I have been stressed and burned out and wracked with guilt for not painting for days and days and days.

On the one hand, filling the Christmas rush print orders, which is work that needs to be done but still…not painting.

On the other hand, in the last month, I have written over 100K worth on a coupla different projects. Actually, if you count the fan fic that morphed and twisted and will now probably never see the light of day, nearly 120K.  Any way you slice it, that’s a lotta words. No wonder I’ve got no juice for painting.

The problem is that words don’t currently pay the bills.

I…you know, I’m starting to think I wanna be a writer. Like, for a living. Which is just entirely typical–I finally start to claw a living out of art, and my brain goes “Hey, let’s switch gears!”

As far as I can tell, I am skidding down the ladder of profitability. I went into art, now I want to go into writing–possibly if I ever turn a significant profit on writing, I will be forced to turn my sights on the next lowest rung, which I believe is freelance philosophy. You’ll find me roaming the streets wearing a crown of laurel leaves, drinking a hemlock martini, expousing the virtues of enlightened hedonism. Just follow the trail of discarded manifestos.

Or I could just be fretting because I haven’t painted in so long. Hopefully spending Christmas with my folks will ramp up the art juices. It’s usually pretty inspiring up there.

Eh, we’ll see. Like all things in life–this, too, shall pass.

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