished graduate school during the transitional moment when AI tools like ChatGPT became publicly accessible. My professors encouraged their use, urging us to learn how these tools worked. But because our program was centered on reflection and personal insight, AI could not help beyond smoothing out phrasing. Perhaps out of pride, I didn’t use the tools. Ironically, my raw, unpolished reports received high marks.

In the midst of the AI wave, I chose an analog, story-driven program in graduate school. I questioned that decision many times, unsure whether it was the right direction. But after graduating, I can confidently say it was. I learned how to survive in a rapidly changing world through multiple creative channels—blogging, publishing, teaching, and exhibiting. I built various pipelines. And most importantly, the process trained me to think and speak through my work.

As AI becomes more dominant, humans will rely increasingly on machines. That is why the ability to think independently, to imagine, and to build something new will become even more valuable. I believe artwork should move in that direction too. Each year I set up a large question—a thematic frame—and explore it through smaller subtopics in my paintings.
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The world is shifting quickly, and the waves ahead are enormous. As an analog artist, this reality feels both thrilling and tense. But I want to keep challenging myself. Life itself is a series of challenges. And within those challenges, I continue finding new ways to stay afloat, to create, and to tell my story.

In this era of artificial intelligence, I am asked a different kind of question—by my students, my clients, and sometimes even by friends and family. In the past, people mainly wondered whether one could really make a living through art. Even now, my paintings sell well, my classes fill up, and my work continues to grow, but compared to other professions, the income can feel woefully insufficient. Of course, in the art world too, the top one percent—the famous names everyone recognizes—earn more than the combined income of countless working artists. But that structure is no different in the tech world. All the money inevitably flows toward a small handful of people. Sometimes there’s a reason, but often there isn’t.

When I used to work in an IT company, the phrase “dot-com bubble” was everywhere. If a company created something and simply added “.com” to its name, it could receive reckless, uninformed investment. I actually witnessed companies like that. I also remember a scholar who once visited our research lab—a man who had spent decades developing a stem-cell-based diagnostic technology. He looked exactly like the kind of person you’d expect to be doing serious scientific work. Yet he confessed, almost bitterly, that investors wanted results that were more sensational, more glamorous. Even if his technology could spark a revolution, no one was interested. I still think about him sometimes. His words were discouraging, but perhaps having a world of research that belongs entirely to you is its own form of blessing.

Now, however, when the entire world seems to be sprinting toward AI, I find myself being asked how artists will survive—and I feel that I, too, need some kind of answer. Recently, I binge-watched the Korean drama Mr. Sunshine on Netflix. It follows a boy born into slavery who escapes to the United States, becomes a U.S. Marine officer, and later returns to Joseon, where he becomes entangled with a noblewoman secretly involved in the Righteous Army. As the country faces collapse under foreign pressure, political conflict, and shifting alliances force each character to choose what to protect—love, loyalty, or the nation itself—and many give everything they have.

One line from the drama has stayed with me. During the fierce battle of the 1871 U.S. expedition to Korea, when nearly everyone is about to die, a son begs his father to flee. But the father refuses, shouting, “If I run, who will protect this country?” He dies moments later. Something about that moment lodged itself in me.

Because sometimes I feel the same way.

If artificial intelligence swallows art—if it mocks, replaces, or erases it—then who will keep drawing? Shouldn’t I? Shouldn’t someone remain, painting more analog, more classical, more traditional work, like a fish swimming against the current? Even if every artist shakes their head and says this path has no future, I still want to be the one who survives, who holds onto the brush until the very end.

Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to work in a field that the world praises—one that is rewarded simply for existing. But none of us are guaranteed something like that. Even AI, now celebrated as the pinnacle of innovation, is threatening the jobs of the very people who built the tech industry. It feels a bit like watching Frankenstein come to life.

Yet I choose art because I believe in what cannot be seen. I believe in energy, in worlds that exist beyond the visible. These values matter more to me than practicality or financial security. That is why I chose art, and why I continue down this uncertain path. And to be honest, I don’t really know the answer to any of these questions. That’s why I opened this blog—to search for answers. To write, and rewrite, and keep writing until something reveals itself.
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In that sense, I often think of Cézanne, the artist I admire most. He devoted thirty-five years to uncovering the essence of painting, and in the end, he found it. Maybe, someday, I too will come close to that essence. And perhaps that essence is something AI will never understand.

