My studio is a lamia. Or a succubus. Or a siren. Or anyway, one of those mythical things that seduce you in and then eat your brain.
I was about to go walk over to the local Pakistani joint and grab lunch, and I had come to a good stopping point on this interior illo, saved the files, put on all my nice away messages, put my shoes on, and on the way out, glanced into my studio at the painting in progress and thought “Hmm, some white ink would fix that bit right up…” And then I had dumped out too much white ink, so of course I had to use it wherever it was needed, and it did fix that bit up, and that other bit, and hey, maybe that other bit too…
Most of an hour later, as for the third or fourth time I changed my rinse water and washed the brush out, I thought vaguely “Why are my feet making squelchy farting noises?”
Because I was wearing my sandals. And my feet were sweating profusely. Because I had turned the AC off. Because I had been going out to lunch. An hour ago.
My willpower is non-existent. I’ll clean the brushes, dump out the water, put the paint away, and twenty minutes later I’ll get ’em all out again, because I am the Muse’s bitch.