Let me state right now that I am aware that I deserve no sympathy whatsoever.

None.

In fact, I should possibly just be beaten with sticks.

The situation is a combination of my own hubris and a Good Thing. My own mother, who is required by law to render sympathy over the most minor of failings, could barely muster an “Awww.”

See, Saturday, I was sittin’ pretty. I was looking at my stack of Trinoc originals and thinking “Ya know, I’m not doin’ so bad. I’ve got a dozen pieces, and I’ll probably get some more small pieces done…in fact, with only general three panels, if the Anthrocon package comes in in time, I might not have enough space! Shoot! Maybe I should drop ’em a line and request an additional panel or two.”

At that point, I was tempting fate. I know that now, and I should have known it then. My failure can only be attributed to the fact that at 27, I am still frequently hopelessly clueless.

And then, compounding this error, I sent the e-mail. And exponentionally compounding it, I then kicked back and relaxed for part of the afternoon, after I had done the sketches for the reader that needed to go out, thinking “Hey, that’s swamp’s under control!”

And then, in the space of about an hour, I sold the Donkey and Goldfish I painting and the Lemonlopes.

And this event, which was good and wonderful and delightful, meant that I was now short two paintings for the Con. The two in the that price/size range–i.e. the high end of what might move at this Con. (I have a few big ones that aren’t going to move, which are just there to drag in the eye and look neat, and a number in the will-probably-move price range, but those had been the high-end might-possibly-move pieces. The Lurking Turnip is in that same range, but I’m not confident of the universal appeal of Evil Vegetables.)

And I said “Yay! Yay! Yay–oh, bugger…”

The thing is, nobody will sympathize with you for selling two originals. Hell, I don’t even sympathize with me, and I’m here on the inside. And if you then add that you’re not posting the new small originals you’ve done until after the Con because people have this tendency to try to buy them at once, the only sympathy you’re going to get is from the EMTs when they find you in the ditch after the beating.

And you’ll deserve it. Because selling art is a good thing, and the thing that many of us are sweating blood to do, and saying “I’m selling too much art, I can’t keep up!” is like wandering into the backroom of the Miss America pageant and saying “Man, I keep eating all this ice cream and steak and I just can’t seem to gain ANY weight!”

So anyway. Last night, I finished two paintings in a late night madness. Having re-assessed the stack, I need more cheap-to-midrange pieces badly. My mother, while not all that sympathetic, has at least prepared for shows on deadline before, and has threatened to call me and make sure that I’m working. My friend Kathy, who is a terribly nice person and had actual sympathy, offered to take me out the farmer’s market to gaze at Weird Fruit and perhaps be inspired by the cruelty of the tomato or the seething krakenish mystery of the collard greens. We’ll see.

I have no sympathy.