Late last night I lay anxious in the black heat wave thinking about the next batch of blank pages I'm contracted to fill while the fan oscillated, blowing expensive air-conditioned wind from the next room across my body. Maybe high anxiety has become second nature to me, ergo my insomnia, but it is a condition that has only recently taken an aggressive stance since I went full-time freelance, four years ago. I can remember entire eras of my life [post-childhood] where I didn't feel nearly as stressed as I do now. Working alone is a holy bitch to behold. Couple the immense hours spent idle by the art table and computer; struggling to make deadlines while pitching a million ideas so I can score one gig for chump change, and a body can appreciate where all this anxiety stems from. As every book this side of the self-help aisle has declared, there are two common solutions to ease the freelance conundrum and that's a] sharing a studio space with like-minded freelancers and b] coming home to your loved one/s; keeping the work away from home. I have yet to manifest either solution. So, that may be the source of my agitation. And, unfortunately, completing a big job does not necessarily equal relief. Especially when I'm not sure what's next on the docket. Some folks are genetically graced with the attitude to laugh off stress and saw logs. To those bozos, I raise a glass of the good stuff and remain desperately jealous.