The Late Bloomer at 56
At 1:38 a.m. today, I turned 56 years old. The thing is, I don’t feel fifty-six. Maybe this is because, for the past ten years, I’ve been writing about characters 16–17 years old and some of their sense of invincibility has rubbed off on me. All I know is, it really doesn’t seem possible that forty years have passed since I was the age of Avery Craig and his friends.
I think I’m doing pretty well for someone 56. I have most of my hair and all of my teeth (well, counting a few implants). I just got back from the gym, where I climbed 90 flights of stairs (on the StairMaster) in less than half an hour, and a couple weeks ago, I cross-country skied seven miles in two hours (in subzero weather).
Unfortunately, because of the cold weather, less activity, winter depression, and the amount of work I’ve had to do on Bodaciously, I’m the heaviest I’ve been in years (I’m not telling you the number), but I carry the weight well (even distribution you might say), and I know that with spring around the corner, I’ll drop twenty pounds in a couple of months.
On the positive side, with the exception of occasional aspirin or ibuprofen, I take absolutely NO medication. Zero. Nada. Nothing.
I’m also 100% stone-cold sober and have been for nine years. Coming from a guy who used to love a dozen different beers (including Stella Artois, the original Bass Ale, and the now-defunct Dock Street Pilsner), chugged Maker’s Mark Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey for tooth abcesses; partied with a tribe of Native Americans in Montana; got in a barfight in Old Port, Portland, Maine; swilled champagne and sang in the streets of Paris at midnight with Parisians; and once bought a round for the house at every pub he visited in London, Stratford Upon Avon, Newcastle, Glasgow, and Inverness—this means something.
But I’m most proud of where I am in terms of my writing. At 56, and (relatively) fit and sober, I’m at the height of my powers as a novelist. At the risk of sounding immodest, as I’ve been polishing Episodes III through V of Bodaciously for publication, I’ve been so impressed by so much of it that I can’t believe I wrote it.
Back in my 20s, I read that a writer’s most productive period is from his mid-40s to his mid-60s, and here I am, smack in the middle of that period, and I can tell you, it’s true. Experience, subject matter, clarity of thinking, technique, emotional depth, physical health, and lack of concern about what other people think of me or my work—all cylinders are firing at optimal efficiency. I’m doing my own thing, and I’m out where no one can touch me.
I’m unequivocally a late bloomer.
After decades of hard work and struggle, I’ve finally reached MY time. This year and next are mine.
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