“In these ‘senior adult’ years we have the time to explore, the experience to commit to paper, and the wit to balance emotions necessary to make writing more than a pastime or an escape from boredom.” –Frances Weaver
Late bloomers … Coming into our own glory and majesty late in life. I’m a member of this distinguished club. I proudly wave my membership papers, at age 53.
Sometimes. On other days, I’m not as proud. Those days I slide down a slippery slope into old age, faster with each passing day. On those days I feel the ‘end of my time’ breeze caressing my cheeks.
Then, I teeter on the edge of beating myself up. Why did I take so long to discover myself? Why did I wait so long to begin writing? Why did I waste so many years?
In 1993 (at the ‘ripe old age’ of 35) my then-counselor/now-friend, Dr. Barbara Sinor, encouraged me to write, saying I was a writer. It only took me 15 years to believe her.
I dabbled. I wished and dreamed. I made many false starts, but mostly wished. Wishing doesn’t put words on paper, does it?
After 50, I finally got serious. I’m inching along now, making more progress some weeks than others. But the magic is that I’m starting to believe it, to believe in myself.
Synchronicity. I discovered a lone paperback book, in the middle of a vendors booth filled with “collectibles”. I couldn’t pass up the intriguing title: The Girls with the Grandmother Faces: A Celebration of Life’s Potential for those over 55 (especially for a quarter!)
I devoured it.
Frances Weaver’s book, new to my radar, jumped right up to my favorites.
Frances herself started writing later in life … at age 53! She wrote this book at age 60. She had an impressive writing career. She was prolific author of many books and columns and spoke at writing conferences before her death in 2004. Her zest for life and learning is a beacon; encouraging and inspiring me to continue.
I send gratitude to her, across the divide separating this physical world from the souls of those passed. I’m not ‘getting old’; I’m gaining the assets of experience and maturity.
Francesasks at the end of her magnificent book, “Just who are you going to be for the last act, the last twenty percent of your life? How much will the rest of your life characterize your feeling for life itself?”
I shall continue. I’m a writer. This writer/girl just happens to have a grandmother’s face.