I dreamed that I was working undercover trying to find the source of stolen goods, drugs and bootleg whiskey.  I was in pants and a shirt, so I could not pinpoint the era.  It was a dark place, so I could not pinpoint the location.  I was trying very hard to creep, to slide quietly, to be unobserved.  Just as I heard something in the distance, everything went black.  The next thing I knew, I was awake in my bed confused because I didn’t know if it was the dream or real life.  Unfortunately, it was real life.

Analysis:  I have morphed into my heroine.  I have become Rachael Culpepper after working very hard to edit the first draft of my mystery novel, 107th Street Murder. But I have hit a place where I do not know where to go.  I need to physically correct four chapters of grammar, which is grueling.  I need to resolve some continuity issues because I am silly enough to write chapters as they pop up in my head then try to fit them to the time line.  I need to plug a few plot holes made because I wanted to have a different structure to this novel and it failed miserably.  I have to flesh out a few chapters because lo and behold, the reader cannot climb into my head as see things the way I see them without a bit more help.  What happened to all the clairvoyants who love murder mysteries?  They don’t buy them anymore?  And then, I have to give it another read through.  Just a few things to fill my summer afternoons.  Easy, peasy, summer breezy!  Wrong!

I have been working on this for nearly two months and as bad as I want it over, I just can’t seem to get to the end.  So is it dream or nightmare?  I don’t know.



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