There are lots of misconceptions about writers and writing. There’s the idea that writing comes from divine inspiration — that the muse whispers in your ear and you write it down blissfully as you’re wearing a smoking jacket and tiarra. Then there’s the idea of the writer as the matyr, the one who suffers, who opens a vein and bleeds on the page.

Here’s what writing is like for me: It’s like having a small child whining in my ear constantly: play with me, play with me. And I say, “No, I can’t right now. I have to work/cook/wash dishes/do laundry. I’ll play with you later.” So I ignore it and images flash through my mind that would make great scenes, but my hands are full of chicken parts and I can’t write them down.

Finally I get a break and I tell the child, “Okay, I can play with you now.” But it says, “Nope.” And I say, “pullease,” and it says, “Uh-uh. I’m too tired. I want to watch TV. Forget it.”

Every once in a while the child and I are in synch and when we are it feels like flying in a dream. But most of the time, there’s this push/pull that is very much like motherhood. The same struggle for control, the same frustration over time.