Alec’s post got me thinking. See: in a couple months, I’ll be a decade older than Alec. A decade! Whereas those of you already past your twenties will kick me for saying it: I’m already mourning the loss of my youth. I’ve been mourning it since I turned 24! (And to be fair, I didn’t really start writing until then…)
But why? Why are people so revved up about Alec’s post? Why is age such a sensitive issue?
One day, I’ll probably look like this:
I’m getting off point though.
There are virtues in being young, sure. Virginia Woolf thought the best “season” for reading was between 18 and 24. I’m way past my reading prime! And the truth of it is, I care a lot more about my “reading prime” than my “writing prime.” Writers can write whenever. There’s no cap, no time limit. If anything, when I’m as old as the woman in the picture, I’ll look back on the all books I published in my 20s and be appalled. Or at least I hope that happens.