The Raging Debate: Adult Coloring Books

Coloring books for adults not to be confused with Adult Coloring books--unless of course, the coloring by itself is not enough excitement. After receiving a staggering collection this holiday, I wonder are these a flash in the pan or worth the hysteria?
Suddenly, these books are stalking me around town, taunting me with their "for grown-ups only" designation (sorry kids, these intricate designs are like child-proof pill bottle level complexity-- just kidding).  I found a conservationist coloring book at my local farm store, a graffiti book at the gas station and a pocket zentangle wedged in with the impulse cookbooks at the supermarket checkout. And every time I go into my local mega-book store, there is more square footage dedicated to housing larger mountains of them as seem to be multiplying exponentially at a rate similar to phytoplankton (in the billions, every few days). Edgy designs, designs for mom, designs for the bird lover in your life, Mandalas, the BIBLE, and designs for the potty mouth in your life.

On the surface the sheer genius and simplicity of reengineering coloring just boggles my mind. Like when I read Daniel Quinn's Ishmael for the first time, the realizations that were unlocked in my mind-- rudimentary and common sense enough as to have been there all along-- just needed to be highlighted for that facepalm moment. That staring-you-in-the-face obviousness is what makes the adult coloring book brilliant, at least in theory. It's a blitzkrieg of "childhood lost" nostalgia being hurled at you from every corner of the universe in every form imaginable, designed to appeal to the inner child in us all that giggles at the thought of pinning fancy cussword on the fridge, as well as the adult in us who frequently uses those words and also now owns the fridge.


That's a lie- you'll never be this good.

 And even better--it is a completely universally leveling past time. There's no skill set or expertise required. Once you've mastered coloring on one side of the lines or decided that lines are symbolic of every other unnecessarily complicated task in your life you wish you could scribble over, there really isn't much room for improvement or failure. No pressure to perform. You are already as good as you or anyone else will ever be at it.


 So what can be said about this inescapable coloring phenomenon; what has been said?

Likened to meditation in its therapeutic properties, coloring has been hailed as a stress reliever. 

Such publications as The New Yorker and  even CNN are reporting on these miraculous books with disingenuously incredulous catchphrases like, "Peter Pan market" and  "no longer just for kids." Um, excuse me, who made the kids-only rule in the first place? As if suddenly, upon receipt of your adult membership card, coloring was strictly verbotten. "Please turn in your crayons, your skinned knees, and pigtails. You are no longer welcome or eligible for the perks.  Collect your wrinkle cream and credit card debt on the way out." 

Pro tip: you can build a pillow fort and put marshmallows in your hot chocolate if you so chose, go jump on a trampoline or roll down a hill, watch Disney movies all day long and eat nothing but Fruit Roll-Ups. It's ok. You're allowed. Maybe if you were doing more of those things, you wouldn't be a frazzled stress ball looking like easy pickings for every charlatan with tiny-interwoven doodles of your favorite TV show and access to a commercial copier attempting to separate you from your money.


But in the name of science and despite my skepticism, I thought it was worth a crack to see if coloring books titled with words like "Stress-Free," "Zen" or "Mindful Haven" really would help me shut off the noise of my life, and if only for a little while, sooth the anxious wound-up cretin within. 

Well, I call FALSE on the inner peace test, and here's why. Despite my normative rebelling against the conventional guidelines of adulthood, I simply don't have the time for such a luxury. I felt increasingly guilty as there are a million other things-- important things-- that require my attention. It became a vicious cycle: guilt, anxiety, coloring to sooth and repeat.

(Side note: not sure whether to take the receipt of so many coloring books as a sign of the trend.... or a message that people think my kids and I need to chill out. We each received at least 3.)

Right now I should be filing my taxes, cataloging my intended scholarship options, writing scholarship essays, writing an article for that activism organization I've been meaning to get to, planning dinner, doing laundry, washing dishes, buying my daughter a new coat: I should be otherwise adulting. I'm stressed out just thinking about all of the things I still need to work on today. The mere thought of neglecting those important tasks for an hour of coloring sets my teeth on edge.



Even so, I sat myself down in a coffee shop with my laptop out and one of the plethora of these books I was gifted.

I set my timer and tried very hard to dedicate 30 minutes (a good compromise) to adding vibrancy and life to the very suggestive psychedelic mushrooms staring back at me from the white page.

 I did notice my breathing deepen and my thoughts calm down. I was still fixated on my resume and scholarships rather than the enjoyment of putting pencil to paper, but at least stream of consciousness was marginally less chaotic. 

