Is This The Right Time To Write?
By Sheron Donahue
“You received three rejections in the mail this week?” my friend shrieked.
“Yes,” I said. “And it's sobering.”
“So, now maybe you’ll quit putting yourself through the wringer,” my full-time working friend suggested.
I must admit it was tempting to give up. Twenty years ago when family and famine prevailed, I was forced to put pen and paper aside for an eight-to-five job. I published twenty articles then, but was lucky if a year’s writing grossed a month’s salary.
Now, as a retiree, my time is pretty much my own so I responded to her tempting idea. “Which would you choose, playing Spider Solitaire for hours on end, which I did, or perhaps inspiring, educating or even bringing a little laughter into someone’s life?”
“That’s noble but I can’t see that you’ll ever get rich writing,” my all-knowing friend pointed out.
“Perhaps not, but a little extra cash now and then couldn’t hurt, right?”
“Yeah, but you seem driven. You spend eight to twelve hours a day on this stuff.”
I somewhat agreed with her, admitting, “Sure, but a big part of my time is spent re-reading books on the writing craft, organizing, attending writers class, rewriting and research.”
Perhaps my chum would not care that researching meant trips to the library studying magazines, books and online submission guidelines, and then contemplating, sometimes for days, where-oh-where to submit the completed manuscript.
Still I tried to convey this, adding, “All this is necessary for getting my skills back. It may be mind-boggling right now, but in stages, it should smooth out.”
“I hope so, but I’m concerned,” my friend revealed. “It’s like you’re trying to do it all now. What’s your hurry?”
“I don’t want to waste what time I have left!”
“What do you mean? You’re not old. Are you sick?”
“No, I’m not sick. It’s just that I thought I had plenty of time until I realized I wasn’t sixty anymore. What shocked me into reality was listening to stories of people in their sixties automatically thinking, Oh yeah, that’s me. I can relate. Then it would hit me: Yikes, I’m seventy. No more sixties relating for this ol' gal.”
Okay, I said a mouthful, but I didn’t say I heard of the writers’ class only about a week after I turned 70. And after the first class, I found myself scurrying home, writing a nostalgic article that same afternoon. I was writing again for the first time in 20 years.
At the next week’s class, I read my essay, The Easter Box. To my surprise, the class loved it, even laughed. I was shocked that I, maybe, still could write. Yet my timing seemed off, so I’d have to hold the article for next year’s Easter Parade. Still, the seed was planted.
Yet, my friend wasn’t convinced I should keep up this pace, so she quizzed me more, “Don’t you think you should slow down a bit on the writing and spend more time enjoying your retirement?”
“Sure, but writing gets in the bones--the writer inside whispers, do more…one more page, one more rewrite. Time escapes me and soon lunch is two p.m. and supper becomes a peanut butter and jelly sandwich because I forgot to stop long enough to cook something.”
Her face became sober, so I added, “Besides, I am enjoying life. I enjoy the writing life, and through perseverance, I recently acquired three acceptances.”
“Yeah, but don’t you think you’re getting too old to push yourself so hard?”
“Aha! The truth comes out! So if you think I am old, then now is the right time to write. Right?”
* Published originally in the Working Writer