Richard Bunning

What's to say? I write stuff. Sometimes I wonder why and sometimes, you may wonder why as well. The important stuff for readers is that, for now, I'm mostly writing speculative science fiction and mixed genre flash fiction. In the past I've dabbled in some reasonably scholarly stuff- mainly adaptations of neoclassical plays. There are even a couple of real academic papers, in nutrition science, which carry my name among others.

What really grabs me are the every person philosophical questions like what the heck we are doing on this beautiful planet?

You are welcome to read on, but be warned, ego takes over a bit as I get into autobiography. I am currently very fortunate to live in one of the most blessed countries on Earth- Switzerland. I've been exceedingly lucky. But don't real writers have to suffer? Well, perhaps they do if they are going to dive deep into their souls. So far, I haven't tried to get my head far below the surface what it feels like to tick, being far more interested in the why we feel at all. If I ever write a memoir, please be advised to avoid it- I assume that at best it would be like sticking one's head in dirty porridge and keeping it there for the time it takes to read 100,000 dreary words.

The audacious belief that I could make my way in life as an author began in earnest in the winter of 1965, when I turned nine. This passion lasted at least until the freedom of the summer holidays. Of course, I also dreamed of being a real action-hero, but the rotten luck of being born rather later than Biggles, and of being too myopic and astigmatic to pass the eyesight tests required of military pilots, ruled out any such heroic future. The honour of flying with James Bigglesworth fell, in my young mind, to the very real figure of my paternal grandfather, Flying Officer Jim Bunning of the RFC. I meanwhile countered my misfortune with the idea that I could at least be the inventor of great adventures by becoming the natural successor to the writing of Captain W.E. Johns. I haven't, I need to make that clear. Early interest in adventure books and tall-stories was tempered by the requirement to reorganise my dyslexic mind. A style of education borrowed directly from Tom Brown's 1830s schooling, applied with vigour to my shortcomings, did eventually result in this maladroit malefactor being fitted with a proper education. I was rounded off in rather more sympathetic fashion in the then still-used WWII Nissan huts of the blossoming University of Keele. Well over thirty years on and the micro-chipped world of today facilitates the almost complete submergence of any remaining linguistic chaos, and so allows me in middle age to chase the essence of a long submerged dream.

If I must write, and I must, shouldn't I be penning violent adventure stories? They are hopefully still in me, ready to emerge in the very peak of my new career. Should I be playing with the works of lyrical Racine, or are they a challenge too far? Perhaps I have plunged a little deep into linguistic art, but there is at least logic in looking to the best from which to learn the craft of the true wordsmiths. Who knows, if I live long enough I might write a classic novel that sits on frequented bookshelves. Well, with the help of good editors and improbable dreams.

If you have read this far I feel very flattered. Thank you. You deserve a free book, or perhaps not to receive a free book. But if you would like one, then ask and your wish might well be granted. Have a great day.