"But you're not going to school for another year still." My mother was a practical woman. "You don't need a lunchbox yet."

Her reasoning missed the point entirely though: I had to have one, preferably the one with Josie and the Pussycats printed on—cheap, pressed metal, all painted red, a cartoon strip laid out on the front, and a black plastic handle on top, little grooves cut into it even, just perfect for small fingers. And soon enough, my mother's sound logic gave way to an expert campaign of wheedling and whining—a relentlessness that makes Harvey Weinstein's Oscar grabs look puny by comparison.

I carried my lunch outside then—little pail in tow—sat down at the picnic table in the backyard, by myself. I unwrapped my sandwich, and poured myself a thermos top of milk. I did this for about three days, I think, then sent the lunch box packing, stuffed it deep into the toy chest in the hall. I didn't need the lunch box anymore: School wasn't so scary, after all. Liverwurst, it turned out, didn't taste any worse wrapped in wax paper; milk could be drunk, if necessary, from a tiny plastic cup. I could handle school, I decided—what I could imagine of it anyway: the lunchroom scene from television commercials, riotous kids at long wooden tables trading their bland menus for Hostess cupcakes.

Long before I ever wrote my first word of fiction—an entertainment lawyer then, slaving on complicated deals sometimes, and sometimes just arguing endlessly whether Wendy Wasserstein would fly business class or coach—I was already a voracious reader, always of fiction. The reading hours—the ones between dinner and bed—were the finest of my day. I love a fictional world, the characters that take me there.

Writing was much more to me than just reading though. I scoured the Times Book Review every week, bought Publisher's Weekly even, from time to time. I developed overheated jealousies of acclaimed writers (was The Secret History really that good?) and open-hearted sympathies for the ones Michiko crushed. And every morning, at six o'clock, I dragged myself out of bed, three hours before work began—four, in truth; lawyers don't get in so early. I made myself a coffee and turned on the laptop, tried one more time to begin. Just a paragraph one day, maybe a-page-and-a-half the next. I'd delete it all within in a week. What if it was bad? Then, I'd start in again the next morning.

I don't think I was wasting time though. All those mornings with nothing to show for them feel important to me now. Acting out my thermos-toting days all over again—stripping the anxiety away from the thing I wanted most—trying it on, like a new pair of pants, I rehearsed to be a writer. Eventually, I stopped deleting. I can't begin to explain how it happened, because I am the J. Alfred Prufrock of East 10th Street. I still suspect every page is worse than the last, but somehow I grew bolder. Tried my best and let myself save it.

I don't think I'm alone in any of this. My brother just bought a lunch box for his three-year-old. The little boy insisted on it.