This novel came out of some kind of transmuted personal experience. I find it difficult to promote and to send it around the Internet, but am continuing to do so, whilst also working on other writing.
The book is the movement of characters towards some kind of conclusion. It’s about a friendship, and the dependency that can come with that. It’s about addiction. It’s about repetitive chaos.
And its about Brighton: the streets, the people, the sea, the end of the world. ‘We are all like pebbles on the beach,’ a friend of a friend said ages ago, describing this Brighton life.
And I suppose there’s other stuff there, as well. Shadowy, dark, psychodynamic things, which are hard to define. You know. The family stuff.
I love to write. The promotional side of things gets me down, and can fill me with a sense of futility, which then can seep into the writing. But I keep on doing it.
Sorry if it’s too hard for you. But this will make you cry. And it’s also very funny. But then I do have strange sense of humour. The main reason I wrote it was because it seemed funny.