More troubling is the sense I've hit the wall. Every novel I've written, the wall thrusts up into existence. Sometimes, more than once.
The wall is the point where objectivity checks out, and right now, I can't tell if any of the story makes sense, and even if it does make sense, Monty's narration is fluctuating from enjoyable to annoying, not only chapter to chapter, but paragraph to paragraph.
I'll just blame my chest cold and keep soldiering on, because that's what bad-asses (and bad-writers) do, 24/7.
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