My second pregnancy came with uncontrollable morning sickness. I'd had some nausea with my first, but this time it was revolting and it went on for the full first trimester. I was teaching a heavy load in two different undergraduate subjects, in two different disciplines, and my schedule left no room for morning sickness. I often had to hurriedly devise group work, so I could dash to the nearest bathroom. My life consisted of teaching, marking, caring for a demanding toddler who had a tendency to climb every piece of furniture he could find and generally put his life in danger, and stressing about my unfinished novel. My husband worked insane hours to make the mortgage payments (my casual teaching barely scraped minimum wage, despite the long hours) and I barely saw him. I was prone to lying awake in the depths of the night, worrying about money, worrying about my career, and worrying about the damn book.

Art Spiegelman was my companion on many of those sleepless nights. Artie, the mouse-masked narrator of Maus, articulated the fears I had about my research. He made me feel less alone in the long night.

Art Spiegelman's Maus

If there was an answer to my novel's problems, I figured Spiegelman might well have it.