It Can't be Too Late - Say It Isn't

The two prompts chosen for my writing group’s next meeting are “it can’t be too late” and “full sexual adulthood.” I don’t remember who submitted these prompts. I believe they came from the same person, and now I fear the two are related. Since I am not comfortable writing on the second (What does THAT mean?), and because “it can’t be too late” is a recurring theme of mine, I will pick that one. I suppose I could just print out my blog for writing group, and my assignment would be done. But since I like to put real effort into the writing I share with the group, I think I would be cheating. Even so, I can at least brag that I have been journaling almost every day. I have been writing in a casual, off the cuff way here, and I want writing for my group to be a bit more polished, if not more serious. Well, I don’t mean serious like morose, just more……something.

Until a little over a year ago, I wrote for She Magazine, and my deadline was the 18th of the month. Writing group meets on the fourth Monday, so meeting day found me spit shined and prepared to share. Now, without that deadline, I have noticed that I don’t write as much. I don't work as hard at it as I once did.

I didn’t start writing essays for the magazine, I wrote them for myself and, perhaps, to share with loved ones. My intention was to record family stories before they were lost to my family and me. When I began, I didn’t focus on crafting great sentences; I just preserved the stories on paper and tried to fully express how I felt about people and events from my childhood. Then writing became a passion. I added it to the list of all my others. Finding time to paint AND write presented a challenge. I did paint, but for several years I wrote and wrote and wrote even more. A few months after I began, out of the blue, She’s editor invited me to submit an article about “looking back.” The first story I had written fit the bill. I’ve asked her why she approached me, and she says she “just had a feeling.” Go figure.

I enjoyed that venue for my writing - and occasionally for my art - for six years. My essays gradually developed into a record of life with Buddy and Roo, caring for my mother in her last years, my own aging issues, as well as assorted, more frivolous themes. I took a writing class, thought more about how I was building sentences, and edited older stories. But in time I wanted to paint more. And I no longer lived in South Carolina, so reader feedback faded. I couldn’t run into someone who'd read that month's article and have them share the memories my essay triggered. After I collected all my writing into books for family members, I felt done for a while. I had finished that book.

Now? It can’t be too late to write more. It can’t be too late to write better. And it can’t be too late to be a better painter. Can it?

Gotta go tread.