I haven't been sleeping well, and I'm starting to suspect that I'm doing it on purpose. I've changed where I sleep five times this year already, and I'm probably going to do it again. Systematically, I'm moving through this old farmhouse, making sure that none of the rooms feels like my own bedroom.

I suppose that I'm trying to find a way to live in this new version of the world. I'm no longer caring for a gigantic epileptic dog—that's the most abrupt change this year—but I'm also trying to resolve who I am in terms of my career. I can't remember when I quit my last job. Was it three years ago? Four? How long was I supposed to keep going with writing before I took a step back to assess my progress? I can't remember that either. With all the writing I've been doing, I should have written down a precise plan with deadlines.

Then again, I'm not sure it would make a difference. I can't really envision any other future. I'm no longer writing these books just because I want to. I feel like I must write them. It's not some overdeveloped sense of importance. These stories are compelling to me. It may or may not be obvious to readers, but these stories mean something to me. If I stopped now, I'm not sure how I would cope with that loss.

Lately, watching movies, I'm really jealous of how quick and immediate that medium is. Viewers can be drawn in with the first few frames and hooked by the score before a character even appears on screen. That's my goal—I want to make a book so compelling that someone turns it into a movie. There's too much to learn for me to attempt it myself. Someone else is going to have to step in. To that end, one of my stories is going to be a stage production in October. That's exciting.

Maybe tonight I will shove my bed into the corner, under the sloping ceiling. With pillows along the beam, it could be a cozy place to hide. Perhaps that will be a safe enough place to get a good night's sleep.

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