Crossroads

I can't sleep again. Happens periodically-- when I'm reliving days in which I screwed up, or redirecting scenes in a book till I get them right.

It's not a new thing. Sleep and I circle each other like boxers in a ring.

Now, I think it's because I'm between books. I finished my novel and can't keep roaming through its scenes like a mad director. Well, I can-- there's a bittersweet comfort to exploring certain scenes as if they're rooms in a house, seeking out every shadow, replaying critical exchanges. By now, I know every word they say, I see every picture on the wall, I hear their voices and smell the food cooking in the kitchen. Their songs have become my soundtrack. But this house doesn't belong to me anymore.

Soon, I hope, you'll enter-- drawn by the music and food, the bright colors, heat and laughter.

I hope you'll love it so much you never want to leave.

I'll slip out the always-open front door. It's so chaotic in there you'll never notice I'm gone. Neither will

my characters.

I'm standing at the crossroads. The new world is already playing scenes, waiting for me to yell, "Cut!" and rearrange characters and sets.

Damn, it's hard to leave the known world for the unknown.

But I need sleep!