My Forgotten Manuscript Stuffed in the Attic along with my Demons
After my divorce, I moved house and dragged with me a padded brown envelope. It contained my abandoned novel, The Lessons. Throughout my adolescence, it ate me up inside. My intrusive thoughts drove the plot. A disfigured man, a derelict house and a psychopath.
I stuffed the thing into the loft, where it lay untouched for fifteen years. During that time, I ‘moved on’. The following account is taken from my book, Mirror Image Shattered. I worked twelve years in an office, raised my children (with a new partner after two years of being single), and proved to myself that I could be a decent parent after all. The fear of becoming an ‘ogre parent’ like Dad had almost cost my motherhood, but slowly I learned I could give my children the stability I craved.
Thankfully, I was wrong.
Then one day, I said to Eve, my twin: ‘I’m going to write a novel.’
She looked surprised. I hadn’t written anything in fifteen years. ‘Oh? What about?’
The Lessons had breathed its final breath in 1999 after failing in a literary competition. But the characters — Aidan and the John split‑offs living in my head — had never left me. They continued to drive secret stories, shaping my imagination. Novelists use prompts to create characters. I already had a character with a will of his own. Storylines materialised out of nowhere. I could picture settings with eerie clarity, as though they had already happened.
An oppressive room. A captive trying to escape. A story of abduction.
Powerful stuff, I thought.
My second novel became a kidnap thriller titled The Locked Door. At first, the idea disappointed me. Another abduction story? There were plenty of those. But I needn’t have worried. The emotional intensity and psychological depth made this one different.
The protagonist, Gemma, spends most of her days locked in an upstairs room. I lived her life during my everyday routines: washing up, shopping, doing the runs. Her world felt as real as mine. The story refused to let me go. The fever to bring the story to life matched the obsession I’d felt with The Lessons all those years ago. It annoyed me. My writing had been a dire struggle, so why won’t these ideas drift into the brain of a more experienced writer? Why wouldn’t these stories leave me in peace?
Little did I realise The Locked Door was a sequel — to The Lessons. I was writing about the same thing. Under a different guise.
The themes were identical: captivity, torment, split identity, disfigurement and a derelict house. The blueprint was the same, wearing a different mask.
I wasn’t writing two separate novels. I was writing one long message from my past. A message I hadn’t yet learned how to read.
This blog and my books are where I finally begin to decode it.
The Dark echoes in my childhood stories held the secret to Being the odd one out due to a difficult toddlerhood.
I stuffed the thing into the loft, where it lay untouched for fifteen years. During that time, I ‘moved on’. The following account is taken from my book, Mirror Image Shattered. I worked twelve years in an office, raised my children (with a new partner after two years of being single), and proved to myself that I could be a decent parent after all. The fear of becoming an ‘ogre parent’ like Dad had almost cost my motherhood, but slowly I learned I could give my children the stability I craved.
My Past Follows Me Around
My sibling and I rarely spoke of our difficult childhood. We talked about our kids, our jobs, the good times — not the years of living with a mentally ill dad. I still believed in the red herring: that my intrusive thoughts and difficulties stemmed from Dad’s genes. I took after him, it seemed. And I believed that I could become psychotic like him.Thankfully, I was wrong.
Captive room setting for my second novel, The Locked Door.
My Second Novel Begins
My life slowly settled after years of wrestling with my difficult childhood. I moved onto a teaching job, my children were in school, and we had just finished decorating the house.Then one day, I said to Eve, my twin: ‘I’m going to write a novel.’
She looked surprised. I hadn’t written anything in fifteen years. ‘Oh? What about?’
The Lessons had breathed its final breath in 1999 after failing in a literary competition. But the characters — Aidan and the John split‑offs living in my head — had never left me. They continued to drive secret stories, shaping my imagination. Novelists use prompts to create characters. I already had a character with a will of his own. Storylines materialised out of nowhere. I could picture settings with eerie clarity, as though they had already happened.
An oppressive room. A captive trying to escape. A story of abduction.
Powerful stuff, I thought.
Room Behind the Locked Door
I fancied I had some great calling — that story ideas dropped into my lap, making me the envy of other writers. For weeks, the storyline nagged at me. I became a film producer again, watching images reel out in front of my eyes. My secret John‑identity had split into several personas over the years, and now I revived an old one: Caleb.My second novel became a kidnap thriller titled The Locked Door. At first, the idea disappointed me. Another abduction story? There were plenty of those. But I needn’t have worried. The emotional intensity and psychological depth made this one different.
The protagonist, Gemma, spends most of her days locked in an upstairs room. I lived her life during my everyday routines: washing up, shopping, doing the runs. Her world felt as real as mine. The story refused to let me go. The fever to bring the story to life matched the obsession I’d felt with The Lessons all those years ago. It annoyed me. My writing had been a dire struggle, so why won’t these ideas drift into the brain of a more experienced writer? Why wouldn’t these stories leave me in peace?
My second novel analysed: The Locked Door.
Little did I realise The Locked Door was a sequel — to The Lessons. I was writing about the same thing. Under a different guise.
The themes were identical: captivity, torment, split identity, disfigurement and a derelict house. The blueprint was the same, wearing a different mask.
I wasn’t writing two separate novels. I was writing one long message from my past. A message I hadn’t yet learned how to read.
This blog and my books are where I finally begin to decode it.
Further Reading
You can explore more of this memoir blog through the About Me page, the Start Here introduction (leading to how I learned the truth in 10 parts), the Book Catalogue or buy my books. You’ll also find further reading and a full list of articles covering my writing, artwork, childhood trauma, diaries, split identity, twinhood and innocence lost.Other Related Articles
Read About my diaries and the Red herring for my black blame feeling. And how Running away from my broken self by getting married didn't help me escape my past.The Dark echoes in my childhood stories held the secret to Being the odd one out due to a difficult toddlerhood.
Comments
Post a Comment