Paula Paul, creater of The Alexandra Gladstone series
I dumped the body at Percy Gibbs’ place, and I trapped the doctor in her own house so she couldn’t get out and investigate the murder.
I didn’t mean to do it!
I wanted Dr.Alexandra Gladstone out there investigating Alvina Elwold’s murder day after day, but alas she was felled by a rather severe case of bronchitis. No, Alexandra wasn’t the one coughing and coughing. It was I, the writer of the story.
For two weeks I left the chapter I was working on unfinished. I lay in bed in a fevered sleep and dreamed about the case. Alexandra wanted to me to let her out of her house. She’d had enough of tea and crumpets with Nancy. Once I tried to oblige her, but the words I wrote didn’t make sense, so she retreated. Or I retreated. I’m not sure.
I dreamed about her. She was at Downton Abbey. Of course she didn’t belong there. She’s Victorian, and Downton Abbey is Edwardian, but she was there anyway. Helping out at the hospital for wounded World War I British officers. Oddly, my agent was at Downton Abbey, too. She, of course, belongs in the Obama era, but there she was at the mansion talking to all those aristocrats. She was dressed in one of her signature elegant pants suits, but she was wearing a hat that looked like one of Lady Mary’s hats. I don’t know what she was saying to those people. Trying to work out a deal for a Dr. Alexandra Gladstone series on PBS? That would be just like her.
Finally, the fevered dreams vanished and my coughing subsided. I got back to my computer and moved the story along. But we’re two weeks late in getting that murder solved, Alexandra and I. I just hope the murderer hasn’t gotten away in that time.
I didn’t mean to do it!
I wanted Dr.Alexandra Gladstone out there investigating Alvina Elwold’s murder day after day, but alas she was felled by a rather severe case of bronchitis. No, Alexandra wasn’t the one coughing and coughing. It was I, the writer of the story.
For two weeks I left the chapter I was working on unfinished. I lay in bed in a fevered sleep and dreamed about the case. Alexandra wanted to me to let her out of her house. She’d had enough of tea and crumpets with Nancy. Once I tried to oblige her, but the words I wrote didn’t make sense, so she retreated. Or I retreated. I’m not sure.
I dreamed about her. She was at Downton Abbey. Of course she didn’t belong there. She’s Victorian, and Downton Abbey is Edwardian, but she was there anyway. Helping out at the hospital for wounded World War I British officers. Oddly, my agent was at Downton Abbey, too. She, of course, belongs in the Obama era, but there she was at the mansion talking to all those aristocrats. She was dressed in one of her signature elegant pants suits, but she was wearing a hat that looked like one of Lady Mary’s hats. I don’t know what she was saying to those people. Trying to work out a deal for a Dr. Alexandra Gladstone series on PBS? That would be just like her.
Finally, the fevered dreams vanished and my coughing subsided. I got back to my computer and moved the story along. But we’re two weeks late in getting that murder solved, Alexandra and I. I just hope the murderer hasn’t gotten away in that time.