Entry #31: 7/22/23: What the Hell Happened Here?

Although I’m not a pessimist by nature, I do have to admit that this is what I find myself saying every morning when I look in the mirror. Out loud, if the truth be known, though no one can actually hear me except possibly my husband who is the next room, and he just says “what?” Which is pretty much his response to everything I say, so it doesn’t really count. The reason this statement has become a daily ritual is not because my reflection has become vastly altered in the previous eight hours (during which I was mostly sleeping), but in a more generalized sense, I never cease to be amazed that the aging woman in the mirror is actually me. 

My children, who are 52 and 49, both clearly have a 25 year-old inside of them frantically trying to escape their middle-aged bodies. Primarily this comes in the form of strenuous daily exercise routines (both), frantic work and intense social schedules (my daughter), and 50 mile hiking and camping trips with other like-minded age deniers (my son). Also, having watched me care for their 90 year-old grandmother before she died 10 years ago (and remembering it well), they seem to be practicing potentially caring for me, a process which alternates between solicitous behavior (which I confess is kind of nice), and, I suspect, what amounts to a fear of their mortality. What they don’t realize, of course is that when I’m 90, they’ll be 67 and 70, and having similar expectations of their own children.

But what they truly may not understand now is that there is 40 year-old woman inside of this 72 year-old body who desperately yearns to escape as well.  In other words, just because my knees hurt and I forget things, doesn’t mean I don’t still dance around my living room to the 60s music I have secretly stored on my iPhone. 

So now, you are asking what does this have to do with writing…since this, in fact, is a blog about writing. Quite a bit, actually. Because to be taken “seriously” as a writer, I’ve discovered that you have to be under 30, have a weird haircut, a troubled life, or be male. When you’re a 72 year-old woman, and your life is actually quite pleasant, and your hair (while not cut in the traditional senior citizen style) looks fairly normal, the average reader is not especially interested in what you have to say. What your granddaughter thinks you want to hear, for example, is that her friend said, “oh your grandmother writes novels? That is so cute!” 

What I’ve discovered about my own writing (now that I just published novel #10) is that my protagonists are suddenly quite a bit younger. My first two books had 60-something main characters (which is what I was at the time) with grown children they are frantically trying to understand and/or create a bond with (no comment). One was divorced with grown children who worshiped the discarded spouse (not commenting here either, but suffice it to say it wasn’t hard to write). The other was recently widowed with grown children who were also worshipful of the deceased husband, but none the less devoted to the remaining parent (a more hopeful, albeit perhaps imaginary scenario). 

Suddenly in novel #3, the protagonist becomes a snarfy 20-something, a pattern that repeats itself a number of times afterwards, including the most recent book. Psychologically speaking, what does this indicate? That I am trying to relive my youth? Appeal to a younger audience? Create the illusion that I am one of the above mentioned successful writers? Or possibly just admit that there is nothing too interesting about my current age and lifestyle that is worth writing about?

That final statement, by the way, is not true…in case anyone younger than 60 happens to read this blog. This is evidenced by the monthly Zoom chat I have with my high school classmates; a group that numbers less than 40 and are all women. I’m hesitant to reveal the content of some of these chats, but suffice it to say these are well-educated, well-read, well-travelled women in their early 70s, who did not find a discussion of a recent picture of their male counterparts (from the boys’ school across the street) beneath the intellectual nature of their discussions. 

Novel #4 (Taking Flight), by the way has a male protagonist. Oddly, it’s my favorite book I’ve written, and now that I think about it, I also like my hair the way it is.