Permission To Be Bad

An eviction notice to your inner critic

When I was just 18 I told my father I wanted to write (because even then I recognized the urge). He laughed and said, “You’re too young to have anything to say.” I wondered about that for a long time, thinking that what he meant was that people expected writers to write about what was going on in the world and to share their wisdom about it. He was right about that because I didn’t have a clue what was happening beyond my immediate daily life. But that’s not what the urge to write was about for me. It was just a compulsion to share with the outside world what my internal experience of living was like. It took me a long time to come back to that type of writing. Instead, I just kept it hidden in journals. Now I make all of you into a kind of journal.

Me and Dad

And now that I’m old(ish)—how long until I remove the “ish”?—I sometimes feel that people won’t think I have anything to say because I’m too old. It’s a bit strange, isn’t it? As though only people who are somewhere between thirty-five and fifty are worthy. Fifteen years. That’s what we get. Unless you’re talking about women’s looks, then it shifts to the fifteen-to-thirty-five segment. You get twenty years at that end but only if you look “right.”

These rules about the value of our age come from somewhere, but they work only because we agree to go along with them. When we look in the mirror and feel we’ve aged out of beauty at thirty-six (which, frankly, wasn’t even my prime yet), we see ourselves with someone else’s eyes. We take lies in as truth and allow that perspective to change us both internally and externally. Maybe beauty just means something different at different ages. But to be beautiful, you have to feel it.

The same applies to my writing, or your dreams, or possibilities. When we let the external world tell us what’s possible, or what we’re capable of, or how long we matter, we stop taking the action that comes with creativity. And then we prove the rule to be true.

Yes, we can do it. Here are just a few examples of people who succeeded beyond what others expected, especially at their age:

• Laura Ingalls Wilder – Published first “Little House” book at 65

• Mary Wesley – Published first novel (best seller) at 70

• Maye Musk – Widespread modeling recognition in her 60s and 70s, magazine covers

• Carmen Dell’Orefice – Still modeling into her 90s with major career resurgence later in life

• Colonel Sanders – Founded KFC franchise at age 62

• Julia Child – first cookbook at 50, became famous TV chef

• Janet Jackson – had son at age 50

• Madonna – had twins at 47

It’s dark this morning. Rain is in the forecast today and even though it’s daytime, I can see cars going by with their lights on. My room is dark too. I like it because it’s different from the norm, and not what I expect at this time of day. Things get done mostly through routines for me. My writing happens at a certain time, and exercise at another, and dinner gets started sometime before I know we’ll be hungry. Those routines are helpful, but they can also apply a dull finish to the everyday. Same old thing, almost like having a job. And then something unexpected happens like a dark windy morning, and my creativity feels washed and ready. Doing things even when they’re not expected is refreshing and maybe that’s how newness and change starts. Like writing a book late in life, or deciding to have an orderly house when you’ve always been a slob, or planting a garden when you’re known to be a gardening failure, you find renewed life interest through change.

Windshield raindrops looking at my old driveway. A driveway is a weird thing to miss

It’s a bit odd how we live with the knowledge of this temporary life—it will all be gone in a poof someday—and still, we’re afraid to take even small steps, to stretch a tiny bit out of what has become the normal and expected. What could go so wrong?

Still I wish I had started writing at eighteen. Dad was probably right that it would have been crap. I just didn’t have any practice yet (and maybe you don’t either – at gardening, or keeping house, or being an activist, or becoming a physicist or whatever you’re thinking). But two things would have happened: I would have a body of writing from the young woman who is now long gone and, bad or not, I would treasure that perspective today; and two, my practice years would have started much sooner and I would have a bigger pile of writing that makes me happy and proud. So what could your future look like if you were able to regularly step outside the lines of expectation and just try the thing you want?

That’s what I did eventually. And I’m glad today that I started it. In the late nineties, I timidly sent a little writing out in the world and landed a paid blog back when we had to explain to people what the word “blog” meant. It was pretty small by comparison, but it paid enough to cover my mortgage then. And you know what? I didn’t appreciate fully how miraculous that was. I downplayed it because there was always somebody with a bigger following or more money or better credentials or more fame. The word “just” was how I thought of my work then. That’s also a part of the trouble that comes with believing we’re not enough—it keeps us so.

I feel like some kind of annoying coach now. Rah Rah. We each find our way in our own time over a course of our own obstacles. But the limitations we place on our life experience sneak in unaware and steady themselves like concrete in us. We keep fluid through life by watching the beliefs secretly at work in us. We remain vigilant against the inertia of foolish expectations. What we do is our business, but we must keep it our business to watch what is motivating us. As long as we keep trying, we’re honoring this brief mortal life. Thanks for being here with me. May your limitations blow away in a spring breeze.