Kevin pointed out last night that it’s only a month and some change to Midwest Furfest. Apparently this flipped some weird inspiration switch in my head, because until about 2 AM, I was turning on the light every few minutes and scribbling thumbnail sketches. This is MUCH BETTER than "Oh god, I have no idea what to paint, oh god" but harder on both our sleep schedules. He takes this all with remarkably good humor, which I appreciate. Anybody who lives with an artist has to adapt to the fact that inspiration hits when it hits, or else…well, I don’t know what the other option is*, but anyway, he’s quite pleasant about it, and doesn’t even have the excuse of artist parents to have informed one’s upbringing.
So I have sketches. This is good. A couple of them are even good this morning, and a couple more will become perfectly acceptable when the deadline is starting to loom.
*Anyone who wishes to live with me adapts, anyway, because the alternative would be like trying to turn a stampede of water oxen with paintbrushes, and would simply result in trampling, not out of malice but because The Herd Is Going This Way Now And Goodness I Had No Idea Your Bones Were So Fragile I Promise I Will Call An Ambulance WhenThe Sketch Is Finished. Presumably there’s a non-adaption option, but I’ve never witnessed it, since nobody who couldn’t adapt to life with an artist would be fool enough to get mixed up with me. Kevin, to his infinite credit, goes the extra mile and usually carries extra pencils and paper on his person in case I need to get an idea down Right This Minute and there are no napkins.**
**He should probably just carry around a drawing of echidna penises, too, since I always wind up drawing that at parties.