Just Get On With It.

Hi lovely reader!

I’m an artist.

I’ve illustrated books. I make pottery. I paint. I print. I get obsessed with colours. I draw animals (mostly dogs these days, but it used to be chickens). I sort things. I tidy things. I untidy things.

I’m also (currently) undiagnosed autistic and ADHD — super fun times!!
A couple of years ago, I went to my GP to start the diagnosis process, she never sent the referral off. (On purpose? Who knows.) Then I got an email from the NHS saying they were cancelling all adult ADHD and autism assessments anyway. So that was fun. I’d been waiting about two years at that point.
Did I follow it up?
No.
Because guess what — ADHD.

I went to university many years ago and did a degree in Drawing and Applied Arts. It was basically a three-year art foundation on top of the two-year foundation I’d already done. I loved it. I loved the people, the access to materials, the paint everywhere, the print room.
Phil in the print room — absolute legend. He’d let me sneak in on non-printing days and give me ink and paper. Thanks Phil! 

But there was this constant pressure at university for everything to mean something.
Every piece of work had to be a statement. A commentary. A critique.

I once fell out with my ceramics lecturer because I’d made something covered in chickens.
“What’s this about?” he asked.
“I like chickens,” I said.
“Yes, but what’s it about? The fast food industry? Animal welfare? Consumerism?”
“No. I just like chickens.”
Wrong answer...

I worked out pretty early on that the people getting the best grades were often the ones who could create the most elaborate explanations. You could paint a black blob and say:
“This represents the ineffectual grief of my childhood and the void of late capitalism.”
And everyone would nod thoughtfully.
Meanwhile I was there like:
“It’s a chicken. I like chickens. Next week it might be cows.”

I absorbed this idea that if I didn’t have something deep and meaningful to say, I shouldn’t say anything at all.
Which is ironic, because if you’ve ever met me, you’ll know: I love to talk.
I chat. I spiral. I hyperfocus. Recently that hyperfocus has been decluttering. I’ve read all the books about organising your house, wondering why I couldn’t just do it.
Turns out: I just had too much stuff. Also ADHD. Mostly ADHD.
But creatively? I’ve felt paralysed. Also because it’s hard to make a painting when you can’t find your desk, or the room your desk is in because of all the piles and piles of clutter.
Because:

• “What if it’s not original?”
• “What if someone’s already said this?”
• “What if it’s not meaningful enough?”

My awesome friend Grace recently said to me:
“Do you think the second person who ever opened a café thought, ‘Oh no, I can’t open a café because cafés already exist’?”
Obviously not.
There are millions of cafés. They’re all slightly different. They all serve coffee. And they all exist anyway.
So why do we act like ideas can only belong to one person?

I think what scared me most was the idea that I had to produce something profound.
A blog. A piece of art. A statement.
But what if I don’t?
What if I’m actually just good at conversations?
Because that’s where I feel alive — in the back and forth. The shared thoughts. The “oh, me too.” The connection.
Art is a conversation too. Not even between the artist and the viewer, necessarily — sometimes between the artwork and the viewer. Once you’ve made something, it’s out there on its own.
Maybe my work doesn’t need a grand manifesto. Maybe it can just be two characters talking. A chicken existing. A splash of colour because it feels good.
Maybe that’s enough.

Right now, as I write this, I’m tidying my house and blathering into a microphone, hands free is a genius invention.
I can’t just sit still and write. That’s too intense. So I’m folding laundry. Picking pyjamas off the floor. Moving things from one pile to another. I’m not vacuuming - too noisy.

But things are better than they were 20 minutes ago.
And maybe that’s the point.
Not:

• “Create something life-changing.”
• “Produce a masterpiece.”
• “Be the most original person alive.”

Just: Get on with it.
In a slightly chaotic, Monty Python and the Holy Grail crowd-shouting kind of way.
Just get on with it.
Make the thing.
Write the post.
Draw the chicken.
Open the café.
Fold the laundry.
It doesn’t have to be profound.
It just has to exist.

So hi. I’m Jenny. I like colour, animals, conversations, and while I was writing this I forgot to take the dog to the vet. Don’t worry, just a check up, she’s fine.
Thanks for accidentally stumbling across my ramblings.
I’m getting on with it.
Maybe you can too.

GOOD LUCK!