Trace is giving me trouble. I wrote about 11 pages of text, or about 6500 words, and got stuck. So I gave it to my husband and let him read. We both agreed I had all the right pieces but they were in the wrong order. After thinking about it for a couple of days, I think it's more like I have the emphahsis on the wrong syllahbles.
Sabine is overtipping her hand. Trace is giving too much away and I, the writer, am simply cramming too much stuff in at once. We don't need to know everything about him up front; only the stuff that's pertinent to this story. That would be: 1) he was in the Civil War, and was nearly killed; 2) as a result, he sees ghosts; 3) he has a young sister in a Catholic boarding school whose board and keep he has to pay for; 4) ergo he has to take some unpleasant jobs sometimes.
I'm getting sick of staying home, by the way. After two weeks of vacation across the holidays, I came down with my husband's cold and we got hit with an ice storm. I couldn't get my car doors open. Today I went and poured a bucket of water down the door to melt the lock.
But about Trace. Sabine tells him she wants him to retrieve an heirloom. He goes to the place she sends him; it turns out to be a whorehouse. A haunted whorehouse. Fun! He becomes understandably suspicious.
Okay, I'm going to go type in a more productive place for a while.
And I'm hungry.