I live with my partner as naturally as possible in today’s world, on several forested acres in sub-tropical Queensland.
My first twenty-four years on this planet are recorded in a lighthearted memoir, Dancing Bare, in which my doings in nineteen sixties London, Paris, Europe and North Africa are recalled.
I write the sort of books I like to read— stories that are reasonably fast-paced, with sufficient but minimal description that doesn’t interrupt the unfolding plot, which is clear and about something more than just action. A bit if philosophising and the occasional polemic always please me. I reckon fictional characters should be believable, not ‘supermen’, just slightly larger than life. I want to be unaware I’m reading as I’m transported to a more interesting reality where there are at least a couple of people I can relate to. I don’t mind reading about sexual activity if it’s part of the plot and demonstrates character, but graphic sex bores me witless. I am disappointed that most so-called ‘gay’ novels seem to be mere excuses for empty erotica.
I can’t see the point in having ‘heroes’ who are unable to escape the compromises, petty disagreements, hopes, disappointments, mistakes, regrets, and pointless ‘pleasures’ that make up most people’s lives. We all know what that’s like. My ‘heroes’ live in that world, but face their predicaments stoutly, inspiring us lesser mortals to follow their example and strive with a little more perseverance to attain our goals.
But what goals? I despair at otherwise excellent books in which everyone accepts the grossly wasteful consumerism of everyday life as not only normal but desirable. I like to read and write about people who genuinely understand that more than enough is too much. Who value what is truly valuable. I realise I'm sometimes guilty of a bit of tub-thumping, but I like that in other writers because without strong convictions a writer has little to offer apart from amusement.