Women writers who found success over the age of 40

I recently turned 40 and was feeling whole heartedly miserable about the milestone.  Not only did the crows-feet around my eyes lengthen and deepen overnight, the recession limits my budget for botox and fillers.  On the eve of my 40 birthday as I rifled my wardrobe for relics from the boom years with a view to pawing them for a mini boob lift, all the time I was trying not to think of my screaming diminishing writing aspirations.  For my birthday my friends gathered with presents, compliments and anecdotes that lifted me into the realm of hope.  I didn’t feel as big a wrinkled boob-sagging useless ninny living on cloud nine.  Clinging to optimism I decided to research female writers who found success over the age of 40.   

Although Laura Ingalls Wilder (1867 – 1957) was in her 40’s when she embarked on her career by writing a column with an editorial position, she was in her 60’s when she wrote the Little House series.

Flora Thompson (1846 – 1947) won her first short story competition at 35 years, she had various articles and essays published before her first volume of semi-autobiographical Lark Rise to Candleford trilogy (also serialised by the BBC) was published at the age of 63.

Mary Wesley (1912 – 2002) started writing children’s books in her 50’s; when her first adult novel Jumping the Queue was published Wesley was 71 years of age.  She went on to publish several adult novels to critical acclaim.  It is worth noting that Mary Wesley had to wait 35 years of writing and rejection before a publisher was courageous enough to accept her first adult novel.

Mary Alice Fontenot (1912 – 2003) launched her writing career at 51 years with the Clovis Crawfish series.  She went on to write almost 30 books also receiving an Acadiana Arts Council Lifetime Achievement Award.

Tillie Olsen (1912 – 2007) was 49 when her novel Tell Me a Riddle was first published.  At 19 (1931) an excerpt of her novel was
published, it led to a contract with Random House which she had to abandon due to (ghastly) housewife demands and motherhood responsibilities.  Over 40 years later, her unfinished novel was published as Yonnondio: From the Thirties.

Margaret Walker (1915 – 1998) an African-American writer published her only novel at 51 and won the Houghton Mifflin’s Literary Fellowship Award.  Jubilee is one of the first novels to present the nineteenth-century African-American historical experience in the South from a black and female point of view.

Evergreen, written by Belva Plain (1915 – 2010) was first published in 1978.  It topped the New York Times bestseller list for 41 weeks and was made into a TV miniseries.  When she looks back at the unproductive years, she confesses she was only making excuses about not having the time.  ‘In retrospect,’ she says, ‘I didn’t make the time.’  There are almost 30 million copies of her books in print.

Our contemporary female writers who published their debut novel over the age of 40 are;

Robin Black was 48 when she published her story collection, If I loved you, I would tell you this to international acclaim.  Oprah’s Magazine reviewed it as “Pitch-perfect.”

Holly LeCraw had her debut novel The Swimming Pool published at the age of 43.  Prior to her success she worked as a waitress (badly – according to her bio), she also temped, answered phones, she wrote many almost-published short stories and a few published one, plus a novel-in-the-drawer before completing and finding success with The Swimming Pool.

Julia Glass published her first novel at 45, she was unheard of at the time of winning the National Book Award for her debut novel Three Junes.

Amy MacKinnon was 41 when her debut literary thriller Tethered was published by Random House.  The New York Times called MacKinnon “one to watch.”

After decades of procrastination, Claire Cook wrote her first novel, Ready to Cook, in her minivan at 5 in the morning, it was published when she was 45, at 50 she walked the red carpet at the Hollywood premier of her second novel, Midlife Rocks.

Sue Monk Kidd published her debut novel, the international bestseller which needs no introductions.  She was 54 when The Secret Life of Bees was published.

Pulitzer Prize for Fiction winner Annie Proulx published her first novel 57.  Her books Postcards, The Shipping News and Brokeback Mountain all won international acclaim and were adapted by movies.

At 42 Elizabeth Strout wrote Amy and Isabel which was shortlisted for the Orange Prize and nominated for the PEN/Faulkner Award for fiction.  Amy and Isabel was made into a movie, produced by Oprah Winfrey’s studio Harpo Films.

Unable to get a publisher M.J. Rose launched her publishing career at 41 when she self-published her first novel, Lip Service.  Rose set up a website where readers could download the book, after selling 2,500 copies she was published by Doubleday and became the first e-book to be subsequently published by a mainstream publisher.

