I Love Making Things. I Just Hate the Part Where I Have to Make Them.

Confessions of a serial hobby collector, chronic overthinker, and reluctant owner of a four-and-a-half-foot unfinished shark.

Somewhere in my garage is a four-and-a-half-foot-long papier-mâché hammerhead shark.

It's unfinished.

It's been unfinished for quite some time.

And every time I walk into the garage, there he is. Lurking. Judging. Taking up an unreasonable amount of real estate for an animal that doesn't even technically exist yet.

Why do I have an enormous, partially constructed shark in my garage?

Excellent question.

At some point, I had an idea. A wonderful idea. A magnificent idea. I was going to make a giant hammerhead shark.

And once that idea took hold, there was simply no stopping me.

I researched construction methods. I planned. I bought supplies. I started building.

I could already see the finished product in my head, and let me tell you, it was spectacular.

Then, somewhere in the middle of the project, I decided that papier-mâché wasn't going to cut it.

No, no. This shark needed fiberglass.

Because apparently, building a giant shark out of newspaper and glue wasn't ambitious enough. I needed to introduce an entirely new construction technique into the situation.

And that's approximately where the shark's career came to an abrupt halt.

He lives in the garage now.

We don't discuss it.

Except we're about to, because I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm not the only person whose creative ambitions have turned into expensive home decorations.

I Love the Idea. I Love the Result. It's Everything in Between That's the Problem.

Here's something I've realized about myself.

I absolutely love making things.

Or, more accurately, I love having made things.

I love getting an idea. I love imagining what the finished product will look like. I love researching techniques, figuring out how something works, and realizing that I could probably make it myself.

And I really love that glorious moment when I can stand back, admire my work, and proudly announce:

"I MADE THAT!"

It's the middle part I'm not particularly fond of.

You know. The actual making.

The measuring. The cutting. The sewing. The gluing. The unraveling. The discovering that something is crooked after you've already spent three hours putting it together.

The part where you watch a tutorial and the person casually says, "Now just attach these pieces," as though that isn't the very thing you've been struggling with for the past forty-five minutes.

I want the finished product.

I want the satisfaction.

I want the bragging rights.

What I don't necessarily want is the emotional journey required to get there.

Unfortunately, reality has yet to introduce a system where I can simply visualize something hard enough and have it materialize on my kitchen table.

A serious oversight, if you ask me.

The Research Phase Is Basically Its Own Hobby.

If you've ever fallen down the rabbit hole of a new creative obsession, you know exactly how this goes.

It starts innocently enough.

You see something interesting online.

A craft. A woodworking project. A sewing technique. A ridiculously elaborate decoration you have absolutely no practical reason to own.

And your brain whispers those three dangerous little words:

I could make that.

Suddenly, you're researching.

And researching.

And researching some more.

You've watched seventeen tutorials. You've compared materials. You've read discussions from people who've been doing this for twenty years. You've discovered three different techniques and developed strong opinions about which one is best.

You've probably got a shopping cart full of supplies.

And the entire time, your brain is absolutely buzzing with excitement.

Because you're not just imagining yourself learning a new skill.

You're imagining yourself already being good at it.

You're picturing the finished project. The compliments. The satisfaction. The moment somebody asks where you bought it and you get to casually respond, "Oh, I made that."

Delicious.

Then the supplies arrive.

And suddenly, the fantasy has been replaced by a pile of materials and the deeply inconvenient realization that you're going to have to actually do it.

You're going to have to cut, glue, sew, sand, assemble, or otherwise deconstruct your shiny new craft supplies and somehow turn them into the masterpiece you've already created in your imagination.

Preferably without crying.

Sometimes I push through and make something wonderful.

Sometimes I discover that the process is nowhere near as enjoyable as the research made it look.

And sometimes the excitement evaporates before I've even gotten started.

Which brings us to the next problem.

The Graveyard of Almost-Finished Things

The shark isn't alone.

Oh, no.

I also have crochet dragons.

And these aren't dragons I abandoned after making three stitches and deciding crochet wasn't for me.

They're practically finished.

The pieces are crocheted. The hard work is done. I've already invested the time and effort.

All I need to do is sew the pieces together.

That's it.

Just assemble the little creatures and let them live their adorable dragon lives.

And yet, for reasons I cannot adequately explain, I cannot seem to convince myself to do it.

I have successfully crocheted an assortment of dragon body parts, only to apparently decide that assembly was a problem for Future Me.

Future Me is furious, by the way.

She would like a word with Past Me about several things.

There's something particularly ridiculous about abandoning a project when the finish line is practically within arm's reach.

I could understand if I'd discovered I hated crocheting halfway through.

But no.

I did the crocheting.

I made the dragons.

I just apparently refuse to give them limbs.

