I don’t want to start this by saying that I am a ‘writer.’ I think it still feels somewhat of an alien idea, even though my entire life, its all I’ve ever really wanted to do, and the only thing I’ve never really tried to do.

I was a highly cliché rebellious youth, lower-working- class roots, rock-music and some misconceptions about adult life robbed me of any academic success, and they used me as the very weapon of their extortion, the bastards. Regardless, I carried on and found myself in an endless string of unskilled, semi-skilled, then skilled, manual labour jobs. Where I often questioned why I had spent so many hours of my life learning how to do things I didn’t want to do, to work in places I didn’t want to work, when I could be doing much more interesting things. After a while, I was so bored of questioning myself, I decided to just do things. I went back to education as an adult, a path I still haven’t finished walking, and I made the decision to just write. Write anything, write everything. Reviews, essays, stories, newsletters, medical texts, hovercraft warranties.

Taking all of the words out of my head and putting them on pages gives me profound satisfaction, it has done since I was about 3-4 years old, when I used to use an old beat-up electric typewriter to ramble badly worded, dreadfully spelled and ill conceived nonsense at any opportunity. I like to think, at the very least, my vocabulary has improved.

S.W McDonald