It's November 18th. On a normal year I would have written 2/3rds of a novel, started Christmas cards, planned an epic Thanksgiving, set up a handful of timely trades or commissions, filled a few more journals...
But this isn't a normal year. So I bought a tiny chicken from Winco that I will cook this coming weekend and pretend it's a turkey, I resolved to finish my writing project even though it won't be anywhere near 50k words and I picked up an ugly as sin composition book to trick myself into journaling or drawing or doing ANYTHING again.
A little less than a year ago I did a comp book I sent off to Lynn. All I remember was that by the end of it I had some newfound rekindled sense of purpose for writing/art. And that the entire thing was a shit show. Following the logic that it worked once, I'm doing it again. This time with the request that she returns the comp book when I'm 30. She does not know she's involved with this yet.
I even learned from my mistakes and taped the pages together before starting this time.
Here's me in all my Sunday glory. (It's really been a good day, despite the creating blahs.)
