I woke up early, showered and shaved my head to the scalp. I studied my reflection in the bathroom mirror. It took me aback. I saw an androgynous, angular and somewhat alien creature. Thin scars marred the pale smoothness of its skin and its eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. At least it wasn't crying.I caught up with correspondence and arranged consignment of a handful of small works on paper to two clients in the USA. I negotiated the sale of a second of my Precious Blood enamel on board paintings to a collector in Melbourne. I planned what paintings I would try to finish at the enamel studio during the coming week. Finally, when I couldn't find another excuse to put it off anymore, I opened my sketch-book and began to draw.It took nearly 12 hours, with only a few short breaks, for the eye, hand, mind – and, yes, heart – to reconnect enough for me to draw with confidence. For the first several hours, I had to stifle the urge to rip out the pages and retreat to my bed. I felt like an inept, talentless, unimaginative fraud. Or I did until just before dawn. As the pale rim of a winter sun rose from the grey-blue ocean into a drear, watery sky, tentative, too-careful marks gave way to quick, confident lines. Slowly, the lines turned into a picture.