Dragonbreath is DONE.
I mean, I still have to do the cover, but that's in their court for another day or two. Until then...DONE. Even those last two spot illos they sprung on me after I had finished all the pages...DONE.
Yes, they want the sequel around the end of the year, but...well, I'll deal with that later. DONE. DONE. DONE.
Now I can move. And do those paintings buzzing in my brain, and those commissions that need to get done, and that one carousel thing and the thing for Sofawolf, and...write the sequel, I guess...and all the other stuff. Like move. Yes. Move. That.
Did I mention the moving?
I smelled the moving smell today. I cannot even begin to tell you what it smells like, and it may only be a product of my fevered imagination, but it smelled like moving. This should probably smell like cardboard or bubble wrap or dust or musty plaster or hastily ordered pizza eaten with a box as a table or SOMETHING, but I don't know if it did. I don't know what it was at all. It was just...I was in the car and there was a smell and I'm moving hit with that kind of hammering memory of all the other moves I've done in recent memory (which is a lot. I worked it out once that this is something like the sixteenth time I've moved in my life that I can remember.)
I never even knew there was a moving smell, but as soon as I smelled it, I knew what it was.
So I came home and dragged a bookcase into the car and took some art down, and now my apartment looks like moving. And that's okay. I have most of a month to get everything switched over, and since I won't be doing Dragonbreath every bloody day, it sounds practically like a vacation.