The Work of Days, A Day's Work.

My days go like this:

Wake up. Brew my one cup of coffee and indulge in its bitter, dark richness with as little distraction as possible.

Reply to emails, clear the decks.

Turn off the internet and draw for two solid hours. Throw most of the drawings in the garbage. Stop at a place where I can start anew tomorrow.

Transfer laundry from the washer to the dryer. Putter around the kitchen. Blend a bunch of berries into coconut milk and half drink, half shovel it into my mouth with a spoon.

Run through the forested park adjacent to my house.

Return to my studio for production work, client work, work in progress.

Make dinner. Fold laundry. Eat. Walk. Fret over not having done enough during the day. Pour my one glass of wine and indulge in its fruity, creamy, thick redness.

Return to my studio to write.

Return to my studio to carve lino.

Return to my studio to worry, or exalt, or stare impatiently at screens and half-made things that feel like they're just sitting there, staring impatiently back at me.


Draw, draw some more, and draw a little more after that.

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