I started my career in 1978, at the Press Association, Fleet Street, London, as a trainee reporter. 

Impressed, huh? Perhaps I should just leave it as that.

But no, honesty compels me to explain that from this promising literary start, I somehow managed to end up working on the railways for twenty years. (And I'm talking outside, up and down the railway tracks, for most of it). However, it was thanks to this latter job that my mind began to turn to murder. Anyone who has had to sit through a six hour railway production meeting will appreciate what I'm saying here.

In order to find a legal outlet for these urges to kill, I joined a creative writing evening class, and, from there a writers’ circle. My evenings and weekends were thereafter happily taken up with poisoning, stabbing and strangling - and people even encouraged me.   

Five years later...

The First Novel. I managed to get an agent vaguely interested.

“But what’s it really about?” she asked, flapping the manuscript at me.

“Well, it’s a sort of murder mystery, with humour, some romance, some coming-of-age stuff..."

“Too many genres. Publishers don’t like that. They like novels that fit into categories. Nice, neat novels.”  

I started again.

Five years later...

The Second Novel. Dead Woman’s Shoes. A straightforward murder mystery. Okay, a humorous murder mystery.

Luckily, I got away with it this time... think it shows that persistence pays.