I got married soon after college. And then we had kids.
Well, one kid to start with I guess. He was very adorable, as first kids often are, and he was very demanding. I scarcely had time to think anymore, never mind write (oh, and I gave up the job--full-time motherhood is definitely just what it says--full-time). But I told my son stories all the time. I fell asleep reading books to him; woke up to his frantic cries of "That's not what it says!" And, when he announced that a story wasn't "real" unless it was written down, I wrote my Christmas tales with bright illustrations--borrowed his colored pens.
I wrote about a boy and his cat and my son took the book to school and it disappeared. Maybe someone really liked it. We had three kids to our name by then though, and I had school commitments, pre-school commitments, baby-sitting commitments, chess-club commitments, helping in class commitments... so I couldn't rewrite it. I still told stories (lots of stories that taught kids how to play chess) but I never wrote them down. Not that it mattered--all I need is to close my eyes; the memories and the tales still rattle in my head.
I took a writing course as well, and never finished it. The mathematician in me worked out that was how they could afford their guarantees. "We'll pay back your fees if you don't succeed," but if you fail to finish you're on your own. Still, I had a good excuse--we emigrated to the States, three kids and all!