Writing with Mortality

My maternal grandparents in 1956

I’m getting older. At 64, I have to step back and examine my life and where I fit in to the legacy of my family. My dad died at 69. My mom at 76. Her mom at 82 and her dad at 66. Mom didn’t see it coming. She was in good health.

I’m in okay health and sometimes I wonder about my ticking clock. I ask myself at night if I accomplished all I needed to in the day to be sure I didn’t waste time or leave important things undone. It is often motivation for my books, to be sure I finish before I die. Mortality. 

Life and Death is an issue in Infinity War as she see our superheroes snapped out of existence. Like Spiderman said moments before he disappeared, “I don’t feel so good, Mr. Stark.” The entire idea of suddenly ceasing to exist is made ever more poignant to us old timers when we hear talk of the Avengers moving on and the old actors passing the torch. Truly, Fury, Capt. America, Iron Man, Thor, are all aging in real life. Mortality seems to be an issue for Hollywood (age diversity and discrimination will be for another day), and younger superheroes are waiting in the wings. Just look at what was done with the X Men. Poor Professor X!

Mortality is an issue with our books too. If we write supernatural or paranormal characters we don’t have to worry about their aging. Or if we have to deal with it, it can be done very slowly (like decades slowly), or even used as a plot device if we need to kill off someone or scare everyone with the loss of a favorite character.

But where are the love stories for the over 40? Honestly, I don’t find many adult books, other than Contemporary Fiction/Romance, where the over 40 or 50 group deals with love or loving again. Yes, we find it in younger characters, but we avoid the “older” or the “elderly.”

Gives a girl a complex and makes her think she’s passé. Like all the talk about the older actors being past their prime for their superhero roles, they are made new with younger, more viral, more “viable” contract players. Seems a bit unfair especially if you have superpowers to say that after age “x” that you are too old to do your job.

My job is to write. My job is to write good stories. If I write stories about older people, the younger folks don’t want to read about the 50 year old divorce with three grown children and four grandchildren, her arthritis and her aged mother with diabetes or Alzheimer’s. It’s too….real? Too close to home?

Maybe that’s it. We’re aging and it’s real. It’s contemporary but not the way we want to be remembered? I don’t know. Can you imagine a story about Hawkeye and his family in addition to his fighting Thanos? It’s rumored that we will have something like that in Avengers 4. Why doesn’t that mortality bother us?

What about your stories? Do you write about older people other than wizards and witches and sorcerers and vampires? Can you? Would you? Or is mortality too scary to manage because it is too real and close to home? Like a birthday cake with a heart – a real heart – it frightens and grosses us out. But there is a magic in the reality if we try to see it.

I think about it every day. And I’ve discovered that I am adding older characters to my stories. Yes, some of them have supernatural abilities. And some are mere mortals who have managed to live into their more senior years. I don’t write Young Adult stories so maybe I’m trying to match reality with the imaginary in a way that makes my reality more palatable. Or maybe it makes you think more about your reality and manage it better?

Mortality. The scariest story there is to a writer with a million stories to tell. I’m writing as fast as I can but if I get zapped out of existence, I want my readers to have truth amid the fantasy. I want to read that too. Write more real people. Age them along with you. Let me know that my mortality is okay and that I can be a superhero even with gray hair and eczema or contact lenses.

Maybe the best writing is one that says the greatest superheroes are the best of us, just the way we are, even aged.  Just do me a favor? Write faster and leave a legacy that will outlast time (or Thanos).

Mortality. It only matters if you let it take you without a fight. Right Mr. Stark?

Thanks for stopping by.

I remain, Yours Between the Lines,

Sherry

(All credit to Marvel and DC. I do not own rights nor use photos for personal gain).

Normally, I don’t like discussing religion and politics. I keep to mine and let others keep to theirs, mostly because of the controversy and vitriol the diversity tends to create. However, when it comes to writing, I don’t think writers should shy away from professing their beliefs. Not if the message is hopeful and encouraging. Not if lessons are learned or gained. Not if growth will be the result. If any of those reasons is the result of a controversial or important opinion or viewpoint, then you, the writer, are obligated to make a presentation, take a stand, and share your vision.

But let me be clear about one thing — I’m not for chest thumping issues. I believe in offering solutions for the majority. I believe in looking forward and not back. I do not believe in finger pointing, shaming or manipulating facts. To offer an opinion is one thing, but to offer something stronger, like change, requires intelligent and careful approaches. The bull in the china shop won’t work.

