I’m a writer and painter, two professions with the occupational risk of turning you, to put it delicately, a little bit weird. Insularity is the name of the game with both – you have to spend a lot of time inside, not really talking to people, trapped totally in your own head.
For some time now, the solution to this problem has been my rat, Bob. I’ve had him for two years, and in that time he has been my sounding board, creative confidant and unwavering ally. I’ve written two books with him in the room and I am certain he knows when I’m writing, because he has to deal with me hugging him more, as I try to take breaks from the cruel demands of a first draft.
