A gentle English lady once walked through Ireland asking people this question. It's a question that could be asked of anybody, never mind a writer. Most ordinary people might find it easier to reply to, also, than a writer. I'm going to college. I'm going to the shopping mall. I'm going to meet a friend - a lover. I'm walking my dog. I'm taking a leak. I'm admiring the view . . . But none of these replies really answers the question. Perhaps because none is brave enough to answer it. A grizzled farmer in Ireland gave something closer to a real answer to the question. He replied he was wandering between the immensities. The immensities he referred to were birth and death. What then do we think we are doing? I think it is a terrible, soul-wrenching question. My guess is most of us don't have a clue. I'm there with them. In terms of writing, your characters must either know, or at some stage discover, what it is that they think they are doing. If they do they are probably more fortunate than most of us mere mortals, who very likely never really know what it is that we really think we are doing. To think ahead, to imagine that there is a purpose to our lives, requires a rare courage and an acknowledgement of the stupidity and weakness of our being. Even so it does not provide an answer. I am back as a fiction writer after a long pause . . .