A short story, like the one I wrote yesterday, takes me about an hour to complete. The words come out quickly enough, but it takes me a while to polish them up. More often than not, that involves a great deal of dithering. While I am at it, I am in another world. Although I am only an observer, I am still of that world. And not of the world to which I actually belong, albeit against my will. To wit, writing a short story is not unlike escaping from this world of ours. At least temporarily, I am free to roam. Fiction, if this is what it is, is thus both welcome and fearsome. If I am not careful, the escape hatch may well become my permanent abode. But the world I happen to live in is the only world worthy of my attention. Undivided attention, to be a bit more precise. Fiction is for the birds.