I am in shock. Not my Manchester. Not my city. No, not those poor, innocent, decent families. Yes, it happened. The terrorist finally got in. All it took was one lost soul intent on wreaking devastation. We cannot comprehend a person that commits these atrocities. All we can do is pick up the pieces and move on. Manchester is strong. Manchester is resilient. Manchester never gives up.
Manchester is my Muse. I lived and worked in the city for several years. My husband studied at university. We frequented student pubs and nightclubs, the city centre shops, museums, and even the hospitals. Indeed, I am still a regular outpatient at the Manchester Royal Eye Hospital, which provided lots of writing inspiration during its transition from Gothic, old buildings to a smart new medical hub.
This week I grieve for those who died. I didn’t know them personally, but it doesn’t matter. I know the MEN arena (that is the name I know it by). I have been to concerts there in the past. I may consider taking my own children to concerts in the future, although right now it is the last thing I would do. Earlier that day, on Monday, I sent out a manuscript to a publisher for consideration. The novel is called Hunting the Hunted. It is about a vampire in Manchester city centre, and what happens when the hunters come for him. There are more Manchester vampire hunter stories in progress. My Muse has spoken. Manchester has spoken. My Manchester.
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