Painting Myself Back into My Novel
After completing the first draft of my novel last summer, I visited an art gallery where I was captivated by a portrait staring at me—forcing me to consider the ineffable je ne sais quoi of a human essence.
A friend saw the look on my face and said: “Don’t do it,” as we walked from the gallery into attached art classrooms. “Remember the November Novel you never went back to?” (It’s true. I still haven’t opened the 50,000-word draft I finished one year in November.)
But I did it anyway—signed up for a painting class, hoping a new artistic medium would unlock something in my brain before I tackled the second draft of my novel, which felt… impossible.
I was stuck. Could another form of art help?
Six weeks of painting later, I returned to my novel with fresh eyes and insights. What I learned might help answer some of the most Googled questions about writing a novel.
1. How do I start writing my novel?
My first painting assignment was simple: Get something on the canvas.
“I want to see what you have to work with,” my teacher said.
“Yikes,” I thought, as I felt performance anxiety grip me.
Painting was a completely new art form for me. I had no expectations, no pressure—just a blank canvas and permission to experiment. I dipped a tiny brush in Prussian blue and started with an eye. Then another. A mouth, a nose. I had no plan. I just put something on the page.
When I opened my novel again, I realized I had to give myself the same freedom. Instead of agonizing over the “perfect” revision plan, I started playing with my protagonist. I wrote her into new situations. Gave her dialogue. Let her surprise me.
The key to starting isn’t about knowing everything—it’s about having something to work with.
2. How do I make my characters feel real?
In my painting class, I learned that creating a portrait wasn’t just about getting the features right. It was about seeing—not just with my eyes, but with my gut. I took close-up photos of myself in different lighting, studying how shadows played across my skin. The painter David Hockney once said photographs capture a fixed and limited perspective. Paintings can do things photography can’t. “All photographs share the same flaw,” he said: “lack of time.”
This is true for a novel, which takes an astonishing amount of nurturing.
When I looked at my protagonist, she felt… flat. She lacked quirks. She lacked contradictions. She lacked life.
So I asked: How does she want to be seen?
Then I asked this of the painting.
I made her neck long, I tried a new nose, a new chin. I played around with collarbones.
I painted red-tinted chest to show passion and let the color vibrate up to her collarbones.
What if I wrote my protagonist in a moment of intense emotion—fury, grief, desire? What if I pushed her to the edge and saw what she did?
Suddenly, she wasn’t just words on a page. She was real.
3. How do I fix my messy first draft?
“The hair has to go,” my teacher said, and when I didn’t object, I realized she was right. I had no argument for it.
In painting, layering is key.
Researchers found 30 layers of paint beneath the Mona Lisa’s surface. Artists add, erase, and adjust constantly.
I learned that when I got stuck, I needed to return to the bare bones.
I sketched and outlined my novel in words and pictures onto the back of a desktop calendar, mapping out arcs, themes, and missing pieces. Like a painter adjusting the light source, I shifted my perspective.
I wasn’t “fixing” my novel—I was shaping it.
4. How do I push through writer’s block?
David Bowie once said that the best creative work happens when you push yourself just past your comfort zone—when your feet don’t quite touch the bottom.
When I felt stuck in painting, my teacher encouraged me to switch mediums—try collage, try ink, try anything to shake up my process.
Don’t be afraid of chaos. Write down the bones. Just write.
So, when I hit a block in my novel, I borrowed an acoustic guitar from my local library. As I strummed unfamiliar chords, I felt the vibrations in my body. My character plays an instrument—what does she feel?
By engaging a different sense, I unlocked something new in my writing.
5. How do I know when my novel is finished?
“The eyes aren’t quite right,” my painting teacher said, confirming something I had known and using the word: “foreshortened–a major repair,” she said.
But did I need to fix it? Or was imperfection part of the piece’s truth? I won’t fix them, I decided, as I feel this eye dissonance in myself; I don’t love symmetry. I remembered the words of a makeup artist who told me eyebrows are like sisters, not mirror images.
There was something satisfying about staring into eyes I painted. They’d been there through many layers of paints, hues and trials.
I realized that finishing a novel isn’t about achieving perfection—it’s about knowing when you’ve captured the essence of the story you wanted to tell.
So I set a deadline for my novel. Two months. My next draft would be messy, but it would be done. And if I needed to learn something new—whether from painting, music, or some other art form—I would.
Because every creative act, in the end, is about discovery.
When you’re stuck, ask yourself:
- Do I have something to work with? Just start. Get words down.
- Am I truly seeing my character? Push their emotions. Surprise yourself.
- Am I afraid of the mess? Embrace the layers. Rework, reshape.
- Am I too comfortable? Try a new art form. Shake yourself awake.
- Am I chasing perfection? Instead, chase truth.
And most importantly: Keep going.
Elisabeth Parker is a freelance journalist working on her first novel.
Elisabeth Parker 