So I finished The Biggest Liar in Los Angeles. Unless another wild idea or inspiration arrives before tomorrow, I'll send it off. It's scheduled for publication May 2010. It's the sixth book (though the earliest in chronology), in what I'm calling the Tom Hickey California Century series, which is a hit and miss chronicle of the years during which California became the promised land and later the place whose customs, attitudes, and values shaped the world.

Now that I can return to real life in the present, I'm realizing once again a reason I write novels. For the past few months, life has been treacherous. This past week was the most distressing. When I'm doing chores, driving, trying to sleep, taking care of Zoe, pursuing anything but writing, my mind whirls, besieged by questions and concerns.

A while back, my friend Mark told me he planned to start writing again once he'd worked out some family and financial issues. He said he couldn't write with all that on his mind. I said, most writers I know, if they waited for respites from such issues, would never finish a book.

One solid piece of wisdom I've picked up: as long as we're thinking about ourselves and our concerns, we're in grave danger of becoming distressed and unhappy. When we turn to thinking about other people, we rise above that distress and at least have a chance to feel joyful.

Similarly, writing takes us out of ourselves. I've gone to live in 1926 with a bunch of fascinating characters. The present, with all its fears, worries and dilemmas, couldn't reach me there.