A.C. Fuller

I started working on my novel on December 2, 2012. Over the previous ten years I’d aborted several novels halfway through, written a few screenplays, done some journalism, and edited a handful of books. But it was 25 months ago that I got serious about writing—and finishing—a novel.

I’m still not entirely sure what caused this sudden determination, but I know that part of it was that I knew I would learn a lot along the way. And I have. Writing and rewriting this book has been much like the process of training for my first marathon. The 26.2 miles on race day were nothing compared to what I learned about my body, and myself, during the months of training that went into it.

But I also learned a lot about my kids while writing this book. Here are the three things that stand out to me today.

1. They don’t care about my book.

When I started writing the novel, a lot of people were excited for me. I had tons of support, especially from my wife, Amanda. But my kids didn’t care. They were leading their own lives, growing up, and learning. They needed me for love, support, rides to and from various places, meals—all the things parents provide. Whether my book was any good did not make their lists.

Sometimes, I tried to talk to Charlie about my work:

Me: “Wow, I had a great day writing. I think this book is going to work.”

Charlie: “What’s its name?”

Me: “The Anonymous Source.”

Charlie: “Dad, that’s ridiculous.” (Age 2).

Then there was:

Me: “Hey Charlie, do you think I should change the ending to my book? I just don’t think it’s believable.”

Charlie: “Put a bunny in there. Stories need bunnies.” (Still 2).

Or, more recently:

Me: “Hey Charlie, I’m feeling crummy ’cause I didn’t get any writing done today.”

Charlie: “Can you make me some toast?” (Age 3).

It’s easy for me to get wrapped up in my work, to let it engulf me. And sometimes this is an important part of the creative process. But there’s been nothing better than being reminded of how unimportant it ultimately is.

2. They are absolutely supportive of me.

When I got serious about the book, I learned that I would need to change my routines if I actually wanted to finish it. I began going to sleep between eight and nine every night so I could get up at four to write.

I felt guilty about this as it was time I used to spend with my kids, who tend to go to bed on the late side. But I soon learned that—even though they didn’t care about my book—they were always supportive of me doing what I needed to do.

And even as my daughter learned to judge how my writing day went by the quantity of snacks missing from her “for lunches only” snack shelf, she still had my back.

3. They care about my happiness, not my “accomplishments.”

When I signed my publishing deal, my daughter Arden was really happy for me. That night we made blender sorbet and watched some lame TV show and had a great night.

But I could tell that she wasn’t happy for me because my book was going to be published. Kids aren’t proud of their parents the same way parents are proud of their kids. At least not at these early ages. She’s 12 and can appreciate that it’s a big step for me, but she was happy because I was satisfied, because I was happy, and happiness is infectious.

Charlie, now 3 1/2, still doesn’t really care.