I never considered myself in the least creative. My mind is analytical—I adored books and movies but I adored studying them, taking them apart, and understanding what gave them their resonance and how they fit into history. My admiration for creative people was boundless, but I would never be so bold as to attempt their magic. When I fretted about finding an academic job, my parents never tired of telling me I would have made a good lawyer—like my mother, or a scientist—like my father.

Thus, no one was more surprised than I to find that at age 57 I started writing a 4-volume fantasy series. I had never written a short story; I had never taken a creative writing class. I hadn’t even read any “how to” manuals. When my novels hit the shelves I will be 63.

(My best friend from my Denver childhood, Linda, is the only person who predicted that I would eventually wind up here, apparently because of the elaborate stories I would weave when we played with our trolls.)

Linda and I had whole families of trolls.

For me, writing later in life has worked out well. The years have given me a vast exposure to narrative texts: children’s stories (my own and my sons’), literature, movies, and television series. I’ve studied narrative techniques, but I’ve also internalized the rhythms of stories in my bones. Through my decades of obsessively following the news, I’ve also absorbed larger histories about people, social movements, and government.

Practical considerations have been equally as influential in allowing me to write during this phase of life. My sons are grown; my parents have passed—no one (except the dog) chafes at my hours at the computer. Years of my husband and I saving for retirement have made the financial risk of embarking on a new career less daunting.

The biggest advantage of my age is that now I can draw on a lived experience. The mantra to “write what you know” has always struck me as devaluing the role of imagination—did Shakespeare meet three witches or stab a king? Was he shipwrecked? Was he ever besotted with a donkey? But if we take the adage not to refer to specific events or settings but to one’s emotional life, it becomes more meaningful. I haven’t sought adventure, but just by living six decades, I’ve been exposed to different cultures and countries; flown on the wings of professional success and crashed with failure; ridden on horses and traveled by boat and ship; been caught in blizzards, hurricanes, Santa Ana winds, tornados, and earthquakes. I am well acquainted with homesickness, loneliness, terror, arrogance, insecurity, sleeplessness, and the rare blessing of contentment.

I’ve gained new friends and lost old ones. I’ve had my heart broken and fallen in love. I know exactly how little children whine. I’ve personally been caught on the far side of the membrane that separates those in peril from the oblivious, healthy folk going about their business; I know the exhaustion and stress of a loved ones’ chronic disease; and I’ve held someone’s hand as he died.

To use a pop culture reference from my childhood, Pete Seeger’s adaptation of stanzas from Ecclesiastes into an anti-war anthem: “To everything there is a season.”

These are my years to write.

Concerning Writing at a "Certain Age"