I've told this tale before, but like having survived it so well, I say it again. My career as a writer has been brief. Having started so late, it will never be very long. I didn't begin writing fiction seriously until I was seventy. For fifty years before that, I worked as a visual artist.
When my macular degeneration began to be detrimental to my work, I told the Main Muse, "I want to spend the rest of my time doing something I can get better at."
"I've been telling you for years," she said, "that you ought to write something."
Say the truth often enough, and after a while even a stone will listen. I made up a bucket list of the things I wanted to write and get published:
1. a novel.
2. a trilogy.
3. a book of short stories.
4. a mystery novel.
5. a book of poetry.
At age seventy-seven, the first three items have been checked off. As soon as Slick Rock Creek is released by Solstice Publishing, I'll have number four The last one may have to wait a couple of years. I haven't gotten my fill of fiction yet. Maybe I'll become a poet by the time I'm eighty, if I'm still under the sun.
I'm thinking now about adding to the list, though. Something non-fiction, maybe a collection of essays, would be nice.