Meet our authors

writes about what he knows best and loves most: those bygone days of childhood and adolescence, when he’d possessed such luxuries as “lost in the moment” and people were all so much taller it never surprised him when they said or did unpredictable outrageous things in defiance of boring “meh” convention. Everything is different today.

Reese Jeremiah - or R.J. - Wexler was born in the late 1960s and writes about what he knows best and loves most: those bygone days of childhood and adolescence, when “lost in the moment” didn’t need drugs or booze and everyone was a lot taller and busy and unpredictable.  Everything is different today and Wexler writes of himself “serving a life sentence” in the alienating post-metamorphosis society. It is the “…aftermath of a fight between post-war self-determinism, suspicion of materialism and snake-oil commercialisation, favouring trust in oneself and one’s friends.

Wexler despises the refusenik refrain of anti-consumerism, anti-corporate materialism as the mantra of irrelevant dinosaurs though it is with these anachronistic curmudgeons he most identifies. Generation X only half-formed when he was a child, Millennials on the horizon and struggle of culture vs consumer resolved by the time he had the yawning decades of adulthood dead ahead, life in this hinterland is the source of much of his writing and, in a perverse way, might be seen as his muse.

“… The sixties and seventies had colour and cadence, music and vitality, a culture most social; love and hate all up in your face. People and relationships counted for something and it wasn’t necessary to invent our fears in a vacuum by tabloid crusades vilifying Muslims (yet again) and mapping paedos in every lock-fortified street. You see, World War Three just the words terrified like no one in a million terrorist YouTube celebrity executioner nobody cared what Hendrix or Situationists had for lunch. Freedom was every moment and it was precious enough to fight for and against, burning bras and blacks and draft cards. Ideas and ideals were three building blocks of lives in February life if only you’d try to understand Easy Rider. Eunuchs were spreading and kings were preaching and the Man had to work to keep pace. They sent a man to the moon in a washing machine and of course it was propaganda but nobody didn’t believe because it was only one small step after hours of waiting bored and mankind sure needed a great leap to keep pace….

R. J. Wexler “Automatons For The People, June 2007, London Review

“Consumerism, convenience, materialism, acquisition - freedom expressed in gods and services, a creed whose first gift - free in every cereal box was an absolution from the tyranny ideals and ideas. Culture is old near, the weird had long since been redefined anyway. Post-Rubicon society is self-sustainng and self perpetuating as if inherited - nature plus nurture, no longer needing old flag bearers and senile actors because we are all separated, conditioned and satisfied after a generation of subtle subliminal fine tuning has created a structure robust enough to meet any challenge and - as it had been from the start - democratic to the very core, promising and delivering three greatest happiness for the greatest number in accord with J.S. MIll’s seminal and practical version of utopia. He’d be turning in his grave had he not begin wisely cremated.”

R. J. Wexler “Back To The Future Rubicon”, January 2010

Matthew Abonyi began creative writing in his teens with a penchant for shared hallucinations. What began as a strange relationship with a dolls house, skipping school, dropping microdots, smoking cheap non-filters and whittling away long humid afternoons by the Chesapeake changed overnight into an even more unusual existence in the Candyland, books replacing LSD, Dunhill International instead of Winstons and the dry heat of the Sunset Strip studying Shakespeare over spicy yellowtail and wild oats.

So much to do, so little time. The surreal became sublime a year later as Los Angeles made way for London and Latin and the start of clotted cream wonder years punctuated by explorations of China, Brazil, Argentina, Japan, the Amazon and the Alaskan Arctic, study the common theme for these were the days before university and the high school drop it wad offered a place at University College. Obligations insisted and where better than London back then - in the last years of its freedom, before the English chose life in plastic and the one eyed mule let the wall-eyed rule; before the golden starred continent held out its arms instead…

Paris beckoned first and wove the inevitable spell. It was around this time Mathew began his first serious literary works competing some sort stories and a sprawling novel later to be revamped as a trilogy to do justice to its of its sheer size and scope. It was around this time Mathew made firm the self-avowed goal not to allow the post-college years to follow the usual safe careerist path but rather, using the years prior as a challenge, to expose himself to as much diversity of life as possible: to live this out in a real rather than voyeuristic sense. There followed travel and living native in France, Germany, another stint in Los Angeles and frolic in New York and the North Yorkshire Moore. It was good to be young and free. What cared he for some house or some land, what cared he for some money, oh…

It was during a third foray into Germany, Mathew decided to stay on permanently in Berlin - the nation’s zeitgeist city - busy with art and culture and fast with post-unification potential. Bling bling cheap chic, ars gratis ars, and coiture given edge by living cheek-and-jowel with junkies going cold turkey on subway platform and booze plus booze buddies night and day. Was it karma or kismet the novelty wore thin, the years kept coming and going; and the next life to live happened to come with a needle? Ars gratis ars. Or was Rocky IV the more profound: No gain without pain. The years of squalor and insane bipolar friendships in shooting galleries across Europe can only be imagined as cliché. The reality left scars but it transformed this young writer into a mature author.

The whole is greater then the sum of its parts and Mathew Abonyi today is a unique voice, unapologetic about a past that informs everything he writes yet defies glib description. Since the Berlin underworld gave way to Mediterranean azure, Mathew’s output has been quality over quantity but at just thirty one years of agree he is working on two very different literary projects. We are fortunate to be providing a platform for the general reader’s first contact with both right here on

Realising a split personality from an early age - one half Math-CompSci introvert Scotch-Ashkanazy with incessantly deconstructing O.C.D. - the other Literary-Fabian “Beat” child, bleeding heart painted brutal; it was likely to be an easy, predictable ensemble once the voodoo stones of adolescence had shaken out the self-fulfilling adult prophecy.

And so it turned out.

Wanderlust, inherited from hobo parents well-used to shoestring relocation, has cobbled together a mongrel biography with years lived in the capital quintet: London, Paris, Cambridge, Berlin, New York; the sublime and ridiculous contrasts of Derbyshire dales and marmalade Repton, cracker skyscraping Chicago between cocaine and Oprah, glorious green birdsong summers and snow sledging winters past cottager Raskolnikovs on Hampstead Heath, beautificial yellowtail Jamba Juice Santa Monica in the city of angels, moorish gothic and sunny fishing village chic Cascais, Magnolia cheesecake and bat and books West Village, blossoming garden squares haut-medoc revelation and lobster club Kensington, Côte d’Azur St Tropez circus tent trope Cannes, World Cup anarchy and the single cask needle vorderhaus Prenzlauer-Berg, gardens dug up for Zimbabwe chimolia in Lusaka and the cast is complete.