At 41, Therese Fowler published her debut novel, Souvenir.  Prior to becoming a full-time author, Fowler managed a clothing store, lived in the Phillippines, sold real estate and used cars.  She brought her experience to her books which are published internationally, in nine languages and more than thirty countries.

New York Times bestselling debut, Julie and Romeo, was written by Jeanne Ray when she was well into her 50’s, she continues to enjoy success with the sequel Julie and Romeo Get Lucky.

Named by USA Today as one of the ten most influential books of the past 25 years, Jackie Mitchard published her first novel The Deep End of the Ocean at 50.

Although Nuala O’Faolain (1940 – 2008) was a successful Irish journalist and TV producer, she gained international acclaim at 56 years of age with her two volumes of memoire, Are You Somebody? and Almost There:  a novel, My Dream of You and a history with commentary, The Story of Chicago May.  The first three were all featured on The New York Times Best Seller list.

At the age of 40, 50, 60 and even 70 great obstacles have been overcome.  The average age of writers who topped the hardback fiction section of the New York Times Bestseller List from 1955-2004 was 50.5 years.  So Girlies, us female writers are blessed to belong to an elite category where aging, baggage and life experience are a necessity.

Is Your Writers New Year’s Resolution Realistic?

Christmas is over.  I am angst, fat, ugly and exhausted after my long break.  I’d rather pick my way through a snake-infested forest for  food rather than return to the hum-drum of normal everyday routine.  This morning I spoke to my 70-year-old aunt who rises each morning at 5.30am, eats a healthy breakfast before a swim, she went on to tell me how she works a 14 hour day Monday to Thursday.  Most of the intricacies of her day went over my head as I was trying to envisage how any human would rise in the middle of the night to maintain a healthy lifestyle.  I tried (unsuccessfully) to tell her that I am not wired for early morning swims or anything before 10am.  I’m the creative type, one who is programmed to dawdle through the morning and write into the early hours.  She didn’t disguise her look of horror.

My New Year’s resolution is NOT to make a long list of worthless intentions, the road being paved to Damascus and all that!!!   I will NOT swear to stick to a routine of bed early and rising at 9am.  I will NOT set a goal to achieve a healthy weight and begin my day by sipping boiling water with lemon followed by a brisk early morning walk.  However, I will continue to smoke ample cigarettes to keep my crow’s feet flourishing.

Although, human nature as it is, I too strive for improvement however dismal my prospects and the great mountains I must climb to
reach my 70-year-old aunt’s routine.  Consistency seems to be the key, Kevin Barry, writer of City of Bohane noticed am improvement in his work when he stopped writing after peeling himself off the wall of a nightclub and began to take it seriously.  I too am happier when I write each day, every friendship needs contact including dipping into our characters lives routinely.  I will make one little change that will lead to great changes in my little life.  My one and only New Year’s Resolution is to write for 2 hours of each day, every day, 6 days of the week.  Two small hours a day in my bedroom on the comfy chair I just dusted off and lugged up the stairs.  Roll on 2012.

Lend Me Your Space

Where and when do writers write? Routine seems to be the order of the day for every established writer.  Where they write makes for boring reading with the odd tit-bit of information, like Edna O’Brien continues to write by hand at 80 years of age in a cluttered office that would have minimalistic freaks parking skips outside her door.  Stephen King begins his day at 8am, he writes from a desk placed in the corner of the room in line with his theory that writers are should be observers rather than being focal point.  Like her characters, Stephanie Meyer prefers to work at night but apart from that there are midnight feast with bloody stakes to whet her appetite.  We’re led to believe that Barbara Cartland lay on her couch scoffing boxes of Milk Tray Sweets dictating to some hapless secretary.  Regardless of the genre or author, there is no magical space that elevates successful writers to higher creative realm, just simple quietness and routine.

Once upon a time I too had my very own space with a solid routine.  I wrote in my living room on a comfy battered couch usually for 2 hours each day, sometimes more and occasionally I stayed up all night. Night time is my ideal hour. It is easier to dig deep and lay bare the emotions of my characters, easier to be wholeheartedly honest with my lover (my laptop) while the world sleeps.  It’s like having an intimate late night conversation with a dear old friend knowing only daylight will awaken reservations about my honesty.

