I have three children who I have birthed from my body, but my novel…oh my novel, I have birthed from my mind and soul. Born from me as surely as any child of my flesh, it began, small at first, barely a flitting thought journeying across the surface of my mind.
I can’t count the number of times I have seen new writers ask for advice on where to start, and get even more confused when someone says, “Write what you know.” That combination of words means everything—and nothing.
When the world goes back to normal, mothers who write will still be fighting little hands batting at our screens. We may never have the romantic writing careers we dreamed of as little girls. But we are lucky—we have so much more.
More than anything, having a kid helped me realize how much I need this time to write. This time that is just for myself and myself only, when I’m not a mother nor a wife. I’m just me, putting these crazy stories on paper.
It’s in chasing those dreams that we discover open doors we never knew existed. In chasing those dreams we fail and we grow and we discover new dreams. We become who we are and we become whole.
We’re so full of doubt. Even if we manage to get over the unbelievable hurdles of writing with children occupying every moment of your day and all of the space in your brain, we rarely know what to do with it. Will anyone even read the words that manage to escape onto paper?