On my 70th birthday, I cried into a plate of meatballs

Summary

On her 70th birthday, the author reflects on her life and struggles with homesickness, loneliness, and writer's block while creating a character for her book in the unique setting of an Ikea in France.

Abstract

The author, celebrating her 70th birthday at an Ikea in Montpellier, France, finds herself emotionally overwhelmed and crying into her meal. She is struck by the realization of being a decade older than French writer Maria De Hennezel, who described turning sixty as a form of bereavement. The author, who has recently moved to France, is working on a book featuring a teenage protagonist named Margaret, but is finding it difficult to connect with the character and progress with the writing. Her writer's block is exacerbated by an article suggesting that creativity ends at seventy, which challenges her self-identity as a writer. Despite her efforts to focus on her work, the author is distracted by self-doubt and the allure of articles about successful young authors, which further diminishes her confidence in her own writing prospects.

Opinions

The author feels a profound sense of loneliness and homesickness, which is intensified by her milestone birthday.
She is skeptical about the notion that creativity wanes with age, particularly the idea that it ends at seventy, as suggested by a famous writer.
The author identifies more with an older character she considers adding to her book, reflecting her current emotional state and life experience.
She is concerned that this new character might overshadow the main protagonist, Margaret, leading to a significant rewrite of her manuscript.
The author harbors some resentment towards her protagonist for not developing as she had hoped, which contributes to her writer's block.
She is envious of young, successful authors who seem to achieve fame and fortune effortlessly, which contrasts with her own struggles as an older writer.
The author's encounter with a friend who doubts her ability to finish her book adds to her insecurity about her writing career.

On my 70th birthday, I cried into a plate of meatballs

I spent my 70th birthday in the cafeteria of an Ikea in Montpellier, France. Ikea’s are the same wherever you go, even in Russia.

I’d read that somewhere.

Not exactly the same though. In this French Ikea, unlike those I’d visited in the US, they serve wine. I was on my second glass. And crying into a plate of Swedish meatballs and red cabbage.

I’d just returned from a three-month visit back to the States and I was homesick and lonely. Even more distressing, I was seventy.

A decade older than the French writer Maria De Hennezel. “It’s not true that birthdays don’t change anything she wrote. Sixty for her, she said, was “a kind of bereavement with sudden attacks of sadness, and a desire to do nothing, to fold in upon myself.”

Exactly what I wanted to do. Instead, I tried to distract myself with work on the book I’d told everyone I would finally finish writing here in France where I’d impulsively moved two years earlier.

Fifteen-year-old Margaret, the main character, has lavender hands covered in scabs and scratches, the result of the eczema she was born with. She’s also flat-chested. But worse than all that is the fear that someone will think she’s only 12.

In the mood I was in, I was losing sympathy for her. I thought about introducing a seventy-year-old grandmother character who would give Margaret a good talking too. “You think you’ve got problems,” she’d say, “wait till you’re my age.”

Grandma of course had exactly the opposite hang-up; let anyone guess her correct age or worse add a few years, and she’d sink into a deep depression.

Naturally, I related more to a grandma than to a sulky teenager, but I worried that the older character would take over and I’ve had to rewrite the whole damn thing. Which was a possibility because Margaret wasn’t saying much.

I drank coffee, stared at the screen, and tried to reason with her. A character must want something, but all Margaret seemed to want were breasts, a boyfriend and to look at least sixteen.

Then she completely stopped speaking, so I stopped trying to understand her and did things like clean the refrigerator instead. That would show her.

Deep down though, I knew Margaret wasn’t entirely to blame for my creative block. Googling — as a way to avoid her — I’d come across an article by a famous and much-published writer who, after reaching seventy, had decided to stop writing. Creativity ends at 70 he said. “It just disappears.”

Maybe for him, I thought, but it wouldn’t happen to me. I’ve written for years. I think of myself as a writer, my sense of identity is tied up in it. And yet I found myself drawn like a magnet to every article about telegenic debut authors with unlined skin and glossy hair who sign multimillion-dollar contracts while they’re still being asked to show IDs.

I didn’t like my chances, even if I finally finished the book. And Margaret still wouldn’t speak.

Then I ran into a friend in the village. He always asks how the book’s going, I always reply it’s not. Then he shakes his head and says, “You’re never going to finish that bloody thing, are you.” I laugh and say probably not. It’s been a joke between us. This time though I don’t laugh. This time, I can’t help wondering if he might be right.

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