At this point, I'm less of a crafter and more of a very disorganized dragon surgeon.

And as funny as that sounds, there's another side to all these unfinished projects that isn't quite so entertaining.

The Guilt Has Its Own Storage Space.

Here's the thing about unfinished projects.

They don't always just sit quietly in their boxes, bins, or designated corners of the garage.

Sometimes they follow you around.

Not physically, of course. Although I wouldn't put anything past that shark.

They follow you around mentally.

Every time I see an unfinished project, I remember how excited I was when I started it.

I remember the time I invested. The money I spent. The plans I made.

And then comes the guilt.

I really need to finish that.

I spent so much money on those supplies.

Why can't I just sit down and get it done?

I said I was going to finish it months ago.

And suddenly, something I started because it sounded fun has transformed into another obligation hanging over my head.

The worst part is that I don't always know whether I still want the finished project or whether I just want to stop feeling guilty about abandoning it.

That's a pretty miserable place for a hobby to end up.

We're supposed to have hobbies because they add something enjoyable to our lives.

Somehow, I've managed to turn a few of mine into unpaid jobs with increasingly hostile performance reviews.

And the worst part?

I'm both the employee and the manager.

Neither of us is happy.

Am I Even Enjoying My Hobbies, or Am I Just Trying to Finish Them?

Lately, I've been thinking about mindfulness.

I know. An unexpectedly philosophical turn for an article that began with a giant cardboard sea creature.

But stick with me.

Mindfulness is about being present in what you're doing rather than constantly getting caught up in thoughts about the past or future.

And it got me wondering how much of my own enjoyment I'm missing because I'm always so focused on the finished product.

When I'm working on something, am I actually paying attention to what I'm doing?

Am I appreciating the colors, the textures, the little victories when a piece finally comes together?

Or am I just impatiently counting down the steps until I can be finished?

Because I have a habit of mentally racing ahead.

I'm thinking about what the project is supposed to look like when it's done, how much work I have left, what might go wrong, and what I want to work on next.

Meanwhile, the actual experience is happening right in front of me, and I'm treating it like an inconvenience.

Which is a little absurd when you think about it.

I'm voluntarily spending my free time creating something, then getting frustrated because creating it is taking up my free time.

Ma'am.

Who scheduled this activity?

Oh. Right.

Me.

I Don't Have to Love Every Step. I Just Need to Stop Wishing Them All Away.

I don't think mindfulness is some magical solution that's going to make every tedious part of crafting delightful.

Some steps genuinely aren't fun.

Sewing tiny crocheted limbs onto a dragon's body isn't exactly my idea of a thrilling afternoon.

And no amount of deep breathing is going to convince me that discovering a measurement error three hours into a project is a beautiful opportunity for personal growth.

Sometimes it's just annoying.

But I've started recognizing how often I treat the entire creative process like an obstacle standing between me and my reward.

I'm so busy thinking about how wonderful something will be when it's finished that I barely give myself permission to enjoy making it.

And that's something I want to change.

Not by forcing myself to love every frustrating step, but by slowing down enough to notice the parts I actually enjoy.

The satisfaction of getting a tricky stitch right.

Watching a pile of materials gradually become something recognizable.

That little burst of excitement when a piece finally comes together exactly the way I pictured it.

Those moments deserve some attention, too.

And when something goes wrong?

I can be frustrated without declaring the entire project a disaster.

I can take a break without treating it like failure.

I can admit I hate sewing dragon limbs without deciding I must not actually enjoy crochet.

Creativity isn't an all-or-nothing experience.

I can love crocheting and dislike assembly.

I can love designing a project and find the construction tedious.

I can love figuring out how to make something without wanting to spend six months actually making it.

Those things can all be true.

And frankly, I think I'd enjoy my hobbies a lot more if I stopped demanding that every minute of them be both productive and personally fulfilling.

Sometimes I'm just going to stab myself with a sewing needle.

That's life.

So What Do We Do With the Sharks and the Dragons?

I'm not interested in turning my hobbies into another productivity challenge.

I have enough responsibilities without assigning myself mandatory craft completion quotas.

But I'm also tired of letting unfinished projects occupy both my storage space and my conscience.

So I've been rethinking how I approach my little museum of abandoned ambitions.

1. Decide Whether I Still Want the Finished Thing.

This is the first question I need to answer before dragging out an abandoned project.

Do I genuinely want it finished?

Or do I just want to stop feeling guilty about it?

Those are two very different motivations.

The crochet dragons? I still want those adorable little creatures finished.

The shark?

Well.

The shark and I need to have a conversation.

And if I decide that I no longer care enough to finish something, that doesn't mean I have to keep it indefinitely as a monument to my poor decision-making.

