Several days ago, I finished my latest novel, I, Jack—My Interview with Jack the Ripper. It was roughly six months of research and nine in the writing. The subject matter, brutal. The emotional cost, dear.
Through several seasons, I gathered knowledge, formulated the story arc, and weaved together the living and the dead to take the reader “there.”
The image above is how I, Jack, ends, Victorian framed and all.
Like all my manuscripts that came before, I alone saw the end appear, and was the first to experience that end. No more scene cards to flip. No more factoids to add. No more research needed. No more late-night epiphanies. No more interrupted showers. And no more Jack the Ripper at my throat.
