I’m a bit confused. I don’t actually know whether to be happy or sad. In fact my feelings are in total disarray. The kids were in town the other day and brought me home a copy of The New Yorker. They said I might like to read an article in it, pointing to one of the cover stories. Do Great Novelists Make Bad Parents? by James Wood.
Well, I can tell you that set me thinking. I put it to one side. I couldn’t bear to read what it had to say in case I was guilty. That night in bed I was still upset so I asked hubby if the family were staging an intervention on account of my addiction to writing.
“What’s brought this on?” he asked from behind his ipad.
I explained about the article in The New Yorker, and about the great novelists being bad parents and I was wondering if the kids thought I was a bad parent.
He gave me one of his are you serious looks.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, “I don’t think you have much to worry about on that score. It’s just that your novel is not quite finished. You haven’t even published a novel, and nobody knows if it’s great. So I don’t think they’re talking about you.”
That set me wondering and worrying about whether I’d prefer to be a bad parent with a great novel or a great parent with a bad novel.
How sad am I?