I’m writing a mystery story. One so mysterious I don’t even know what it’s about yet.
One novel is in the bag, the second is submitted, the third is a complete first draft, so I decided it was time for a break. I’d leave the novels alone for a few days and work up a short story or two. That was the plan.
What I have here is an opening. A good opening. I’m very pleased indeed with this part of the story.
What I don’t have is an ending. Not even a hint at where the story is going. It’s going somewhere nasty, that’s all I know. Okay, it actually starts somewhere nasty so it’s going somewhere nastier. It’s going to a place that would make one of Caligula’s nappies seem almost bearable.
If only I knew where.