Overall, though, for me, coloring doesn't shut out the noise. My chosen method of unwinding is murder... more specifically, watching murder mystery shows at night, on my phone, under my blanket tent so that my kids don't ruin it. Additionally, I felt frustrated when I realized that the picture, with it's teeny, tiny details, wasn't going to get done in an hour. In fact, 6 hours in I still wasn't done-- this is a project. It's become another unfinished project, of decidedly low priority, but still unfinished.

You know what these look like up close? Sliced lemons, get your mind out of the gutter.

Another reason I found coloring in this beautiful, sophisticated book to be stressful-- which may have been local to my literature revrring upbringing-- is that growing up, it was simply not done to defile a book. And make no mistake, these are books. They are nicely bound with thick, high quality paper; some of them have glossy gold embellishments. They bear no resemblance to the shoddy quality and recycled paper aesthetic of a children's coloring book. I would feel terrible if I ripped or bent a page. I don't want to get it dirty. I can't imagine the chagrin I'd feel at coloring one of these magnificent drawings with results below what its gravitas demands. Or, the unthinkable, making a mistake in one.

That brings up another point. Pristine, these books are full of promise and possibility, like untouched snow.  I prefer the analogy of an uncracked thunder egg.

Thunder egg

 You could open it and find treasure... or it could just be a rock. But once cracked the mystery is gone. Similarly, the second you put color on the page, the potential is gone... and so is some of the thrill, to be honest. My kids gave me a Harry Potter coloring book for my birthday; by that, I mean that I went online, ordered/paid for it, wrapped it when it arrived and gave it to them to give back to me, which they did happily taking credit for the effort. Motherhood is a strange transaction). Anyway, I was super excited to preorder, then wait, then unwrap, then marvel. But I was not excited to ruin it by coloring the pages. My kids had no such qualms about scribbling all over their respective copies of the same book. I colored one page of mine; it made me angry. The magic, if you will, was all in the possibility.


To be honest, it's not just coloring books that have this effect on me. I have a stack of pristine journals that have been given to me over the years that I cannot bring myself to defile with any unworthy thoughts. My mother, aware of my love of writing, gave me a journal covered in Gustav Klimpt's The Kiss, embossed with gold paper-- that's just cruel. These books get packed into boxes and move with me each time I do, but they'll never be written in.

I think it was Christopher Marlowe who said: "What nourishes me destroys me." I would agree in this case as I really want to enjoy coloring, but the inner turmoil surrounding it is daunting, irrational though it may be.

 Determined to overcome my own objections, I continued on my coloring odyssey finding a way to remove the guilt of the incomplete to-do list: coloring with my friends. It's hard to always make time for social engagements with all of the adulting we collectively do. So we cracked a bottle, let the good times flow and color.  I shared my views on the subject and was surprised to have them reciprocated. "Oh my god, I thought it was just me. This makes me really anxious," Gloria exclaims, looking much more relieved than she had while concentrating on keeping her gel pen inside the lines. "It feels like a chore. Talk about sensory overload,"  Elicia agreed. 

Could it be that this kind of whimsical delight really can be outgrown (like trying to jump rope after not doing so for over a decade-- the struggle is real)?

Maybe it was the books we were using, full of symmetrical floral designs (yawn), intricate fishscapes and geometric weavings. Undaunted by our communal lackluster experience I picked out an abstract, purse-sized book and grabbed my own gel pens. Turns out I find the abstract way less intimidating. It actually was relaxing... and dare I say fun. Even better was the discovery of a Game of Thrones coloring book-- adding murder definitely enhances the soothing quality for me; that I can get behind.

"[Color] is coming."

But, there arises a new quandary-- what do I do with
 the pictures or book when I am done? Do the pages get ripped from the book and hung around my home among the offerings of my six and seven year old? Do I, in fact, put them on the fridge? Do I throw out the most expensive coloring books under the sun or save them to show people? That seems weird. It's not like it's my original work, all I did was color. But if I don't have the time to color, I certainly don't have the time for drawing/ taking out my easel (even if it is infinitely more satisfying than coat-tailing someone else's work).

Original work.... pre-kids.

Technically, the books exhausted their usefulness once colored. It goes against Konmari to keep this kind of clutter creating dust and taking up space. Hard to be sentimental, in my opinion, and I don't really see myself thumbing through them, revisiting fond coloring memories.


All in all, I'm glad I took the time to try it. I found that with the right style book and in a guilt-free setting it really is enjoyable, although I have a sneaking suspicion that had more to do with the mutual hatred of my good friends who I rarely see. As for regular use on my own, I'd have to say, it's a pass from me. But if I change my mind, at least I have a million of them to choose from.