She sat rigid in her attention; her hands froze over the computer keyboard. Shock furrowed her sweat-beaded brow. The black and sinister computer screen glowed with pretended innocence in front of her.
It took only a heartbeat to confirm the reality of the situation and a tormented plea escaped her. “No! No! Please, not now!” Her hands clenched in a tight ball of frustrated restraint.
The wonderful, surely even brilliant, dialogue which was displayed only moments before was suddenly no where to be found. What happened to it? Dare she push anymore keys in an attempt to recover what was lost, or would it only provoke the evil Cyclops before her into swallowing the words voiding them forever?
In spite of what she had taught her grandchildren, “please” didn’t work with computers like it did grandmothers.
Could there be a secret Heimlich maneuver yet unknown to this less than computer savvy writer that forced the electronic knucklehead to give back what it wasn’t supposed to swallow, like the jawbreaker she once dislodged from her nephew’s throat?
How firm were deadlines anyway? A chill raced down her spine in spite of the recent hot flash. Any contract that contained the word dead couldn’t be good. After fifty one tends to pay much more attention to anything that could intentionally or unintentionally result in the above mentioned condition.
Did whining, “my computer ate my homework” qualify as a valid excuse for delay in this day and age of electronics?
She put her head into her hands and breathed out a silent prayer for strength and wisdom. When she looked up she caught the reflection of her wrinkles and double chin in the blank screen. Tears burned in her eyes and throat. Maybe she was too old to start a new career in writing? Maybe it was already too late?
The acrid smell of something burning jerked her attention away from the abyss of self-pity as the door chime on the security system alerted her to the entrance of someone into the house. She jumped up, instinctively grabbing the jump-drive from the computer port. “Ow!” Her left leg almost folded under her with a cramp from sitting too long. She hurried hobbling as fast as she could from her office as she tried to shake the pain from her limb. How long had she been engrossed in her work?
Before she could reach the kitchen, where the smoke and odor emanated she heard her husband’s voice of concern calling her.
“Hey, Hon, I turned off the timer and took out what I think is, a…was, a loaf of bread. It’s completely black and still smoking, so I’m not sure. Should I run water over it just to make sure the fire’s out?”
Before she could answer him, the phone rang and she picked up the cordless and wedged it against her ear with her shoulder as she opened the window to air out the kitchen. Her husband winked and smiled with understanding and pointed silently at the mail he had delivered and laid on the countertop. He waved good-bye and made his escape back out the door to his shop, throwing her a kiss as he left. She puckered up and smacked out loud like she caught it.
“Good you’re at home! I really need to talk to you.” A familiar female voice sobbed. A friend in crisis, too upset to question the curious kissing noise and chaos she surely heard in the background, was on the line. The next forty-five minutes were given freely to her need of encouragement and council.
A funny thing happened to the grandmother-writer as she comforted her friend. She also found peace as she listened and prayed. Her disasters took on a new perspective as she heeded her own advice. All she had to do was let go of the fear of failure.
The letter she had grabbed and used to wave over her head to make the smoke detector cease its squeal of alarm turned out to be a notification of a forgotten article about to be published and another letter contained a prize check for a poem she wrote for a contest. She had won first place. All were wonderful reminders that it wasn’t too late.
* * *
Show don’t tell. This is great advice for any newbie.
Though a bit exaggerated, I lived those experiences listed above. Maybe you have too? If you are twenty or thirty and have been writing and submitting for years you probably have a few more stories about juggling family, friends, work and writing.
Even at forty it’s not too late, they tell me, to get out that book tumbling around inside of you like rocks in the polisher. But what if you are over fifty or sixty or?
Should someone start a writing career after the age of fifty-five? I hope so, I did. Oh, I’ve been a storyteller since I was a child, but only the last few years did I feel the pressing need to share my stories with strangers.
I had no valid excuse for delaying any longer. My children are grown yet remain great encouragers for me. It’s nice to have your family proud of what you are trying to accomplish. My husband is my biggest supporter and will even help around the kitchen when needed without grumbling.
But after being out of school for such a long time, was it possible to learn the computer skills and all of the rules required with writing professionally after fifty? Sure!
Not only is it possible but its fun. After fifty you get to enjoy it without some of the pressures that the younger folks are dealing with. No crying babies to comfort or change or small children lurking or tugging on your clothing needing your undivided attention. The household is more self-sufficient and the pace is slower.
Well, the part about the pace being slower might be wishful thinking. After you begin your new journey of writing you will find there are fewer minutes to waste. Your characters and the craft begin to demand more and more of your time and attention. Your world expands exponentially as you join writing groups full of wonderful, talented people that actually want to help you accomplish your goals and whom care little about your age. Wow! What a concept. People, like yourself, that understand when you talk about the voices in your head and stories that won’t hush until you’re forced to stop and write them down. They don’t look at you with curious, squinted eyes and a fake smile of understanding as they secretly hope you haven’t already slipped into the world of dementia no matter how entertaining your stories are.
This reminds me of the story of the son who brought his father to the psychiatrist. “Sir, my father thinks he’s a chicken.” The psychiatrist tapped his finger against his chin as he watched the older man cluck and strut across the room. “And how long has he been like this?” The son replied, “About five years.” The psychiatrist stood up suddenly with obvious alarm. “Why, have you waited so long to get him help?” The son hung his head in embarrassment and confessed, “Because we needed the eggs.”
Hopefully I won’t be laying eggs for the next five years but if I do at least my family and friends will appreciate my efforts.
If you have been writing and writing without your perfect book being sold, don’t despair it’s not too late. It’s never too late to start writing! Nor is it too late to sell your story no matter what genre it is in. The market is ever changing so write what’s in your heart. Allow the words to flow through you like a river set free to quench the thirst of many readers. Search for the right group or groups of writers to help you grow and encourage you to succeed as you encourage them. You can do it, it’s not too late.
Oh, and in the meantime don’t forget to enjoy the journey. Only you can give voice to the stories within you. No matter what your age or physical condition you can remain forever youthful and beautiful through your stories. Whether you’ve been writing for years and published hundreds of books and articles or you’ve only just begun the journey, don’t ever give up on your dream. It’s never too late.
Tags: Writing
