There are certain times, especially when one has had a bad bout of insomnia, that one feels particularly out of control of one's life.

Or say, when one has reorganized one's closet. Even though the end result will be - hopefully - a closet that is a model of efficiency and order - meanwhile, clothes and shoes and random musical instruments are strewn hither and thither about one's bedroom.

At the same time, one might be trying to finish a novel, and instead of ending with a bang, as a funny, whip-smart novel should, it's insisting on ending with a whimper. The authoress herself should most defintely not feel bored while writing. Now that is a bad sign! If she feels bored, how are you - her dear readers who are going to shell out $22 for the hard-cover copy going to feel? (At least the author photo will be good - or it better be, because she shelled out far more than $22 for it!)

Meanwhile, as one is wondering what the hell happened to one's comedic writing skills, one is, perhaps also feeling out of control because of things that are happening in real-life romance.

For example, perhaps one is starting to really like a certain someone, and yet one - literally having (almost) written the book on relationships gone south - remembers, quite vividly now, how terrifying it is to develop those feelings towards someone because all of a sudden one is not one's own self-sufficient unit anymore. One is not as lonely, but one is not as safe. And that is because one finds oneself wanting to hand one's heart over on a platter, but just as one starts to do that, one recalls how last time, it got sliced up and served it for brunch.

So what does one do? One tries to hand it over s-l-o-w-l-y, though such a thing is hard, and one tries to accept - as one often has to do, that one is usually not in control of one's life anyway. But that one will definitely feel better when one catches up on one's sleep and puts everything back in one's *ultra-efficient* new closet, and finishes one's novel.