This story starts out with me in jail... and ends with me in jail.
But that's sort of suitable for a story about myself, is it not?
This is more or less a telling of me falling in love with a man I gravely didn't deserve, and him changing my life in...
Another random upload as I do some revising with future chapters There may be errors (as always lol) cause I was editing and rewatching Psych for the ten billionth time (my comfort show) earlier in the day Enjoy! xoxo
Derek
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John was too good at getting information out of me, I swear.
Somehow what would've been a quick fifteen minute conversation where I gave a vague explanation of the plot, turned into an almost two hour conversation that went until around one in the morning.
John asked me to explain the story like I would if I was pitching it to a publication company. He asked me questions I hadn't really thought of before, like whether a shorter or longer series would really work best. He had me determine how many peaks the story will have, or whether it would follow the traditional Freytag's Pyramid.
I told John I had absolutely no idea what in the hell that was.
So he had me pull out a piece of paper and draw this pyramid shape, then he explained where to put dashes, and what those dashes represented on the shape I drew.
It was actually really helpful for organization with the jumbled plot I was currently trying to hash out.
At first I thought the story would be something short, maybe three to five issues total, but John pitched a fair argument for why seven to ten longer issues might also be a good idea.
Essentially the working synopsis I had come up with was this:
The year is 1888.
Inside the small, cluttered, dusty home of address 221B Baker Street, is a mad man working and case that's been tearing the mind he once knew, in two.
Sherlock has been tasked with solving a mysterious set of murders plaguing the Whitechapel district of London, England. This killers victims are chosen and targeted- the invisible few. Those passed by on the streets without a second glance, their lives viewed as nothing more than livestock ready for slaughter at any unfortunate, unforgiving moment.
This was the jagged bitter truth for many women who found a living as ladies of the night. Their deaths slipping from the memory of those who'd even bother to listen...
Until the the bodies piling are far too many to ignore. As were the ways in which they were killed.
A slash to the throat. Their stomached gutted open like a fresh market fish. Their organs removed with skill only a surgeon could have.
The police have no suspects. And no other choice, but to call upon help from a man who serves no business being near a crime scene. No business near any place that called for even a shred of tenderness. They think due to his uncanny habit with detaching from each case, he must be hiding something.
