By Sandra A. Miller

The story I want to tell is not new, but it bears repeating, because as mothers we forget. For some of us, our family life is so all-consuming that our creativity doesn’t have room to breathe. For years, I thought I could live a full, complicated life and write a big, complicated novel. When I didn’t succeed, I blamed my lack of discipline, my writing choices, the publishing industry. If I were only more this or less that. But I never acknowledged what was really happening: When I was raising my children, I couldn’t find the room to create in a way that quality fiction requires.

Twenty-six years ago, when I was newly married and fresh out of an MFA writing program, I had a two-part dream. First, I would become a mother. Second, I’d publish a novel then enjoy a robust career as an author of commercial and critically acclaimed books. On my first wedding anniversary, I was nine-months pregnant, and the novel I’d just completed had been signed by a New York literary agent. I believed it wouldn’t be long before my husband, Mark, was holding our sleeping baby in the back of crowded bookstores while I gave readings to my devoted fans.

When I gave birth to my doe-eyed son and—a few years later—a feisty, blue-eyed daughter, the first half of the dream came true. After growing up in a dysfunctional home, I finally had a family that brought me the kind of joy I never experienced as the daughter of two volatile parents. But as much as I loved being a mother, it wasn’t enough to distract me from the reality that my manuscript had been rejected by the big publishing houses. The editors were kind and encouraging. I even came close with one, but she ultimately passed on my “darkly entertaining novel.” Another “couldn't fully connect with the protagonist’s journey,” but was certain I’d find success with my story.

My agent Christopher sent me the rejections with cheerful notes scribbled across the top. They came in the mail mixed with baby cards. When Christopher suggested a revision, I went at it with all the clarity of a sleep-deprived, nursing mother with a part-time teaching job and no nearby family for support. Even on Wednesdays—my husband’s day at home and my day to write—I couldn’t fully separate myself emotionally from my children. Even when I wasn’t with them, they were still with me. 

I tried to write a different novel. Then another. Neither worked. Finally, fed-up and unfocused, I swerved into nonfiction, where the bylines were easier to land, and I could write the stories of my life as I was living them. In those years, my son suffered from debilitating eczema; after a long illness, my mother passed away; and my beloved sister who lives in Munich battled cancer twice in five years. I wrote and published dozens of essays about the struggles of motherhood and marriage because those stories were accessible, right there on the surface. After a sleepless night, I’d stagger to my office—bleary-eyed and fuzzy-headed, and pen a piece about the horrors of being up for hours with a scratching, eczemic child. It was cathartic to pour my feelings onto the page then sell my work to an eager editor.

Fiction was demanding in a different way. It required me to build complex worlds and characters that connected in an intricate and engaging plot. I wanted to write layered family novels, but I couldn’t create a believable fictional family when my own was so all-consuming. Instead, when my kids were teens, I published a memoir, Trove, about a woman in mid-life who was searching for treasure, both real and metaphorical. 

I know the creative life is different for everyone, but when I finally had the space in my home, it seemed that a space had cleared in my head as well.

Eventually, the kids grew up. During that pandemic summer of 2020, when they were busy with their own pursuits, I found and watered the fiction seed that had laid dormant for two decades. I’d wake up early to work on a story about a psychologist and his mysterious patient, Mira. I wrote one thousand words each day for three months with the kind of ease and clarity I’d never before experienced in my creative work. By the end of the summer, I had a complete manuscript, one I was proud of.

This month, I am publishing my debut novel, Wednesdays at One, not with babes in arms, but with young adult children who are excellent cheerleaders and social media consultants. I have become a novelist decades beyond my original timeline, as I enter my third act, an age when many people are winding down their careers, rather than getting started. The fact that these two events—launching my children and launching my novel—are happening in tandem is not lost on me. I know the creative life is different for everyone, but when I finally had the space in my home, it seemed that a space had cleared in my head as well.

At its simplest, I feel like my publishing story is about persistence, belief, and doggedly keeping the dream alive. For some women writers my age, these years are liberating and productive as they reap the rewards of the creative life they have tirelessly cultivated. But persistence and hard work are only part of this story. The other part is the acceptance that raising a family asked more of me than I ever imagined. I gave it everything and I’m proud to see my fiercely independent children with a fire in their bellies for the work they want to do in the world. 

I have only one choice now. To give myself grace. To stop comparing myself to other women—many of them mothers—who succeeded earlier in their lives and recognize that I walked my path to publication in the only way I could. I need to forgive myself for the length of this journey, and I need to celebrate that twenty-five years after setting off, I’ve arrived at my destination. Odysseus has nothing on me. 

Life looks different these days. The hours that were once consumed with cooking, caregiving, and family time I now devote to reading, writing, and publicizing my book. On weekend days, my husband and I play leisurely rounds of disc golf. On Monday nights, I take a magic class at the adult education center. And on Tuesday evenings when Mark is at his weekly ultimate frisbee game, I go to the theater, take walks with friends, or indulge myself by doing nothing.

On Independence Day this year, Mark and I went to the beach without our children. I spent what has always been a family-oriented day enjoying a cookout followed by fireworks. And I celebrated my own independence as a mother and debut novelist. In my younger years, I remember craving that sense of independence from my parents, aching for the freedom to do as I pleased without an adult’s judgment and oversight. But with my children out in the world, this current experience of independence feels weightier, more earned. It is the freedom of having done the tireless, under-valued, decades-long job of raising children and emerging on the other side. The world is now mine to explore as I wish, and I have some stories to tell.

Sandra A. Miller is the author of the award-winning memoir Trove: A Woman’s Search for Truth and Buried Treasure. She has written about relationships and self-discovery for The Boston Globe, The Christian Science Monitor and many other publications. Her essay about her unconventional love story with her husband was made into the short film, “Wait,” directed by Trudie Styler and starring Kerry Washington. She teaches writing at the University of Massachusetts, Lowell, and lives outside of Boston with her husband, with whom she has two grown children. Her debut novel, Wednesday at One, is out tomorrow.