I experienced a startling moment when I was working on marketing copy for my most recent novel, The Snowbirds. The story follows empty nesters who head to sunny Palm Springs, California, to escape the harsh Midwestern winter and figure out the rest of their lives.
I described my characters as “middle aged” because they are my age, 56 (now 57), and that’s how I thought of myself – and them – the whole time I was writing the book.
But my longtime editor suggested a slight modification to my text, one she never would have guessed would hit me sideways: She inserted the word “late” in front of those words.
Late middle age?
I stared at that phrase for a good long time and thought, what exactly is that? I thought I’d written a novel about the travails of midlife. Was it possible my characters had already rounded that bend... and so, too, had I?
Even though my editor is always right, my first instinct was denial, because most of the time I feel like my young self. I still act like a dumb teenager, saying and doing all the wrong things. I take yoga and lift weights. I wear barrel jeans. I attend concerts and try to stay hip. (True confessi...
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