I began writing when I was a chef and restaurateur in Syracuse. I’d spend a couple hours each night after closing, compiling a cookbook of my recipes and kitchen stories. My motivation was the book would put us on people’s radar. It worked. After moving to San Francisco, I wrote food articles and recipes for The Washington Post, The San Jose Mercury News, and several culinary magazines and internet sites. It demanded high energy, an enthusiastic relationship with food, and the skill to make readers’ salivate. And it often left me exhausted. Writing fiction, particularly the novel I mention above, is wholly different, more a meditative process, a refuge where I’m at peace for hours. More than any other of my creative interests, writing digs deepest into my psyche and soul, where moments as far back as my childhood reside. Waiting. Until my hands set them free, and their magic is given voice and purpose. Often the right word or phrase dances on the edges of my mind. Only my stubborn determination holds me captive at my computer, until I find what will make a sentence sing. When—if—it happens, it’s a moment where sprezzatura plays out on the page. As a writer, that’s a gratifying yet immensely challenging reward. One that keeps me at my computer, revising and revising.