I don’t know if this happens to anybody else but every so often, I get so unbelievable hungry that I can no longer fathom that there was ever a time where I felt completely satiated. Right now, I feel the same way about certainty and my life: so completely uncertain about where I’m heading that I can hardly believe that until very recently, my life unfolded rather smoothly – even predictably at times.
Come July 14, I have no idea where I will live, sleep, or work. Indefinitely. I don’t have a plan, just an overwhelmingly optimistic hunch that it will all work out for the best and that even if it doesn’t, I might find a skerrick of something interesting along the way, turn it into a novel and that will be my first bestseller. And maybe that seems a little reckless and arrogant to some people but honestly, if I’ve nutted out something about being a writer who can count her present readership on one hand it’s that I absolutely must believe in the madness of my dream. If I don’t, who the hell else will?