The complexion of the world is as troubled as I can remember. Here in the US, the people are divided into two badly drawn groups. A large number of our elected officials are too craven and corrupt to support any legislation that threatens the revenue streams of our corporate overlords. I ask myself:

Shouldn’t I be doing something more important than writing books about made-up people in a make-believe world?

A couple of questions bubble up as I try to figure an answer. First, what do I mean by important? Second, what purpose do books of fiction serve, if any? Is my stubborn quest for publication a purely selfish enterprise (or just mostly selfish)?

The first question daunts me with its scope. The third is too easy to bother answering. But the second question? A provisional answer for that will be forthcoming in short order.