Yesterday was the kind of day that causes me to step far enough away from my writing to question my sanity.

Mary and I spent Sunday afternoon resolving problems with the plot in our current novel. That is to say, we were making stuff up. Stuff which has not been sold and no one is waiting for. Stuff for which we may never be paid a cent.

"And then...how about this...when they're on the ice, suddenly, there are all these...these...things out there...like...I don't know...rock hoppers from hell...see...and they're headed toward the isolation ship too..."

It isn't as if I do nothing but monkey around with novels, although readers of this journal might find that hard to believe. I do work for a living. The question is whether I should, rationally, be devoting any time to fiction writing whatsoever.

The answer, needless to say, is no.

It isn't a course of action one could recommend to a son or daughter. It is, in fact, from any reasonable perspective, inexcusable behavior. It makes no sense and there is no real argument in its favor.

But at least we resolved our demon problem. I can't help but feel good about that.