I have always enjoyed reading, right from an early age, and writing seemed a natural progression.

In Primary school, Friday afternoon was my favourite time. We were given the whole afternoon to write ‘a composition’. Back then we wrote with a pen and ink. You dipped your nib in an inkwell. My index finger and thumb were always stained with ink. I was not the tidiest boy. My pages were a mass of blots and smudges. But I wrote reams. It flowed out of me. I struggled to keep up.

It has been that way ever since.

I loved it. I allowed my imagination to run down whatever path it chose. I wrote about anything that came into my head – mostly nature; I was besotted with nature.

I think my love of Sci-fi was nurtured by the old comics we used to read – Adventure and Wizard. They always had a Sci-fi story or two which I greatly enjoyed.

As I grew into a teenager I moved on to Sci-fi novels. John Wyndham was my favourite.

I started writing novels when I was in college.

I had no desire for wealth or fame. I merely had a headful of ideas and enjoyed writing. The ideas came and I wrote them down. It was a natural progression. At college, my friends and I would stay up all night gabbing about life, death and the universe. My mind was lit up. So I wrote it all down. Some were Sci-fi, some philosophy, some nature and some spiritual. It was incoherent, adolescent but fun.

I suppose back then I had a vague notion of living the poor writer’s life, eking a living in some garret and devoting myself to my art. I was transfixed by writers like Kerouac, Henry Miller, Robert Sheckley and Isaac Asimov. They inspired me to write.

Life intruded.

But the writing still continued. After the kids were asleep and the wife had gone to bed I would be at my typewriter tapping away into the early morning – completely absorbed – just me and a stream of ideas. It took me over.

I accumulated great wadges of novels, bored friends, drove the wife to distraction, and yet still carved out a career in education.

But I always told myself that, when I retired, I would rewrite all my scribblings, knock them into shape, and get them published.

What I now have is the result of fifty-years work.

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