Did I tell you…?

Did I tell you, I’m working on a novel? I started it more than a year ago, but somehow, in my travels and wonky internet connections, lost the first five chapters. Which was a major bummer. So I ignored it, knowing I couldn’t recreate what was lost, then realized that that loss was actually a metaphor, and besides, it probably wasn’t very good anyway, and it was most likely a sign that I needed to start over, which I’ve done, which I’m excited about, even though I’m in over my head. 

I’m not a novelist. 

I’m a person who has been writing since the third grade, telling stories, listening to stories, placing myself into stories, thinking, being imaginative, being realistic, and now being open to trying a new kind of writing, fiction. 

This blog, this kind of letter writing to strangers and friends, is where I get my truth-telling instincts out of my system so I can hang glide and allow my alter ego character to fly. Which is hard, frankly, because Lizzy Johnson has the power to do anything in the world, anything she can dream of or dread, and that letting go is, well, different for this almost 68-year-old—-ouch—-on-the-road cowgirl writer. 

When you give yourself the time, space, and permission to imagine, a trait typically delegated to the young, it is a wild experience. You can be anything, ANYTHING, you can imagine, and you don’t just have to be a writer to experience it.

You could be a chef, a dancer, painter, gardener, tourist, mechanic, seamstress, tarot card-reading gypsy—whatever your heart longs to dabble in, and not have to worry about turning it into a career. You can play around with it, have fun, and when it’s no longer fun, drop it for the time being or forever. 

Why didn’t I know this, do this, when I was working? I poured so much of my time and life into my career, home, family, marriage, that I forgot to serve myself. 

I suppose it’s what one does during certain phases of life and now that I’m in this phase, which, as I told my buddy, Julie, a couple of days ago, is the very best time of my life; I’m more reflective, more open, more relaxed, a better version of myself. 

I wish this for you, daughters and son, family and friends. I wish you the lightness of being.

The sun is finally showing her face here as I sit in a quiet corner of one of my favorite haunts in Cambria, the sweet public library on Main Street. The padded silence is comforting. Surrounded by books—-my latest read is a collection of short stories by Alice Munro—-is both daunting and reassuring. Master writers, and then there’s me. But that’s that courage thing I was talking about. Jumping. Frolicking. Playing in the foamy waves. Getting cold and wet and salty and sandy is good for the soul. 

It’s uplifting. 

Uplifting. 

Which is the point. To step up, take action, experiment, and like I said, have fun in the process.

Writing a novel in my late 60s is a kick. It makes me laugh, and sometimes, cry. It stirs up emotions and a direction I sometimes don’t want to take. But I do. I’m sticking with it because I can’t wait to see how it turns out. I don’t need it to be a best-seller or even be published, although it’d be nice to share it with others at some point. The great thing about writing a novel at my age is that no one but me is counting on me to finish it.

A cowboy on a horse just road by. Guess it’s my signal to get back to novelizing. I want to know where he’s headed.

You know, it’s greener, lusher, more vibrant, than I have ever seen the hillsides in all my travels to the Central Coast. It is also quiet, at least midweek. Only us few retirees and homeschoolers hangout at the campground—-and a group of solo women campers who befriended me. Last night, we sat around the campfire and swapped stories about adventures lived and travels to come. Kindred spirits with a spark in their eyes that suggests the road ahead is promising. 

It was pretty cool. I have new friends who are part of a women’s vanlife group, one of many groups formed by women my age. Their stories are like mine; women who decided it was finally time to prioritize their dreams. We’re part of a movement. In the shadows. Quiet, vital, creative, and highly intelligent women who did what we were “supposed” to do, followed the rules of our generation—raised children, had a career, husband, family, organized a household, made an impact on society in a variety of ways—and now as grandmas, have decided we need extended “me time” to regenerate and re-define ourselves. 

The old journalist in me says there’s a story here. 

And maybe there is.