But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near 

(Andrew Marvell, To His Coy Mistress)

I have lately heard the beating of wings at my ear.  Last week, visiting with my dear aunties, all in their 80’s or 90’s; parting really was such sweet sorrow, not knowing if we’ll meet again. This week my son graduates from high school; he doesn’t leave for college until August, but already his eye is on a distant horizon. My husband mopes around the house singing the Beatles, “She’s Leaving Home” bye, bye.

Tempis fugit. We know this. And mainly I have been happy and content with the rhythms of my later years, fuller and richer than I ever hoped they would be. 

But, in terms of writing, I’m running out of time.  This current novel progresses, but slowly, ever more slowly.  Sometimes a standstill.  This is normal, I realize, and has happened before. And always, I’ve gotten back to work, eventually.  Because it’s a difficult novel to define, and therefore to market, I knew it would be a lengthy process. And I have truly enjoyed the writing of it, mostly.  Partly it is my approach – I’m disciplined enough to keep in my seat, writing, but not to keep to a set outline. It’s a thing that changes and evolves, and the closest analogy I can come to is “riding a horse”, oftentimes a wild ride. Sometimes, not going anywhere at all.  Now, for the moment, it’s mainly the revisions, and they are for the most part, matters of craft, fixing and making better.  Just plain old work.  Lots and lots of work. 

I don’t complain. But sometimes I despair.  Family members and some friends have been willing and interested readers of drafts - I don’t need to have Spanish Soap Operas published, but I’d like to have bound copies to send out, so that those who care can read about the characters and places and issues that have been important to me.  And, hopefully, enjoy them. 

But it’s more than that.  I have a mission, actually two.  The money, the fame would be nice and appreciated, but I have other goals in mind. First, I’ve been laboring to create a work that would be welcomed and enjoyed by people like my community college students – those who have been put off by serious literature, because it makes them feel stupid. Some genre reading is a very good place to start, but often doesn’t make the next step. I’m trying for a kind a stepping-stone, good on its own merits, but giving an idea of the kind of experience that can be gained from good fiction. Something along the lines of Huck Finn.

Secondly, both my novels are meant as an appreciation and a thank you to some people whose paths I once crossed, and then lost contact with —to some extent because of some of the issues in the novels – social mobility, racial and cultural differences.  We’re all getting older, and some of us, me or my subjects, might die before this project is accomplished.

Meanwhile, I’m pulled between generations, caught up in the minutia of mouthguards and Coumadin levels. Trying to manage a household and a marriage, budgets and laundry. It will smooth over; it will, eventually pass, all this.  But then, will I have the energy?  And will I have the desire to complete what I’ve started?

Ssshh…I hear it again; time’s winged chariot.