Reflections at Year’s End: What I Most Regret—and What I Most Cherish—After Years of Blogging

Reflections at Year’s End: What I Most Regret—and What I Most Cherish—After Years of Blogging

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

As I look back at years of blogging, I share the biggest regrets, lessons, and truths I’ve learned—why perfection hurts, why joy matters, and why you must never stop writing. For anyone wondering whether to continue or quit, this reflection offers the guidance I once needed.

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.