As I keep to the writing task, both fiction and nonfiction, my daughter reminds me that our favorite Little House book series was not published until Laura Ingalls Wilder was well into her sixties.
On my bedside table, I have the lovely book, Watership Down that Richard Adams wrote in his fifties. Frank McCourt wrote Angela’s Ashes in his mid-sixties. Wallace Stevens, one of my favorite poets, wrote most of his poems in his late thirties.
I’m so glad they didn’t quit writing because they felt old or irrelevant to the culture. I’m so glad they didn’t give up in discouragement. Each writer had something vital to say–at just the right time.
With each passing year, I remember that some of the best things in life happen much later. My older and wiser friends testify that wonderful things happen past middle age. Some of the best writing and thinking happen much later. Some of the best, richest, and rewarding friendships even happen later. Why are we in such a rush, thinking life has passed us by?
Some great stories bloom late. This is just the right time for them.