I Was a Corporate Drone Who Hadn't Drawn in 15 Years
Now I sell coloring books full-time. This is the messy, scary, wonderful truth of how that happened.
I was 34 years old, sitting in a cubicle the color of sadness, updating spreadsheets that nobody would read, when I realized I couldn't remember the last time I'd made something with my hands. Not a meal, not a craft, not a drawing. Just... things. Documents. Emails. Reports that disappeared into the void the moment I hit send.
I'd been an administrative coordinator for eleven years. Eleven years of fluorescent lights, of "per my last email," of microwave lunches eaten at my desk while scrolling through other people's lives on my phone. I was good at it. I was reliable. I was the person who always met deadlines and never complained.
And I was dying inside. Slowly. Quietly. The way a plant dies when you forget to water it — not dramatically, just... gradually brown.
I was taking notes in a meeting about quarterly projections. I looked down at my notebook and realized I'd filled three pages with doodles. Tiny flowers. A cat face. A lopsided house. I had no memory of drawing them. My hand had done it without asking my brain for permission. I snapped the notebook shut and spent the rest of the meeting terrified someone had seen.
The Before: Miserable But Stable
Here's what stability looks like when it's killing you: a salary that pays the rent, health insurance that covers therapy you don't have time for, a 401k growing slowly while your soul shrinks faster. I told myself I was being ungrateful. People would kill for this job. People were unemployed. I had a desk. I had a title. I had a future that looked exactly like my present, forever.
I tried hobbies. I tried yoga. I tried journaling, meditation, weekend hiking, pottery class (once, then I quit because I was "too busy"). Nothing stuck because nothing addressed the real problem: I had stopped believing I was allowed to create. That part of me had been filed away in a drawer labeled "childish" and "impractical" and "not for people like you."
My apartment was beige. My wardrobe was beige. My life was beige. And I told myself that was fine. That was adult. That was responsible.
It wasn't fine. I just didn't know what else to do.
The Spark: One Night, One Book
It was a Tuesday in October. I was home alone — my roommate was at her boyfriend's, the apartment was quiet in that heavy, lonely way — and I found a box of my childhood things my mom had dropped off. Inside: a sketchbook from when I was twelve. Drawings of horses with impossible manes. A dragon that looked more like a friendly dog. A self-portrait with a crown and a sword.
I sat on my bedroom floor and flipped through those pages for an hour. And I started crying. Not gentle tears. Ugly, heaving, can't-breathe crying. Because I remembered her — that girl who believed she could be anything. Who drew crowns on herself because why not? Who wasn't afraid of being seen.
Where did she go? When did I decide she wasn't welcome anymore?
That night, at 11 PM, I opened Amazon and searched "how to draw for adults who forgot." I bought a $12 sketchbook and a pack of colored pencils. I didn't tell anyone. I felt ridiculous. I was 34 years old buying art supplies like a child.
But something had cracked open. And light was getting in.
The Leap: Quitting, Terror, and First Attempts
I didn't quit my job right away. That would be a tidy story, and my life isn't tidy. I drew for six months in secret. Before work, on lunch breaks, after dinner when my roommate was asleep. I filled three sketchbooks with terrible drawings. Lopsided cats. Trees that looked like broccoli. Faces that were somehow all forehead.
And I loved every single one of them.
Not because they were good. Because they were MINE. Because for the first time in fifteen years, I was making something that didn't serve a purpose. Something that existed just because I wanted it to. That feeling — that reckless, selfish, joyful creation — became an addiction.
⚠️ My First Coloring Book Flopped
In March 2020, I published my first coloring book on Amazon. It was called "Simple Flowers for Relaxation." I spent six weeks drawing 50 pages of flowers. I was so proud. I told my mom. I told two friends. I checked my sales dashboard 47 times on launch day.
I sold three copies. Two were to my mom.
The one non-mom buyer left a two-star review: "Boring designs. Paper is thin." I read that review approximately 300 times. I cried in the bathroom at work. I almost deleted the book and gave up.
