Living The Dream

All my life, I dreamed of literary success. I wanted to write and publish a blockbuster novel and enjoy the life of the successful author. The universe had other plans, so I set the dream aside and applied myself to earning a paycheck. While rearing my son, climbing a career ladder, and working my way through three marriages, a singular fantasy sustained me. It looked something like this: a phone call, a breathless literary agent asking if I was sitting down, and the conveyance of a massive monetary offer for my debut novel. In my dreams, it was four hundred thousand dollars.

Cue the hysterical laughter, right?

In 2009, after decades of keeping the dream alive through evening and weekend classes and conferences, slavish self-study, and pre-dawn writing sessions, I could finally throw myself at writing full-time—only to find that everything had changed. My first clue that the dream had shattered was learning that, in order to attract the attention of an agent, the aspiring writer was now expected to accumulate, on her own, a minimum of ten thousand fans. This was called the platform. I had no platform. True to form, I threw myself at its development. As I worked to create a website, blog, and professional presence, indie publishing was on the move. Self-published authors were achieving success.

About that time, a rebellious thought occurred. With ten thousand adoring fans, why would I need an agent? If I could sell ten thousand of each of my books, wouldn’t I be happy? Traditional publishing houses were merging, consolidating, and disappearing. Might I self-publish?

Another factor influenced my thinking: ageism. Now in my fifties, I wanted to write about the impressive and underappreciated lives of older people, but doubted the industry would bite. So I decided to go it alone.

First novel: Dakota Blues

I published my first novel in 2012, at the age of 58. Dakota Blues tells the story of two women, ages fifty and ninety, who embark on a life-changing road trip. It won an award, so I kept going. Ten years later, I’ve published many books, and am currently outlining a five-book series. All feature people over fifty, whether the genre is women’s fiction or later-in-life romance. To date, I’ve made over twenty-five thousand sales. My novels and short story collections receive great reviews, with readers saying it’s nice to finally be able to read about strong, impressive people their age.

Now seventy, I leap out of bed every morning, eager to check my sales figures and attack the long list of tasks comprising the life of an indie author. I’ll never be done learning my craft, fine-tuning my productivity, and conquering the art of advertising and publicity, but it’s an exciting and gratifying life. The constant challenge is good for my soul and, I’ve heard, for the development of new brain cells.

I’m Living the Dream

This is a fine age to be creative. Older people think outside the box. Some say this is due to bilateralization. As I understand it, when we get older, our brains aren’t as quick, so the two hemispheres begin to cooperate more to accomplish a task. Thus, analysis is influenced by creativity, and vice versa. What a gift. Older people see things differently. They are at their zenith of creativity, and they revel in it.

Women may emerge from a fog of compliance when their bodies are no longer geared toward baby-making. And then, look out, world. Some of us are angry, and we’re not afraid to express it. I once met an old woman artist from San Francisco who sculpted torsos of Vladimir Putin wearing tiaras and women’s underwear.

Look out.

Do you know about the Grandmother Hypothesis? It’s a theory in answer to the question of why humans live past childbearing age. I mean, from the standpoint of nature and survival (and American culture), what the hell good are we then? However, researchers have found that our mature contribution to the survival of the tribe is equal to the value of reproduction. I love that.

As an indie writer, I’m almost as busy now as I ever was during my career. Although I’ve earned the right to sit on my behind, an insecure childhood turned me into a workaholic, and I don’t see that changing. Also, I like helping people. I’m driven to share life strategies, to encourage and empower others. To help them avoid the mistakes I made, of being a codependent doormat.

In writing to inspire older people, I’ve made things harder for myself, particularly in the romance genre. It’s simpler to write about beautiful young people. Who wouldn’t want to fall in love with them? They’re gorgeous. Sexy as hell.

How do you write a romance about old dudes? I once asked this question at a national conference of the Romance Writers of America. Go to the Faith Writers’ breakout, I was told. Agnostic and skeptical, I reluctantly went, and I learned so much. These young women only wrote clean, so they had some of the same challenges. You have to put all the heat and intimacy into the emotional connections, they told me. I walked out of there humbled, but smarter, and applied what they taught me.

As a result, my characters are compelling. They might have gray hair and bad backs, but they’ve got a look in their eyes that says don’t fuck with me. The women are badasses and the men are grateful. They’ve been through the wars, all of them, but they’re still hungry. Proud. On fire to do something new, different, and possibly even earth-shattering with the time they have left.

And so am I.