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The Emotional Cost on Writing About Jack…

 

Jack the Ripper's Bedroom (c. 1907). Oil on canvas, Walter Sickert, Manchester City Gallery.

The Ripper, I mean.

It’s my turn, among countless writers before me, who have taken a crack at the man that struck terror in London’s East End for ten weeks in 1888.

Every angle, every facet, has been examined and penned, fiction and non-fiction.

So, the question remains. Why me? What can I offer that others have not?

My meeting face-to-face with the knife-wielding serial killer.

That might make a change.


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