I think my relationship to writing is changing pretty dramatically. I haven’t written fiction in ages. My nonfiction output has slowed to a trickle. It’s even hard for me to decide if it’s worth anyone’s time for me to write here some days.

I catch myself thinking “Once you’ve written this book, you can be done writing.”

Which, ha ha ha. But also, is that what I want? I don’t think so. But I think you have to listen to the things your brain spits up, at least consider them.

I keep having this nightmare where I go home to visit my parents and suddenly they’ve gotten me a job, which I go to, even though I know I have this other life–usually in North Carolina, where I went to grad school. And I keep trying to get back to the other life, but I live with them now and I have this job. And I just feel robbed.

And I always wake up disoriented, because I’m neither in Illinois or North Carolina. But here, in this life.

And yet it feels so real that I’m starting to worry that some version of me out in the multi-verse is so unhappy and near enough to me that her sadness leaks into my world.

I feel very lucky and it still feels very fragile, even though it’s been my whole adult life.