I’ve always read like a writer. When I was in college and graduate school, new criticism was the preferred methodology used in literature classes. For me it was a means of discovering how writers got particular effects. And I wanted to write fiction. Although I’ve spent most of my adult life doing research and publishing scholarly work, when I had the opportunity to change directions, it was the novel I wanted to write. I’ve learned a number of lessons – the most important being it takes a lot of perseverance. I do not know what compels me. There is never the promise of gratification, and having a lot to say is not all it takes. Still I persist, squirming in the pageantry of masquerade. Like a painter, I throw words on the canvas that is my laptop. I am filled with uncertainty yet understand doubt is no excuse for idleness. So I read and write and write and read and get up the next day and do it again. When anyone asks why, I flippantly answer that it keeps me off the streets. The truth is, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if not this. I don’t play well with others, and big messy projects are comforting.