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Heather, my sweet wife, likes to talk about the difference between a passion for something and a compulsion. Is she concerned that I spend less time making goodies in the kitchen that she likes and that I see too little sun? Is she worried about the accumulation extra pounds and my growing attachment to my keyboard? Thank who or whatever created this wild world of ours that she cares. Otherwise, I might find myself one day permanently adrift in one of those fictitious worlds we novelists inhabit.

Lest I convey the wrong impression about my spouse, she is my greatest supporter, the lady who, almost daily, insightfully feeds back to me about my ideas. No writer could want a better muse.
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