I never imagined being this old. Does anyone? Let’s take a retrospective through the Big birthdays:
When I turned 20
I was a sophomore in college and depressed. I had failed, utterly, to enjoy my teenaged years properly, I was sure of that. I was single and sure I’d die that way. I’d just broken up with my first boyfriend, who had given my self-worth a hard hit. I felt ugly. I noticed what I suspected was a wrinkle on my cheek, a crescent to the left of my mouth. A SMIRK MARK. No doubt, it was the first of many and I would be hideous in a matter of months, having read that the skin loses elasticity at 20.
My future was uncertain. I was working minimum-wage jobs to offset my tuition and wondering if I could even graduate.
Also, I was convinced I was TOO OLD to start a writing career.
When I turned 30
I was in a much better place, mentally. I was working for the university as a network technician, feeling very successful and respected, a knowledge worker! Sure, I had to work nights and weekends, but I was making nearly $30,000 a year! For the first time in my life, my means exceeded my needs, and by quite a lot!
I took a class a semester, because I could. I had taken up SCA heavy weapons fighting and it was a big part of my life. I had bought the house I live in now, and married Brian at his mother’s house in Vietnam. Life was pretty darn stable, and I looked back in amusement at the anxiety of my 20s.
I was working on three novels: Mot the Stupid (orcs in space), Not About the King (high fantasy politics and elves), and re-writing the lost-with-stolen-laptop novel that would eventually be published as The Gods Awoke.
However, I was still convinced I was TOO OLD to start a writing career. I was just “writing for myself” and focusing on SCA achievement as my path to self-worth.
When I turned 40
I had just sold my first pro-rate short story, and attended the Clarion Writing Workshop. I was driven by sunk cost to finally start my writing career. I threw everything I had into submitting short stories… and it paid off. I sold 4 stories in that year, 2014, and have sold at least one story every year since.
Yet I was depressed. I saw how little it meant, to publish a few short stories – I was able to join SFWA and see myself one of thousands of middle-aged, middle-class white women selling short stories. Who cared if there was one more? It didn’t help that even close friends would ask, “Is this your first?” every time I announced a story sale.
The worst thing was my relationship with my twin sister. I’d dropped out of the SCA to pursue first football and then writing, but SCA was still the center of her social life. She’d become a Laurel and served as Baroness of Cleveland. Her SCA career was truly that – a career, that took up as much time as a second job. She shared this with her husband, and they were off almost every weekend to another event.
I’d ask if she could come over, and she’d say “Ten miles? Way too far. I’d lose the whole day.” Then she’d drive to another state to see an SCA friend, or to perform an errand for another. I felt hurt. I biked to her “too far away” house, hoping to have some precious time together after so many refusals, and tried to entertain myself as she did whatever she would have done if I wasn’t there– playing video games, mostly.
I was dismayed by this feeling that she would rather not spend time or energy on being with me. This hit a head when my proposal of spending our 40th in an air bnb on a tropical island was vetoed as too expensive, as was a weekend in Hawaii, or Florida, or okay I went all the way down to Virginia Beach, which she went to often with her husband and kept saying she loved. No. Too expensive, and too much time to drive that far. She opted for an indoor water park an hour away from home, but only if we did it on a weekday so it would be cheeper.
I’m no snob. I sucked it up and told myself I’d make the most of it, and I did, and we had a fabulous time at Kalahari Resort. The place was nigh empty on a Tuesday in February, so there was no waiting for the rides, or drinks, or our pedicures. We soaked in the outdoor hot tub with snow gently drifting to the steaming water. Still one of my favorite vacations ever!
In our hotel room, we exchanged presents. “I know you’ll love this,” Grace said, always one to brag about her gift-giving prowess. “It’s expensive… but I swear I got a good price.” She waited while I eagerly unwrapped and found… something rather hideous that I didn’t want.
I tried to act happy, and I handed her my gift, which I was sure she’d love, too. I mean… it was PERFECT. And, yes, a little too expensive, but what was the big year for?
And I saw her frown at the gift, clearly disappointed. She said something like, “Well, I know you’re having trouble lately. I understand. You don’t have time to shop.”
For the next decade, I would be increasingly haunted by the idea that my twin sister and I, once inseparable, had become strangers.
