ONE OF THE MANY GREAT THINGS ABOUT WRITING IS THAT ITS POSSIBILITIES ARE LIMITLESS.
I find it somewhat sobering to realize that most of my peers have now retired—and some have been in that status for several years.
I will be 69 in a couple of months—my 70th year—and am very far from retired.
Am I jealous? Certainly not. I wish them all well. However, though I have been gifted (and cursed) with a vivid imagination, I cannot conceive not working pretty much as I do now.
As my faculties age, I will probably have to slow down a bit—I have considered trying out a four day week—but that will be more psychological than real. I write anyway at weekends, but rather enjoy the feeling that I don’t have to; and that I am outmaneuvering my work ethic.
Good grief! Writing is my life. Why on earth would I want to retire from it? As far as I am am concerned, it is what gives my existence meaning. And, though it is uncommonly difficult, it is fun—because you never quite know how things will turn out; what words will appear; what punch-line you will close with; whether you can do the deed at all.
It’s a constant challenge to the death—quite literally. I find that vastly cheering.