Ah, the trials and tribulations of being a writer-mom. You pop out a kid, and suddenly, you’ve got a wealth of material to mine for your next novel—whether they like it or not. Just ask Emma Donoghue and Allegra Goodman, who have spent years shamelessly using their offspring as muses, sources, and—let’s be real—unpaid consultants.
Emma Donoghue, who clearly subscribes to the belief that parenting is an all-you-can-eat buffet of creative inspiration, admits that her kids regularly mock her for milking their childhood experiences for her books. And yet, she forges ahead, turning her “ruthless efficiency” as a mom into a prolific writing career. You see, while the rest of us struggle to keep our homes from looking like post-apocalyptic wastelands, Donoghue somehow manages to churn out novel after novel—each one steeped in the anxieties, wonders, and sheer unpredictability of childhood and adolescence.
Meanwhile, Allegra Goodman, with her four children (yes, four—because apparently writing and parenting weren’t challenging enough on their own), takes a similar approach. Her novel Sam was largely inspired by her daughter Miranda, who, rather than sitting down quietly with a book like a proper literary child, was off climbing, dancing, and generally being an active human being. When Miranda finally read Sam, her response was, essentially, “You’re welcome.” And honestly? Fair.
But Goodman takes it a step further, proving that motherhood isn’t just a source of inspiration—it’s a relentless research machine. Her latest novel, Isola, started during a road trip with her brood, in between diaper changes and bouts of sleep deprivation. As she nursed her newborn and read a passage about a young French noblewoman marooned on an island, she thought: “Wait. What?? How? Why? I want to write about this.” Because, of course, when most parents are bleary-eyed from night feedings, they’re lucky if they can form complete sentences—let alone conceive a whole historical novel.
Naturally, these two literary masterminds go about their historical research in delightfully obsessive ways. Donoghue, for example, admits to getting a little too deep into Horace Walpole’s 48 volumes of correspondence for Life Mask, which sounds like a level of academic masochism even the most dedicated grad students wouldn’t sign up for. She much prefers writing about people whose lives haven’t been over-documented, which is why The Paris Express is built around lesser-known figures rather than celebrities like Sarah Bernhardt, who, apparently, would have “pulled focus too much.” Translation: Some historical figures are just too much of a diva to share the page with Donoghue’s carefully crafted characters.
Goodman, on the other hand, took an art history deep dive to capture the essence of Isola. She didn’t just read about her protagonist’s time period—she immersed herself in it, analyzing sixteenth-century paintings, altar pieces, and even the delicate construction of period instruments. Because why write about the past when you can practically live in it?
And let’s not forget the physical research. Donoghue, in particular, relies heavily on YouTube’s wealth of nerdy mansplainers to learn survival skills she has no intention of ever using. Fire-starting? Check. Frog-catching? Sure. Driving a train? Why not? Goodman, meanwhile, took a more hands-on approach, boarding a replica of the Golden Hind to experience the claustrophobic misery of sea voyages in the 1500s. Because nothing says dedication like voluntarily subjecting yourself to the cramped quarters of a historic ship while pondering how to make a fictional character suffer even more.
As for outlining, these two are on opposite ends of the spectrum. Donoghue is a meticulous planner, mapping out every scene before she even starts writing. If a chapter isn’t working, she has no qualms about metaphorically yeeting a character off the train (a luxury real-life train conductors, regrettably, do not have). Goodman, on the other hand, embraces the chaos, letting the story emerge through revision and rethinking. She even spent years sitting on Isola before speaking a word of it to anyone—because, apparently, she enjoys keeping secrets from the world.
And yet, despite their different approaches, both authors understand one universal truth about writing: Every novel is a living thing. Research never truly stops. Revisions are inevitable. And sometimes, you need to “push a character off the train” to make room for a better story.
Ultimately, whether they meticulously plan or let the muse take the wheel, Donoghue and Goodman prove that parenting and novel-writing are basically the same thing—an exhausting, chaotic, deeply fulfilling process where you’re constantly making things up as you go along.
And yes, sometimes, your kids will roll their eyes at you for it. But hey, at least they’ll have an interesting childhood story to tell at parties.
