|Old guy blading in Florida. He's obviously confused.|
I suppose can't find my voice because I am floating, adrift between generations. This is all because my husband is 11 years younger than I, and he is still a hot guy. He is not old at all. I am, but nobody notices when I stand next to Mitch. The last time I felt truly anchored in my generation was at Woodstock, and that was in 1969. Just two weeks ago I was the oldest person in a tour group, traveling with women ten and twenty years my junior, and I totally forgot to act my age! In fact, I found a few of them quite fuddy-duddyish, and besides my best friend who came with me on the trip, I related most to our tour guide, a kindred spirit almost three decades my junior.
I guess if I want my new novel, which is almost sort of nearing not-quite-completion, to attract readers, I should aim at my own demographic for that "authentic voice." I'll have to make all the characters a lot older, and replace all the sex scenes with Alzheimer support group meetings, and change the setting to a nursing home. And finish it damn quick, God knows.