Karl Drinkwater
Karl Drinkwater is an author with a silly name and a thousand-mile stare. He writes dystopian space opera, dark suspense and diverse social fiction. If you want compelling stories and characters worth caring about, then you’re in the right place. Welcome!
Karl lives in Scotland and owns two kilts. He has degrees in librarianship, literature and classics, but also studied astronomy and philosophy. Dolly the cat helps him finish books by sleeping on his lap so he can’t leave the desk. When he isn’t writing he loves music, nature, games and vegan cake.
Go to karldrinkwater.uk to view all his books grouped by genre.
As well as crafting his own fictional worlds, Karl has supported other writers for years with his creative writing workshops, editorial services, articles on writing and publishing, and mentoring of new authors. He’s also judged writing competitions such as the international Bram Stoker Awards, which act as a snapshot of quality contemporary fiction.
DON’T MISS OUT!
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PRAISE FOR KARL’S WORK
“Drinkwater creates fantastically believable characters.” —On The Shelf Reviews
“Each book remains in my mind for a long time after. Anything he writes is a must-read.” —Pink Quill Books
“Karl Drinkwater has the skill of making it near impossible to stop reading. Expect late nights. Simply outstanding.” —Jera’s Jamboree
“An intelligent and empathetic writer who has a clear understanding of the world around him and the truly horrific experiences life can bring. A literary gem.” —Cooking The Books
“Drinkwater is a dab hand at creating an air of dread.” —Altered Instinct
“A gifted writer. Each book brings its own uniqueness to the table, and a table Drinkwater sets is one I will visit every time." —Scintilla
“Maybe we should go on a holiday. What do you think? Can we go on a holiday next summer? Go away together? Greece, like some of those musty philosophers you write about? You get to see all those crumbling things from the past. And I get sun, beaches, bikinis, cocktails.”“Greece is a bit far. What about Wales?”“Wales!”“I’ve never been abroad. I need to start slowly.”
“He felt that he perceived the shape within, just for a second. She had hope. It spread; he could almost witness electrons moving through the magnetic field between them, following lines of force, beautiful things everywhere, sharing, changing both of them in the process, the covalent bonding of life.”
“Natalie was one of the confident skaters weaving in and out of bodies, natural movement that succeeded because there wasn’t too much thought put into it. Relaxed. It reminded him of wild particles pulled and repelled into a rapidly curving orbit. Pattern within apparent chaos.”
“Maybe he could get used to this ‘being a superhero’ thing. The Ginger Avenger.”
“Scrawled in the album’s white space, in an angry deeply-pushed biro that indented even the next page, were some words paraphrased from Tennyson’s Locksley Hall: I’m mad.She bears but bitter fruit.She never loved me.Love is love forever more.Fucking traitorous bitch.The last three words were purely Alex’s addition.”
“She wandered almost at random, zigzagging streets, following a canal for a bit, stopping to admire the towering red brick buildings that channelled her along, manufacturing heritage trailing along the water. Some were more than eight stories tall, solid behemoths that would outlast whatever food outlet had set up shop on the ground. Looking up changed things, it revealed all the details on the old buildings: secret towers, spires, turrets. They were castles in the city. Rewards for those that saw beyond their shuffling footsteps. This was a city made for looking up, she thought.”
“Alex decided the stakes were high enough to justify one of his advanced psychological theories. He knew all women liked cats. People liked things that resembled themselves. Therefore applying some of the rules for interacting with cats to the reality of interacting with women could only help. Most rules were straightforward: • Admire their grace. • Don’t interrupt them when they’re grooming. • Back off if they hiss.”
“He wondered where his mind had wandered this time, what life it had lived as a trail of neurons sped through networks of possibilities particle-fast, too rapid to catch without a hadron collider, causing super quarks of weirdness and leaving him with only a vague after-image like a melting dream. He had to accept that he couldn’t catch all his thoughts, all the things going on in his body, the processes which slipped by in the background just leaving a shadow, an itch, the grain of sand that probably wouldn’t become a pearl, a blazing after-trace that lives a second then is gone forever. All those possibilities occurring in a second of frantic life: it never ceased to amaze him. The world was an incredible and beautifully constructed thing.However, there wasn’t really time for a wank.”
“These rare mini mind-blanks always seemed to occur when he needed perking up, creative jolts as if his brain had temporarily overclocked its processor to light-speed frequency, but with the side effect of shutting his consciousness down to protect it from overheating. That theory certainly fit the observable phenomena. Then again, the competing theories included: he was nuts; he had a brain tumour; aliens had temporarily abducted him.”
“Sad-looking brown eyes, they wrenched his heart like a gut punch. Worse – hell, worse – a bloke could punch him in the head but he’d stay up, and grin through the bloody split lip, intimidating his attacker; but there was no honour in wounds inside, wounds that only you could deal with.”