Jeff Pearce is having an eclectic career in fiction and journalism. He's been a farm reporter without ever seeing a farm, written an article on trucking brakes when he didn't drive, and tapped out ghost editorials for a South Asian newspaper when he's not from India. Somewhere back in England is his lost trophy for his erotic writing, which is supposed to be a golden phallus with wings (really). He's okay with his life being surreal.
Though he's a proud Canadian, he reserves a great deal of contempt for his country's self-serving literary establishment that mostly ignores genre writers; then he thanks the stars for the big, wide-open U.S. and U.K. markets of many colors and regular royalty statements. When the revolution comes, he'll also lead a purge of Canada's television.
After six years--and several erotic thrillers--in London, he wound up teaching journalism for three months in Myanmar (Burma), where he left part of his heart behind. He now lives back in Toronto and loves jazz, Justice League cartoons, coffee, his friends, Gore Vidal, the Forbidden Planet store in London, and his daughter, though not in that order.