I was born in the town of Warwick in 1981. It is a small historical town in the heart of England, and Ι was the fifth child born into a family of boys. I developed a huge interest in the written world from a young age, and with more than a little help from Roald Dahl found quite the taste for anything gross and gory. Book club at primary school...
I was born in the town of Warwick in 1981. It is a small historical town in the heart of England, and Ι was the fifth child born into a family of boys. I developed a huge interest in the written world from a young age, and with more than a little help from Roald Dahl found quite the taste for anything gross and gory. Book club at primary school only proved to increase my love of escaping into the world of a book.
Whilst six years at secondary school did little to quell the romantic notion of one day sitting in my mountain cabin and smoking a celebratory cigarette as the first novel was born, somewhere within those six years the dream of becoming a writer got put on hold. The question of who actually manages to make a living out of being writer was persistently posed in my over-active mind. Who manages to pull that off? Not many, according to most people. Perhaps it was because science was deemed a safer career path, or perhaps it was because they let me chop up hearts, but I found myself spending more and more time in the biology lab and eventually the university applications were completed and the next twelve years employment were set; science, hearts, but yet sadly no more dissections. Still, resting quietly in the background were those long and lingering desires to once again rediscover the old aspirations to write.
About six years ago, with the smouldering embers of a childhood dream sparking uncomfortably underfoot there was what can only be called an epiphany. Who is it that actually becomes a writer? Is it the people who live in New York? Is it the girl whose aunt works for Harper Collins or S&S, or another beast of a publishing house? It is those people, yes. But it's not just those people. It's the people who write. And I wasn't doing any of that, with the exception of a few dogeared post-it notes hanging around in pockets and drawes with half baked ideas scribbled on them. Whilst this may sound simplistic, it was the revelation I needed to sit down and type Chapter One. The first book, The Loss of Deference was no longer just a fantasy and slowly became a workable manuscript. It was then sent out in eagerness before it was properly edited and therefore it was duly returned, and rightly so I collected a nice set of rejection letters. At this point I had never even heard the concept of a self published author, or indie author.
Six years later, having uprooted from England to settle on the southern Mediterranean shores of Cyprus, the dream to be a writer and to publish thriller books that were once deemed nothing more than pipe dreams are now a reality. I am still working as a part time scientist, but I am also writing daily. When I am not sat at the computer typing about the darker side of life, you will find me hiking in the mountains, drinking frappe at the beach, or talking to myself in the kitchen in the style of an American celebrity chef. Just think Ina Garten. « less