Writing is akin to painting in the reader's mind, creating the emotional colours of something felt, seen or imagined. I particularly relish the short story form, the freedom to sketch a miniature world where a single detail can focus a character's entire perspective. If successful, colours and shapes will linger, washing into the reader's own memories, developing unexpected hues. And, of course, not a brushstroke should be wasted.
Although all my stories are fiction, personal colours provide the first inspiration: the silt-brown of a dilapidated klong-side house swallowed by Bangkok floodwater; the sun-faded saffron of a farang monk walking down our home soi; the deceptively serene turquoise of the Andaman Sea, seen whilst panting along a Thai beach in a tsunami alert. And way back in another place and time, the verdant green of a Manx glen carpeted with bluebells, and the cackle of mooinjer veggey behind the foamy waterfall.