'I was never going to write an actual book!' That's been my response every single time somebody has asked me about Harry's Game, and as much as some refuse to believe me, it's as true now as it ever was. 

I enjoy history, probably more than most subjects, and for as long as I can remember, I'd always been fascinated with the events of the Second World War. Add to this a career surrounded by military history, during which I had the honour and good fortune to meet a number of veterans of the war, including pilots from both sides who'd flown in the Battle of Britain, it's hardly surprising that when I discovered a passion for writing, it was this era I chose. There was only one problem: everything worthy of reading had already been written! Furthermore, many of the 'official' histories of the period are often quite formal, statistics and narrative driven, and not always a joy to read (boring, in other words), and the contemporary accounts written by those who took part are more exhilarating, more fantastic, and almost more unbelievable than any fiction story ever could be. This didn't give me anywhere to go. I had nothing official to contribute from a formal historical perspective, and there was no way I could invent anything more thrilling than the reality lived by many who were there. Graphic novel or not, it was going to be hard work coming up with something that justified me spending countless hours learning to draw Spitfires and Hurricanes!

Then, it happened! Out of nowhere, a young female aviator popped into my head, and the rest, as they say, is history. By introducing a slight twist, one that with a little imagination could well have happened, I'd found a way of telling the story of the Battle of Britain in a way that hadn't been done before, while remaining true to  the historical facts, and recognising the many great acts of bravery and sacrifice told in the stories of those who were there. None of that really mattered, though. All I needed was a starting point for the graphic novel I was going to produce when I'd finally learned to draw. Nobody would actually be reading the backstory!

I wrote, and I wrote, and I wrote, and soon the drawing had taken a back seat while I got lost in the story that was spilling out of my mind and onto the page. I wrote so much that the opening scenes of the idea I'd had in my mind when I started became an entire book of over 120,000 words, and I didn't even get to start the story I thought I was going to write. A talented, determined, and immensely likeable young woman by the name of Harriet Cornwall had come to life, and almost entirely taken over mine!

I tell people repeatedly that I was never going to write a book, not a 'proper' one, at least, and even if I did, nobody was ever going to read it. That much was for certain. After all, despite Harriet's persistence, it was just a back story while I learned to draw. Nothing more. However... I soon found that it's impossible to spend every waking hour writing, or thinking about writing, or researching the intricacies of the carburettor fitted to the early Rolls Royce Merlin engine used by Hawker Hurricanes in 1940 without people noticing, and before long I was put on the spot. Despite my initial reluctance (which ran very, very deep), I was convinced to let somebody read it. So, with a deep breath, a significant cringe, and a great deal of nausea, I handed the manuscript to a close friend who I trusted to be honest with me. What they say is true, it's the not knowing that gets you. The wait was painful, but ultimately, I was told that it was good, and more than that, I should publish and let others read it, too!

To cut a very long story short, the first chapter of the story I wanted to tell became a book of its own, and after it was published and read, and people wanted to know what happened next, the story I wanted to write became the second book. The second book was written in much the same way as the first, with me mostly being the conduit for a story that felt like it was channelling from somewhere else, and when it was done, the third book of the trilogy was already half written. It was unrelenting, and I got lost in it. Despite the hell I put poor Harriet through in the stories, it was a world I escaped to and loved being part of. It was pure escapism, and I couldn't get enough of it. I read mountains of personal accounts and historical facts, including how carburettors really worked on early Merlins, and visited such diverse places as the Battle of Britain bunker deep under Uxbridge in North London, and the tunnels dug into the stone below Malta, where the siege defences were planned and led through the war. To say that Harriet and her story were a passion would be an understatement.

I'd made the decision to end Harriet's story with the third book. It was the perfect place to stop, and I'd spent so much time with Harriet that I thought it was about time I gave her some peace (and stopped putting her through hell!) The reviews were positive, the sales were good, and I was happy with what I'd achieved. Three novels from a back story was pretty good going. There was a problem, though. After all the writing, and reading, and research, I was kind of missing Harriet. Something made all the worse by a nagging thought that the story wasn't yet finished, which inevitably led to sleepless nights as I considered if, or how I could write more. 

Five years after I started, and one million words later, the ninth and final novel in the Harry's Game series was finally published in August 2022, and Harriet's story was told. Thousands of books have been sold worldwide (yes, that surprised me, too!), and I'd been through job changes, a global pandemic, and some significant challenges in my personal and professional life, and I'd be lying if I said Harriet hadn't got me through it all. 

While I'm immensely proud of what I achieved with Harry's Game, and I've loved every moment of the process on a deeply personal level, there have been some unintended, yet quite positive consequences along the way. I've learned much more about our shared history, I've heard the stories of so many people who gave and sacrificed so much for the world, and I've learned more about myself than I ever would have in a lifetime of therapy. I've also travelled, met new and interesting people, and made new friends. Above all, though, I've been told that I've found a way of bringing history to a new audience. People have read my books and been introduced to a world still within reach of our recent history, and gone on to read the very real stories behind Harriet's more creative exploits. That, more than anything, makes me proud. 

The end? Well... Maybe.

One of the things that I've come to know and love about Harriet Cornwall, is that she's most definitely in charge. That said, a few ideas have popped into my head in the time since the final book was published, almost like she's of the opinion that her story hasn't yet finished. You never know what's going to happen, I suppose. I was never going to write a book...

Oh, and I learned to draw. Kind of. It's not comic book or graphic novel style, and I think Monsieur Hugault is safe from my competition, but I managed to learn enough to draw my own book covers, and to create pieces people hang on their walls, and that's a pretty awesome thing for somebody who struggled to raw a stick person five years ago!

The writing, the drawing, the things that make me happy, none of it would have been possible without the people who believed in me, encouraged me, and supported me, and I'm eternally grateful to you all. From the moment I was challenged to learn to draw, people have helped me get to where I am now. Some consciously, some unconsciously, some real, and some mischievous influences, all are wonderful.