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Writing is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement. Then it becomes a mistress, then it becomes a master, then it becomes a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster and fling him to the public.

— Winston Churchill

Sleeping in the Guest Room

I had never slept in the guest room. Not in my own house anyway, but twice this week I’ve padded across the kitchen, through the house, up the stairs and cuddled up with a pillow, in our guest room, alone.

I can’t give you some lascivious story about marital drama or husbandly angst, but I can tell you that for two nights my husband has spent half our sleeping hours poking me and asking me to roll over or change positions. I’m apparently keeping him awake, poor guy.

I have a raging head cold and all that snot rattling around inside my head has created a snore train. Yes, dear readers, I’ve been snoring so loud it’s keeping the king of snore himself awake.

I’d like to report that my 2:00 AM moves to another bedroom have been completed out of a sense of decency and care so as not to bother my loving mate and to allow him a restful night’s sleep, but really I’m just tired of him poking me. The snoring doesn’t bother me at all. In fact I don’t mind a bit and have no problem sleeping right through my own noise. But all that poking? If he’s going to repeatedly brush his fingers across my side and softly whisper my name after midnight, it should be for something fun. Otherwise, I’m headed for the guest room where at least I can get a good night’s sleep.

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