Recently I heard from a teen-age fan who wrote that she dreams of having a life like mine: success as a writer, husband, children, grandchildren. I'm 75 today, but I remember very well being 60 years younger and dreaming of becoming a successful writer with a husband and children (at that age I couldn't begin to imagine the grandchildren part of my story). I had no idea how to make it happen.
But somehow it has, but not in a way I imagined. I majored in English in college, and then at my father's insistence, I took a secretarial course so I could make a living, if I had to. (In those days it was assumed a girl would marry, her husband would support her, and only if disaster struck would she go out to work.) After graduation I went to NYC and got a job as a secretary at CBS Television. I hated it, but I hoped it would lead to a writing career. It didn't.
I married, worked for a magazine as a secretary, hoped the job would lead to a writing career. It didn't.
Had two kids and started to write stories while they took their afternoon naps. Magazines rejected them all. Finally wrote a story about a secretary. It was published! I got paid $25! I was on my way.
Moved to the suburbs, wrote articles, sold a few, worked on a novel, rejected umpteen times. Had another baby; now had 3 boys. Wrote a sewing book for girls: MISS PATCH'S LEARN-TO-SEW BOOK. Accepted! Wrote a second book, about needlework, and then one about bread, and then several more how-to's, all accepted. Some were really good. ROCK TUMBLING was forgettable. Reviewers trashed LOTS AND LOTS OF CANDY.
Began writing non-fiction, about the Pennsylvania Amish and the Yup'ik Eskimos of Alaska. Got divorced. Kids grew up. Wound up in New Mexico. Remarried. Began writing YA novels. Moved to Texas, wrote first historical novel, WHERE THE BROKEN HEART STILL BEATS, then WHITE LILACS. Came back to New Mexico. More historical novels followed.
I used to worry that I would run out of ideas. I never have. Now I worry (but not too much) that I will run out of time. Not a bad place to be at 75.
But somehow it has, but not in a way I imagined. I majored in English in college, and then at my father's insistence, I took a secretarial course so I could make a living, if I had to. (In those days it was assumed a girl would marry, her husband would support her, and only if disaster struck would she go out to work.) After graduation I went to NYC and got a job as a secretary at CBS Television. I hated it, but I hoped it would lead to a writing career. It didn't.
I married, worked for a magazine as a secretary, hoped the job would lead to a writing career. It didn't.
Had two kids and started to write stories while they took their afternoon naps. Magazines rejected them all. Finally wrote a story about a secretary. It was published! I got paid $25! I was on my way.
Moved to the suburbs, wrote articles, sold a few, worked on a novel, rejected umpteen times. Had another baby; now had 3 boys. Wrote a sewing book for girls: MISS PATCH'S LEARN-TO-SEW BOOK. Accepted! Wrote a second book, about needlework, and then one about bread, and then several more how-to's, all accepted. Some were really good. ROCK TUMBLING was forgettable. Reviewers trashed LOTS AND LOTS OF CANDY.
Began writing non-fiction, about the Pennsylvania Amish and the Yup'ik Eskimos of Alaska. Got divorced. Kids grew up. Wound up in New Mexico. Remarried. Began writing YA novels. Moved to Texas, wrote first historical novel, WHERE THE BROKEN HEART STILL BEATS, then WHITE LILACS. Came back to New Mexico. More historical novels followed.
I used to worry that I would run out of ideas. I never have. Now I worry (but not too much) that I will run out of time. Not a bad place to be at 75.