What keeps you up at night? Is this hopeless quest for slumber more common in writers or do we just tend to obsess about our middle of the night demons more often than the average sleepless soul?
“I tell myself it’s a virtue, my failure to sleep in my own house, or at all,” writes Heidi Julavits, describing her nocturnal life as a “sleep hunter,” wandering from room to room in her Maine house with a flashlight, a bottle of pills, two pillows and a blanket. This is a lovely evocation of the perils of family life: the deep care we feel for those we love, and the anxiety that can sometimes cause.


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