In spring I finished the first draft of an 85,000 worded novel.  The last few days were hectic.  I became so obsessed that I worked every wakening hour.  Bedtime was 6am, I woke at 1pm, resumed my earlier position on my couch and dived into my make-believe world.  My only company was a carved wooden head affixed to my wall, her gesture of silence encouraged my endeavours.  I lived on a diet of coffee and cigarettes.  By the time I typed The End, my unhealthy yellow glow screamed ill-health not to mention the indention on the couch where my bottom was fixed for those final days.

Times have changed.  My living arrangements have been dramatically altered.  I’ve returned to my home town in Tipperary to live with my practical solid mother who would think anyone writing airy fairy stories throughout the night needs a good talking to.  For the last few weeks there have been too many distractions, phone calls, visitors, parties, funerals and all the trappings of country life.  In my previous life in Kildare I had anonymity, most callers phoned ahead to make arrangements; life was kept at a comfortable safe distance to facilitate my imaginative world.

I miss writing, I miss delving into the women and men who enter my thoughts during the day. I miss my all-nighters and dialogue that will never be resolved.  After my 6 weeks of uncertainty and not one single sentence completed, (without sounding like someone who needs a good talking to) writing is akin to nourishing the soul.  Regardless of my routine or living arrangements I will find a smoke-friendly corner for 2 hours of each day to empty my head.  With Nora Roberts’ no-nonsense attitude “ass on chair” and JK Rowling’s impoverished beginnings in a local café, I have no excuse.
For any homeless reader, I have an ideal writer’s abode for you, quiet cosy anonymous house to rent in Kildare with warm smoke-stained walls and comfy lopsided couch. I’ll also include a vintage pub ashtray capable of holding 5000 cigarette butts.  What more could a writer ask for?

The Writer’s Vice

This weekend Amy Winehouse joined “27 Club”, another young untimely death through alcohol or/and substance abuse.  One of the theories on Winehouse’s descent into drug abuse was her realisation of her undeniable talent.  Oblivion was her only escape from her burdensom all-consuming genius.  Whatever the theory, we’ve all heard about the fine line between madness and genius, or how creativity and mental illness are inexplicably linked.

Amy Winehouse

There have been literary period when alcoholism and writing seemed to go hand in hand.  Many highly esteemed writers and their outrageous behaviour have been met with amusement and relish but rarely disapproval.  Writers are a field of artists who can bask in the glory of active drunken fun-loving destructive behaviour.  F Scott Fitzgerald introduced himself as “F Scott Fitzgerald, the well-known alcoholic,” he claimed that liquor “heightened feelings.”  So reluctant to let go of his addiction, he declined psychiatric treatment thinking it altered his creative output.  He died age 44 from alcohol related issues.

Brendan Behan

If we’re to believe the reports, the Irish writer Brendan Behan’s life sounds as if it passed him by in a blur.  Swamped with stories and anecdotes, my favourite is when Behan entered a priest’s house, badly shaking with alcohol withdrawals and gasping for a “cure”.  Although reluctant to encourage Behan’s drinking, the priest provided him with a little whiskey in a glass.  The priest told him that the whiskey was like “tapping a nail into your coffin”. Behan reportedly looked at the meagre amount of whiskey in the bottom of the glass and said: “You wouldn’t mind giving the nail another tap would you father?”  Behan died at 41 years of age.

Five of the seven American Nobel laureates were alcoholics, among them Ernest Hemmingway who had been a heavy drinker most of his life, he succumbed to chronic alcoholism.  Finally after being released from a stint in a mental institution he committed suicide by shooting himself.  Another young casually was Jack Kerouac who died aged 47 from an internal haemorrhage caused by cirrhosis of the liver.  Dylan Thomas died at 39, he famously said “an alcoholic is someone you don’t like, someone who drinks as much as you do.”  Carson McCullers drank hot tea with sherry while writing.  She drank straight through the workday.

Ernest Hemingway

William Faulkner who said, ‘an artist is a creature driven by demons.  He doesn’t know why they choose him and he’s usually too busy to wonder
why.’ He drank for escapism rather than inspiration.  Truman Capote drank out of necessity; he could stop drinking for 3 or 4 months but always felt compelled to drink after that dry period.  Then there were Allen Tate, Caroline Gordon, Ring Lardner, Dorothy Parker, Robert Lowell,
Eugene O’Neill, John O’Hara, O. Henry, Conrad Aiken, John Berryman, Edmund Wilson – all acclaimed writers in the 1930s. All had trouble with alcohol.  Tennesse Williams choked to death.

