Enjoy writing fiction. Non-fiction. Both, if the fancy takes you.
You may wish to contact me through this blog. After reading the paragraphs below, you may not.
For a variety of technical reasons, replies won’t exactly be swift. Time spent on the web is time spent struggling free of the web.
Do I sit, spiderishly perched on a strand, waiting for e-messages to fly in? No. I’ll try to respond, but that’s no guarantee of quality.
If I’m unable to answer a question, I’ll do what I can to say so. It may take some time to do even that little. That’s the best I can offer.
Advice for would-be writers. Don’t send me free samples when you could be charging money for your writing on the web.
Writers have no wish to be embroiled in litigation over THE GUY WHO WROTE ME AN E-MESSAGE AND CLAIMED A YEAR LATER THAT I STOLE HIS STORY.
Your story idea isn’t even remotely original (for, these days, NO story is), and there is no copyright in ideas – only in the presentation of those ideas.
If you don’t understand that, or haven’t heard anything like that before, check out basic copyright law in your own country. Rove an inquisitive eye over © law in other territories.
Please keep your fiction to yourself, or go public and charge for it. Don’t send it to me looking for approval. I am no arbiter of taste. As my music collection clearly attests.
See if your work sells, instead. Fee-paying readers are no judges of taste either – but it’s in their hands that the money lies…
Now look for curmudgeon in the dictionary. Did you find me there, or elbow me out of the way to claim that seat yourself?
I don’t make these comments to alienate fans, but to provide a basic health-warning against time and energy being expended on avoidable litigation. Avoid the need to litigate. Instead, create.
Yes, yes. It’s all about me, isn’t it. Why isn’t it all about you? After all, you don’t care about me. I care about you. You are the ones who flirt with fiction and buy my books.
I’m just some random scribbler, to you. The dealer, dishing out your fiction fix.
All you want is to curl up with a book of a cold winter’s night, and while the hours away turning page after digital page in search of diversion from the mundane existence which has come to trap us in lives not of our own making in this the (insert numerical description) century.
Whereas all I want to do is write shorter sentences.
Well, I suppose I could say a few words. I was born at an early point. You may argue over Triassic, Jurassic, or Cretaceous.
The writing bug bit me, laid eggs, and scuttled off to infect the world. A world which is destined to be consumed by our own flaming star. I think that pretty much covers it.