I was born in New Zealand. My parents sailed out there from England to begin a new life, and returned some years later to their home city of Leeds with two children and a need to begin life a third time. I was a baby, and so have no memory of New Zealand, but the idea that I may have had an alternative life there if my family had stayed perhaps led to me being rather dreamy. I was a shy child, but well loved. I drew and made up stories from a very young age. I spent a lot of time in the woods, or playing football with the local kids. My parents didn’t have a car, and so we walked everywhere. Walking became a part of life, and passing strange houses and unfamiliar neighbourhoods made me wonder about the lives being conducted behind those doors. School was okay at first but when I moved to high school I became very lonely. I felt I did not belong. Teachers were mostly distracted or ineffectual, but I was lucky to have one teacher who showed an interest. Things at home were difficult around that time, too, but I remember sitting on buses with my mother, talking about life and god and the way things are. My aunt took me to the cinema and occasionally to the theatre. I was never a good reader. I had no patience for most books. I spent my time reading comics, and hoping that one day I might write and illustrate one. I found the only books that sustained my interest were those written by Philip K Dick. Then one day I read Dostoevsky, and suddenly I found a voice that said something to me, a voice I heard. School became harder, and by the time I was in sixth form I was depressed and friendless. I left art school early and I went on the dole. I could no longer speak to anyone, could not tolerate the world. I barely left the house, painted all day, wrote in the evenings. I withdrew, trying to recover. I built up a portfolio of strange, beautiful artwork and gradually I worked my way back into the world. I dragged my portfolio around advertising studios and art agencies in Leeds, hoping to get work. People saw promise, but didn’t know how to use me. Eventually, I applied to art school again and things changed. I met friends, I fell in love. I learned very little about art, but I entered an illustration competition and although I didn’t win my entry was accepted into the final exhibition where an agent saw my work and offered to represent me. For the next fifteen or so years I just about made a living illustrating picture books and middle-grade fiction. Occasionally, I submitted writing to publishers, and every so often a publisher showed interest. I published one middle-grade book in the US, and a further YA book series was in development for a while, but finally it fell through. During this time, I was married, I divorced, my father died, I lost friends, developed new relationships, and continued to paint, to draw, to write novels, short stories, comics and screenplays. Writing became the reason to write. Slowly, I became better at it.
I still draw, I still paint. I continue to write.