I am burned out and don’t want to paint any more.

I know this, because I’m cleaning the studio. This is a terrible, dangerous sign. Flocks of crows should erupt, cawing, into the sky. Thunder should rumble ominously on the horizon. Lazy farm dogs should raise their heads and the slow, nervous whine should start way back in the throat. The great bastion of clutter has been breached. The outlying fortress has fallen, the brave towering piles ’round the computer have been toppled, and it’s only a matter of time now until I may be able to find things without a metal detector.

So I’m taking a break for the rest of the day, and cleaning the studio, and hopefully that’ll fix the matter. If not, we’ll go to the full weekend. Next week, I’ll resume painting whether I want to or not, ‘cos it’s my job, and I don’t really have any other options.

Michael Whelan, at one point, took a year off just to paint his own stuff, and nothing but his own stuff. And the appeal of such an action is growing on me. My commission waiting list is already out to the end of the year, a situation both delightful (woo! better busy than not!) and sort of unnerving.

Ah, well. Once more, into the breach!