Don’t worry about my birthplace, childhood, or parents professions. Don’t assume knowing the many places I grew up will give you a clearer insight. Don’t think the University I attended, or the qualifications I’ve received will paint you a prettier picture. Don’t get hung up on the idea of a stick up the arse, first orgasm of the month photograph. And please, don’t guess that this is all arrogance. I’m not the sort of guy who waits for summer to hang around a corner shop with my shirt off.
It’s as simple as this, I love YA fiction, or used to. It’s been a while since I can say that sincerely. What happened? I got old and my blood boiled for something new. I’ve read a thousand things, and loved them all, but the well of New Adult fiction for guys is ball achingly small.
I’m going to do something about that.