Since you’re taking the time to peruse my blogscape I’ll indulge you with a little insight into the candy-striped multiverse that serves as my mind. I’m many things to many people, as are we all, but first and foremost I’m a greedy sleeper dreaming of that lush fescue lawn next door.
So what does the H. B. stand for..?
I’m a novelist in training and an accounts clerk on the side. I can talk at length about the pros and cons of living with teenagers and list over two hundred and thirty three reasons to always have wine in the fridge. Occasionally, when I’m not doing battle with adolescents, or drinking myself under the table, I play at being a writer.
And yes, I’m terrible at bowling.
Okay, technically a bladdernose is some kind of seal but as far as I’m concerned it’s a tipsy writer endlessly ruminating about the usefulness of the Oxford comma.
Basically, I’ve written stories since I was knee-high to a tsetse fly. My first endeavour was The Secret Passage (penned at the tender age of eleven) which received rave reviews from parents and grandparents alike. On the coat-tails of this success I wrote The Black Rose, a ghostly tale that went on to win a gold star from my high school English teacher – high praise indeed!
Lets just say I have fingernails that won’t quit.
Since leaving school I’ve been an estate agent, a travel agent, a waitress, a nurse, a sales assistant, a bra fitter, a pharmacy dispenser, a butcher, a baker, and yes, a candlestick maker. Okay that last one’s not true. And while we’re at it, the butcher part isn’t true either. But hey, why let the truth get in the way of a good introduction?
On the subject of truth, here’s one – no matter how hard I’ve tried, I can’t seem turn my back on writing, just can’t. It’s in my blood; my sickness if you will. I thought if I could find a regular job that I loved (or at least liked), then I would be happy. I would be normal. But writing is what I love, and I’m not normal, and I’ve come to realise that anything else will always fall short. With this knowledge though, comes a measure of trepidation – writing is dangerous for the ego. I’ve found that exposing my ever-so-secret vice is much like removing one’s clothes in public (or so I imagine, I’ve never actually done that you understand).
I love the smell of world-building in the morning. Like all fantasy writers I have my magnum opus (ninety-three years in and counting). The Ghosts of Blackwatch is very much my baby; an epic fantasy of three parts starring the enigmatic, if a little psychotic, Willow Nightingale. However, Willow has been given a back seat for the moment (Okay, okay, she’s bound and gagged and locked in the trunk. Don’t look at me like that. It’s a matter of safety – namely, my own. *shivers*). It’s a transitory evil, to give me time to master my craft and build a bit of a name for myself. That said, if you haven’t heard from me in a while please, please, call the authorities (get it? author-ities) – it means Willow has escaped and is currently teaching me a valuable lesson in the various arts of torture (of which, I am reliably informed, there are many).
I don’t know where my writing journey will take me, or if it will end in success or failure, but one thing I know for certain – I could get real comfy doing this.