There are authors, who paint with words.  The language they use is so beautifully presented that the reader can almost smell the roses, feel the warmth of the sunlight on their face as it breaks through the leaves in the morning mist, I call these people 'proper writers'.  I have dear friends who are proper writers  and I admire the heck out of them.

I don't write like that.

I consider myself, first and foremost, a story-teller.  While a 'proper writer' can be imagined on a stage, emoting their words, painting mental images for the audience with beautiful prose, my stories are told as if we were in a boozer, sat round a table, the occasional "Go on, what happened next?" can be heard from my mates as they dip into their crisps.  I tell stories with humour, action, mostly based in real locations in the UK and The Philippines (where I now live).  I draw on my experiences, often include characters that are allegedly based on mash-ups of real characters, and I try to cover all aspects of their lives. The good, the bad and the outrageously funny.    

So there you have it, I'm not a proper writer, I'm a story-teller, and I tell pretty good stories.  Pull up a chair, get a Guinness and some crisps and join the crazy world of my characters.

There are two primary 'schools of writing' they are Plotters and Pantsers.  Plotters outline the whole book in notepads, details upon details cross referenced, and presented in a linear fashion.

Then there are pantsers like me, so called because we write by the seat of our pants, no notes, no outlines, just making stuff up as we go along.  I have started a book (The King of Gravesend) with just a title.  No idea where it's going, who's in it or what it's about.   "It'll sort itself out," I say to myself, and truth be told, it usually does.