Damn this Enoch Flint!
A couple of years ago, the pandemic hit. I had an idea in the back of my mind for a story. One where body parts would turn up in luggage all over the world. One of many ideas. I didn't really bother about it. It was working on a possible children's book. I had already started two different projects, all under the name of Will Thurston (I'll explain the name change, and the old name in a future post). But on an obscure drive through Suffolk one day, Enoch Flint started talking to me. A voice in my imagination dictated chapter one to me, and it's remained almost identical all the way to publication. I had to use my phone to voice record and type it out later. The novel kept coming. I stopped to renovate a caravan to use as my office. Still, the ideas came. I finally finished the novel. Great. A release date a few months away. Then we went on a brief holiday to Orkney. Before we left, I was writing stuff down about book two. Yet again, Flint pestered me. The first draft o