My name is Inka York. I write stories about orphaned angels, sentient vehicles, soft supernatural beings, glorious misfits and utter bastards.
I’ve been writing these stories for longer than 30% of the current UK population has been alive, waiting for the right generational blend of weirdness, queerness and outright pretty souls to come along. That would be you. Possibly. If I squint.
Despite all the many reasons that I’m not safe for public consumption, I’ve worked a bar with the finesse of an octopus, picked fruit that sometimes didn’t end up in my own mouth, co-edited a local independent news website that imploded, photographed local bands who fed my ears, co-ran a local arts & community collective that made pure magic for a while, and became the only person in my Department of Transport office that wasn’t allowed to work the front desk (if lorry drivers don’t want to be schooled about what an axle is …)
I’m writing my way through life in Chatham, England. One day, I plan to write stories from my deckchair in space. My spouse and two not-quite-kids-anymore tolerate me and sometimes bring food to my cave. I am not a tea connoisseur. I am a tea destroyer. Also, if you look at me funny, I’ll slay you with my mum face™.