Why? Change is rarely if ever easy. Oh sure, we’ve all heard that before, but it is true. Let’s just look at the issue of the Confederate Flag. Now for me, I’ve never been a supporter. Mostly because I have read the history of the flag and know how it evolved and why (most people have not read anything about it but assume a great deal). For over a hundred years, many towns have had flags flying and monuments built but there has not been the kind of outcry as seen recently. No group, in previous and recent memory, stood on courthouse steps screaming at the top of their lungs to remove the statues, down the flag, or take it off the license plates. Only when a crazed killer waves a Confederate flag (he didn’t even espouse the Confederate beliefs, not the real ones), and kills nine people, that the world goes nuts and begins a kind of banishment and censorship that has risen to eyebrow breaking heights. And suddenly the pain of change begins. Whatever the reason, no matter how odd or rational or whatever, the painful transmutation begins where the world seeks betterment and plastic surgery.

There are such knee-jerk reactions to every major event. When a whole room of kindergarden children are attacked, when a massive number are killed in a nightclub, when a building is bombed or 60 women accuse a once family-friendly father figure of the most disgusting sexual abuse, when a child is selling lemonade without a permit, a black woman enters a white pool, or white police officer shoots a young black teen in the back, or when a lone gunman shoots down into a concert. The results from such incidents bring a cry for laws, justice — change.

Change hurts. Change shocks. Change excites. Change inspires. Change is new. Change is scary. Change is….life. Change is THE PLOT, writers.

Writers are instruments of change. We can move mountains when our words bring truth. Our truth can bring change and when used for positive reasons, we can do wondrous things. We can motivate and inspire, enliven and create. We can also scare, threaten, intimidate, command, demand, manipulate, and destroy. Lawmakers, politicians, pastors, teachers, parents, journalists,  all react and respond.

We writers have this power, too. 

We have power and we have obligation. Our stories, even our small ones, can contain instruments of change. Our lessons and our messages might be small or they may be blimpy, but you should exercise your power as a writer.

Don’t be one of those people who rise up only from opportunity. Make change a force that works always. Make change because it is right, has always been right, will continue to be right because it is a universal truth and must be repeated and shared. Make change a part of your life, one by which you can live every day. Be the power, the force, and the idea that is something better and more important than a bullet or a knife, or a flag, or an acerbic word.

As writers, we have a chance to do special things. With everything you write, every thought you present, it is your moment for lessons, for change, for enlightenment, for magic. Will you be like the Confederate Flag, a token of bygone values, of dead mores, of antipathy? Will you be the opportunist who urges change only when an incident makes your voice fortuitous?  Or will you be like the sun, rising glorious and steady, regular and necessary, honest and blunt, lighting the way?

Don’t worry whether or not others are reading or listening. Even a whisper in the dark can reach one soul. One thought can change a mind, one tear can give hope. Never run from offering honesty.

Change is hard but must happen for progress. Writers have a tool to help facilitate changes when they are needed. Write. Wisely chose the way you cut your words and change the world for the better.

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NEWS:  Wrapping edits on my new book, LOVE AND BLOOD. The cover IS FINISHED and I’m about to do a reveal. If you want a first look, be sure to sign up for my newsletter. Those folks will see the book cover before the public reveal.

And if you missed the latest LOVE AND BLOOD hint (on Facebook), here is the graphic with a picture highlighting the action in the book.

Thanks for stopping by.

I remain, Yours Between the Lines,

Sherry

I find myself alone at the end of a five day, self-imposed retreat and I’m feeling a need to share the revelations from my ruminations. My husband went to a 50-year high school reunion and I stayed behind to work the home stretch of my current book-in-progress. While he’s been away, I’ve noticed I’ve passed through various stages of “being,” as a person and as a writer. The writer in me is interested in both and I wanted to share some of my discoveries about writing and myself (something I rarely do).

I should preface by saying I’m happily married and have been for nearly 29 years. I don’t like it when hubby and I are separated for too long (more on this coming). I must also tell you that the book I’m working on has put me through the wringer and I have been my best and worst friend because of it. Knowing those two issues will help to understand my revelations.

I know how I am, so I prepared for be alone. That means I planned what I wanted to do and how I wanted to do it. I’m a past Girl Scout and a retired military member, not to mention an Aries, so planning and organizing is deeply ingrained in my nature. Be prepared! So I was.

