“What possessed you to write a book?” I am most often asked, the reference to “possessed” always accompanied by a smile. “Possessed,” though, holds most of the answer, as the daunting prospect of writing a novel eventually gave way to my growing need to exorcise my demons.

My family arrived in New York’s John F. Kennedy Airport in July of 1973, and like most immigrant families, with little money, few personal belongings and the hope for a brighter future.