This week a book made the New York Times Best Seller list.  I’d call it “my book,” but that would feel dishonest.  I wrote the words, yes, but I cannot remember writing the notes from which I worked.  I find outlines—extensive ones—scrawled in my own handwriting on paper scraps or my bedroom wall.  Brilliant stuff.  But among the plot twists and story arcs I find messages:  “Bury it,” one reads.  “Hidden beneath the straw,” says another.  “Pray,” advises a third.   Needless to say, I enjoy the fruits of my royalties from my home and no longer venture into the barn.