I got stuck on Chapter 19 for a number of days. I wasn't even writing any of it. I had down the grand sum of one sentence. Thirteen whole words. It was dead in the water, and I wasn't sure why.
I was being stopped by a feeling, a sense that I was about to make a wrong turn down a dark and dangerous street. I switched over to writing a non-Drayton short story to pass the time. Was this the end of zombie Shakespeare? Not quite.
In a time-tested tradition, this morning I came up with the answer to my problem while showering. It was, of course, the simplest answer possible.
You know, if Roger of Ockham had trademarked Occam's Razor™, he'd be a rich man today.