So is it just human nature to believe that things happen for a reason - to find some shred of meaning even in the worst experiences?

In my teens I fancied myself an artist; I hung out with the eccentric art teacher at my high school, painted still lifes and portraits and landscapes in watercolor and acrylics, took private lessons, won some blue ribbons for my earnest renderings. My lack of talent did little to dampen my enthusiasm. In college I thought I'd continue, but, like Salieri, I quickly realized that while I had the ability to appreciate art, I wasn't actually very good.

So is it just human nature to believe that things happen for a reason - to find some shred of meaning even in the worst experiences?

One of the wonderful things about being a writer is that you're constantly dredging up some arcane knowledge or long-forgotten experience, rediscovering old passions and interests.

I have a lot of empathy for women who fit their writing into the crevices of their too-busy lives, as I once did.

And so it is that you learn how to pass, if you're lucky, to look like everyone else, even though you're broken inside.

I never want to feel constrained by writing a novel for a specific audience.