A few weeks ago, I had a dream. Or maybe it wasn't really a dream, but a vision. I was half awake in that suspended time before dawn. All my joints ached, and even worse, my foot throbbed from where I'd crashed into a wooden box earlier in the day, breaking my middle toes. It was just enough pain to send me over the edge. With tears streaming down my face, I whispered, "Just let me go. I can't hurt like this anymore." You can't go yet. You have ten books to write. What? The thought had slammed into my head. Not mine. It came from somewhere else, and you can bet I bolted straight out of bed! I limped into the kitchen for water, heart pounding. What the hell? I started thinking about the books I had in process, how long it might take to finish them, and how much time I actually needed to stay alive to complete this mission. Ten years would do it, I figured. I could write a book a year, and that would be generous, with plenty of time for revision and a...