Family, Fiction, Life, My Books, Novel, Real Life, Reflections, Writing

Why did I wait so long to get serious about writing?

Emily and Elijah at the zoo

I feel very old this week. Keeping up with small children is not something I do well any longer. Three days in a row this week, I had two of my grandchildren, ages five and seven, in my home. They were both sick with colds and still they wore me out.

I praise all who have care of little ones and still are able to write. If nothing else, the reason I waited so long to get serious about writing is clear to me now. I couldn’t even get my thoughts straightened out in snatches of free time, let alone write anything coherent. And by the time the kiddies were tucked in bed, all I could do was stare into space.

When my own four children were that young, I’m sure I had more physical stamina, yet the mental fatigue was just as bad. I sought refuge in books. I read. And read. And read some more. I took in a lot, and it mixed and fermented and formed into stories in my head, but I didn’t have the energy to write them down.

Let’s call that my writer’s training course. Long, long years of it. There are advantages to that, of course. I had a lot of life experience stacking up too. Intense research, we’ll call that. And to be honest, I’m glad I didn’t write down most of the stories that swirled through my head through those years. It was a time to watch and listen, not speak.

I’m happy to be approaching my career as a writer from a mature perspective. I’ve finally found my voice and have some things to say. Many novel’s worth.

Your turn: How does your age and circumstances affect your writing?

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