If my recent blog entries lack the combative fire that ignited my writing a few months ago, it's probably because I've been keeping emotion in check. The precision of my large works in enamel requires me to be calm, orderly and disciplined. Unfortunately, my best writing occurs when I am not. I have to regain the high productivity as an artist that I achieved a couple of years ago. It's not just because my output was reduced to nothing by my recent breakdown and there are a score of obligations that now need to be met. It's also because I've committed to manage every aspect of my career alone. If I'm to stage my own exhibitions in the coming year, as well as travel and forge new opportunities to exploit my art, I'm going to need, at a minimum, the financial resources of a modest gallery start-up – and probably much more. I don't have a rich husband or family wealth. My only source of capital is the value I've created over several years in my work. I've rediscovered the intense satisfaction I had in my late teens, when I sold my very first works. Nearly all my paintings have a buyer even before they're completed – this has been the case for a few years now – so I have come to think of the process ending not when I make my final mark on the work itself but when the specialist freight handlers arrive to pack it carefully in the studio and remove it. As soon as a work leaves the studio, another is begun in the space it once occupied. At any given time, there are a dozen works-in-progress, in watercolour, acrylic and enamel, covering the studio's walls and floor.Despite this fast-moving work-flow, words still ricochet around my brain. I am more fired up – and maybe even angrier – than I was a year ago. But I'm learning to tamp down this passionate intensity so that I stay in control, rational, and undistracted from my painting. It might make for boring reading but it's a matter of priorities: I'm an artist not a writer.