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 of The Dark Isles is done, before Flint #1 is even released. I've never been so prolific. The quickest first draft I've done by about a year and a half.

And guess what? No sooner had I finished Flint #2 draft one, but Flint is now badgering me about book three! I already have a rough outline.

I've hoped for a muse for years. Something to push me to write.

Now I've got one. The voice of Flint in my head. Careful what you wish for. He won't leave me alone!