Debbie's Confessions from a Midlife Crisis

I hear other writers talking about how they always/never re-read their own work. Of those that do – many say they cringe as they see their mistakes, or worry that it’s all rubbish in hindsight, and no wonder they never sell any books as who would want to read it anyway? And I don't understand the mentality of those writers who never re-read their books - why would you not do this?

I have a confession to make. Not only do I constantly re-read my own books, but I actually do on occasion (actually, frequently) pat myself on the back for a particularly well-executed turn of phrase, or a paragraph that resonates perfectly, or a character that I’m still slightly in love with. Yes, of course I see the odd typo that escaped both mine and my agent or editor’s eagle eyes – and I do kick myself for word repetition and a clunky sentence I really should have caught on one of the many editing passes I do. But by and large, I’m happy with much (most?) of what I have written. Sometimes I even think f**k me, this is good stuff! Is that wrong? Are other writers the same? You have to love your own work to live in it for so long.

I’m proud of what I write. Sometimes I’m in awe of myself and what my subconscious has managed to conjure up. And I wonder if that is because I’m scared I’m never going to do it again – be there again – never hit that sweet spot of crafting other lives and stories that exist apart from myself and take on a life of their own. Maybe that sounds pretentious, but I’m being honest here. I can dip into my novels at any point and read paragraphs, chapters, sometimes right to the end and start again. I know what’s going to happen, I know what the character will do and sometimes word-for-word what they will say. But it doesn’t matter, because I love spending time with these people – my creations – and wondering if they’d do the same thing again, if given the choice. These people are real.

Midlife crises are joke material. Call it what you will, but there’s that point in life when things change for ever. I retired at the end of March – they call it voluntary early retirement, but they paid me to go early, so I did. I have a reasonable pension at 61 to add to one I started getting at 60, but I have no job now. Not that I’ve ever really defined myself by my job, but it was by necessity a huge part of my life. I also lost both parents in early 2024, so I’m feeling … rootless? I’m not sure. I have more time to write now, but I don’t feel I’ll ever be able to capture that intense burning desire of having to write, having to get these stories into a tangible form. Menopause doesn’t help and while I’m a huge advocate of HRT, I still feel that the old me is disappearing and I’m not sure I want to be this person that's left behind. And I look at my daughter and her fiancé in their twenties and I feel so old.

So we’re doing some travelling. Maybe abroad, but lots of short breaks here in the UK too. I need to find something, but I don’t know what or where it is, or even if it exists at all any more. And I bought a midlife-crisis car! It helps ...