I write for fun and I write for me. I hope that’s not selfish and I hope others enjoy what I write, but I find it impossible to write what I don’t like. I like to write what I’d like to read. This might explain a firefly approach to subject and style.

I love storytelling. I love stories. They start inside my head and tend to tickle my imagination for weeks, months and even years. They percolate. I might start with a subject I find compelling, fascinating or downright excruciating (why does decapitation appear so often?) and let my mind whittle away until the shape of a story appears. And I love an ending. Most of my stories start with an end and go backwards to a beginning (I am trying to wean myself off the twist – but, you know, guilty pleasures and all that).

I wrote my first story aged ten – The Odd One Out – and since reading it aloud in class I have been smitten by the fun of playing with words. Maybe it’s some childhood desire for attention, although I suspect it is more about control. You can control words. Emollient. Like that. I can put that there and I don’t need to explain why. I just did it.

I hope I am slowly getting better at putting words one after another. But (like most people) I’m my own worst judge. If in the meantime someone else enjoys reading these stories, well then I’m right royally chuffed!

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