I am fifty-eight years old, or at least I will be in November. I don’t feel fifty-eight. I don’t feel eighteen either, but it seems like a good comparison age. Eighteen is the age at which we start our adult lives (except legally drinking an alcoholic beverage), the age we emerge from the shadow of childhood, the age we begin to explore our true selves.
One of the things they don’t tell you when you are eighteen (or they do and you ignore them because what do old people know?) is that the processes of self-discovery and exploration never end. I think we older adults eventually grasp the idea that we are always evolving, always learning. By the time we are fifty-eight, we have accepted (?) that we will never have all the answers, we will not know everything. Even so, older minds are more experienced minds. We have more decades of life material at our disposal. We view the world through a different lens, perhaps not as rose colored as it used to be, but still clear.
I find it comforting to read others’ posts about how they started their writing careers later in life. I love the tales of the older writer who never gave up and found their success. It’s not that misery loves company, it’s camaraderie. It is a beautiful club, exclusive only in time spent on earth. It is a club I’m proud to belong to, and one I hope to enjoy watching grow for many years.
Literary Works of TM Allman 
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