I quite like the author bio pages scattered about the internet. There seems to be a bit of a temptation towards doing them as if someone else wrote them. You know the sort of thing, "Wheeliebin McFrankfurter was born in a deepie camp south of the Sacramento plague pits. He became a writer when his pet piranha, Jason, developed terminal fin rot..." blah blah blah.

Well there's no one else writing my life, and when I'm asked any questions about, well, anything really, my first instinct is to lie.   The truth of a writer needs to be self evident in their fiction. Writers themselves don't really matter. Ask anyone in Hollywood who isn't a writer.

So who is Gareth Owens the author? 
He's a six foot engine of churning apathy, qualified in ancient magics, speaker of languages more dead than usual, swordsman (retired after blade related surgery), Singer in cars, and here above is a picture of where I live. I used to live under a yew tree. As you've probably guessed this is place holder text until I think of something more appropriate, and I've never owned a piranha called Jason