But I didn't. Because that same week, someone else left a four-star review: "Simple and relaxing. Exactly what I needed." One person. One stranger. But they needed what I made. And that was enough to keep me going.
I didn't quit my job until 2021. By then, I had four books published and was making about $350 a month. Not enough to live on. But enough to prove it wasn't a fantasy. I saved for eight months. I cut every expense. I ate rice and beans and cancelled Netflix. And on a Friday in June, I walked into my boss's office and said, "I'm leaving to make coloring books."
She laughed. Then she realized I was serious. Then she looked at me with something I couldn't read — pity? envy? — and said, "Good for you, I guess."
I cried the whole drive home. Not because I was sad. Because I was free.
The Struggle: Failures, Bad Reviews, and Self-Doubt
The first year of full-time creativity was the hardest year of my life. Harder than the corporate job. Harder than anything.
I thought leaving my job would mean endless inspiration and joyful creation. Instead, it meant waking up at 3 AM panicking about money. It meant my mom asking "how's the little book thing going?" at Thanksgiving. It meant watching my savings account shrink while I drew pages that might never sell.
I published two more books that first year. One sold eight copies. The other sold zero for the first three months. I got a one-star review that said "waste of money" with no explanation. I stared at that review for an hour, convinced it was about me as a person, not a product.
I considered going back. I updated my resume. I even had one interview — for a job almost identical to the one I'd left. The interviewer asked why I had a gap in my employment. I said I was "pursuing a creative project." She smiled that smile people give when they think you're cute but foolish.
I didn't take the job. But I thought about it every day for three months.
I was $847 in debt on my credit card. My rent was due in ten days. I had $312 in my checking account. I sat at my kitchen table with a cup of tea I couldn't afford and drew a blob. Just a wobbly, pathetic blob. And I thought: this is it. This is the thing that will either save me or prove I was an idiot to try. I added two dots for eyes. A tiny smile. Little legs. And I named him Blobby.
Blobby was the first character I ever drew that made me laugh. Not because he was good. Because he was so perfectly, wonderfully, unapologetically bad. And he was happy anyway. That little blob became the seed of everything.
The Breakthrough: What Actually Worked
Here's what nobody tells you about creative success: it's not about talent. It's about showing up when nobody is watching.
My breakthrough didn't come from a viral post or a celebrity endorsement. It came from consistency. I started posting my blob drawings on Instagram every single day. Not the good ones — all of them. The terrible ones. The wobbly ones. The ones that looked like a child drew them. I wrote captions about the fear, the doubt, the joy. I was honest in a way that made people uncomfortable — and then made them feel less alone.
At 200 followers, someone DMed me: "I haven't drawn in 20 years. Your posts made me buy colored pencils."
At 500 followers, a small art supply company sent me free pencils.
At 1,000 followers, I published The Blob Drawing Book. I drew 50 pages of blob-to-character tutorials. I priced it at $9.99 because that's what I could afford when I was broke. I wrote the description at 2 AM, fueled by tea and desperation.
It sold 12 copies on day one. 47 copies in the first week. 200 copies in the first month.
I sat on my kitchen floor and cried. Again. But this time, it wasn't grief. It was gratitude. It was the feeling of being seen — finally, after all those years of invisibility — by strangers who needed exactly what I had to give.
The Numbers: What Full-Time Actually Looks Like
The Honest Financial Reality
I'm not rich. I'm not viral. I'm not a "success story" by most metrics. I make less than I did at my corporate job. I don't have health insurance through an employer. I still have months where sales drop and I panic.
But I wake up excited. I spend my days making things that make people happy. I get messages from strangers saying my books helped them through grief, anxiety, burnout, loneliness. I get photos of kids coloring my pages. Of adults who haven't drawn in decades holding up their first blob character with pride.
That's not nothing. That's everything.
The Now: Not Perfect, But Real
Here's what my life looks like now: I wake up at 7 AM, make tea, and draw for three hours before checking email. I take walks when I'm stuck. I talk to my readers on Instagram like they're friends — because they are. I still have bad days. I still get one-star reviews. I still worry about money.
