I began writing my first novel at the age of ten. It was probably inspired by the horror books I was addicted to at that age, the Pan Bo ok Of Horror Stories. These gothic slices of macabre were my bedtime books of choice, and no doubt led to some nighttime terrors of my own. But I wasn’t about to allow anything as mundane as a nightmare detract me from devouring these stories like Halloween candy. My book, as you might have guessed, never made it past the first few pages and ended its brief, uneventful life in the bin, where it belonged. Fast forward forty-three years and I’ve just self-published my grown-up crime- fiction novel, Anglesey Blue. I could bullet-point a whole litany of reasons why it took so long, but I looking back, I’m glad I had four decades of experience to write from. Life, they say, gets in the way. So it was with me. An interesting job that fueled my creative side, a family, a move to America, all good reasons, or excuses, to put that ambit