When the Generalist Turns 50

I'm the kind of person who believes that age is but a number. Even though I turned fifty last month, I don't feel it, at least mentally. It's only when the physical manifestations of age creep up and make themselves known that I briefly acknowledge the fact that half a century has passed.

Half a century. That seems like a long time. And it is. But more than that, there's something about that halfway mark that prompts me to assess how I've spent all that time, not counting, of course, those innocent formative years.

I grew up drawing. It was a purely a hobby. I had no intentions of turning it into something substantial. Becoming better at drawing was never a conscious pursuit, and I never wanted to make money off of it anyway. But, things happened. Choices were made. Projects were planned and executed, and... boom. I became a professional illustrator. I've done illustration work for magazines, newspapers, marketing and publicity materials, and books. It seemed like the dream job, doing what I love so I would never work a day in my life, so the saying goes.

But it did have its downside. Because once you turn your hobby into your work, your profession, where you're supposed to meet the needs of a customer, you subject your hobby to the judgment of other people. You allow others to tell you where you were off that mark. And you should, because they're paying you.

That's perhaps one reason why I liked doing things for free. I can do what I feel is good work without having another person breathing down my neck. Take what I give. You're not paying for it anyway.

Of course, I've come to realize that I have to be selective. I can't do free forever. I admire those artists who do charge good money for commissioned works, with one special condition. You tell me what you want me to draw and I'll draw it, but you can't ask for a revision. You say you like my work, right? 

But I can't do that. All I can do is upgrade my rate card to make the project worth my while.

Over the decades, I've piled up one "marketable skill" after another. I've done graphic design, I've done magazine art direction, I've done comics, I've done acting for the stage, I've done voice-overs, I've done writing for publications, I've done playwriting, I've done screenwriting, I've done teaching, I've done course design and production, I've done a bit of fiction writing. Save for the last two, I've been paid to do them all. Add to this list my marketing education, which I still nurture until now. I still like learning new things.

As of this writing, I'm teaching at the De La Salle - College of St. Benilde, and was even assigned the role of "Subject Head for Drawing," I'm also under contract with a television station, tasked with pitching ideas for soaps, helping other writers with their shows, and evaluating submitted pitches. I'm thankful to everyone who has given me these opportunities, as well as been instrumental to my earning those opportunities.

Because the teaching job and the TV job are contractual in nature, my foundations are still unstable, and their income streams won't last. However, they have afforded me the time to work on other things, including deciding what I really want to do.

This is not a new dilemma. I've struggled with finding my lane for many, many years. Who am I, really? What am I supposed to do? I've always been a creature of flow, moving from one skill to the next. But that's another thing about reaching the half-century mark--the need to stabilize, the need to focus, the need to settle. The world doesn't look to highly upon the generalist.

Many people still see me as a comics creator, but I haven't made a comic book in five years. Heck, I can't even finish the last one. (That's an entirely new blog post.)

Last night, I had my cards read by Jeffrey Bernido. Everything he told me was accurate, and the main message of the entire reading was for me to stop, and rest, and allow myself to heal. I've been working too much, burning myself out on more than one occasion. I just have to constantly remind myself that my past successes should not be my revenue statement, that every good thing that has come my way has been mostly out of luck. That I am not a corporation that seeks to surpass last year's performance.

But that's not the entire picture, really. There's a lot to unpack and unearth and sift through. It's not as simple as asking myself what I want to be in five years. The flow might again take me to somewhere surprising.