Thoughts of a Middle-Aged Woman Writer

I'm now an elder statesman among the younger writers, the published ones who have the jobs I once had or aimed for. They do not know me and have not read my work; indeed they don't know I have ever published at all, because no one their age or in their social circles knows or speaks of my writing. They have seen me around, on the fringes, at their book signings or writing workshops, but they see a fiftyish woman without a halo of success or prominence, indistinct; one who has never got an NEA grant or a Guggenheim fellowship, or anything really worth mentioning, who is of the old school, and might have been somebody or almost somebody back then, but is no longer. So it goes, sic transit gloria mundi; out with the old and in with the new. That's the way of the world, and anyway, the young are busy with their own lives. So it should be. I was young and ambitious too.

What I know now is that a middle-aged woman, no matter how accomplished, can't get a halo of success or prominence. You critique her clothes: boots or a black pantsuit, or a fringed scarf, or too-sensible shoes, but the wearer is called "faded" and the clothes might as well be empty. She might be, like me, steady and experienced but beneath notice. Or she may be greatly distinguished or powerful, author of many books. Publishers may pay her thousands. She may even be Secretary of State. But she is fifty or sixty. Who would celebrate her? Who will grant her that halo? Luckily, it is not theirs to give.

That halo is a platinum halo; I have seen it around others, around the gifted, royal, and hopeful.

I wear it in my hair.

(Copyright 2011 by Sylvia Sky.)