I grew up in the 50’s and 60’s – when you were either a square, cool, a greaser or a beatnik. I’m sure every generation has their own labels, but to be a beatnik in the 50’s might’ve been akin to a pothead today. I never actually fit into that lifestyle, so I guess you could call me a square. Today, I’m an old lady of 80 and still kicking, so I’m blessed to be called “alive.” This thing which I love to do has begun to consume me. As time swiftly flies beyond me – as my days grow shorter – as the need to make money is constantly on the brain – I come to the conclusion that I’m simply chasing the wind. Still, I feel it’s something I must do.
I began writing stories when I was seven. It was one of those things that came from loving to read. The desire to weave intricate, beautiful words together and stitch them into my own stories carved out a lifelong passion. My dreams of being a writer included a French beret, lots of espresso, a dark, smokey coffee shop where kids would hang out and read their poetry. When I became an “adult,” reality hit home. There were bills to pay, a family to raise, responsibilities. The crunch of life got in the way of those moments of quiet contemplation. No more the beatnik in black. Now a wife, a mother, the spitting image of my parents. It was time to face reality and grow up.
Now I’m in my golden years. Who ever thought of that term anyway? There’s really nothing golden about them unless you’re independently wealthy or you’ve won the lottery. Somehow the golden years have turned into tarnished brass. We still have to make a living to survive. Before we die, we must figure out a way to live. The starving artist comes to mind. It took Margaret Mitchell 10 years to complete “Gone With the Wind.” It was the only book she ever wrote. She received the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1937 and she died at the age of 49. Imagine what she might have accomplished had she lived to be my age. She wrote about what she knew and drew upon her own life in the South to tell this ageless story of perseverance and determination. I have tried to write the great American novel but have been told by some that I should really take some writing classes first. Oh well, maybe I should’ve become a beatnik.
