Originally posted on Griffins and Ginger Snaps:
The only unfulfilled love I’m willing to talk about openly is writing. And the realization that the love affair will never be reciprocated hurts just as much as that first time someone came out and said, “I like you. I just don’t like-like you.”
Writing will never like-like me. I’m too old, and it’s not that I’m too old as much as born at the wrong time – the non-generation. I’m not a baby boomer. I’m not a Me. I’m too old to be a Gen-Xer. Or Y and Z for that matter. I missed the computer age – I didn’t even have a computer until I got married and I was forty-one before I actually owned my own – a laptop, which took me a year to finally use with any kind of regularity. My kids know the VCR as the machine next to the TV that has never worked.
I read Julie Andrews autobiography recently. She grew up in the fifties, and I was sad to discover that her voice is my voice. That’s how I write. Very formally, describing how the leaves rest on the rooftop, narrative on top of narrative with very little emotion unless it’s purple prose. I write like someone who grew up in the fifties, only I have no story to tell. My parents weren’t alcoholics, I did not overcome drug abuse, I wasn’t abused or molested. My parents sent me to college. I lived at home until I got married.