Tim Dadswell was born in Bournemouth, Dorset, growing up in nearby Christchurch. He gained a BA in English Literature from Aberystwyth University in 1984. For thirty years, he worked in a variety of civil service posts in London before moving to Norfolk.
After he retired, encouraged by friends with whom he had corresponded, he took some writing courses and picked up his pen. He was a runner-up in a Writers’ Forum flash fiction competition in 2015 and won he second prize in a Brilliant Flash Fiction contest in 2016. He has had other stories published in and by Ink, Sweat and Tears, The Literary Hatchet, and Cocktails with Miss Austen. He is working towards his debut short fiction collection.
Q: If you could travel in the past, which one of the great writers would you like to meet and why?
A: Herman Melville. Not only did he write Moby Dick, but Billy Budd, Sailor and Bartleby the Scrivener, both of which I read when I was a teenager and have stayed with me ever since. As he was unrecognised and forgotten in later years, I would surprise him with modern editions of his books and the Gregory Peck film adaptation of his greatest.
Q: Do you have a lucky writing talisman? If so, what is it?
A: My Kate Bush CDs. Her early albums, written when she was a teenager, are amazing and inspiring. Listening to her later albums while editing helped me get my first story published, so why change my routine now?
Q: What superpower would you like to have and why?
A: I believe the ability to write is a superpower. All superpowers need to be practiced. If you do that enough, you will blaze across the sky like a rocket (though remember to keep pets indoors).
Hi Leo, Damian insisted on having his Blanche DuBois moment, on a streetcar named ‘crowded’, which brought on one of his nosebleeds. I’m typing this in a café, while he stems the flow with an ice pack provided by an attentive barista. On our travels, I’ve gathered lots of ideas for the next Pride festival. …
In the country town where she had lived all her life, Connie’s only route to her sister’s flat was along Wash House Terrace, past the home of her former school-friend, Elsie Diggle. Once, during a heatwave, she had removed her shoes, to creep past unnoticed, but that was impossible on this damp November day. Coming …