My short story, “Spark“, was shortlisted in the Fowey Festival Short Story Competition 2014. The Fowey Festival celebrates the work of Daphne Du Maurier, 
and author who (like a lot of people) had an enormous impact on me when I was growing up. The House on the Strand remains one of my favourite books (my mother prefers Rebecca). I really enjoyed my take on a Du Maurier story, although I doubt anybody but me would see the similarity. If you’d like, you can read the full story on the site here.
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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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