Everyone Needs an Annie
We all need someone who believes in us so fiercely that it feels like we’re sparkling glitter through the universe simply by existing. When I was growing up, that person was my Aunt BB. She was always incredibly supportive of my poetry. At the time, I didn’t realize it was her way of keeping me focused on something positive amidst all the chaos—my nutjob sister, my unhappily married parents, and all the usual teenage angst. Her encouragement led me to create five books of poetry, which I printed on our dot-matrix printer and had bound and embossed at the public library for a whopping $3 per book. Her belief in me was so strong that I truly thought I was destined to be a professional poet. (Amanda Gorman, watch out!) Spoiler alert: after I went off to college, I didn’t write another poem for over 25 years—until about six months ago.
Fast forward to when I started working at PADS and met Annie. One day, we were chatting about our hobbies outside of work, and I mentioned the cards I make. A few days later, I made one for her as a thank-you gift for something she had done. To say she loved the card would be an understatement. When I made another one for her birthday, she was overjoyed—giggling like a little kid. I showed her examples of other cards I had made, and she was adamant that I needed to get into the craft fair circuit because the world needed my cards. I told her I wasn’t interested in trying to monetize them, but she didn’t give up. She really wanted me to do it.
Later that year, Annie had a booth at Festival of the Vine in Geneva and she invited me to bring some of my cards to sell. I volunteered to help her out for the day in exchange for some space at her booth. Not a single card sold. And I didn’t even return for the second day.
We talked at length afterward about what went wrong. Annie was convinced that my product wasn’t the issue—it was just a bad location. She extended another invitation for a fall craft fair that was known to draw bigger crowds. She caught me on an unusually optimistic day, and I said, “Heck yes!” So, I set off to make stacks of cards, carefully picking my favorite paintings and even considering some new ideas. This was going to be fun!
Tom was adamantly against me doing the craft fair. He knew I’d be crushed if my cards didn’t sell as I expected. I assured him that my only expectation was to spend two fun days with my dear friend. If I sold a few cards, that would be a bonus. I repeated that story to myself for months as I spent countless hours making card after card. People had told me my cards were cute, made them smile, and were “totally sellable.” And I don’t mean just one or two people—lots of people told me this, so I felt like I was making an informed decision.
The weekend of the fair came, and I sold three cards. Three. I walked through the booths and saw other cards for sale and thought to myself, “Mine are way cuter than those.” I don’t know if their cards were selling, but mine most definitely were not. I went home that night feeling crushed. I had invested hundreds of dollars in making the cards and sharing the booth with Annie. I didn’t even bother coming back for the second day. I left the cards with her and spent the next day moping around. Annie ended up buying a stack of them, probably because she felt bad for me. Needless to say, I didn’t come close to covering my costs.
But here’s what I learned:
- Creative work and payment: I’m no stranger to the allure of validation through money. Portrait sessions, framed photos, pour paintings—I’ve sold them all. That “ca-ching” sound is a dopamine hit, no doubt. But let’s set the record straight: I am not a classically trained artist. I’m a creative. I don’t rely on my art to support myself. While I respect those who do, I no longer tie my creative worth to whether or not someone pays me for my work.
- The value of giving art away: I recently donated the stack of unsold cards to a local retirement community that has a card shop, with all proceeds going to a local non-profit. That feels like a beautiful use of my art. It’s no longer sitting on my shelf, reminding me of the failed sales.
- Art for the sake of art: There’s a vast difference between someone saying, “Wow, that’s cool,” and saying, “Yes, I’ll pay you for it.” And that’s okay. The truth is, cards are a dying art form, especially with the cost of postage now at 73 cents. Sending a card is no longer a simple or cheap gesture.
- Mass production isn’t for me: I can’t mass-produce my cards—that’s what makes them special. Since then, I’ve made a few bespoke cards for friends, and I’ll continue to do that. If you’re interested in learning more, just ask me. I don’t advertise them.
Free Art is where my soul feels good—and I’ll explore that idea more in future posts. Stay tuned.
Tom knew all the lessons I would learn, but he also knew I had to experience them myself. He didn’t want me to get hurt. Tom is my biggest fan—he loves my art with every fiber of his being. He giggles with delight every time I create something new. In many ways, his reaction is just like Annie’s, but with the added bonus of him holding my heart close to his. I know most things worth doing involve risk, but in the end, I don’t think this particular venture was worth it. What matters is that I’m not doing this alone. I have people—like Tom, like Annie—who love my art with their whole hearts. And honestly, that’s enough.