One must have plenty of coffee, tea, sweetener, milk, cheese, and the biggie — chocolate! I did not want to have to go out and shop for the basic necessities. Then I prepared meals in advance too and this time (versus previous days I had alone) I planned not to cook. I ordered overly stuffed and delicious sandwiches from a favorite shop, one for Friday through today. Whatever else I needed I could toss together, ie., a scrambled egg, some toast, a salad. Add a bottle of wine (or two), Bloody Mary mix and good vodka (always available) and check and check. Such preparations require you know yourself well with realistic limits.

Domestic things next. Laundry done. Sheets changed and washed. Towels clean and refreshed. Areas that needed cleaning, cleaned. Me clean. Check and check.

Important writer items, printer ink and paper. Check and check. I am a slave to paper copies. I save to the cloud and flash drives and DVDs too but the paper copies are my friends. I’ve lost too many computers and broken too many flash drives not to be a copy fiend. So check and check.

When last Thursday rolled around and I was alone, the work began. And work I did. Tempted as I was to take advantage of a silent house and steal much wanted long hours of uninterrupted sleep, I didn’t. Instead I rose early (always before 7), ate (read: consumed two cups of coffee) and went to work (by 8:30). Some hours were better than others. All hours were productive. Break for an hour at lunch. Break at 4pm til either 7pm or later, depending. I had a book I was reading too.

I stopped long enough to have a tea party with some wonderful young girls on Thursday (before I really dove deep into my work) who allowed me to tap into my younger self through pure enjoyment of my friend’s children. It’s good to remember innocence and simply joy.

And I took another break on Saturday for a delightful phone call with a long distance friend whose friendship developed from first meeting online. She brightened my heart and shared laughter is fuel for the spirit and salve for the soul. 

I also paused to see the Warriors win the NBA title and Justify capture the Triple Crown. It is important to be there when history is being written. Those moments are never wasted, even if you can’t be there live. After all, you always need experienced fodder for the stories you write.

The rest of these five days (my last one is today as hubby is expected around 5pm), I’ve discovered how I have changed. When I was first alone it was a party. Eat, sleep, snack, shower all when I wanted. Slept like a baby that first night alone.

Second day/night. Productive. Feeling excited about my accomplishments. Slept well but woke anxious to get started the third day.

Third day feeling a little less motivated. Filled the bird feeder. Washed my recent dishes. Wanted to watch a movie and drink some tea. Instead, read a book for an hour, drank my mug of tea and went back to work after my phone call because my mood was significantly lighter. Didn’t sleep as well Saturday night. Mind was on the book and I missed my love.

Sunday brings the NASCAR race. I rose early, got the paper, drank my coffee and was at work by 9. The race came on at 2pm and I worked through their rain delay and still never really watched what little there was of it. I felt distracted despite not watching the TV. Decided later that night to watch a movie because I needed to put aside my work and give my brain a break. Besides my eyes were tired from the computer glare. Felt guilty not working. 

Slept badly last night. But today I’ve been energized again and hubby will be home tonight. I’m anxious to hear his stories about the reunion and the family he visited. I’m anxious to hold him and remember the feel of him and the sound of his voice. I missed him.

All in all, during this absence, I’ve realized that I am focused and motivated but I am influenced by my emotional attachments. I function my best when I connect with the people I care about and not operate completely in a vacuum. Yes, I need silence (or certain kinds of music) on my schedule. I don’t like noise that isn’t mine and I don’t like to be interrupted when I’m in the middle of my work. I alternate between ravenous and “who needs food?” And most of all I like how I am and what I do.

I also realized after spending so much time alone that I am a good friend to myself. I think part of that comes because I’m older and I know I need to be my best friend. But more than that, I don’t have a problem amusing myself. Sure I may get lonely but being alone isn’t a problem. The difference isn’t about other people, but in me. I guess I never thought that much about it before now.

So, I’m still hard at work in this the last full day of my self-made retreat. I’m going to be useless Tuesday as I plan to spend some quality time with hubby. Then Wednesday  I will be back in my office, door closed, mug of tea by my side and printer and laptop whirring as I write. After all, I need privacy while I kill off a darling and then I want to have dinner with hubby.

Find time to do some ruminating of your own. The self-revelations are necessary, even if you believe you have nothing new to learn about yourself, I think you might be wonderfully surprised. Oh and don’t feel guilty about taking a break or reading a book. Go on outside, drink some sunshine or moonlight and count yourself lucky.

Thanks again for stopping by.
I remain, Yours Between the Lines,

Sherry