Andrew McGregor

Well, what to say... As a boy, I used to write reports of the local football matches in my home town in northern Scotland, my favourite stories to write at the time being adventure and war and how the human condition adapts to the pressures of fate and unpredictability. Fascinated by history, I used to consume books at a frantic rate, reading personal accounts and historical works across all ages and becoming frustrated upon perusing articles that would compromise fact for common belief or to embellish a tale. This reading and writing continued through my teens and into my twenties when I attempted to publish one work on the Russian Front. This was rejected due to the format of the offering, and I seemed to lose momentum at that point with a business and career pushing what I believed to be a childhood dream into the background. My parents had always encouraged me to follow my interest, and this continued with my father occasionally enquiring if I had written anything, something I regret I had not done at the time. Although the pressures of buying property, running a business and having a career allowed me to develop plots and devise potential ideas for books, tales, twists of fate, etc. this was usually accomplished whilst sitting at traffic lights, awaking from a dream, waiting in a bar or the bane of my life, rush hour traffic. I did not realise at the time I was continually formulating stories in my mind, it was just an entertaining pastime to prevent boredom with the initial extracts of imagination then added to over time and usually when passing the same place. On long journeys, I would mentally start out with a plot and character, allowing that to grow and flourish in my mind...quite a useful diversion on say an eight hour car journey...by the time I reached the destination, a whole set of characters and actions had been formulated, sometimes even with terrain and weather. I would then write these whims down, unaware my sub-conscious seemed to be storing the colourful adventure, the key being the location I was at or even emotional state. A couple of years ago, my father unfortunately passed away and it was on the train to assist in the arrangements for the funeral that I considered what my father had encouraged me to do, the things he had been proud of that I had perhaps let slip. The laptop was opened and a realisation that I had suppressed an ambition for far too long drifted across my thoughts. All the plots and stories began to pour back as I sat staring out into the French countryside, the silly twists that life throws at us, comical endings to situations and the 'itch I could never scratch', understanding fate's choices and the luck in life. The characteristics of people I knew began to edge into these storylines and I was keen to remember those that I had lost touch with or that had perhaps passed away. I determined at that point, on a train somewhere south of Paris, that I would finally achieve what I had always dreamed of and write. At the end of the journey with the train pulling into Bezier...I had completed the first chapter of the first book, Bloody Iced Bullet. To be honest I never contemplated anyone would want to read what I had written, but believed simply to accomplish the stories I had devised and dreamt about. My hope is that the style is appealing or the stories as well explained as they are colourfully pictured in my mind, the vibrancy, temperature, smells and senses and the determination to portray realism or believability will always motivate me. These thoughts and considerations can then hopefully remain the uniquely imagined possession of the person generous enough to read the offerings, and perhaps that is only right. Every time I press 'publish', the rush of a variety of emotions are practically intoxicating, the fear and apprehension will drive me to read what I have created again (even though it is now 'out there') and then sit back and ask myself, 'could that be any better’ or ‘did I do the characters justice?’' There in perhaps lies the enjoyment, a vulnerability mixed with a sense of achievement. Further motivation for me lies with the imagination...what will the reader see, how will they imagine it? Has it been explained in enough detail or have I provided too much, thus robbing the reader of their own unconscious creativity? I now write every day, thoroughly enjoying it. The contemplation, considering the characters and environment, how they develop, what they see and do...what could happen next, etc is extremely addictive, my ultimate wish being that the reader experiences this also. Now living in lower France, I had a wide variety of jobs through the police, ambulance service, working for a billionaire and at a major airport, believing my lifelong fascination with fate and human nature is now only just beginning. Thank you for the motivation and encouragement to continue, its a fabulous gift. Contributors: I would also like to thank the German Bundesarchiv for kindly permitting use of their historical photographs and 123RF for other pictures utilised for book covers.