![IMG_0964[1]](https://i0.wp.com/www.aboutwriting.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/IMG_09641-e1418817812611-225x300.jpg?resize=225%2C300&ssl=1)
Early on in the drawing class this morning the teacher brought out some pictures the group had been working with the day before. They were medical diagrams of intestines. I didn’t want to look at them. I didn’t feel good. I had a bad taste in my mouth.
In the break, when everyone else grabbed coffee and biscuits and talked about what they’d been doing, I sat down and did the drawing on the right. It was big and it was fast. I didn’t like looking at it.
The picture didn’t look right. It wasn’t how I remembered it happening. For a start, the only thing that had screamed had been the cable right before it broke. Second, when I think about it, I wasn’t even looking when he fell. I remember him being all crumpled up in the stupid yellow coveralls they gave us, the angles being wrong but the blood all dark and mixed up in the other wet and mess. (more…)
Our first child was born one month ago today. At least that is what the calendar tells me. The demarcation between days seems to have blurred into an endless stream of bleary eyed triage and trying to remember what it was like to sleep. But it’s brilliant. My wife is brilliant and my little son is brilliant and I’ve never been happier. Which is weird given how desperately I want to sleep. (more…)
A couple of weeks ago I was accepted onto a part-time fine art course at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts – Glacières. Getting to study at an art school in Paris is something of a dream come true (I always wanted to do art but was too scared in case my Dad found out[i]), but it didn’t seem strictly relevant to this blog so I wasn’t going to talk about it here. I quickly found, however, that what I was doing in the course was immediately useful to my writing.
In this article, I am going to talk about the first classes I took at Glacières and share images of my work. The purpose is not to show-off my art, but I think some stories are better told with pictures. I’m sure it will be clear very quickly why these lessons are also applicable to the writer, and how the process of risk and repetition is useful to any creative endeavour.
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Last month my wife began her maternity leave. Normally she works long hours in a posh consultancy firm being highly impressive and executive and stuff. I can do eight hours in the library and still be home in time to get some FIFA played before she gets back. It’s a good pattern and I’ve found a nice routine. Now that pattern has been disturbed and things have got a little bit more complicated. I have to learn some discipline.
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It happened to me again. 
A couple of weeks ago I was with my Mum in a pub near Wales. I was boring her talking about story I was writing where the underground rivers of London come to life once a year and go hunting in the East End.
“Oh, like Rivers of London by Ben Aaronovitch.”
I’d like to say I responded to this with good grace, but what I actually did was bounce my eraser on the table and act a bit stroppy for the next couple of minutes. Only a little bit stroppy. But there was definite, observable stroppiness. Why all the drama?
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![IMG_0964[1]](https://i0.wp.com/www.aboutwriting.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/IMG_09641-e1418817812611.jpg?ssl=1)
Early on in the drawing class this morning the teacher brought out some pictures the group had been working with the day before. They were medical diagrams of intestines. I didn’t want to look at them. I didn’t feel good. I had a bad taste in my mouth.
