I am grumpy.
I have PMS. And my last painting was a swing and a miss–no glaring flaws (which I could fix!) but simply not doin’ it for me, the lightning bug instead of the lightning, as Twain would say. Which sucks, because Yak Fairies was a great idea. Have to revisit it at some point, maybe, but this one isn’t working for me. And I am forcing myself not to sketch, because forcing art is bad, and turning out forced schlock will only dig the hole deeper. The Muse is willing to work hard for the money, but flogging her for your own amusement when she’s not in the mood is a good way to get a foot up your ass.
I know this won’t last, of course. I am inherently cheerful. (Thankfully, my friends don’t seem to hold this against me.) My natural ebulliance will surface, either once certain biological floodgates loosen, or once I get a good painting idea, which will happen tomorrow or the next day, weekend at the outside. Like the bright side of death and taxes, the ideas are certain to come–sooner or later I’ll spot a rogue grapefruit breaking from the herd, and be off again. Which is comforting, but still does not really assuage the grumpiness. Not unlike a really long slog through calf-deep snow, the fact that you’ll eventually get home to a toasty apartment, take your shoes off, flop on the couch, and have some hot tea, is nice to know, but it still doesn’t change the fact that you’ve still got a mile of snow to slog.*
*You can tell that I lived in Minnesota for four years without owning a car, can’t you?
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