Surf, sun, sand — a stark contrast to the moody world of Michael Forman’s stories and mind, whose flesh-and-bone side is reported to be residing in this popular beachside suburb. The question needs to be asked: If he’s in Mandurah, where is he?
Mysteries are part of Forman’s writing repertoire. It’s not unusual for one of his creepy protagonists to move around and work close to the community in which they live. If he took inspiration from them, he’d choose to hide in plain sight. Have you seen Michael Forman?
Oh, for goodness sakes, I’m in Mandurah! So what? It’s no big secret — and I don’t care for shock-news headlines (especially those I write, for the purpose of search engines) either. I’m here — just trying to make a living from home, in Mandurah. Who cares where I live? Everyone lives somewhere. I just happen to live in sunny Mandurah. The sand and surf have nothing to do with hiding or hiding in plain sight. I write stories. That’s it. I manufacture make-believe and create scenarios for characters to experience so readers can enjoy them. The world outside my window plays no part in its creation or concealment. I’m accessible. I’m right on this damn page!
But if it makes readers happy to believe in some appropriate author cliches: I can assure them that I write in a poorly lit corner of my beach shack. The desk on which I write is dark. Black shelves surround it. I can’t see any sand, surf or waves from where I write and, if I turn the lights down real low, I can easily imagine myself strapped to a chair in a small room of a mental asylum with stainless steel surgical instruments surrounding me.
I digress.
Some authors live in luxury while creating corroded, dystopian worlds. Others live in squalor while writing stories of wealth and royalty. It’s just make-believe anyway — social challenges like that occur all the time and it’s totally okay. Those differences are what make good writers better ones. A bit of research and a good creative fire will always get a story over the line. Everyone knows that. Well, I assume they do.
So yes, I live in a picture-postcard region of the world but my soul is forever chained to the darkness. I can’t help it. I write from the shadows, which is why I choose to live in a place where there is plenty of sunshine. It rescues me from a gloomy pit. Light is a lifeline out of that psychological sewer and back to the clean order of sanity. Mandurah resets my lifeforce and grounds me when my dark writing journeys come to a close.
I’m not in hiding anywhere. I’m living here. My somewhere is a small holiday town situated between Perth and Bunbury, Western Australia. It’s nowhere special but, to me, it serves a purpose — and I can be easily found. The local karaoke scene knows me well. Just ask. I’m around.
Five women’s bodies are discovered after the nights of thunderstorms. Their spouses are suspected of the crimes, but it becomes clear that someone else is responsible. There’s no blood and few clues. A storm photographer who specialises in taking pictures of lightning may be the only witness.
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