Stupid, stupid clue.

One night last week I was sleeping peacefully, or as peacefully as I do with a bad back and a minuscule bladder, when suddenly my eyes popped open. I was as awake as if someone had set off an M-80 in the washing machine downstairs. 

THE CLUE.

This is such a stupid thing, but it shows how the mind works, if it does, or when it bothers to, or whenever.  

I have been working on a new mystery novel for more than a year now, and was just starting in with another round of revisions. So far, so good; the changes were all cosmetic, to clarify scenes and characters, enhance mood, fix typos, things like that. What woke me up with a shock was a scene I had not even come across yet on this pass, but I realized all at once that I had made a mistake. 

I can't describe the problem, as it is crucial to the central mystery. But I realized when I woke up that by the situation as it was set up, I had left a vital clue in place at the crime scene where the police or the villains or the hero or anyone would have found it after the murder, and the book would have been shortened by two hundred pages and not even rated as a proper mystery short story, because the mystery would have been over just like that. 

I tried to go back to sleep, thinking I would deal with it in the morning, but I was afraid I would forget it. I thought it over for some time but had to admit it was a problem. In fact, I was shocked that I had made such an obvious blunder in a book I'd plotted with excruciating care. So I got up, went to my desk, made a note to myself in big letters on a large Post-it, and went back to bed. This all happened between a little after three and four. And I was still so awake from the plot-shock that I got barely any more sleep until wakey time at six.

Writing as a career or hobby sucks. Kite enthusiasts and model train railroaders almost never get awakened by panicked realizations in the night. 

FIX THE PLOT, FRED

Still, I'm glad I caught it now. Big-time writers get the red-carpet treatment; as many as a dozen people may read their books before they get to print, not counting friends and other beta-readers employed by the writers. Embarrassing errors can be caught. And if you think they're embarrassing when the proofreader catches them, imagine how much worse it is when the audience catches them.

Mostly, I'm glad I'm not a killer in real life. Not just because it's naughty, and not just because I'd sleep even worse than I do for fear of being caught, but because I would certainly leave vital clues at the crime scene. I'd race back to get the clue out of there and leave five more. No, I'd better stick to crime in print; mistakes are easier to fix there.