About MeI write prose and poetry, take photographs, and try to evolve.
Some writers appear to find it very easy to write about themselves, and some don’t. I’m one of the second kind. Not that I don’t like to write about myself, but not as a writer. I keep journals, I think about life, I try to understand how screwed up I am at times, but when it comes to a nice little biography to put on my website about writing – that feels like a problem. So you’ll have to bear with me on this; in the end, hopefully you’re here for the books.
I was born in 1974 in Dublin, Ireland. I remember coming downstairs in the morning to watch TV: Bagpuss, Battle of the Planets, Jackanory, Star Fleet. We lived in Tallaght, which at the time was practically the countryside; cows used to come into our garden sometimes, tiptoeing around the edges of the cattle grid. I went to a school run by Catholic nuns; then later, priests.
Ireland existed in a double reality for a long time. The personal computing revolution was taking hold while the last of the Magdalene Laundries for “unmarried women” were still in operation. Twenty years after the moon landings, the papers still reported on moving statues of the Virgin Mary. I remember that my granny’s house was stuck in the 1950s, my parents’ in the 1980s, and some vital, unconscious part of Irish culture still somehow stuck around 1916 and unable to move on.
I started writing at 10 or so; my first poem was called “The Dark Angel”. At first I was trying to win poetry competitions. Then when I was a teenager, suddenly writing became a way to try to understand myself. I wrote about strange things that were bothering me, and afterwards, they didn’t bother me any more.
I left Ireland and moved to England. I ended up in a spiritual community / cult for a while. I still wrote. By this point I had written two novels, which will probably never see the light of day (but you never know!) Now and then I would get a poem published in some obscure magazine. I kept journals; writing was a way to stay sane, and in the end, writing for myself was part of what helped me to leave the cult.
A lot of stories happened, some of which I’ve written about. Eventually I met an amazing woman. We had children, I got my driving licence, and we got married, in that order. I’m still here. We’re still here. I still write. All of the ridiculous drama of my 20s and 30s is, I hope, finished.
Now, after so many years of writing and keeping it a secret, I thought: what have I got to lose? So here I am, and here you are.