I was born in Japan of British parents. We returned to the UK when I was two. I carried an image around for almost thirty years of grass growing up through water, until I realised it was a rice paddy. I live in Surrey now, but it’s never made as much sense to me as Japan.
I lurked around the edges of things at lot, a way of living that I would positively discourage anyone else from following. As a result, I only managed to restart my writer’s fifth stomach seven years’ ago. I have a theory that writing is a digestive process, that takes the raw stuff of everyday life and produces stories out of it. It is as inevitable and mysterious as digestion, which is not really mysterious at all. I don’t need to share with you, if you are a writer, that engaging your fifth stomach for fixing your broadband connection, resolving problems with other human beings or filling in your tax return is a bad idea.
Most of my working life I spent around books, typesetting, designing, proofreading, doing everything except write them. That changed seven years’ ago when a high-powered creative appeared at the end of my mental cul-de-sac like a long-loader lit up like a fairground in the twilight. I’ll call him Mike, because that is his name. Eventually I got off and walked home, but he’d shown me the open road and kickstarted the writer’s fifth stomach. I started writing speculative fiction, urban fantasy, including Skinny Inkers, a radio play considered by BBC Radio Scotland and short stories.
I have one tattoo, something metaphysical that means something to me personally. It looks good, I was a graphic designer, it’s got to look good.