When I was 17 I developed the desire to become a writer. But I was beset by feelings of existentialist confusion and a sense that I was entirely unqualified to comment on the world in general and human nature in particular.

For more than a decade I led the life of a drifter and a barfly. I worked at many jobs — insurance clerk, storeman, schoolteacher, labourer, farm foreman, leather worker, factory supervisor — for periods of 3 months or less. I also depleted the Unemployment Insurance Fund whenever I could.

In order to confront the fear and perplexity I felt on contemplating suffering and death I worked, on and off, for 3 years as an orderly in a number of state hospitals.

In 1980 I exiled myself for a year on a remote island (Gough) out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. On returning to the mainland I was unable to say that I had achieved anything more than a certain degree of detachment.

The biological imperative to replicate my genes then compelled me to find a mate and produce offspring. This entailed taking a regular job, and for the next 17 years I toiled ceaselessly at the construction of houses and other brick and mortar structures.

At the age of 49 an electro-chemical explosion took place in my brain. I "awoke", realising that I now possessed a worldview, and that I had acquired enough experience and insight to get on with my writing career.

For the past 9 years I have led a reclusive existence in an isolated part of the Southern Cape, and have produced three works: The Life of Henry Fuckit 1950-2015, The Water Tower and Pop-splat.