I reverse-engineer morsels of reality and extract their meaning. I then inject this concentrate into carefully assembled words and hope for a positive outcome. In other words, I’m a writer. But isn’t everyone? I bet even your cat is. And if you’re thinking ‘But I don’t have a cat’, check your study. He’ll be there, typing. (If you’re now thinking ‘But I don’t have a study,’ that cat is doing some serious Derren Brown shit on you.)
My first novel, The Godless, is about a nihilistic, intelligent and impulsive teenager called Zed who, ruled by his heart, lacks the safety catch that many of us have to stop us going too far. It’s a close-up, slow-motion car crash.
I am currently working on my second, Resuscitating God, a week in the life of some Londoners in the tumultuous July of 2005.
I live in beautiful Oxford, where I can be found occasionally reading my work on stage, sometimes bashing the keys of my netbook in cafés and regularly mid-discussion and mid-pint with my writing group, The Halflings.
When asked, I say I write literary fiction and it’s not a term I like. All I mean by it is this: I write whatever stories I am inspired to, they aren’t always in a particular genre, and I write them the best I can.