When a woman becomes a lady of a certain age, the algorithms on her social media feeds mysteriously shift. They start bombarding her with inspiring mantras about how age is not a barrier against dreams, and talent and passions can still be pursued and developed to their fullest before one perishes from this earthly realm. For example, I discovered that Vera Wang didn't start designing wedding gowns until 40 (for the record, I absolutely adore Vera Wang's designs).
Since I began writing novels over two decades ago, I've had my share of highs and lows. You lose more than you ever knew you had in confidence as the years roll by. . . and yet, you keep going. It will be so lonely at times, but your soul will still echo with stories, and the ink won't stop running in your veins. Sometimes rushing like a river, other times just a trickling rivulet. As a storyteller, it is both exhausting and exhilarating to acknowledge that I still have so much more to learn!
However, I can't truly do that unless I destroy my previous aspirations. I have to let go of the starry, wide-eyed dreams of the girl I was in my twenties. We don't even share the same wishes anymore, really. I need to keep to myself more, avoid being swept up in the Narcissus mirror of social media, and take time to sit down and shut up and just listen to my own heart for awhile. I must start from the ground-up with my writing craft, and gather the grit of all my experiences, both the sweet scintillas and tired, bitter motes (my creative loam, so to speak).
Why? Because I realized I am in a planting season. I recently watched a random video about how people get impatient when they wish to be in a blooming season, already reveling in the fruits of their labor, when they should concentrate on being fully present in their planting season instead. That's me now: I'm quite firmly rooted in a planting season. An extremely looonnnggg planting season!
Hopefully, one day, my ink will bloom into a flower worthy of your wonder . . .
