Char & Bloom: From Ashes to Ink

I didn’t think I’d get this far.

No, seriously. When I first started crushing charcoal in my studio, trying to make something that looked remotely like ink, I didn’t have a blueprint. I didn’t have capital. I didn’t have a team. What I did have was a busted spine, a rusted shot put I used as a mill, and the kind of stubborn ADHD-fueled energy that only kicks in when something finally feels worth doing.

Char & Bloom didn’t come from ambition. It came from necessity. From silence. From being stuck in a body that wasn’t cooperating, watching the clock tick, wondering if I’d ever get to make something real again.

And now? Now I’m making pigment from crepe myrtle branches I processed myself — using homemade systems for sieving, drying, vacuum filtering, centrifuging. I built a full-on lab setup out of literal grit and YouTube tabs. Every single ink bottle, every charcoal stick, every slurry batch has passed through my hands and under my breath. I’m not just making art supplies — I’m building a regenerative system that’s carbon negative and beautiful as hell.

I’ve Messed Up — A Lot

Let’s be real. I’ve over-diluted batches. I’ve let pigment cake too thick and cracked it. I’ve watched a dehydrator run for three days straight only to realize I could’ve saved half the time with better workflow planning. I’ve had hot glue contamination from early batches I shouldn’t have trusted. I spent money I didn’t have. I’ve gone broke more times than I’ll admit and questioned if any of this was even worth it.

But every mistake taught me something — about patience, about chemistry, about how far I can stretch a dollar when I need to. About how long ink takes to cure. About how 6% pigment in a calligraphy ink might just be the sweet spot. About how to shake a bottle not too often, not too little, and what "settling in" really looks like.

I learned to respect the process. To grind when I had nothing left. To dry pigment like I was tending to something sacred. To fail smarter next time.

I’m Not Just Making Ink. I’m Making a Future.

There’s a bigger reason I’m doing this. Not just to pay rent or escape the algorithm’s shadow. I’m making ink that doesn’t harm the planet — pigment born from trees I’ve trimmed, not felled. I’m building a business I can grow slow and steady, without selling out or burning out.

And I’m not doing it in some high-end facility. I’m doing it in a small studio with no running water, a dehumidifier I call a friend, and a production system split into phases so my ADHD doesn’t chew me alive. Every ounce of charcoal I use, I made. Every formula I test is mine. I’ve got retail pricing dialed in, wholesale models that make sense, and a deep respect for the people who’ll use my ink to create something real.

And let me tell you — seeing that first bottle come together, testing that first stroke of archival black across watercolor paper… it brought me back. Not just to art, but to myself.

If You’re Reading This, You’re Probably on Your Own Path Too

So here’s what I’ll say, from someone still in the thick of it:

You don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to start. Be willing to mess it up, fix it, learn, and keep moving. Treat your setbacks like seasoning — bitter, but necessary. Stay curious. Stay grounded. Don’t rush the cure.

And if you ever feel like it’s too much, remember this: I built an ink company from dead branches, filtered it with tools I hacked together, and made something beautiful from literal ashes.

You can build your thing too.

This is Char & Bloom. This is just the beginning.

— SG