Now, at 50
Shortly after my 40th, I spent most of a year in and out of hospitals, including a stint in the ICU. When you wake from a two-week delirium to find yourself hooked up to a lot of machines and a nurse telling you, “We have no idea how you’re still alive,” well, that puts a lot of stuff into perspective.
Now, I wasn’t just writing “for myself” or churning out submissions to relieve a sunk cost. I was making sure I said the things I needed to say, told the stories I had always wanted to tell, before time ran out.
And yes, churning out submissions and sticking to rigorous submission goals. It paid off. I hardly feel the sting of rejection anymore. It’s as gentle as Spring rain, and as common. I’ve sold 99 short stories (including reprints, one novella, and one novelette) and 3 novels.
I can very solidly be said to have a writing career, started 20 years after I thought I was too old. I’ve even found that self-worth and fame. I have a wikipedia page!?
I survived Covid. I adopted my daughter, who has taught me so much about life. For the first time in my professional career, I have a private office! I have made it. I’m finally taking treatment for my depression, and it’s working. I can see now the spiraling thoughts weren’t my just punishment for not being very good at life; they were my brain chemistry lying to me.
One day, I met Grace at a cafe close to her office for lunch, feeling slightly put-upon because, of course, she’d only meet me for lunch if it was convenient to her, and she talked about her latest therapy breakthrough. “I always put myself last,” she said.
And I blurted, “Is that why I’m also last with you? Because you associate me with yourself?”
And she stared at me. “I put you first,” she said. “I always have. That’s part of the problem.”
I was silent, that time, rather than following up. Like a coward, instead of talking to Grace, I ended up talking to MY therapist about it.
It took a lot of missed opportunities, telling myself THIS TIME I was going to have it all out in the open with Grace, a few hints here and there, and then one blow-up when she hurt my feelings again. “What can I do to get you to like me again?”
She blinked. “I thought you didn’t like me, anymore.”
And I thought about the things she didn’t say, but could have – how football had completely taken over MY life for five years, with three practices a week, two workouts, and games on Saturday. *I* had been traveling all over the country for games. I had missed her being put on vigil for the Laurel… and I missed her elevation ceremony – to attend a game. At the time, I felt I owed it to my team, to be there, that I had a commitment as a participant, whereas at Grace’s ceremony, I’d only be an easily-over-looked spectator. I helped her set up in the morning, after all, and I came back after the game, too. But in hindsight, I don’t think I made the right choice. I knew how much it meant for Grace to receive this award. I should have been there for her.
We were both seeing our own hurt, but not the hurt we inflicted.
It… we’re getting better. We’re talking more. We’re saying things instead of swallowing them. Our relationship isn’t perfect, but it’s finally feeling healthy.
With our 50th approaching, I braced myself for the fight I’d had at 40, to convince Grace to do something special. “Could we finally have that trip to a tropical island?” I asked. “It can be Florida… that shouldn’t be too expensive.”
“Actually,” she said, “You know what? I want a big-ass party!”
My eyes got big. “With poofy dresses?”
“ENORMOUS poofy dresses.”
We were on the same page again. “You take care of the drinks,” she said. “And set-up. I have to go to an SCA event in the morning.”
So I did, with generous help from La and Gina Hoang, her kids Theo and Pipin, and a handful of other friends who showed up early. Many hands made light work, which was good, because it took some time for my friend Alexandra to get me into my big poofy dress. Corset lacing, am I right?
Honestly, it was a blur… so happy. Intoxicated on friendship and love and music and sugar. I danced, I hugged and greeted, re-filled punch bowls, I fetched napkins and tossed messes and I think I sat down for five minutes total.
I know some of my dearest friends are sad for missing the big bash. It was a tiny site, and there were vigorous negotiations to ensure 50/50 friend split, and at least 3 people from each sub-friend-group to avoid someone being all on their own(And even then only one Game Devs Friend of the selected 3 came, sorry Joe!), plus leaving room for plus-ones and unavailable babysitters.
Grace surprised me with two photo books she’d made, a collection of photos of us together over the years. “Built-in best friends since 1974” it read on the first page, under a blurry print of us in our stroller. These were our “guest books” for everyone to sign – one for me, one for her. There are pictures in there I had never seen before!!
So much of the event focused on US, on our US-ness. The different cakes and dresses, the “Which Twin is the One Who…” party game, and one glorious long twin-dance to Led Zepplin.
I’ve never felt so loved.
