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.
Barnesversation 