Summer is fading. I wish I knew what to do to slow down experience and to hold onto the moment. Why is it that so much of life is spent looking backward.
With class done I am writing again, finishing this novel and working on a short story for an anthology. As I write and age, and listen to the sound of the night sliding against the side of the house, I worry about when I will lose my self-expression, or rather my self-perceived talent.
I have read many writers in their twilight. Some fade hard. Bradbury, who I love dearly, in his most recent works shows his age. His magic is sporadic. It's still there, but it sputters now and his ability to infuse each tale with it is hit and miss. Vonnegut struggled with age, didn't he? His work became manic and disjointed, still mistakably Vonnegut, but after all, "Timequake" was hardly "Slaughterhouse Five" or "Cat's Cradle". Steinbeck's greatest work was in the thirties and forties. He was magnificent in the fifties, but "The Winter of Discontent" and "Travels With Charlie" were hardly "Of Mice and Men" or "Grapes of Wrath".
Some writers never seem to lose a beat.
Some writers age and lose focus, their voice fades and falls into a sorry well.