Something that occurs to me, when I think of how my upbringing relates to my writing, is that the regionalism that is so strong in the work of many of the authors I admire, and that originates, I think, in the fact that the entirety of their lives, or at least of their youth, was shaped by a particular area in a particular part of the globe, is lacking in mine precisely because my childhood was marked by a sufficient number of moves, from one country to another (and then, within a country, from one state to the next), that the aspect of my identity that ordinarily would’ve attached itself to the manners and personality of a place, informing my sense of self until a conception of ‘home’ was instilled in it, and a camaraderie for those I would finally come to live among began to dwell in it, never stabilized in me.