Thoughts on ageing, creativity and regret

It’s Easter Day and a wet gloomy day here in Manchester, and frankly I’m half-wishing I was having fun somewhere less rainy, instead of sitting in my room trying to write a one-page synopsis of my novel, which is not going according to plan. But holidays and weekends are my designated writing time, and so I intend to persevere.

Often I wonder where my compulsion to create art comes from, and why it grows stronger and more obsessive with age. I could argue it’s because I haven’t had children, but that seems simplistic – some of the most talented and driven creative people I know are also parents. I suspect in my case it’s a growing awareness of the passing of time and the desire to make the most of my one precious life.

I’m lucky to be in good physical health and I still feel young most of the time, but there are little indications that I’m not in my twenties or thirties any more: a cracked tooth that can’t be fixed, having to dye my hair more frequently,  struggling to hear over loud music. When I walk past the university, no one hands me the nightclub flyers any more.

Here’s a confession: when I was younger, I used to imagine that if I could just become a successful published author, it would solve my feelings of profound unworthiness and failure. At last I’d be worthy of respect, the equal of everyone else at the college reunion or the competitive dinner party, and I could finally lay down my burden of shame.

I realise now that it doesn’t work like that. Achievement and status don’t necessarily fulfil unmet emotional needs. And as I discovered, writing in order to seek validation leads to creative paralysis. The more we yearn for approval, the more it eludes us, as we stifle our authentic voice or are too afraid of judgement to share our work at all.

One of the top regrets of the dying is that they wished they’d had the courage to be themselves and spend less time worrying what people thought. Our culture encourages us to measure and compare ourselves right up to the day when it’s no longer a tooth but a vital organ that can’t be fixed, and only then we see the truth clearly: that we always were equal and we always were worthy of respect, regardless of how others chose to treat us.

I don’t want to be faced with those regrets. I want to be a successful author, but in order to express myself honestly and to create work for others to enjoy.  I’m also determined to travel on the road towards self-acceptance, however hard it gets, and even if I never fully arrive at my destination.

And if anyone knows how to write a one-page novel synopsis without wanting to tear your hair out in despair, do let me know.

Happy Easter to you all x

Celebrating first-time authors over 40

sequoia

Assuming all goes to plan, I will be 42 when I self-publish my debut novel next year. I’m lucky that my vocation has no real age limits: you can write a good book at 19 or at 90. Creativity follows no predictable schedule – some artists reach their peak early on, but many are late bloomers, producing their greatest works in the latter stages of their lives.

Nevertheless, we live in a culture obsessed by youth and glamour and marketability. We’re also very impressed by precociousness. Publishing may be less influenced by this trend than some creative industries are, but a talented young author with a stunning photograph on the back cover of their book still has an improved chance of becoming a media sensation.

I can never be that young writer now. That ship has sailed. Since there’s no point in regretting the fact I wasn’t able to write an amazing bestseller in my twenties, I had a think instead about the positive aspects of publishing later in life.

Mature novelists are said to have a wider range of life experiences to draw on in their fiction. I’m not convinced that’s always true. There are people half my age who have suffered hardships or embarked on adventures such as parenthood which have given them insights I will never acquire firsthand.

What we older writers have had is the luxury of time to reflect on the events of our lives, whatever they might be. We’ve simply had more years available to us in which to develop our understanding of ourselves and the world, and to learn from our mistakes, should we choose to do so.

Being over 40 and undiscovered has increased my empathy for others who reach midlife with their aspirations unfulfilled. I use this theme in my writing all the time to explore the frustrations of my middle-aged characters and the societal expectations which drive them.

Coming face-to-face with failure has also lessened my fear of it. I know I can deal with chronic disappointment and still appreciate the good things in my life. (This is what I tell myself on the bad days anyway). Seriously though, I’ve learned the value of perseverance, and that some things are worth fighting for.

My extra years of practice have helped me to hone my writing voice, to think more independently, and to be certain of what I stand for. Some writers will have achieved this at a much younger age, and that’s great too. We were never meant to be all the same.

I refuse to read those articles listing ten things you should know, or should own, or should do in your 20s or 30s or beyond. One effect of ageing is that I can’t be bothered with rigid conventional thinking any more. I don’t believe anyone else can set our pace for us or tell us where we ought to be in our lives.

In the time I’ve been writing the self-publishing revolution has arrived, which means I no longer have to wait to be chosen (unless I want to). If I’d been traditionally published a decade ago, I might not have experienced the thrill of gaining the confidence to choose myself. And that in itself is surely worthy of celebration.