Once upon a time there was a man whose life became a bit more challenging. He found himself without the time to cook up daily little omelettes of silliness, so he just sort of stopped. The villagers worried for him, fearing that exotic autoimmune problems would stop his output altogether, but the man came to speak to them. Standing on an overturned washtub near the village commons, he told them the good news.

“My novel projects are still proceeding just fine,” he said.

And there was much rejoicing.