Many of my literary heroes had no children: Katherine Mansfield, Edith Wharton, Eudora Welty. Virginia Woolf was childless, and her famous declaration on the importance of a room of one's own made me feel she was even rather chilly toward houseguests.
From these authors, I gleaned that the pursuit of one's passion subsumed all of one's energies, leaving little behind. At age 30, my efforts paid off when I learned my first book was going to be published. I burst into tears; it was a happiness unlike any I had known.
Not long after, a male colleague at a dinner party warned that, if I wanted to have a child, there wasn't "time to spare." But I did have time. I didn't want children. And I married a man who felt the same way. Instead, I taught and wrote. My husband and I held dinner parties and traveled, trying out those early dreams.
But as my sisters began to have kids and I greeted my new nieces and nephews, something shifted. I believed that being an aunt would be the perfect fit--all glory, no guts. It was lovely to have children to spoil without having to worry about the daily realities of parenting.
But to my surprise, aunthood brought its own sort of discontent--a subtle, quiet appetite for more. After public readings, I was frequently asked if I had children--for no reason that I could discern other than my being female. One day a woman in the audience blurted, "Diana's books are her children!" I knew she was trying to be helpful, but I felt a twinge of discomfort. I wasn't sure I wanted my books to be my children.
From these authors, I gleaned that the pursuit of one's passion subsumed all of one's energies, leaving little behind. At age 30, my efforts paid off when I learned my first book was going to be published. I burst into tears; it was a happiness unlike any I had known.
Not long after, a male colleague at a dinner party warned that, if I wanted to have a child, there wasn't "time to spare." But I did have time. I didn't want children. And I married a man who felt the same way. Instead, I taught and wrote. My husband and I held dinner parties and traveled, trying out those early dreams.
But as my sisters began to have kids and I greeted my new nieces and nephews, something shifted. I believed that being an aunt would be the perfect fit--all glory, no guts. It was lovely to have children to spoil without having to worry about the daily realities of parenting.
But to my surprise, aunthood brought its own sort of discontent--a subtle, quiet appetite for more. After public readings, I was frequently asked if I had children--for no reason that I could discern other than my being female. One day a woman in the audience blurted, "Diana's books are her children!" I knew she was trying to be helpful, but I felt a twinge of discomfort. I wasn't sure I wanted my books to be my children.
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