I’ve just thrown away the best piece I’ve ever written.
It was intriguing, atmospheric, filled with mystery and beautifully-observed description. It attracted interest from agents and publishers. It was short-listed for an award. I’ve tweaked and twiddled it for years. It was perfect.
But it didn’t fit.
I suppose, in my heart of hearts, I’ve known this for the past six months or so. It set out too much of the story of the novel too soon, crammed in too much, and it belonged to quite another book. Granted, this was the book I was originally trying to write, and for that book it still might have worked. But for this one it didn’t. Not any more. It was too slow, too full of information, and it concentrated on entirely the wrong characters. The ones who were important when it was a different kind of book, but who are definitely…
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