Darkness The Color of Snow begins one icy cold night, when rookie police officer Ronald Forbert pulls over an old high school chum for speeding. The car is filled with drunken friends, and when Forbert attempts to arrest the driver for DUI, a freakish accident leads to the driver's death.
I think writing didn't so much "inform" as "justify" my sense of identity, allowing me to freely indulge in certain antisocial tendencies (introversion, voyeurism, possibly unhealthy love of solitude) already present.
Recently I read an anecdote about Nabokov: a student asked if he had any talent, and Nabokov pointed to the window and asked him to identify the tree outside. When the student came up blank, Nabokov dismissed him: "You'll never be a writer."