There is an unwritten rule that if you have three days to take a final pass at the copyedited manuscript of your newest novel before it is printed and any errors become permanent and irrevocable (sort of), then your daughter will vomit at school for no particular reason, and need to be picked up, so she can hang out in your office with you and promise promise not to be annoying, but she just wants to play on your computer for just, like, a half hour?
I’ve told the story before about how while writing The Last Policeman I had this huge, late-in-the-game revelation (i.e. that the novel should be told in the first person present tense, not in the closely observed third-person that I had been doing), started excitedly on what was going to be a huge difficult rewrite, and then my daughter (a different daughter than the one who is downstairs now eating toast and reading a mystery chapter book) was born the next day, somewhat delaying my progress.
But I can’t complain—I’m not complaining. When I was younger and single and childless, I would always tell myself, I’ll write later, because there always was a later. After work—at night—I would drink a beer and stare at my computer for endless useless hours, pretending to be a writer. Now, with a busy family and endless calls on my time, I can little afford to let any spare minute lie fallow. Give me a random half hour, give me a full day (that never happens), and I will use it, somehow. That’s the gift that my beautiful children have given me.
Along with countless unnameable small joys and innumerable communicable illnesses.