About Derek

Derek Farrell has, since childhood, told stories.

Of course, back then they were called lies, and usually got him in to trouble, but nowadays his stories, humorous poetry and song lyrics are entertaining people from Kansas to Crawley.

Derek grew up in a small terrace close to the Guinness brewery in Dublin’s Liberties neighbourhood, where the smell of roasting hops alternated with the yeasty fermentation of the mash, and the cry of the seagulls was interrupted occasionally by the snorting of an escaped cow on the rampage from the abattoir at the bottom of the street.

To date, Derek has completed three novels. His latest novel is a contemporary Cosy-Noir mystery story called Death of a Diva. The book features his wonderfully human detective Danny Bird, and it’s been described as “Like The Thin Man meets Will & Grace via Ab Fab. In Bermondsey.”

Derek’s literary heroes include Agatha Christie, P.G. Wodehouse, Lawrence Block, Joe Keenan, Steven Saylor, Scott Fitzgerald, Jonathan Harvey, Doctor Seuss and anyone who actually drags their arse to the desk and writes, Goddammit!

His jobs have included: Burger dresser, Bank teller, David Bowie's paperboy, and eventually Investment Banker on the 80th floor of the World Trade Centre. Time in high finance, has given him an opportunity to observe people, to understand the persuasive power of language and to develop an insight into the workings of the criminal mind, whilst allowing him to live and work in Hong Kong, Istanbul, Tel Aviv, Prague and London.
And all the time, he’s been telling stories.

You should get to know him.

Twitter: @derekifarrell

Here are my most recent posts

On Murder

I’ve come, over the past week or so, to realise that the best murder mysteries are, ultimately, about serial killers. Not, necessarily, the Gory Hannibal Lecter type of serial killers; even the classic Agatha Christies, for example, seem to work even better when the...

A Slow Death Reviewed

I have an admission to make: I love melancholy: that sense of ennui at the human condition, a despair at the inevitable entropy and ending of everything, and – bubbling just under it – the anger at man’s impotence in the face of a world that just won’t be set right....

My New York

The first time I went to New York was in 1993. The Twin Towers still stood, monolithic orientation points that allowed the visitor to tell uptown from downtown. The city – pre the Giuliani and Bloomberg sandblasting of its gritty façade – was the ultimate grown-up,...

How I Write – The Plot

  Writing fiction is not always hard. It’s not always easy, either. Oh, I know some people would love us all to believe the image of the tortured artist agonising for years over the right word – something between Proust and Joyce – whilst others would see all...

Autumn Salsa

Some debate, recently, around when Autumn starts: Is it immediately after the end of August, or does the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness kick in the September Equinox (23rd, this year)? For me, it feels like it started this week. It’s been the saddest summers...