I’m a 61 year-old carbon-based bipedal life-form called Andy Hawthorne, who spends a significant amount of my localised (Coventry, England)time -slice arranging twenty-six English letters into patterns that make other lifeforms emit brief puffs of air through their noses.
I live in a small, damp corner of Earth, a planet whose occupants are largely concerned with the movement of digital numbers on glowing screens, a habit I participate in with great enthusiasm. Before deciding to spend my existence staring at blank pages waiting for paragraphs to organise themselves.
My prose style is heavily influenced by the belief that the universe is far too large, complicated, and poorly managed to be taken seriously. I firmly believe that if gravity had a complaint department, it would be staffed by people who are permanently out to lunch, and that the only logical response to cosmic bureaucracy is a nice, strong cup of tea.