Excavating old files is like a day spent in the attic. Finds abound. I have complete manuscripts that didn't, and don't, fit in the publishing mold. I knew it while I was writing them, but I wanted, no, needed, to tell them. One is set in the early twentieth century in Turkey. Another involves an adopted little girl whose biologic father shows up, wanting her. The monkey wrench is that her adoptive mother is falling for a stock car racer. Two men, one woman, not the standard romance set-up, especially since the mom isn't sure she wants any man in her life. The third is set today on the Mattaponi Indian Reservation in Virginia, and though there's murder and romance, the heart of the story is about honoring treaties and commitments signed in the seventeenth century, even if it's hard for the people involved.
I still love these stories. I've always believed if a story interests me, someone else will like it too. So they're going to get another chance. I'm not sure how or when, but all it takes is creativity. Coin of the realm in the writer's world. Piece of cake, right? When I
start using cliches, I'm in trouble. . . .
Now all I can think are cliches. Shoot.