the novelist questions the universe

Today was so nice a day that I thought I ought to take a day off from writing. There are not so many November days in Cleveland when you can go outside without a jacket, or when the sun is shining, after all. But yes, this is dangerous thinking. If I take a day off because it's nice outside, it's just the thin end of the wedge, and I'll find days that need to be taken off for a long and intense perusal of the Buffy DVDs or because I can't find my new post-its.
So I wrote some, and it wasn't brilliant, but it was more words.
I have some questions:
Why are novels so long?
Why can't they be written collaboratively?
Why, if they can (and I guess they can), am I the kind of person who wouldn't want to write collaboratively?
Where are my new post-its?
Why did Virginia Woolf commit suicide before I had even the ghost of a chance to meet her?
Should Isabel (one of my characters) have a dead or estranged daughter?
Why has Nature's Bin stopped selling Paul Newman's Dark Chocolate Peanut Butter Cups?
Why does the library close at 5 on Saturday?
Is there an organization for despairing novelists? (I'm not despairing, but I want to be prepared.)