William Francis writes from the south coast of England, somewhere near Worthing, where the light is good, the sea is never quite the same twice, and cafés provide just enough distraction to feel productive.

He is unashamedly assisted by an ever-faithful AI editor with an alarming memory, no sense of fatigue, and access to more books than any one person should reasonably be allowed. Together, they argue about words, continuity, and whether dragons should be subtle. When not writing, William can usually be found sitting with his wife Anne, looking out to sea, quietly enjoying the rare satisfaction of being exactly where they intended to be, and almost certainly thinking about the next story.