Chancery Stone
Chancery Stone likes wading about in darkness. She always has.
Equally well, she loves the magical powers of redemption, particularly self-redemption. She has a particular fondness for heroes (of either sex) who don’t let anyone fuck with them. This does not involve kick-boxing, vampirism, government agencies or a sociopathic knowledge of firearms. Instead this involves going their own way, in their own time, to their own tune and realising that if God is watching it’s only to see if you’re one of the smart ones.
Chancery Stone was born half a lifetime ago in a quaint Scottish fishing hamlet known as East Kilbride, where she would run wild and untrammelled about the hills, picking heather and singing in the Gaelic. In her spare time, between making moss dyes and raising nursling quails, she ran a child sex club. She was a child herself at this time, of course, and therefore has managed to evade the long arm of the law.
At least thus far.
The Dirty Club had a simple remit: sex, sex and more sex. Limited as it was by her age and ignorance, this chiefly involved urolagnia, exhibitionism, voyeurism, humiliation, bondage, homosexuality, frottage, fingering, nudism, paedophilia, ritualistic power games, domination, bullying, more humiliation and more urolagnia. In fact, altogether too much urolagnia.
She was outed several times – by children to other children, and by adults who really didn’t like that sort of thing. Driven underground at the age of twelve she became a sad academic recluse and took up reading savage and horrific literature and absolutely anything with sex in it.
Then there was wider reading. And yet more reading. And sick three-novels-a-day-habit style reading. And a lot of theatre. And then back to sex again – sex and more sex – extended by now to contain the more missionary and conventional forms thereof.
Eventually she got sick of reading (but, somehow, never of sex) and decided to write instead, and then all of this life-strangely-lived started to spiral out of her, backwards, onto paper.
We expect that once the DANNY Quadrilogy™ is finally done she will turn out some very interesting books in the vein of “Moss Dyeing for Beginners“ and “Quail Baby, Fly Away Home.”
And after that there will be death.
“If I have to look at one more pansy in mascara attempting to be ‘threatening’ while wearing more flounces, zips and hair lacquer than a female impersonator, I will do serious damage to anyone who writes another paranormal romance.”
“There is a deeper, more profound reason for this craving for acceptance and glory. Put simply, it's because all writers are fat and/or ugly. And generally socially inept. Me being the notable exception, of course. Writers want to be special, because they're so not. They're losers, overgrown kids who've never escaped from being misfits and who have run away into their own imaginations in an attempt to find self-esteem. Why do you think they all star in their own books? Self included.”