But I also have six books in the world that didn't exist before I made them. Six little collections of joy that strangers hold in their hands. That's more than I ever thought I'd have.
The Blob Drawing Book
Where it all started. The book that taught me — and thousands of others — that anyone can draw.
My First Cute and Cozy Baby Animals
The book I needed when I was exhausted and needed softness. Now it softens others.
USA Cozy Places to Go
Armchair travel for people who can't afford vacations. Including past me.
Little Chefs Big Messes
Chaos and joy. The book that celebrates beautiful messes — because life is one.
Big Animal Moments
Wild joy in bold lines. For anyone who needs to remember what happiness looks like.
Kids in the Kitchen
Food, fun, and family. The book that makes cooking chaos feel like love.
Before and After: The Same Person, Different Life
I woke up dreading the day. I measured my worth by my productivity. I believed creativity was a luxury I couldn't afford. I was "fine" — which is the most dangerous word in the English language because it means "not dead yet, but getting there."
I wake up excited. I make things that matter to strangers. I believe everyone can create — because if I can, anyone can. I'm not rich. I'm not famous. But I'm alive in a way I forgot was possible. And that's worth every terrifying leap.
A Letter to You, the One Who Thinks It's Too Late
I don't know your story. Maybe you're 28 and miserable in a job you thought you'd love. Maybe you're 45 and watching your kids grow up while you shrink. Maybe you're 62 and wondering if you missed your chance. Maybe you're 22 and terrified of choosing wrong.
Here's what I know: the part of you that wants to create something — anything — is not foolish. It's not childish. It's not impractical. It's the most honest part of you, and it's been waiting for permission.
I'm not going to tell you to quit your job tomorrow. I'm not going to tell you it'll be easy or fast or guaranteed. It won't be. It took me three years to make a living wage. I cried more than I care to admit. I doubted myself every single day.
But I'm going to tell you this: the regret of not trying is heavier than the fear of failing. I know because I carried both. And the fear, at least, moves you forward.
Start small. Start scared. Start with a blob, a scribble, a terrible first attempt that makes you laugh. Start with five minutes a day. Start with a $12 sketchbook and a pack of pencils. Start with the belief — however tiny — that you are allowed to make things just because you want to.
You don't need to be good. You need to be brave enough to be bad until you're not.
And if you need proof that a mediocre artist with a corporate background and a drawer full of self-doubt can build something meaningful — hi. I'm the proof. And if I can do it, the bar is lower than you think.
— Koco
Whatever you're thinking about starting — a book, a business, a drawing, a life — you don't need my permission. But if it helps: I believe in you. I really do.
If you want to share your story, ask a question, or just say hi, I'm here.
Connect With MeFrequently Asked Questions
Can you really make money selling coloring books?
Yes, but not quickly and not easily. In my first year, I made $847 total. In my second year, $4,200. It wasn't until year three that I crossed $20,000 and could consider leaving my day job. The income is modest but meaningful — and it grows if you keep creating and learning.
How long does it take to publish a coloring book?
From first sketch to published book on Amazon, my fastest book took 6 weeks. My slowest took 4 months. The drawing is actually the easy part — it's the formatting, cover design, and marketing that eat up time. Now that I have templates and systems, I can publish a new book in about 3 weeks.
Do you need to be a good artist to make coloring books?
No. I'm proof of that. I hadn't drawn in 15 years when I started. The blob drawing method — starting with simple shapes and building from there — is what made it possible. What matters more than artistic skill is understanding your audience and creating something genuinely useful or joyful for them.
What's the hardest part of being a creative entrepreneur?
The silence. When you publish something and nobody responds. When you post on social media and get three likes. When you check your sales dashboard and see zeroes. The hardest part isn't the work — it's believing the work matters when nobody is telling you it does. That's why community matters so much.
This post contains affiliate links. If you purchase through these links, I may earn a small commission at no extra cost to you. All numbers shared are my actual experience. Your journey will be different — and that's exactly how it should be.