So, an old teacher is in town. Back in town, though he was long out of this town when I got to know him, and Fate drew my steps here by very otherwise byways. What do I tell him? That I’m still writing, of course. That I write because that is what I was born to do.
But what might he say? He told me to write; well, he suggested that composition was something I should study, if I’m interested. So how was I born to do what I didn’t begin to study until a suggestion made to me when I was, what, 21?
It is Fate, and it is true.