I never knew my father well. He was an MIT professor, and talked excitedly about transistors and computing. But he rarely talked about his childhood. I never met his parents or any of his New York relatives. So I sent him a list of personal questions. He told me he would answer them when he had time. I never heard back. Some years later, he was hit by a car while jogging and died. To help my mother, I cleaned out his office. In his desk, I found three tape cassettes. I discovered that he had recorded his answers to my questions during his morning commute. Hours long, the tapes revealed his history–it was all new to me. After one sitting, fascinated, I knew I would write a novel about his life. It’s called: Here. I. Am. After designing the plot and doing research–my grandfather invented Adler Elevator Shoes, my grandmother helped found the New School, my aunt was the first woman to run a Madison Avenue advertizing agency–I wrote a first draft. Many versions would follow. After all, for me, good writing is rewriting. My current novel, in draft, an international thriller, was born out of a discussion I had with a good friend about a tech billionaire who decides to take revenge on the corrupt and powerful.