Writing fiction, to me, feels a bit like the moment in those Roadrunner cartoons where he runs off the cliff and the bridge builds itself underneath his feet. You see the planks of wood flying up, supporting him, but if he stops—that’s it, he plummets. If he keeps going, though, he’ll reach the other side.
For the Atlantic, novelist Harriet Lane talks about how losing her eyesight helped her discover the joy of writing fiction.
