It is a dark and stormy morning. My two children, one of whom just threw up and the other who just nursed, are downstairs sleeping. I am upstairs in a shadowy corner typing on a little black laptop in front of a shoved-back sewing machine.

I have come to realize that I can't not write. Laying fame aside and having long since given up on fortune, I write on. I wonder why sometimes. Why do I write instead of rest? Why am I still working on a book I thought I'd finished over two years ago? Why do I write letters to editors at 4:24 a.m.? How did I survive on just three hours of sleep sometimes during a really rough pregnancy? Why can I not seem to be able to stop thinking about things to write, day and night?

I have come to the conclusion that I am possessed. I am driven by something, Someone rather, who wants to speak through me. It is an honor. It is a gift. It is a passion. Passion lights me up inside and keeps candles burning at both ends. It keeps me up long after a full day's work. It pulls me out from under my cozy covers up to my little corner cluttered with piles of paper encircling a computer with a broken fan and a portrait of a boy holding a teddy bear.

That little boy and his baby brother are what motivate me to write at night. It took me a little too long to learn that it is quite frustrating, if not virtually impossible, to get much work done with a baby pulling at your pant legs and printer cords, or having to interrupt an important thought to wipe a bum. Even having Ernie and Bert's "Tiger Hunt" in the not-so-background can be pretty distracting.

The other reason that I write when they're not around is that I just don't want to miss being with them very much. Even if I could find good childcare, I don't think I'd use it too often. I like being with these guys. I like taking them to the zoo and the library and the pet store and the park. I like watching my baby work on walking and seeing his delight when I roll a ball to him or under-duck him in the baby swings. I want to cuddle him when he falls asleep and when he wakes up. I want to be the one my first-grader looks for when he comes off the bus at the end of the day, even when, maybe especially when, he's grumpy. They need me. And I want them.

I have been seeking a steady sense of balance, picturing myself in the middle of family and other work. I sometimes feel as though the two conflict, as though saying yes to one means saying no to the other. I am wrestling with questions: What am I missing? Why do I choose to be tired? What should I lay aside for later? What am I supposed to do when? How can I do it in a way which is beneficial instead of detrimental to my marriage and children?

I don't need to be reminded that no one wishes they'd spent more time at work when they're on their deathbed. What I need to remember, and live out every day, is the fact that life is best dedicated to doing things that will last forever.