Whenever I'm tempted to believe in Cartesian dualism, the universe corrects me. Yesterday I threw out my back. I don't write wit my back, but no writing can occur until it feels better. Pain, immobility, and self-pity are the enemies of fiction. The mind doesn't produce if the body's unhappy (at least, my mind doesn't). Maybe writers should train physically, like athletes, to improve their stories.
And speaking of speed, Lou Anders has already sent me the contract AND the check for "The Kindness of Strangers," making him the fastest editor I've ever worked with, hands down. I only sent him the story last Monday!