Lots of writers have an ‘orphan’ manuscript.
It sits in a file or in a box. The box has gathered dust, but there are fingermarks from where the writer has cracked it open on occasion, just to peer inside to see if the orphan is still there.
A year or so back, I shoved my orphan into a box. I’d had what I thought was a great idea. A story that would be relentless in its horrors, yet psychologically acute.
Reader, it didn’t work, despite major revision.
I was done with it. Or was I?
The thing is, I...