When I was young, my birth-mother was intermittently very sick, and so raising me was largely up to MY DAD. He protected and nurtured me in a world that was often very scary, and despite everything, I had a magical childhood. We would go for long, long walks in the English countryside, pick blackberries, and tell each other stories. We’d have picnics, for which he always brought along a Kit Kat. I still have a soft spot for Kit Kats today. He strongly encouraged my love of writing.

Here is a picture from my first note book (with my dad’s photo rather clumsily pasted on top by me) showing a story I dreamed up in 1982, called THE DAY THE MONSTER WALKED. Before I could even put pen to paper, I would record stories on a tape recorder and my dad would patiently transcribe them. These were stories about Buck Rogers and Doctor Who. That he did all this for me, while holding down FT employment and being, for several years, almost my sole care giver, is remarkable. The role a father has in your life is unbelievably powerful, something I realize more and more with every passing year. Thank you, Dad.mywriting-2

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