“Art itself can warp the artist, I think. The process involves a public exposure of what may be deeply private, and criticism can feel like a review not of mere work but of the artist’s inner life. This turns some into egoists or recluses or both. Yet while painters or musicians don’t necessarily have to understand others, writers of fiction must. For some, perhaps writing becomes a repository for their humanity instead of a source. They project a fictional world containing longed-for justice, resolutions that are rare in life, enemies they can punish, friends with whom they’ll never bicker. When such writers leave the manuscript for the evening, all their humanity may be inked on those pages.” 

Tom Rachman