Agonies of a Young Author

I like hotels the same way I like big cities.

It always comforts me to be in the pulse of a city, because even at night, when you look outside the window, you see at least one hundred other windows lit up from within. In a city, there is always a light on.
Hotels operate on the same principle, although here I deviate from the light cliché. In a hotel, there is always some noise surrounding you. Usuaaly a shower, sometimes the elevator, or occasionally the vending machine, interspersed with a toilet flushing or someone climbing the stairs. A hotel always has activity of some sort, even if it is a quiet sleepy sort. Someone arriving late, someone leaving early, the two actions merging into one pre-dawn rhythm. Someone just turning in for the night, or someone heading out for the day. Always full of activity.
MlleDiabolique and I are the hotel, the night before my writing conference. She is staying behind to do homework, as I venture off into the world of workshops and panel discussions. My brain is whirling with insecurities, but the familiar patterns of a hotel are lulling me to sleep. I have a big weekend coming up, so goodnight all.

Right now:
What I'm listening to: Hotel Sounds
What I want most: ... who knows?