2. Stop Turning Every Project Into a Bigger Project.

Remember how my papier-mâché shark suddenly needed fiberglass?

That wasn't necessarily a problem with the original plan.

That was me moving the finish line halfway through the race.

Sometimes improvements really are worth the extra effort.

Other times, they're just another opportunity to overcomplicate something that was already perfectly good.

I need to get better at recognizing the difference.

Not everything needs to become a masterpiece.

Not every project needs a deluxe upgrade.

Sometimes a giant paper shark can just be a giant paper shark.

3. Make the Annoying Part Less Annoying.

If the only thing standing between me and a finished project is one tedious task, there's no reason to turn it into a grand artistic undertaking.

I can put on a favorite show, grab a drink, and sew some dragon limbs together.

I don't have to finish every dragon in one sitting.

I don't have to announce that today is finally the day I conquer my entire backlog.

I just need to make the task tolerable enough to actually do it.

And if I finish one dragon?

Wonderful.

That's one less creature waiting for reconstructive surgery.

4. Stop Buying Supplies for Every Exciting Idea Immediately.

This one hurts.

Because researching a new project is fun.

Planning it is fun.

And buying supplies feels like progress.

But there's a difference between being excited about an idea and being committed to doing the work.

I've learned that excitement isn't always a reliable indicator of how much I'll enjoy the actual project.

So I'm trying to put a little distance between I could make that and Add to Cart.

I can save the tutorials, research the techniques, and let the idea sit for a while.

If I'm still excited after the initial rush wears off, great.

And before buying anything, I should probably check the graveyard of previous hobbies.

There's a decent chance I already own half the supplies.

Possibly under the shark.

5. Give Myself Permission to Let Some Projects Go.

This is the hardest one.

Because it feels wasteful.

If I've spent money and time on something, abandoning it feels like admitting I failed.

But the money is already spent.

The time has already passed.

Finishing something I no longer want to finish won't magically give either of those things back.

Sometimes I learned a new technique.

Sometimes I discovered I don't particularly enjoy a certain process.

Sometimes the idea was more exciting than the reality.

And sometimes I simply changed my mind.

That doesn't automatically make the experience a waste.

If a project is still worth finishing, wonderful.

If it isn't, I can reuse the materials, pass the project along to someone else, or let it go.

And yes, that last option still makes me uncomfortable.

But keeping something forever out of guilt doesn't recover the money I spent on it.

It just gives the guilt a permanent address.

I'm Done Letting My Hobbies Give Me Homework.

I don't think I'll ever stop getting ridiculously excited about new ideas.

And honestly, I don't want to.

I love that my brain can look at something completely random and immediately start figuring out how I could make my own version.

I love learning new techniques.

I love knowing that if I want something badly enough, there's a pretty good chance I can figure out how to create it.

And I absolutely love the satisfaction of standing back and saying, "I MADE THAT!"

But I don't want to spend so much time chasing that moment that I forget to enjoy any of the moments leading up to it.

I don't want my hobbies to become another collection of things I'm behind on.

Another list of responsibilities.

Another reason to feel guilty when I finally get a little free time.

I need to stop counting stitches like I'm serving a prison sentence.

I started these hobbies because they sounded fun, not because I needed another set of deadlines and obligations.

And here's something I'm finally coming to terms with: just because I was excited enough to start a project doesn't mean I'm obligated to finish it.

I can change my mind.

I can lose interest.

I can decide that the idea was more fun than the execution.

The craft police aren't going to kick down my door.

Although, given the number of dismembered dragons in my possession, I wouldn't blame them for investigating.

I love making things. That hasn't changed.

What I need to work on is everything between the idea and the triumphant reveal.

Slowing down. Enjoying the parts I actually enjoy. Accepting the parts I don't. Recognizing when a project has stopped being something I want to do and started being something I feel guilty about not doing.

The shark is still in the garage.

The dragons are still waiting for their limbs.

And I still have approximately fourteen new ideas competing for space in my brain.

I'm not going to pretend I've suddenly mastered the art of mindful creativity.

I haven't.

But I'm learning that the whole point of having hobbies is to enjoy having them.

Not just to accumulate finished products.

Not to prove how productive I can be with my free time.

And certainly not to spend the rest of my life being emotionally blackmailed by a papier-mâché fish.

The dragons, however, are getting their limbs.

Eventually.

I'm not putting a date on it. I've learned my lesson.

---

🪶 Crow's Unsolicited Opinion

"I find this entire situation rather embarrassing. I've never once left a project unfinished. If I see something shiny, I acquire it. If I want to build a nest, I build one. And if I find myself in possession of a four-and-a-half-foot shark, I certainly don't leave it sitting in the garage.

I put it somewhere prominent so the neighbors know who's in charge."