The art is matted. The prints are done.

Well, no. It would be more accurate to say that *I* am done. If more prints are needed, I’ll do ’em there. I filled print books and moaned and wailed and gnashed teeth, and there is no more than I can do.

Today, I burn art to CDs, print blurbs for the art show (the art show blurbs are a big help for sales, I find.) fill out the control sheets, and if my backing boards arrive, I’ll bag ‘n board the jumbo prints.

I’m having a really great idea for a comic. The serpent in the garden of my brain is curled around the brain stem and whispering about how cool it would be. He’s very persuasive, this reptilian gentleman. Butter wouldn’t melt on that forked tongue. Temptation rages. “One little panel,” he hisses. “One little page. Ssssome conssssscept ssssketchessss.”

I don’t dare, though. All I could do would be to start, and then I’d get home from the Con, and be completely uninterested, because then I’d have time.

Our Muse, who art in our brains, lead us not into inspiration…