Washed Up At 80 Years Old

What do you write when you’ve hit the wall?

I hit the ground running.

My first article on Medium went viral. No accident it had sex in the title. I did my research before I hit publish. I’m old, not stupid.

Then it got curated, and you couldn’t stop me.

I was writing an article a day, getting comments, followers and fans. I didn’t know the difference, but so what. They say only 50% of writers make a dollar a month. The first Wednesday rolled around, and I’d made bank. All $13 of it. Beat the odds out of the chute. Not bad for a little old lady who can’t walk straight. Take that, Father Time, I said. I’ll show you and your misogynistic buddies: arthritis, near-sightedness, and short-term memory loss.

No writing surface was safe from my ideas for articles: 25% off sale flyers from The Neptune Society; Medicare notices; the latest catalog from the orthopedic appliance company.

By month-end, I was on a high. Only two weeks in, and I’d made $66. Second month I was canceling bingo dates at the senior center to write. My editing clients were banging on my door screaming about missed deadlines.

Did I care? I had a chunk of cash from Stripe in my bank account. All $188. 10k a month club, here I come, I thought. Go suck lemons, editing business, I heard myself whisper to my stack of work, I’m moving uptown.

Beginning of the third month, a nine-week wonder by now, I proudly posted that I was up for an article a day, maybe two. Then I took stock. I’ve been writing simple declarative sentences for longer than most of the Medium world has been walking the earth. I put myself on a fast track and started writing three pieces and day and resurrected my editing business.

Of course, I could do it all. I’d never abandon my clients. Or my novels. So I squeezed it all in, writing my fingers to the bone, getting high on the claps, the comments, the friends I was making in the Facebook groups.

And then, wham! I didn’t see it coming.

Nobody warned me. Nobody told me to pace myself. A woman your age, someone should have said. You can’t keep this up.

But no, everybody just sat back and watched it happen. When I crashed and burned. When I hit the wall.

Well, maybe it wasn’t everybody. Maybe just that SOB Father Time, laughing in the corner and stroking his beard. What the f#*@, I said, when I woke up two weeks ago, so exhausted I couldn’t lift my head from the pillow.

You’re not the young chick you used to be, he said in his croaky old voice. S#@t happens.

Not to worry, I thought. I can take a break. I’ve got my followers, my fans. Folks won’t forget about me. So I got some rest, took care of business. The business that actually pays my rent.

A few days went by. Then another few days. My editing clients loved me again. By the time I felt ready to tackle another article, it had been a week and my stats were flat.

How quickly they forget, I muttered bitterly, looking for the cremation flyer with my notes for good article ideas.

That took a day or two. My how the clutter piles up when you’re recovering from a bout of Medium overload.

So I started pecking out a line or two. Had something happened to my fingers? The words weren’t flowing out of my fingertips like before. The ideas were stuck three floors down, and I couldn’t think of a funny line to save myself.

Meanwhile, I continued to read the new stuff, by new writers who’d just come on the scene. The new members who were sending out their fledgling articles like I had two months ago. And oh, were they getting the claps, the followers, the spotlight.

Memo to self: See what happens when you don’t pace yourself and fall apart? Someone else takes your spot as the shiny new thing. Don’t blow your wad, writing a gazillion articles a day. You’ve got the rest of your life to do your Medium thing. You got this. Slow down. Do what you do best. (Uh, pro tip: that line about that rest of your life. Maybe delete that. Don’t tempt that old guy in the corner. He has a cruel sense of humor.)

So, with my attitude properly adjusted, I started again to write a nice little article. I had a cup of tea at my side. I was taking deep breaths, not getting ahead of my skies. Just one article to remind folks I’m still here, a let’s get acquainted again kind of thing.

But then I had a rude awakening. I stared at the blank screen. Nothing happened. This wasn’t like me. Ideas are like wrinkles for me, they grow on top of each other. But all of a sudden, I’m like that dancer in Chorus Line: I got nuthin’.

I’d lost my imagination, my curiosity, my memory, my sense of humor. I combed through my life, looking for an inspirational moment to share, a bit of wisdom to impart to help those struggling through the storms of youth. All I can recall are the nights spent watching Mary Tyler Moore and trying out new shades of nail polish.

Surely I’ve read books that inspired me that I can recommend. From what I’ve seen, that’s a good tactic for getting readers. But all I have left after my daughter insisted I purge my apartment so “I won’t get stuck with all your crap,” are my knitting guides and old Photoshop manuals.

Oh, but I’ve traveled. Maybe I can come up with an experience that would get me into a publication. Oh, I give up. Eighty years and what do I have to show for it?

I can’t think of a thing to write about anymore. I shot my wad as they say. Do they say it anymore? Well, they do at the senior center. Maybe that’s where I belong.

Because who cares about what it was like to search for a job after living on the coast in Mendocino trying to write for four years. Coming back to a workplace full of computers and you only knew how to use a typewriter. Would anyone be interested to know you showed up at work insisting you knew how to operate one, hiding a manual under your coat and crossing your fingers you could fake this? Because you were out of money and the rent was due?

Or what about the time you covered for your friend who went to Europe to save her marriage, but she was out of sick leave. And for three weeks nobody in the office could figure out where she was because you lied through your teeth about her just leaving for lunch, or delivering files to the clinic. “Didn’t you see her? You must have passed her on the way in?”

We pulled it off, fooled the big brains who ran the place, but it didn’t save her marriage.

Or, what about the time your thirteen-year-old daughter came home from a picnic and a boy she liked ignored her. You sat with her, aching for her, trying to figure out how to guide her through her first rejection, your own heart breaking because the man you loved had just dumped you for someone else.

But that’s old stuff. It’s not high tech or data driven. Let’s face it. You were a one-month wonder. You’re washed up. You have nothing left to say. You wrote too much, too soon. You’re all out of stories.

So what do you do now? You got bit by the Medium bug. It was great while it lasted. But maybe, like your eggs, you had a limited number of stories. And like your eggs, they’re all used up. So kiss it goodbye, your short-lived Medium career. It’s part of growing old, this letting go. Get used to it.

Except, wait. Not yet. Remember that time you got stuck in the fire and saved the burning building? That’s got to be good for a few claps.

(Heh heh heh. Don’t count this old lady out.)

Here are a few other tales of mine you might enjoy.

If you’d like more of my stories, sign up here so you don’t miss a word.