I recently finished reading A Yellow Raft in Blue Water by Michael Dorris, a really intriguing story that covers three generations of women, moving backwards in time. Lots of great stuff there. But probably the most impacting part of that book for me was a couple of secondary characters. They are a happily married couple who work in the service industry, live in a trailer, and drive around in a car that’s held together with rubber bands. They don’t have a lot, and a lot of what they do have isn’t in great shape. But they make do, or they do without.

I remembered as I read about this couple, that I used to do that too. At a time in my life when I’m very anxious about money and having enough for all the things we “need,” it was great to remember that a lot of things can be made to do or done without. Even basic things, like leaky winter boots. I think I need new boots because my socks get wet in these boots. But honestly, are wet socks the end of the world? If I went one more winter with occasionally wet socks, would I die? Sure, it would be nice to have new boots, but I can make do without them. I find this a really freeing state of mind. I feel less penned in, less a victim of my circumstances, more in control of my money and my life. All that from a couple secondary characters in a novel.

Right now I’m reading The End of the Affair by Graham Greene. There are so many really earth-shattering themes and words in that book, it’s hard to believe I was able to find a spot that wasn’t super important. But I did, and it could really change my life. The main character, who is a novelist, mentions in one paragraph that he averages writing 500 words a day, five days a week. He writes 500 words in the morning, then reads over the 500 words before bed and sleeps on it. By writing 500 words a day, he finishes a novel every year or two, which still allows time for re-writes and edits. I did the math, and 500 words 5 days a week for 52 weeks is 130,000 words. Which is just to say, the math works out.

To me a good writing day has to be over 2,000 words, and a great writing day is 5,000 words. That said, I don’t think I write more than 130,000 words a year. The writing days that are “good” don’t happen as often as I want, and great writing days are a rare and wonderful thing. But I can write 500 words in a couple hours or less, that’s nothing. I could write 500 words before Ben leaves for work in the morning. I could write 500 words while my child is napping. I could, right now, write 500 words even on days when I nanny. This totally blows my mind. It could seriously revolutionize the way I look at my craft. It could be a lifeline through my upcoming life changes. And honestly, it really doesn’t have that great an impact on the plot of The End of the Affair.

Not only do I learn a lot about my craft by reading fiction, some elements I find in stories can actually change the way I live my life. I think sometimes God speaks to me through novels, picks out something that really isn’t super relevant to the main point of the book (or is, you never know), and uses it to teach me something, to open my mind, to make things a little better. I love that God speaks through art, that he touches me through the medium I love most. I love that I find wisdom in the cracks of good stories.

Pregnancy has done strange things to my creative life. Despite my writing days still sitting all in a row, it’s a herculean effort to sit down and actually write things. There are the typical creative excuses, that I’m still half-editing my last project (due to come out soon on the ebook market!), that I’m working on a first draft which is always difficult. Then there is the obvious, my shiny new novel is about achieving a harmonious relationship between consciousness and physical self, and throwing a second physical self into the mix is a major wrench to the project. I can blame pregnancy hormones for destroying my ability to focus, or bemoan my new need for an afternoon nap.

All that is true. It is also true that when I find myself with usable work time, I spend it on mommy-like things. Some mommy-like activities can’t be avoided; I see the doctor quite a bit more than I used to, and clothes shopping is now an ongoing activity. But then I can spend hours updating my baby registry on amazon.com, and even more time culling the articles and replies to articles on The Mommy Playbook, a forum for moms-to-be. I make coffee appointments with friends who are moms just to grill them about their birth experiences and advice for those frightening first few months of parenthood. I go to the mommy group at my church, I research schools in my neighborhood, I read endless reviews and consumer reports on various baby products. I obsess, you might say. I swim in the pool of ideas for the upcoming change in my life.

Being a writer is such a core part of my identity, more than a lot of things you might think. A few years ago when I was battling (and sometimes losing to) depression, it was when I found I couldn’t write anymore than I knew I absolutely had to do something about it, even if it felt drastic. The poor cute husband just shook his head and said, “Not because of me, or God, but because of your writing.” Although it sounds a little sad, I was a writer for over a decade when I met my husband. While I have doubted or turned away from God at several points, the pen and paper have always come with me. Certainly if it came to some weird cosmic twist and I had to pick between my husband and writing or God and writing, the writing would go away. Only the person left over for my husband or God would be an essentially different person than me.

Is it possible that motherhood could change me at such a fundamental level that I could somehow cease to be a writer? Who would that person be? And honestly, is it happening already? Early in my pregnancy, I noticed that Google Chrome guessed that I wanted to visit The Mommy Playbook before it guessed that I wanted a thesaurus. That was such a strange event, because of course, the thesaurus is where I spend such a great amount of my time. The endless search for the perfect word is my private safari, my personal collection of hunted treasures.

While I fear that the writing part of my being will disappear, in a back corner of my soul, I know better. I know I will find a way, even if I can’t fit it onto a physical calendar. It may look different, and it may be short and choppy for a period when there aren’t several hours tacked together for concentrated composition. Yet, I will find a way to scribble down some phrases that capture pieces of my life, of my spirit, of the world as I observe it. I will find a way, if not because I hold a gritty commitment to my vocation, then only because I simply can’t help myself.