It’s been a long time since I wrote and posted anything—that’s what I always say when I finally get around to writing and posting, whether here or on other websites. It’s a phrase I dislike but find myself using often due to long periods of inactivity, followed by an unsatisfactory attempt at creating something decent, which is then followed by yet another long period of inactivity.
And what’s the reason behind these periods? Usually, it’s dissatisfaction with my progress—something I now realize is extraordinarily dumb and paralyzing when your goal is to create content and improve.
The story goes like this: A long time ago, I was a poor 16-year-old kid who experienced poverty alongside his parents. In his frustration, he started working online, hoping to make a little money and build a better life. Stubbornness—or perhaps hope—drove this 16-year-old to work day and night, creating countless things, some good, some bad, and ultimately achieving, in small amounts, part of his goal.
That kid was me.
Over roughly 6 years, I managed to create around 900 design packages spread across GraphicRiver and Creative Market, along with others freely given away on DeviantArt. I uploaded hundreds of videos to an old YouTube channel (which no longer exists), made all kinds of art—2D and 3D—and wrote thousands of articles, published here, on Medium, and on various other platforms.
I won’t lie—those six years were productive, both in terms of income and experience. I lifted myself from a very low level to one where I could at least create something mediocre. And all that motivation and drive came from a single source: the need to make money. The desire to improve simply followed as a byproduct of my activity.
At some point, around six years ago, in 2019, I finally accepted that my efforts weren’t enough to build a sustainable income. So, I gave up and took a job, which I held until the end of 2020, when the world shut down due to COVID. A few months later, due to various circumstances I won’t get into here, I was forced to find work abroad in the hopes of earning enough to support myself and help my parents.
Once I got there, I worked hard to get good at my new job—and it paid off. I started making decent money. From any logical perspective, my life was, and still is, stable. But although I had gained financial security, I somehow lost all motivation to pursue what I once called my “hobby” or “passion.”
At first, I attributed this loss of interest to exhaustion. After all, I was working almost the entire day, every day, leaving little energy for anything other than scrolling on my phone or spending time with my girlfriend until I inevitably passed out from exhaustion. But as time passed and my body adapted to the physical demands of my job, I noticed that my desire to create still hadn’t returned.
Multiple attempts at writing, 3D modelling, or creating anything at all ended in short-term satisfaction, followed—once again—by a complete lack of interest. What the hell was I missing?
For years, I thought the issue was money. When I needed it, I was willing to spend all my time doing whatever I could to earn extra income. But now that I had enough to live a decent life, I no longer felt the need to push myself beyond what was necessary. Hence, my lack of motivation.
And while that explanation made sense for a while, a lingering feeling kept bothering me—the need to be productive. My girlfriend has described me as a “workaholic,” which I never believed, but eventually, I started wondering if she was right. Maybe I truly didn’t know how to relax and live without worry.
Only recently did I begin to understand what the real problem might be. I still wanted to create, even without the motivation of money (though that desire never fully disappeared). But what I didn’t want to do was either start over or continue from where I left off.
You see, I spent years talking about improvement, quality content, and making great things—even as I realized that what I was creating didn’t live up to those standards. It was one of those “fake it till you make it” strategies. I knew I needed to improve, but I also knew that improvement wouldn’t just happen overnight. I had to work hard to get better.
Somewhere along the way, though, my idea of “working hard” morphed into simply “trying very hard.” That turned into an obsessive thought: I really want to become better. But just wanting something badly doesn’t make it happen. And if you’ve ever tried really hard at something, you know it’s not always enough.
Experience takes time. It often comes from messing up—a lot—and creating subpar content for years before you gradually improve. You can’t force it through sheer willpower. Somewhere along the way, I forgot that.
I wanted to write again, but I wanted to write great things immediately. I convinced myself that I hadn’t written anything “incredible” in the past because my financial needs had forced me to post frequently, leaving me no time to refine my work. I thought, "Now that I don’t need money, I can take my time and write better articles, which will help me improve more as a writer."
But that’s like saying "If I don’t have to waste my time exercising daily, I can focus all my effort on exercising once a month, very intensely, and my muscles will grow exponentially." Sounds ridiculous, right? Mental effort works the same way—you make more progress with small, consistent efforts than with rare, intense bursts of work.
That’s not to say I wasn’t aware of my progress. I used to compare my early work to my later work and be amazed at the improvement. But I never fully accepted that progress didn’t come from trying harder—it came from consistent daily practice, from making countless small mistakes that slowly built up my skills.
“Quality over quantity” was something I constantly preached, blind to the fact that quantity is what leads to quality. That’s why people who produce mediocre content every day often end up doing better than those who only create something “big” or “great” once every few months. Even bad work accumulates into something decent over time.
It seems counterintuitive, but it makes sense. No one starts as a master—they just create garbage for years until they improve. The problem is that we often don’t see that process. With the internet, though, you do see it, and it’s easy to wonder: "How does this moron get so much attention while I get ignored, even though I struggle so hard to only post quality content?"
The stupid have an advantage - they think they're the smartest people around, so they don't give a crap about anyone's opinions. They just do and they just talk regardless of what anyone says and they persist in their attempts because they are absolutely convinced that they are right and eventually, people actually end up believing them and paying attention to them. Ironically, it is that specific attitude that helps so many morons succeed and so many actually smart people stay in the shadows. Confidence in the shit that you create regardless of any type of doubt or criticism - from outside, or from within.
Looking back, I should never have quit writing, designing, or doing any of the things I used to do. I thought I needed a break to distance myself from the shitty content I was producing, hoping that inspiration would eventually strike and lead me to create something better.
But if I just kept creating shit for the past 4 years, I would've gotten something out of it, even if it was insignificant at first, either in terms of money or just experience. A little bit of shit every single day might not seem impressive, but a gigantic pile of shit created over 4 years is something to behold. Sure, it's still shit, but it's an impressive pile of it.
The reality is this: whatever you’re making now will be worse than what you’ll make in a few years if you just keep at it. The key is to accept the lower quality of your current work as an investment in your future abilities.
The moral of the story? Aim yourself with as much shit as you can and throw it at the imaginary wall representing the necessary experience required to create better things. Eventually, one shit thrown at the right angle will make a crack in that wall and eventually some shit will actually stick to the wall. Before you know it, under all the weight of the shit you've thrown over the years, the wall will crumble, allowing you to move forward.
