I reworked the concluding chapter and at long last became a published author. I always did love a happy ending. Which reminds me, you might be wondering what happened to Molly. I wish I had time to tell you, but like millions of others, you’ll have to buy the book.

The end

This is my story

I had always thought I would celebrate the day I completed the book, but it passed uneventfully, like any other. The manuscript still needed an edit before I could send it to potential agents and besides, I wasn’t yet happy with the ending. But the fact remained, it was finished.

This is my story

Before she was able to see inside the lower chamber, Molly was startled by the sound of footsteps behind her. As they descended the stairs it became quickly apparent that more than one person was approaching. “Don’t go in there, Molly,” urged a voice from the darkness. But she did.

This is my story

The stairway led down to another door, covered in the same red symbols as the walls above. Molly pushed it open nervously. She believed that the suspicious deaths of her parents were somehow connected to the rumoured cult, and she was afraid of what she might be about to discover.

This is my story

After months of strong coffee, sleepless nights and self-inflicted poverty, the book began to near its conclusion. Knowing I would need an agent before getting it published, I set about the hardest task to face the writer; that of selling myself. I may as well have been selling my soul.

This is my story

Alone in the passageway, the door locked fast behind her, Molly had no choice but to head for the stairway. She shivered in the cold. The red patterns on the walls grew more vivid, until in the torchlight they started to form words, though not in any language Molly recognised.

This is my story

 

One of the greatest pleasures of writing fiction is the idea that, quite literally, anything can happen. Perhaps that is why I started the book in the first place, for the escapism it offered. Ultimately, plotline is paramount. The rest is just the bones on which to hang the flesh.

This is my story

Leila glared at Molly for an uncomfortable amount of time. “How?” she asked finally. “I worked it out,” said her sister. Leila suddenly lunged at Molly, pushing her into the secret passageway and slamming the door shut. “Let me out,” Molly screamed, but Leila’s heavy footsteps were already growing faint.

This is my story

“This is my home too,” Leila snarled. “Not any longer,” replied Molly. “It would have been if you hadn’t made mum and dad write me out of the will,” said Leila, wrongly accusing her younger sister. Molly paused. “The thing is,” she said, “I think I know how they died.”

This is my story

The book was progressing nicely. I was happy with the speed and quality of my writing, and the character development and research was paying off. The plot was twisting and turning in the right direction too, and despite having to sleep on friends’ sofas, life on the whole was good.

This is my story