​And so, I pick up my brush again, write again, and steady my heart once more. No matter where the world moves or how fast technology races ahead, I believe there is a realm that only human hands and human hearts can create. As long as that belief stays alive, I will keep walking toward it. Perhaps these questions and uncertainties will eventually lead me somewhere, and at the end of that path, I may finally encounter the essence of art I’ve been searching for. I don’t know when that moment will come, but I am certain of one thing: that essence is born from depths that artificial intelligence can never replace.

The Mountain Man” (2015) is a biographical drama based on the life of Dashrath Manjhi, a real man from Bihar, India. Born into an impoverished and marginalized community, Manjhi spent his early life struggling against social discrimination and severe poverty. His life changes dramatically when his beloved wife, Falguni, dies after falling while crossing a steep mountain path. Reaching the nearest hospital required a long detour around the mountain, and the dangerous, time-consuming journey prevented him from saving her. This tragedy leaves Manjhi devastated but determined.

Driven by grief and a desire to protect others from suffering the same fate, Manjhi makes a radical decision: he will carve a road through the mountain with his own hands. Without government support or proper equipment, he begins working with just a hammer and a chisel. The villagers mock him and call him insane, but Manjhi remains unwavering, fueled by love, anger, and a sense of responsibility toward his community. Overcoming extreme heat, hunger, loneliness, and constant ridicule, he continues his work day after day.

After 22 years of labor, he completes a 110-meter pass through the mountain, transforming the daily life of his village. The new path dramatically shortens travel time, allowing children, elders, and the sick to reach schools, markets, and hospitals safely.

The film portrays not only Manjhi’s extraordinary perseverance but also broader themes such as class inequality, poverty, political indifference, and the power of individual conviction. Above all, it shows how one person’s dedication—rooted in love and moral courage—can reshape the future of an entire community.

Yin Yuzhen from China’s Inner Mongolia is known for transforming barren desert into a thriving forest through decades of determination. Married at 19 into a remote village near the Mu Us Desert, she endured constant sandstorms, drought, and poverty. Her home was often buried in sand, and farming was nearly impossible. Refusing to accept a life swallowed by the desert, she resolved to change her environment by planting trees. Her first 600 saplings mostly died due to harsh winds, drought, and rodent damage, but she refused to give up. She learned to plant tall trees as windbreaks and fill the inner areas with shrubs to stabilize the soil, gradually developing an ecological system that could survive the desert conditions.
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For decades, Yin and her family hauled water, endured heat and sandstorms, and planted thousands of trees every year without machinery or government support at the beginning. Over time, the edges of the desert turned green, and vast stretches of degraded land were restored. Some reports credit her with helping to reforest more than 70,000 hectares. The recovered land reduced erosion, revived grazing and farming areas, and revitalized the local ecosystem.
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Like India’s “Mountain Man,” Yin Yuzhen’s story shows how one person’s resilience and long-term commitment can reshape an entire community and environment. ​

Have you ever stood in the middle of a desert, with a vast mountain blocking your path, like these two stories, lamenting life? Even if it's not necessarily your circumstances, think of something that feels like a major obstacle when you're trying to achieve something. Looking back, I remember when I first decided to become an artist. After successfully completing my dream first exhibition, I vaguely felt like something was going to happen. How wonderful would it be if, like countless success stories, a benefactor suddenly appeared and said, "Your paintings are truly magnificent. I want to be your patron." Or how wonderful would it be if, after your first exhibition, you were bombarded with inquiries from other galleries, allowing you to continue exhibiting and make a living? But what's the reality?

In reality, it felt as though a massive mountain stood squarely in front of me. While others seemed to walk along flower-lined paths, the road beneath my feet looked more like an empty desert. When Manjhi struck his first stone with nothing but a hammer and chisel, what must he have felt? I think I understand that feeling very well.

