I donâ€™t know if the current economic migraine dooms this novel or not, but I find myself curiously indifferent, even if I was thinking somewhat commercial as I wrote it. Iâ€™m a writer. Thatâ€™s what I do, what my lovely wife encourages me to do (and as my young daughter once said to a friend about me, â€œOh, donâ€™t mind my dad. Heâ€™s not really grumpy, heâ€™s just writing.â€) Iâ€™m most happy when Iâ€™m unhappily writing. Writing is an exercise in a state of sustained dissonance. Yeah, sometimes I get in that much ballyhooed â€œzoneâ€ where scenes and words come as a babbling brook of blessing from the big beyond, but I donâ€™t get too excited about it, because I know there is always the revision. For example, hunting down silly alliterations.