ABOUT BECK STEVENS

Stories aren’t just written; they are forged

When I look back to where my love of stories truly began, it is rooted in some of my earliest memories. At a very young age, I didn’t just scribble blindly with crayons; I drew detailed compositions, houses with window boxes and stone paths, blue skies that dropped down to kiss the horizon, and people who invariably had sausage fingers. It has always been about the details. In that respect, I’m no different now than that three-year-old sitting at a low table painting a masterpiece.

Being creative through art, writing, and music is like a river always searching for the sea. The journey I have taken directly influences how I paint, how I draw, and how I put pen to paper to express my imagination.

My time after leaving school was spent as an animal portrait artist, a role that developed a razor-sharp eye for the fine, organic textures of reality. From there, I transitioned into spending ten years as an RAF Police dog handler. It was an occupation that demanded intense discipline and a rigid adherence to the rules, attributes I’ve since discovered are the deeply ingrained hallmarks stamped onto the side of every author in the pursuit of being published.

After walking the wire in that militaristic world of order, I slipped back into the comforting, freeing space of pure creativity. My first stop was developing a commercial photography studio that soon embraced the massive shift into the digital realm. Before long, I began expressing myself by designing stunning websites, creating engaging portals for businesses and their customers. A couple of years as a web designer gave way to the online 3D space, where I moved into creating highly detailed 3D models for many of the industry’s top applications.

Along every step of the way, I have spent time writing, shaping complex worlds, and delving deep into intricate plotlines. For me, writing is as much therapy as it is pure creative output. There is a profound peace in sitting at a keyboard, tapping away, and watching the deepest aspects of the mind’s eye materialize as text on a screen.

Roots in the Soil of History

Writing is very much a form of alchemy; the words that end up on the page have been tempered by the emotions, heritage, and experiences that inform the inspiration. My story is no different, deeply rooted as it is in the heavy soil of the places I have lived, traveled, and breathed.

Born in North Lincolnshire with three-quarters Yorkshire blood, I always sense my northern heritage flowing through my veins. My wife, Diane, and I were married in Halifax, right in the heart of the Calder valley, and we spent our first year of marriage amongst the blackened Yorkshire stone houses and the lush green slopes that cradled the small town of Mytholmroyd.

When our journey pulled us south, we spent seven years in Kingsnorth, Kent, before heading into a twelve-year chapter living and working on the rugged, unforgiving coast of Cornwall. Like all good endings to a gripping tale, the journey concludes back on the southern coast of Kent, settling near Folkestone to be close to our family and grandchildren.

Positioned right on the Kent coast, looking out toward the grey line of northern France, I find myself standing at a crossroads, gazing out over the very horizon where my stories, both past and present, find their beginnings.