Query-go-round + Hamlet

A brief explanation of this insanity - I am currently waiting for the second half of my round one queries to come back with replies. This waiting is leaving me rather listless about continuing A Tangled Web, starting something new, or just about anything that doesn't have to do with refreshing my Gmail account every thirty seconds. Ah, the lethargy provided by the query-go-round... something tells me I shall get to know it well.

I also recently watched the RSC's recent production of Hamlet, starring David Tennant. Need I say more?

(If this is a bit incoherent, I apologize; it's sort of how my brain is at present. It would have to be, to come up with an idea as mad as this one.)

To revise the timeline of book two or not to revise – that is the question.
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of maddening future rewrites,
Or to take arms against a sea of plot hole troubles
And by opposing, end them? – To edit, to delete, -
No more; and by delete to say we end
The confusion and the lack of continuity
The book is heir to – ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To edit, to write; -
To write, perhaps anew – ay, there’s the rub;
For in that new idea what words may come,
When we have jumped away from my current work
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of writers’ life.
Oh, who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The rejection’s wrong, the hope crushed easily,
The pangs of empty email, the agent’s delay,
The insolence of plot bunnies, and the groans
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When she herself might her quietus make
With a cup of tea? Who would these fardels bear,
To cry and panic under a writer’s life,
But that the call of something after querying, -
The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn
No writer returns unscathed, - puzzles the will,
And makes us toss aside all sense of self preservation
In flying to ills we know naught of?
Thus querying does make maniacs of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of eager anticipation;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With my mind elsewhere, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.