After a career in tourism I studied the fine art of writing in Vancouver, British Columbia.
As a writer I try my best to live up to Pablo Picasso's famous quote:
'Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist.'
!t a!n't me… !t's all y'all….
S P Mount was born with a biro in his grubby little grasp. A cheap pen because apart from it being the sixties and the only computer available being one's own brain, the family he'd been allocated couldn't have afforded much more than that. But a mistake had been made, surely to God; coming into the world from the belly of a commoner in a two up two down in Glasgow... well that just wasn't right was it... where was the quill... the palace... the peacocks for Christ sake? Didn't they know who he was?
But feather had taken flight, apparently, and that cheap kind of plastic writing implement had seen his first three novels written by the age of ten-years-old, showcasing an innate talent that'd had the nuns at St Mary's orgasmic. But burst finally, those pens did, tainting crisp white shirts and replacing them with turncoat blacks and blues... blood red sometimes. And so with both opportunity and the mothership gone because the fatherland was completely inhospitable, what chance then for a bruised but beautiful mind that the brink of cultivation had winked so seductively at... that the clumsy foot of fate had booted to oblivia?
"That's not our problem," the well-meaning folks at the orphanage said setting loose the tether of their textbook psychology that'd long since failed to psychoanalyse him, peer through the brilliance of the one-way mirrored shell from under which he mocked it; skilled in manipulating the entire psychological process, shocking them deliberately for his own amusement; his natural creative ability finding respite through whatever outlet it could.
But at least they'd smiled and waved farewell, sincerely wishing him luck and he'd been glad to reciprocate - even if emotion was still a very private commodity that would take a decade to surface - but seemingly not belated at all when he coincidentally encountered his old housemother in the lemon tree garden of the villa he'd come to live in on a Greek Isle; the universe at work starting to put right a few wrongs.
But his mission, he'd always known, was to claim the mediocre world that they called Earth, the grubbiest of caterpillars, the wiggliest, eventually ingratiating themselves in new environments in the guise of beaux papillon to sizzle with the electricity of fireflies. And now that he could fly, he unearthed civilisations, bathed in exotic oceans and felt the magnificent energy of ancient crumbled walls, swanned with the beautiful and the elegant as he dined in sophisticated cities, and danced with spears in villages made of shite, his assignment to embrace in person that life which had been denied him, had been sent to try him even.
Yes, he'd filed each and every nuance of the planet they called Earth and its primitive races and places until finally fluttering down to savour the sweet nectar of a maple leaf, where, with his omnipotent eye, he'd taken up that proverbial biro once more to stir libretto, blending his life experiences together with the gift of humour that'd survived all that had been sent to diminish it, and all in an inimitable style, for he'd already proven that he could transform tin into gold, not be a product of environment, contemplating not his biro but the fancy iMac that would fit quite nicely up his parents' arses thank you very much.
All S P Mount works have humour beating from the heart of them.
My books at a glance.