I’m a romance novelist. For most of my career, I’ve had a very specific writing routine. I wake up semi-early, well rested, and clear-headed. Coffee brews in delicious silence. I sit down at my desk, open my laptop, and dive into a state of intense concentration, no interruptions allowed.
Then I had a baby.
I think you can see where I’m going with this.
A few months after my son was born, I remember holding him in the dark, just before sunrise. I hadn’t slept — for days, maybe? Or weeks? Honestly, I couldn’t tell. I knew only three things for sure: I loved my kid beyond measure; he wouldn’t go down in his crib (like, ever, no matter how many techniques I tried); and the deadline for my new novel was approaching with the speed and force of a runaway train. I was also depressed. Severely, debilitatingly depressed. As a writer, my entire job is to shepherd characters towards a happily ever after. But how do you do that when you can’t imagine a happy ending for yourself? Is it even possible, I wondered, to create art without the ability to focus? Without sleep? When your brain feels like sad goop, and you can only type with one hand (because you’re nap-trapped, and your baby is latched precariously onto your boob)?
To top it off, this book was supposed to be sexy. Spies-in-sunny-Italy sexy. Producing anything like that — in spit-up covered loungewear, while using my breast pump as a paperweight — seemed hilariously out of reach. As a new mom, all of my old productivity hacks were failing me. Wake up early to write, as a prime example. How could I wake up early if I’d never really gone to bed? I decided that — if I wanted to keep the momentum in my career — this novel would just have to be written in the cracks, in the shallows, in the pitch-blackness of two a.m. (when I was already awake and nursing the baby). I would have to work slowly but deliberately, avoiding the siren call of doomscrolling Instagram. But if I managed it, if I summoned all the willpower left in my body, the novel would exist . . . and that would be something? More than something.
Looking back, I think the book helped save me. Every page I wrote, every chapter I edited, felt like reclaiming a piece of myself. Here, my Word document said, this is what your brain can accomplish. You are a storyteller. You are still you. I desperately needed that reminder: that I could give so much to a tiny human, but I could also hold space for myself. The book gave me a thread to grasp in the darkness. I credit a lot of that to the genre. Romance novels, on the whole, are instant mood lifters. They’re hope factories. They’re spaces where women’s dreams, desires and autonomy are respected, where — despite the odds — problems are manageable and love always triumphs in the final act. And my goodness, let me tell you: that’s some powerful stuff. It lets sunlight in.
Obviously, writing a romance novel didn’t single-handedly cure my postpartum depression; it would be ridiculous to suggest that. Therapy and more sleep were my biggest lifelines, as was the unwavering support of my mom and some amazing women in my community, who’d walked several miles in my shoes. But I also truly believe that the act of creating something fun and sexy and beautiful — the act of writing, of clearing an artistic space where I could freely breathe — was another form of therapy. It forced me to tap into sunny days; to place myself on a beach in Italy; to get swept up in the joy of a love story. Romance novels — reading them and writing them — are great tools for self-care. And the romance community is one of the most supportive places out there. When I finally wrote THE END and sent the manuscript to my editor (after many gracious deadline extensions!), I texted my author friends, I cried, I made apple-carrot muffins with my son— and I felt like we had all accomplished something together.
Around my son’s first birthday, a box showed up at my front door: a dozen early copies of a romance novel. A book that represented the lightest, most hopeful parts of me: in bright-pink lettering to boot. My son and I unboxed the copies together, his little hands gleefully tugging at the bubble wrap. My own version of a happily ever after.
Carlie Walker attended the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where she first majored in Peace, War and Defense, a feeder program for intelligence services — before realizing that she is way too anxious to be a spy. Having gone on to study at Oxford University and at City, University of London, she worked briefly in publishing before becoming the bestselling author of seven books for children and young adults. She has a registered 250-pound dead lift, volunteers in a cat shelter, and used to spend her Saturdays practicing Krav Maga. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband, son, and their American dingo.
