Billy O'Callaghan whiles away his existence in Cork, Ireland's southernmost county. He is thirty-four years old, and the insolubility of time is something that interests him greatly, the mind-boggling way that he can feel like an old man one moment and then like a child the next. He laughs a lot, usually at things that nobody else understands, and he figures out life by writing about it.

Two years ago, while digging for gold at the end of a rainbow that had just happened to land in his parents' back garden, he discovered the meaning of life. It was there all along, apparently, down there amongst the worms. He refuses to part with the information, preferring to ration it out little by little, always in a riddle. He has gone on record though to state that it smells like cocoa.

Distinctly obsessive-compulsive, he is meticulous where order is concerned. Everything in his life - EVERYTHING! - has to be catalogued with deft precision; books and album collections in particular can only be laid out chronologically by author or artist. Alphabetical order is a myth, in his estimation, just like the "moon landings".

Billy is an avid collector of stories as to the origins of popular phrases, the scientific names of flowers and photographs of strangers. He refers to this as research, violently eschewing any suggestion of them as mere hobbies. He says that you would be surprised by the things you receive if you just ask for them. Astonished, actually.


Follow Billy's blog as he charts his life as a writer and the joys and hardships that ensue.
writing-for-my-life.blogspot.com/