There is a strong possibility it will never come to life.
I have big-time doubts.
It has completed the embryonic stages. And is out of my hands.
At five o’clock on a grey coolish first day of May, I attached the manuscript and sent it off to the developmental editor.
In my short message to her, I wrote:
"I send this because I have to stop working on it. There are some parts I like very much and some that give me both heartburn and heartache."
For six months, I have labored over A Pandemic Fairytale, (working title) which could turn out to be the second book of mine to be published. It might also languish in a word file folder on my computer forever.
Whether or not it advances beyond first draft status, I did it again. I completed a manuscript.
This time part fact, part fiction. A lot of fantasy.
A manuscript that began with a bit of magic.
A manuscript that provided diversion and a goal for me during these long months of the pandemic.
It begins:
A long time ago—and yet perhaps it wasn't such a very long time ago—there lived a damsel…