It’s a curious thing to become a published writer at age 58. Yes, writing has helped put bread—sometimes only bread—on my table for well over 30 years. Writing advertising, websites, brochures, speeches, corporate video scripts, reports, media releases, proposals. Now and then it pays handsomely. But it’s life as someone else’s voice, a sort of ventriloquism. To be published under your own name is to yank your hand out of the dummy and hold it up—the hand, I mean. And to do it finally at 58?
It’s not about blooming late. It’s about blooming time.