How it Started
A moment of great significance for my writing career was a car journey with a colleague in 2002. When she found out I had a novel mouldering in the loft – this is not a metaphor for my head – she gave me a week to rescue it and make something of it. Through that one moment of bossiness she helped me rediscover my love of writing. So, I came back out of that mould-ridden loft fascinated by what hides, often in plain sight, in the shadows beyond the light of our everyday lives
The reader's Mind
In my work, hope can only truly be appreciated by those who have looked into the darkness, embraced it even, and seen that still the flame doesn’t die unless we choose to extinguish it. If, as a result of reading my books, a movie plays in the reader’s mind, it is probably a film noir – we’re certainly living in times of tension, paranoia and greed similar to the ones that spawned that style – but I can’t help adding a hint of optimistic white. Those movies were often unremitting in their blackness, but even the darkest of themes, as examined by Dennis Potter or Peter Greenaway for example, can allow for redemption. Why has mankind always wandered willingly into the labyrinth if not for the joy of walking out again?
BLINK IN A MIRROR
I believe that we are not alone and by that I mean that the universe is built on attraction. We are always pulling something along in our slipstream, just as we, too, are riding on the coat-tails of a dream. These co-existing worlds are usually just beyond our vision – it’s like trying to see yourself blink in a mirror – but never beyond our perception if we are open to them. I love the Philip Pullman trilogy His Dark Materials, firstly because it captures with magnificence and eloquence the concept of parallel universes, and secondly because it provoked such outrage from the narrow-minded.
Most Recent Articles
…grieved for my father. Before anyone recoils in shock, I should point out that this only became apparent to me very recently during an on-line discussion with a dear friend. Having lost her own father when he was young, she asked me how my father died, at which point, I found myself struggling to type
One of my first posts on here (see below) was about my mother, who had recently passed away. Today is the two year anniversary. At the weekend I visited her memorial up in the Midlands and placed flowers. My sister and her husband place fresh flowers regularly, which fade and are replaced. In many ways
I wrote in a short story that I wished my life could always be September, when the embers of a dying season wisp and glow. I think I had in mind, apart from anything else, the bonfires which my father invariably seemed to end up lighting at this time. I know that a lot of