I think I was about eight years old when I knew I wanted to be an author. I would tap away on an old typewriter; I was excited beyond belief when I got a new one for a birthday. I devoured books, head continually buried inside. Enid Blyton at that time was the most inspiring of authors as she took me away from my world and placed me into the ones she’d created.

I wrote whenever I could, at school in break-time and any creative writing tasks in English were my personal Utopia. I even used to read my stories aloud to whoever would listen. I discovered that I too could create worlds to escape to of my own making. That was a powerful discovery, a drug, an addiction to which I have no intention of curing at rehab!

Life got in the way as it inevitably does. I had a son who has a learning disability and very complex behavioural needs. For many years, he had to be my main focus. Eventually, I was able to start thinking about writing again, and I threw myself into it with a vengeance.

“As Dream Are Made on” is the only story I have in the public domain. I do, however, have a number of short stories and novels in the pipeline at varying stages of completion that I am very excited about. I hope to be able to publish them soon. I hope you will read and enjoy doing as much as I have enjoyed writing them.

The actual act of writing is a very solitary experience, but there is nothing more satisfying than when you have poured every part of yourself into your writing, and you are left drained, but euphoric. I will never forget the look on the face of an overly confident, good-looking guy I met on holiday. I was in the middle of a really good writing session, the words were flowing faster than my pen could write, I was desperate to get it all down on paper before it was lost. He interrupted that flow as he sought to engage me with his rather cheesy chat up lines. It was inevitable…I chose my writing over him. What can I say other than the urge to write is strong and I am but a willing slave.