The Age Thing šŸ˜¬

I can no longer say Iā€™m forty, so letā€™s just go with I am very newly in my very early forties. And, learning last week that my nephew and his wife are expecting, I realized with a start that Iā€™m going to be a [gulp] great aunt. Great. (Snark aside, Iā€™m very excited for this development.) Soā€¦ Iā€™m a soon-to-be great auntā€¦ in my fortiesā€¦ who hasnā€™t published her first bookā€¦. Well, frick. Is there a future for one in this predicament that doesnā€™t involve profound feelings of regret, resentment, disappointment, and the doomed realization that youā€™ve missed the boat thatā€™s hauled away the only career youā€™ve ever wanted? I know there are lists floating around social media of acclaimed authors who began their writing careers after forty, butā€¦ how common is that? Itā€™s a question I donā€™t care to ponder for too long. The knowledge that there are some authors who get their start later in life brings me comfort, but so do the things Iā€™ve done and accomplished along the way. See Exhibit 1 below, Lucy, AKA, Yarnmaster Goose.

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See Exhibit 2 below, Willa, AKA The Bean, AKA Chief Snarkypotato

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I always thought that I would continue writing after I had kids, even when they were ittybittyteenyweeny, terribly two, thrill-seeking threenagers, etc., etc. And I kept it up for a couple years after I had my first daughter, writing here and there during naptime and at night. But after finishing a first draft of my novel, in 2012, I quit writing. I was pregnant with my second daughter; my firstborn was terribly, tenaciously two; and I was exhausted. I typed ā€œEnd,ā€ congratulated myself on composing 60,000 original words, posted something pithy on social media about my new status as a novelist, and promptly jumped ship. 

 

The next several years were not easy, but they were easier than they would have been if Iā€™d kept writing and revising. While daughter one developed cyclic vomiting syndrome, her little sister was diagnosed with FPIES (a hypersensitivity to certain foods)ā€”both of which caused unpredictable hours-long bouts of violent vomiting (did I mention that Iā€™m an emetophobe?). Additionally, feisty number two had what her pediatrician called ā€œdecreased sleep needs.ā€ But they were generally healthy and happy, and I was grateful for this, and to be able to stay home with them during those early years. Sometimes my husband, aware that I was missing my creative outlet, would encourage me to get out to a coffee shop for a few hours on a Sunday while he watched the girls. And I would, but my efforts never culminated in anything fully formed. 

 

It wasnā€™t until my secondborn started full-day kindergarten that I took a breath and allowed writing to re-enter my lifeā€”but even then, my process was lethargic. I tinkered with stories Iā€™d started over the years, began submitting my work to literary journals again (because doing so was writing-related without embracing the hassle and heartbreak of actually writing). I wasnā€™t ready to reconsider my novel. While the characters still scurried round my mind, the plot and setting still hunkered in its folds, the idea of tackling a second draft was too daunting. But I knew I was approaching forty. The friends I made in my MFA program were thriving: publishing books, writing for hit sitcoms; one had become the editor-in-chief of a prestigious literary journal. Since graduating, I had produced my most important worksā€”two beautiful, kind-hearted, curious daughtersā€”but the part of me that existed before them, a part I was growing to desperately miss, was languishing. 

 

Early last year, something changed. I wish I could pinpoint what it was. My best guess is that it was the rapidly advancing 4-0 coupled with encouragement by a friend to revisit my novel. I read over my 2012 draft and was surprised that, even in its infancy, it contained substance and depth. I began to rethink and revise, but again was forced to hit pause when the arrival of COVID-19 forced my daughtersā€™ school to shift to distance learning. The break was much more difficult this time, considering the wave of momentum towering at my back. But I accepted our circumstancesā€”so much more fortunate than othersā€™ā€”and, once again, set aside my writing for the sake of my children and my sanity, because I simply couldnā€™t do it all. But in the fall, in-person school resumed, and I was given the gift of time to accompany my impervious momentum. I dove in, hit my stride after a month or so, and for the first time in my life, looked forward to writing every day. I have to believe that itā€™s the result of the newness of the form and the freedom granted by writing a story whose bones already existā€”to craft organs and finetune systems of movement, breath, and blood. Conjuring the heartbeat of this novel has strengthened my own.

See below for additional evidence of time well spent. Note: They fight a lot, too.

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Marie Kreuter2 Comments