There is hope.  John Cheever got sober.  While in treatment it was reported he spent most of his time in group therapy correcting his therapist’s grammar.  Finally he settled down and took the treatment serously learning to live without his anaesthetic.  The Irish poet, Brendan Kennelly has been sober for 15 years and still he can say ‘I like drunkards. I like drink. I don’t like myself.’

Washington University Psychiatrist Donald W. Goodwin wrote “Alcohol and the Writer” (1988) and

Carson McCullers

provided us with the best explanation between the writer and alcohol in “The Loner Theory.” He quotes an interpretation by historian Gilman Ostrander: “Alcoholism is basically a disease of individualism.  It afflicts people who from early childhood develop a strong sense of being psychologically alone and on their own in the world. This solitary outlook prevents them from gaining emotional release through associations with other people, but they find they can get this emotional release by drinking. So they become dependent on alcohol in the way other people are dependent on their social relationships with friends and relatives.” Goodwin goes on to argue that writing and alcohol share something important: “Writing and alcohol both produce trancelike states. A gift for creative writing may involve an innate ability to enter trancelike states. Being a loner - shy, isolated, without strong personal ties - may facilitate trancelike states when it is time to write and encourage drinking to overcome the shyness and isolation when it is time to relax.”

For those of you with aspirations to join the ranks of the next generation of writing heavyweights, one day at a time, you too can become a shriveling alcoholic creative wreck.

Two Great Events To Remember My First Book Signing

I remember listing to the writer Joseph O’Connor reading a short pieces on radio about one of his book signings, the daunting prospect of sitting alone like a reject twiddling his thumbs wishing anyone, even the local lunatic would buy his book.  I remember having sympathy for Joseph that day, I also fancy him so my mound of compassion weighed heavier.  That day a few years ago as I listened to Joseph’s melodious tones I would gladly have bought 10 copies of his book to lessen his ordeal.  Yet, I remember thinking of my unpublished manuscripts taking up space on my laptop.  I would gladly have swapped places with Joseph just to see my book in print.  I would gladly have welcomed the local lunatic to come sit on my knee while I read extracts from my published novel.

On Saturday morning I thought of Joseph again as I sat in Bookworm behind a neat stack of my books with my pen at the ready to begin the signing.  Thankfully there was a steady stream of locals and friends, not once did I feel like Billy-No-Mates.

Two fantastically momentous things happened in my three short weeks of becoming a published author and both occurred on Saturday morning during my signing.  As I was leaving the bookstore I noticed a shelf with MY books.  My very own title and my very own name on the cover of a book on a shelf designated for my novel whacked me with a surreal jolt.  Yes, of course my novel would be displayed on a shelf, it’s unlikely they’d store it under the counter, with the last few hectic weeks I’d forgotten about the “Shelf Dream”.  Like every writer, occasionally I too dreamed of seeing my book stacked among other Irish writers.  Sometimes I’d glance at the best sellers shelf and imagine my novel among their ranking.  Or if I was particularly imaginative, women would whack each other with their handbags to get the last copy of my 100^th reprint.  On Saturday, when I saw Lucinda’s List by Olive Collins I tried to remain professional and disguise my slight stagger and sudden intake of breath, I could have wept with joy.  I felt like one who had arrived.

The second incident had me also kissing a stranger with joy.  She bought my book without knowing me or my family, neither had she any connection to me, not only did Mary (her real name) want me to sign her copy, she read it and loved it, Mary talked about the characters and how the storyline kept her going.  She liked Lucinda and understood her rational, she loved Rose and hated Simon.  This may seem trivial, however  when a complete stranger discusses characters I created, people I carried around in my head for years, characters who developed and I alone knew them intimately, well, there are no words to describe it.  It’s better than any amount of drink or drugs, better than the most scenic point in the most exotic corner in the world, better than a room full of my dearest friends applauding my efforts with approval, better than all those farfetched dreams of women fighting over my novel on the bestsellers list.  Nothing I have experienced in my full life compares to a stranger called Mary who recently befriended my characters.  Absolutely nothing.  

With an outcome like that, if Joseph O’Connor invited me on a date (I know he’s married but hypothetically speaking), if Joseph promised to speak to me for three hours continuously with his gentle enigmatic voice and declare his undying love for me with his blue sensitive eyes I would never exchange Saturday mornings book signing.

