I met Catherine Robertson at a short-fiction workshop at the International Institute of Modern Letters when I was on a working holiday in the Land of the Long White Cloud.   I don’t know how the others in the workshop felt about their time there,  but I remember thinking,  “This is it. This is why I took such a meandering path and made seemingly senseless choices…I’m meant to be alive at this moment, sitting in a circle with 12 intelligent and creative people who value creative expression as much as I do, and damn  this view over Wellington Harbour is amazing.”  The 13 of us in the room, 12 Wellington-based emerging writers and…