"You get old and you realize there are no answers, just stories.”
~ Garrison Keillor
I'm having a heck of a time concentrating on things-writing-related these days. I feel that as a nice old lady who still writes books because she doesn't know how not to, no one wants to hear what I think or know or feel.
Not such a bad thing, right? It's good to know when my relevancy is in question, isn't it?
No, I'm not really convinced of that. And here's why.
I'm not a good enough writer to separate who I am from the stories I tell. That's why I write about older people. They're more fun for me because of the things they no longer worry about. And the things that they do. They care about romance, about love, about being and having a partner. They care about sex ... or sometimes they don't. But they care about staying healthy, about not being someone's responsibility, about living the best life they can. Their own best, not someone else's.
Although I'm constantly upset by the political climate, worried about the difficulties my kids and grands will face in coming years if something doesn't change, I will not lean that far into my life story. But I will write people with bad knees, with cancer scares, with hurt from being ghosted, I'm sorry, not sorry if readers don't like that my heroines go to church, that they pray, and that, conversely, they swear, tell dirty jokes, and drink cheap wine with their girlfriends out of bottles with screw-on lids.
I am thinking that maybe I will stop trying to separate myself from the stories. Because the experiences of women-of-a-certain-age are deep and meaningful. They have left all kinds of scars in their wake. Their memory bank is full-to-bursting of good, bad, and life-changing things. They have loved, deeply.
They are not only relevant, they are to be valued.
I'll climb off my soapbox now. I finished a book last week--yay, me!--and have written 875 words on a new story.
About Holly Noel Neff. Her husband and the love of her life died three days after they retired, an hour after they signed the papers selling their house.
She has no partner, no job, no home. Is there really a reason to go on living? I guess we'll see, as soon as Holly lets me know.
Happy fall!
.png)
Fee and Jed were best friends who fell in love, but that was high school. Life and families and other loves had happened since that dear and distant time. They’re friends again, comfortable with each other and having so much fun at Christmas time in Dickens. They’re not still in love, but…wait…could it be happening again?
Pre-order now. The sweet Christmas story, with new title, cover, and a few changes will release on September 15. Buy links are below.
https://books2read.com/u/bogDg0
I have reached the age where I don't care what people who don't love me think of me. Sometimes I don't care about what anybody thinks of me. I am also realizing that I have become a font of useless knowledge. Ask me a question about something obscure and I can probably answer it, but I can't remember what I came into the room to get. Go figure.
ReplyDeleteAh, yes, this sounds sooo familiar to me. There is freedom in that not caring, isn't there? I love the useless knowledge, too, but sometime wish I could replace some of it with a little short-term memory.
DeleteGreat post!
ReplyDeleteThank you!
DeleteGreat post!
ReplyDeleteThank you!
ReplyDeleteNice post. I think writers write what they feel most comfortable with. I'm a dreamer and write about characters of all ages, but seems to lean toward characters with families (or main characters who have brothers or sisters) to help add to the snarky or humorous dialogue. I'm just thrilled to still be writing! lol
ReplyDeleteOh, gosh, me, too!!! I didn't think I would be. I kept saying "This is my last book" until I realized I sounded kind of foolish, since I never seemed to mean it. I'm glad you're still writing, too.
DeleteI think not separating yourself from your stories is fine if you are well rounded like you. I sure hope Holly finds her way- otherwise that's going to be a depressing and short story.
ReplyDelete