The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth about a book launch.

Before any momentous occasion in our lives there is trepidation, or self-doubt or one entire week of constant sleepless terror/panic mixed with regret. Rather than a writer, why couldn’t I have been content to lead a quite life as a nun in Bangladesh spreading God’s word. During my week of stark raving mad panic a few scenarios ran through my mind while I tried to reason with myself. What could possibly go wrong? Ask someone else this question rather than mulling over the possible outcomes and getting deeper into self-doubt

Eileen launching my novel

My initial insecurities were perfectly natural.

1. What if I’m a shivering wreck during the speech

2. What if I puke mid speech then collapse and the ambulance is called and I end up looking like the town basket-case

For the next batch of scenarios I really should have found a good shrink, or employed a reassuring stylist.

3 What if I look like a transvestite in my 6 inch heels adding to my 5ft 7inch frame

4 What if I sound like a man after smoking 400 cigarettes the week before the launch along with my transvestite look.

Obviously for the next set of scenarios I should have simply double checked the details with my publishers.

6. What if there are no books on the night of the launch

7. What if people think I’ve a mental condition as I wave my book contact to the audience muttering incoherently with my husky 400 cigarette mans voice looking like an overweight transvestite.

Suffice to say, none of the above happened, except I haven’t asked anyone about the transvestite thing.

my speech

First of all the well-wishers and local support was surprising, I am not the outwardly emotional type, but I was sincerely touched. Thanks to Fran Curry from Tipp fm who interviewed me during the week about the book, he put me at ease as it was my first live radio interview. I wanted to get the whole interview over and done with as quickly as possibly, by the end of the interview, Fran was almost putting duck tape over my mouth to stop me talking. I thoroughly enjoyed the experience and felt great after the show. By Saturday morning the facebook, twitter, phone and text message elevated me further. My head and ego were positively growing by the moment.

Claire, Olive, Eileen, Karen

Eileen Keane launched my novel, she is a friend, gifted writer and artist, her and laid back attitude calmed my escalating nerves. I know her for years and loved her speech. Eileen has one of the rare evocative voices that silences a room, not only did she make a wonderful speech about writing and about Moi (more head-swelling), she read three extracts from my novel (head getting so big my make-up was thinning). By the time I stood up to the podium I forgot about my transvestite, male voice and jitters. Safe to say, a great night was had by all. Nor will I say what time the last guests left the pub. As we are law-abiding citizens in Tipperary, pubs close at 12.30pm and of course, we adhered to the letter of the law!!!!

The Wedding of the Year Or The book Launch of the Year

With the current economic climate a wedding invitation has a heftier price than a court summons, most invites are obligatory and both expensive. Unlike non-royal weddings when the guest could enjoy a few tipples in the local and occasionally slip into the church after the ceremony begins, the guests at the royal wedding must be seated three hours in advance. If I knew anyone attending the royal wedding I’d recommend an adult nappy, just in case. Better to be safe rather than spend the ceremony withholding and gigging with crossed legs. With the worlds media hovering from the ground to the rafters and lip readers on stand-by, put a foot out-of-place at the royal wedding or mutter a snide remark and you’ll relive that faux pas until death do you part.

If you missed the Royal Wedding, there is always my book launch. I have made a few provisions for my guests. The Anner Hotel Thurles is offering a special Launch Package for €35 per person sharing for B&B (I’ll bet Wills wasn’t that considerate about his guests, neither could he beat my great offer). The Launch Venue is Hickey’s Pub, unlike Westminster Abbey my venue is homely, personable and casual dress is permissible. While poor Kate had to endure a 3 minute walk from the door of the church to the altar and back again, the entrance to Hickey’s Pub will take 12.5 seconds then you’re into a haven of bliss. While the world’s paparazzi will zoom their lenses on any imperfection, my photographer for the night, Brid Ryan Photography will NOT publish any images that make us women appear less than savoury. At the end of the night as you roll out of Hickey’s Pub the local taxi company are more than tolerant and will escort you to the Anner Hotel for less than €5. When all the festivities are said and done, you will have a signed copy of Lucinda’s List to have and to hold, from this day forth, to love and honour, cherish and disregard if you so wish.

Launch:  Hickey’s Pub, Thurles, Co Tipperary 7pm, 14th May 2011