Frederick Anderson, writer: a gift for which I am sometimes paid and often not. I fell off the train in sunny, draughty North-Eastern England, and sort of stayed.
Where do I come from and is it remotely interesting?
School in Exeter and a little town called Wiveliscombe (yes, that’s right – the locals call it Wils’combe) in the southwest of England, then drama college and a whole lot of different ‘businesses’ – I’ll call them that – mostly they were just devices to keep the wolf from the door: some worked, though. Some did.
Beliefs? None. Please don’t try to enthuse me with the Christian message; it’s wasted on me. Ditto Islam, Hinduism, Jainism, et al. Man is master of his own fate and the price is paid here on Earth, not in some imagined paradise. That’s enough of that. I rant a lot. Bad habit.
So here we are. I write copious amounts of drivel which I hope some will find amusing, absorbing, sympathetic or provocative. I can’t focus on any one thing.
I do this for pleasure, not profit, but if you like what you see and think I could help you in any way, please hit on the contact page. Any emails should complete their purpose in the body of the text. Enclosures won’t be opened. Thanks for taking the time to read about me – y’all come back now, y’hear?
A book is not a vehicle for my personal opinions, my politics or my unbeliefs. A work of fiction is an escape. A work of fiction is a story. Some of mine are on the right. Click on the icon to be whisked away to the wonderful land of Kindle, where I’ll even let you buy it, if you’re good!