My grandpa never graduated high school. He retired from a steel mill in the mid-70s. He was uneducated, but a voracious reader. As a kid, I’d go through his bookshelves of musty paperback novels, pulling Piers Anthony and Isaac Asimov off the shelf and promising to bring them back. I was fascinated by robots that could think and act like people. What happened when they died? Writing is sort of a thought experiment to explore human nature and possibilities. What makes us human? What is true nature? I’m also a big fan of plot twists.