As a young boy back in the early-seventies, my siblings and I were unceremoniously uprooted and transferred (along with our parents) halfway around the world to a tiny speck of an island in Southeast Asia, Singapore.  A move that, (at least to us), signified the end of the world for the Saltamachia children. We’d never heard of Singapore and had no desire whatsoever to live in Singapore.

       A quick search of the dusty Worldbook Encyclopedia on the living room shelf gave us the quick and dirty on the country but in no way fueled a desire to move away from everything that we held dear. Barely 12 years old, I was, as you can imagine, more than a little worried at the prospect of being dragged away from everyone that I had grown up with. We were leaving behind an older sister, (married) and older brother, (in college,) only to be plunked down in the middle of a country that to my young mind was still living in the dark ages.
How mistaken we were.
       My father, who worked for an American Oil Exploration company, shunned the usual luxuries and perks that other transferred ex-pats quite often desired. His thoughts were that if we are in their country, we should live like a local and not one of the privileged visitors, high up on the hill, in their large and well-appointed houses.

We lived in a modest semi-detached (duplex) home, the only non- Asian family in our quiet little neighborhood. A neighborhood I should point out that sat directly adjacent to an urban slum-village known traditionally as a Kampong.

       Life in the Kampong was a mixture of contrarian scenes. Every day we witnessed the extreme poverty and struggle its inhabitants, both young and old, endured to survive. But then again, we also witnessed children playing and laughing, like children anywhere in the world, and were privileged to be on hand to witness the elaborate processions when one of the village elders passed away. The ornate and lavish street funeral and public displays and celebrations were something that will stick with me forever.  

       My younger brother and I spent many hours in the hot tropical sun touring around on our bicycles, exploring the back lanes and tropical trails. But for all the poverty and dirty mud-rutted lanes winding so invitingly amongst the ramshackle dwellings, never once did we ever feel threatened or in danger. The freedom that we had to roam on the island back in the seventies is something that, unfortunately, I fear would not be possible in the world we live in today. As I look back now, our time in the tiny island nation was the beginning of a love affair with travel and the experience of discovering new cultures.
       Our time in Singapore lasted but one brief year before we were once again uprooted and flown around the world, only to be deposited in the little village of Laleham, just outside of London.
       You might have thought that we’d be celebrating, “HOORAY CIVILIZATION!”  And yes, England was a step up (at least in the eyes of a 13-year-old) from Singapore, but still, England in the mid-seventies is not the England of today. I mean, they didn’t even have a McDonalds yet, did they? (Yes, I know it's not the pinnacle of culture but to a thirteen-year-old boy, somewhat of a necessity.)
       Missing everyone back home in the states and wanting nothing whatsoever to do with the town and the locals, (that has since changed, I eventually fell in love with the country and its people, even going so far as to marry one (a local, not the entire country.) I found solace in the books of Steven King and James Herbert. An avid reader, it wasn’t long before I was crafting stories of my own. It wouldn’t be till much later in life that my words and ideas would find their way to page. 
       Back in the US for a very short stint in college, (I just could never sit still long enough & always felt the desire to travel.) I found myself back in England where I joined the workforce and eventually met Julie, the girl who would become my best friend, my partner and my wife of almost 40 years.
Julie and I eventually transferred back to the United States in the late ’80s where we raised our two children (twins, one of each.) And like the rest of the adult population, continued to work at a job, because it paid the bills.

        As I stated earlier it wasn’t till much later in life that I began to take writing seriously. But, when I did, it was immediately obvious, at least to me, that this writing gig was going to be challenging. You see, I recently discovered something that I certainly didn’t know back when I was young. And while I have not been officially diagnosed, it makes a lot of sense, providing answers to a multitude of questions.  
       I have attention deficit disorder. Could I have been tested at a younger age? Who knows? But it helps to explain a lot of my early school career, well, my entire school career actually. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to learn, it’s just that my brain took a different approach to classroom situations and learning. I wasn’t disruptive or anything, I just couldn’t focus, at least not for long on the tasks at hand.
       It did, in the beginning, however, make it very interesting to write. I’d have so many ideas and storylines in my head, all wanting to bust out at the same time. Before I knew it, I was writing 4 novels, all at one time, in addition to a series of children’s stories.
       When I sat down to write, whichever idea pushed the hardest to get out was the one I focused on that day. That is until the next nudged its way to the top and then I’d switch mid-stream to that project. It wasn’t odd for me to have two stories open on my laptop at once and flip back and forth. Not the most efficient way of writing, I know. But it seemed to work and I have actually managed to complete many projects. I just do them all simultaneously. 

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I hope you enjoy my stories. Drop me a line and let me know what you think, I’d love to hear from you.

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Full disclosure:

As you read my work, you may notice a few grammatical errors. Trust me, I’m no English major. Hell, I’ll probably split a Modifier, dangle an Infinitive, and possibly(if you hang around long enough) mangle a tense or two, but I’m sure you will get the gist.

It’s not always about being perfect; sometimes you just have to be you.

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Kerry