Edward Arthur Warwick Smith

My brain is like an attic that has had random items stored for many years. Writing happens when I dust off some forgotten thing and hold it up to the light streaming in from the single window, or the bare light bulb hanging from the middle of the crest of the roof. If it continues to fascinate me, I take it down from the attic and clean and polish and present it here. I have histories, stories and poems scattered about in boxes and on rickety shelves in my attic. They will appear over the next months and years.