NAVY

All he ever wanted to do was to improve his life, make a better life for himself and not be a lazy freeloader. Certain people thought he'd never make it; this view rubbed off on him through time and really depressed him. He was determined to show them they were wrong, that he wasn't lazy and could prove something to first himself, then them and finally the world.

He was a writer, he never used the term "author" because he wasn't from the university, never had a degree in English Lit, never dated a posh gal who had connections. No, he was a writer, a writer through and through, self taught from a teenage diet of Sven Hassel and Leo Kessler war books and later Liz Hand.

Little did he know that he would become a writer too, create something from nothing to bring happiness to a whole world of people, including him. He loved to create; it overcame his dark depressive northern mood and environment of a deprived crime ridden hard drinking town.

His background was varied including a love of 80s pop music, Goth and metal music, live gigs and going to pubs and clubs. He read avidly aviation and knew all of the fighter aeroplanes, old and new. At school he was average and never got full marks in his grades, getting through his years being bullied and learning how to handle himself.

A year at college where he enjoyed writing but hated electrical engineering brought him further on the writing road. Work got in the way, two hard years working on cars with a bunch of wankers almost sent him off the rails. A spite of rows and car wrecks made people think he was mad. Maybe he was.

Time passed and he worked in a bakery for a decade, it was his army time making him a man. Working with take no crap characters and a few gals who'd open their legs for a drink. It was the work magazine where he was published, two early poems on the sky; further down the years more followed in the "small press," series of 'zines, magazines and poetry anthologies.

He knew he was right, something drove him on and he didn't stop. They published his work and gave good feedback; if they said no, he'd have quitted right away. But he continued and had a new passion, that to write and create. Each Wednesday night he went to a mate's and drank beer, listened to music and wrote his early poetry, in 1996. His writing career had started.

On a path through life, often misleading with dead ends, at times joyous and happy, more often confusing and deeply depressing. One thing kept him going, his varied poems wrote in cheap pads and so full of emotions he never dared show even those closest. Topics ranged from cuddly animals to the darkness of war and all in between. This was his small legacy to a screwed up, yet beautiful world.

Down the years he even did fiction work and ended up with a publisher, a real world one who liked his work and encouraged him to write. This he did, never stopping. He was indebted to the lady who ran it, counting her a friend and confidante. The publisher moved rapidly from strength to strength and brought him much joy; the rest of his life was a failure, no girlfriend or day job, no car to drive to poetry readings. He is determined to change all that. For now, one area of happiness was enough; creating poetry and stories from out of his mind.

His work never stopped, not even when the job centre or joke shop made him look for none existence jobs in his deprived northern town. He knew in his heart and soul he would make a difference with his writing, as a writer.