Dewey, in response to a request from me (the publisher) to supply a biography, claimed that he was too busy writing more important things. So, instead, I have had to stitch together the fabric below from the scraps that I have picked up about the elusive author. I suspect that Dewey's reluctance to supply a biography might in some way relate to his first submission being rejected outright by me and then a couple of subsequent pitches being batted away with, in his words, "no apparent concern for personal feelings." Dewey had perhaps, reasonably enough, expected an easier route to publication, given his particularly close relationship with the publisher: we, after all, do share brain space.
The most coherent personal snippet that I've ever managed to get out of Dewey is this: He has found himself daydreaming, more than once, in recent years of a life as an organic peanut farmer. He has no decent explanation for this phenomenon and has, so far, resisted the possibility's strong pull.
Beyond this, I have gleaned that Dewey listens only to music in seven-eight time and takes a squeezed segment of mandarin in every beer that he drinks, from pilsner to imperial stout. He also has the astonishing ability to stack three coins edgewise (while he's never told me this, I caught him doing it once).
Finally, Dewey has the honour of having had his personal Twitter account suspended before he'd posted a message or even followed anyone. He must, one suspects, have some dangerous thoughts to express, although I have not seen any such ideas just yet.
Dewey can be reached through the Contact page, assuming I remember to pass the message on to him.