Stay, illusion! If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, Speak to me

I had this idea that giving birth would unleash my dormant creative powers and I would suddenly be able to sit down and write. That hasn't happened. I was thinking yesterday about all the germs of novels that have floated in and out of my life -- all those concepts I toyed with and obsessed on and even researched, but never wrote about. Now many of them don't speak to me anymore, so they'll never be written. They are ghost novels, a record of my mental life that was never made. Those books are lost forever. Would they have been any good?