At some point every day, for as long as I can remember, I’ve sat down on the keyboard and my fingers started moving. My father is a piano player, I’ve never been able to play, but I always think of the keyboard as my instrument. What he does through sound, I do through words. I was never talented at music. Or rather, I was never motivated enough to figure out if I had any talent. I hated practicing. I still do. I hate sitting in front of a music page, or a computer screen, and knowing that what I’m about to do isn’t perfect. I’ve never been comfortable with flaws in my own work. They offend me.