As a writer, I generally serve up to publishers entrees.
A rack of smoked ribs, a bone-in pork chop smothered in gravy or a 2-inch thick T-bone steak medium rare and recently mooing, my tales have bone and gristle and fat. A reader can chew on them.
Twisted Intent is different.
Twisted Intent is a cupcake.
A tiny one on a doily.
Light-hearted, compact and sweet, I shudder to think how this will go down.