This is a happy story.

Our autistic eleven-year-old son and I have had a years-long ongoing battle over lights. Not every evening, but often enough, he will go through the house and turn off the lamps so that he can sit in the dark. Meanwhile, the other six people in the house prefer the lights on. Cue the battle and echolalia script to convince him to turn lamps back on—at least a few of them.

As I write this, it’s 6:30 a.m and he has been up for a while. Not long ago, he came into our bedroom with a, “Mom! Mom! Can you get up now?”

“Sure.”

I eased my thirty-eight week, grand multipara geriatric pregnant self from the bed as he rushed me along, and I followed him downstairs. I waddled into the living room to discover that every. single. light. in the house was on, including random ones like the wall sconces.

He waved his hand around the room. “I turned on the lights!”

Immediately I understood why he wanted me to come downstairs. I pulled him into a hug and kissed his cheek. (He always resists physical affection, but I did it anyway.) “Yes, I see. This is very thoughtful of you.”

He said a bit more about the process of turning on the lights, and which lights. Then he said, “Today is April 9th!”

“Yes.”

“And it’s Saturday!”

“Yes.”

“And you know what that means?”

I did, but I went through the Q-and-A anyway. “What does that mean, Ben?”

“It’s your birthday!”

He turned on the lights for my birthday.

Best birthday gift ever.

“You have five young children at home. How on God’s green earth are you finding time to write novels? In 2020, no less!”

People often ask me this question. Those of you who have visited Casa Ortiz understand exactly why. We have a loud and rambunctious crew and some challenging family dynamics, owing to children with special needs. And now they are home. All the time.

Actual footage.

“How are you finding time to work?” is a fair question.

I can rattle off the usual responses: supportive spouse, outside help, limited hobbies, coffee, Disney/Pixar, low housekeeping expectations, proper psychiatric care, and stubborn determination. How does anyone find time to do anything? Like most writers, I work around the edges.

But my real secret to getting work done?

Answer: Two stanzas from a prayer by St. Thomas Aquinas.

Grant that I may
never crave to do things impulsively,
nor disdain to do what is burdensome,

Lest I begin things before I should
or abandon them before finishing.

(St. Thomas Aquinas, “To Acquire the Virtues,” from The Aquinas Prayer Book.)

Writing is both a natural fit and a vocation. I’m intuitive, sensitive, idealistic, artistic, and analytical—all good traits for a storyteller to have. The hours I spend writing, alone and in silence, feel like mere minutes. But I’m also impulsive. I often overcommit myself. I hyperfocus on fun tasks but cannot stay focused on boring ones. Sometimes I’m so lost in thought, I forget to type. (Can you tell I have ADHD?) I overthink things, I panic, I procrastinate, I wallow in discouragement, and sometimes I fail to finish what I’ve set out to do.

In order to write, I have to do battle with myself.

Some days I win. Some days I lose.

I pray St. Thomas’ words often.

God answers.

All is grace. That’s my secret.