A writer is nothing but a rendering plant, a place where things go, things that were once alive, to get turned into something else.
The writing life is one long, never-ending search for narrative. It's not even a conscious searching. It happens even when you're buying groceries and when you're fast asleep. It's a curse. A writer is always, always searching, even against her will, against all her better instincts, for the thread of a story. Everything is fodder. Everything is fuel. You can feel it coming on, like the tingling of a sore throat.