Heinlein’s Finches – Robin Banks

I also write fiction. It’s just barely sci-fi.

 

Here’s the Dreaded Biog:

Robin Banks finds writing in the third person intensely creepifying, so I won’t.

I was born a while ago, and these days I don’t regret it too often. A fan of peregrinations with a terrible tendency to get myself marooned, I currently dwell with an excessive number of dogs right at the end of the big cabbage field. That’s the big field with the cabbages, not the field with the big cabbages. Don’t be silly.

I enjoy road trips, dogs, guitars, and getting into scrapes. My favorite writers are Tom Robbins, Spider Robinson, and Matthew Stover, Rory Miller for non-fiction. I refuse to be landlocked, because you need to have some standards. I like Irish coffee with condensed milk in lieu of cream. You can’t help some people.

There is a rumor going around that I might in fact be a collection of raccoons hiding inside a hoodie, but that’s not been confirmed to date, possibly because I bite.

I don’t hang out here much, but if you need to get in touch, you can message me via my Facebook page.

 

This is how it all started:

I went for a camping holiday with my dogs. I took some 1970s feminist sci-fi with me (Suzette Haden Elgin – I highly recommend her). Then I found some Conan Dark Horse comics in a second-hand shop, and started reading those, too. The two things somehow meshed in my head; they have a rather different take on gender issues, so they provided an interesting contrast. I was walking around with the dogs most of the time, which always helps me think. I started to wonder about how things are, and how things could be, and what that could do to different people. I thought about people I don’t know but I’d like to meet, and the more I thought about them the more I liked them and wanted to meet them. So I had to write a damn book to know what happened to them.

This is what came out:

WARNING: Violence, Strong Language, Sexual Content. And pig rustling.

 

My second book came up because I always wanted to write a book about life on the circus. (Did I mention that I ran away with the circus? No? Sorry. People make a big fuss about that, and I’m not sure why. It was a fun time.)

I’m not really into writing out my diary and an astrophysicist friend of mine told me very sternly that “space cows are not optimal,” so I wrote this instead:

WARNING: Strong Language, Violence, Sexual Violence.