I went to my see my dentist today. Nothing special, though. Just regular cleaning. While he was at it, he asked me what I was doing. “Reading and writing,” I responded nonchalantly. “Your blog?” he frowned. “Nothing like a book?” Between his forays, I defended myself as valiantly as I could. “I occasionally make selections of my short pieces on a particular subject,” I said, “and I make whole books from them.” He was satisfied, but only just. “I am only showing others what sorts of books they can make by carefully ferretting through my writings,” I explained with a sparkle in my eye. My dentist only smiled at me. The subject was apparently exhausted. When I returned home, I made some calculations. I have produced a handful of books so far. They contain up to two-hundred pieces each. Given that I have written more than twelve-thousand pieces to date, that adds up to some sixty books at least. Not bad, but nothing to boast about. My dentist is right, I am afraid. For all my bragging, I could have produced at least a hundred books by now.