I imagine that Manjhi must have considered other, more “reasonable” solutions. On the surface, filing a claim, appealing to the government, or seeking political help would appear to be simpler. There must have been politicians eager to use his situation for their own advantage. But life is rarely that simple. In the end, the method that looked irrational—using only a hammer and chisel—proved to be the only one that truly worked.

Sometimes, when we chase our dreams, the path forward looks foolish from the outside. I felt the same while trying to survive as an artist for many years with nothing but my brushes and pencils. I had to endure countless negative comments and subtle cynicism. Some even told me that having a child talented in art felt like a tragic fate. Others openly questioned whether art could ever support a living. Compared to the clear, stable routines the world prefers, the life of an artist appears uncertain and painfully ambiguous. That is because the artist’s path is carved by imagination, not by existing structures.

This is why I understand Manjhi’s heart. Instead of overthinking every obstacle or waiting for a perfect solution, he simply struck the stone in front of him. And do you know the true power of daily persistence? If one invests 22 years of steady effort, even a mountain can be split open into a road. This is why we must move forward with the determination to break a single small stone each day. Over time, those small, stubborn strikes accumulate into something that can change a landscape—and a life.

I​’m preparing a blog post reflecting on my fourth year of blogging and looking back on which types of content actually became hits. Looking back, I realize that it was a blessing in disguise that I didn’t write too many purely informational posts. When I was blogging most actively in 2021, ChatGPT did not exist. At that time, many blogs focused on IT and technical explanations—coding, Photoshop tutorials, and other specialized technical content. But once ChatGPT arrived, those types of blogs seem to have lost much of their appeal.

Of course, my blog also contains that kind of content. In the Info menu, I organized the IT skills that artists often need and explained them in detail. Now that I think about it, what I did well was taking the perspective of visual thinkers. I used a lot of screenshots and wrote step-by-step instructions with care. Without this approach, I think those posts wouldn’t have had much traction. It created a clear point of differentiation from ChatGPT. Even now, my posts that explain software clearly and visually remain popular. Some of them even addressed critical errors in Weebly—image overwriting issues, board malfunctions, saving problems—which helped a lot of people.

https://www.annakoh.com/info/image-overwriting-error-in-weebly

Interestingly, that was the direction I originally planned to take. At the time, Photoshop was extremely popular, and I wrote down new methods and techniques I learned while using it. But the popularity of that type of content has been steadily declining. People now use AI features to generate images, and modern Photoshop includes AI tools that accomplish, with just a few commands, tasks that used to require many layers and complex steps. Because of this shift, I rarely write about Photoshop anymore.
Since my blog is centered on my life as an artist and my artworks, the writing naturally drifted toward experience-based storytelling—as if I were casually sharing my daily life. I think this shift is actually what has kept my blog alive all this time. When I first opened my blog, I wanted to write professionally about art or technical skills. It felt straightforward: study something, summarize it, and post it. During the year and a half I was in graduate school, I posted many such informational pieces.
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https://www.annakoh.com/blog/category/adelphi-university

But as I continued blogging for a long period, I found that I no longer wrote only dry, information-heavy posts. Writing itself became enjoyable, and the posts gradually became more experience-centered. They turned into streams of consciousness, daily reflections, shifting perspectives on the world, resolutions as an artist, and the story of change in my life. Over time, my blog became less about information and more about experience and thought. And surprisingly, these were the posts that started resonating with people. Some readers genuinely connect with them.

I believe that in the age of AI, the way for blogs to survive is through deeper personalization—stories rooted in individual experience and self-expression. And I think that in the future, everyone will have a blog just as everyone now has a phone. With that vision in mind, I want to keep blogging with intention.
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As I continue blogging, I find myself more interested in invisible value and intangible assets. I care less about striking it rich quickly and more about enjoying my steady daily life. I’ve come to believe in the power of documentation and writing. Writing clarifies my thoughts and helps me live more intentionally. As an artist, it strengthens my brand. When I first opened my blog, I wrote for myself, but now I feel that my writing helps not only other artists but also people outside the field. That’s why I will continue writing. I truly believe that blogs will hold even more power in this era.